It was supposed to be a fishing trip, but it turned into a regular booze-up in the great outdoors, as often happens with men escaping the watchful eyes of their wives. One of my colleagues, who was from a local village near Kirov, had talked us all into going to a river aptly named Krivaya, or "Crooked." As Vysotsky sang: "In the reserved and dense, dreadful Murom forests, all sorts of unclean beings wander in hordes and sow fear in passersby."
