The Life of Permafrost: A History of Frozen Earth in Russian and Soviet Science 9781487514242

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THE LIFE OF PERMAFROST

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THE LIFE OF

PERMA FROST A History of Frozen Earth in Russian and Soviet Science PEY - YI CHU UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto  Buffalo London

© University of Toronto Press 2020 Toronto Buffalo London utorontopress.com Printed in Canada ISBN 978-1-4875-0193-8 (cloth) ISBN 978-1-4875-1425-9 (EPUB) ISBN 978-1-4875-1424-2 (PDF)

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Title: The life of permafrost : a history of frozen earth in Russian and Soviet science / Pey-Yi Chu. Names: Chu, Pey-Yi, author. Description: Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200257765 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200257838 | ISBN 9781487501938 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781487514259 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781487514242 (PDF) Subjects: LCSH: Frozen ground – Research – Russia – History. | LCSH: Frozen ground – Research – Soviet Union – History. | LCSH: Permafrost – Research – Russia – History. | LCSH: Permafrost – Research – Soviet Union – History. | LCSH: Frozen ground – Research – History. | LCSH: Permafrost – Research – History. Classification: LCC GB648.55 .C58 2020 | DDC 551.3/840947–dc23

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council, an agency of the Government of Ontario.

To E.M.L.

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CONTENTS

Introduction: Historicizing Permafrost  3 Permafrost as a historical object 3 Permafrost in Russian and Soviet history 10 Politics, science, and the environment 14 The life cycle of permafrost 21 Choosing words carefully 23 1 Mapping  25 The cold of eastern Siberia 27 Birth of a scientific object 34 From Boden-Eis to Eisboden 41 Conclusion 45 2 Building  47 Colonization and construction 50 Building on frozen earth 56 The soil science of roads 61 The ambiguity of merzlota 64 Conclusion 67 3 Defining  69 Merzlota as aggregate structure 71 Merzlota as process 81 Personal and institutional politics 88 Vechnaia merzlota in Bolshevik culture 100 Conclusion 103

viii Contents

4 Adapting  104 From commission to institute 107 Rhetoric of transforming nature 112 Adapting to frozen earth 119 Survival of the systems approach 123 Conclusion 125 5 Translating  127 Birth of permafrost 130 Criticism and self-criticism 137 From merzlotovedenie to geocryology 147 The dialectic persists 157 Conclusion 163 Epilogue: Resurrecting  164 Acknowledgments 177 Glossary 181 Notes 185 Bibliography 239 Index 279

THE LIFE OF PERMAFROST

Map 1.  Map of northern Eurasia. Drawn by Kate Blackmer.

introduction

HISTORICIZING PERMAFROST Permafrost as a historical object On 19 January 1953, Inna Poiré submitted a report to her section chief at the United States Geological Survey (USGS). The subject was the translation into English of a Russian-language book about “frozen ground.” In her critique of the work, Poiré drew particular attention to the word permafrost: “‘Permafrost’ is a term introduced by the American ­engineers, and is very inadequate,” she wrote. She noted that permafrost “has been considered a translation of the Russian vechnaia merzlota.” But, she explained, whereas “vechnaia means – continuous (in time), or long lasting, or usual,” nevertheless “it does not mean fixed, or unchangeable, i.e. it does not mean permanent.” She asserted that “merzlota, in general, is one of the least permanent phenomena in nature.” Therefore, “all terms derived from permafrost, such as: permafrostology, permafrozen, permafrost process do not comply with the actuality, for freezing is not permanent under the present conditions on the earth, known to us.”1 In the twenty-first century, permafrost is a recognized feature of the earth that has gained notoriety in the context of global warming. Encompassing between twelve million and eighteen million square kilometres of the planet’s land area, it is found predominantly in high-latitude regions, especially the Arctic and sub-Arctic. In the Arctic, average yearly temperatures at the earth’s surface are rising at an even faster rate than in the rest of the world.2 Because of rising temperatures, scientists warn, permafrost is thawing. As it thaws, microorganisms decompose the detritus of plants and animals that had previously been kept frozen underground. Consequently, carbon from dead organic matter is released as carbon dioxide and methane, increasing the amount of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere. The process creates a positive feedback loop – thawing causes more warming, which causes

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The Life of Permafrost

more thawing – that scientists predict will accelerate climate change.3 Uncertainty surrounds how much of the approximately 1.7 trillion tons of carbon from organic materials said to be contained in permafrost will be emitted and how fast. But the prospect of sudden, massive releases of greenhouse gases from permafrost has fuelled catastrophic scenarios of global warming: elevated sea levels, floods, drought, famine, war, and economic devastation. Its potential to exacerbate global warming has led commentators to call permafrost a “wild card” and, still more vividly, a “time bomb.”4 Given ongoing concerns about thawing permafrost, Poiré’s words – that “freezing is not permanent under the present conditions on the earth, known to us” – seem more relevant than ever. But they also raise perplexing questions. Poiré found the word permafrost problematic. Not only did it fail to capture the original Russian expression, but it also gave a misleading impression of the phenomenon itself. If permafrost was an inaccurate term, how did it enter scientific and popular parlance? And what does the name suggest about changing understandings about “frozen ground”? Unravelling these questions is the focus of this book. Poiré’s story provides one point of entry. The circumstances of her extraordinary life placed her in a unique position to discern contradictions at the heart of the concept of permafrost. Moreover, in a curious way, her biography mirrored the transnational trajectory of permafrost itself. By delving briefly into Poiré’s life, we can start to appreciate the complex history of permafrost. Like those of permafrost, Poiré’s origins can be traced to the Russian Empire. She was born Inna Vitalevna Puare on 24 February 1890 in ­Samarkand, then part of Russia’s domain in Central Asia. The daughter of an Imperial Russian military officer of French extraction, Poiré received an education in Minsk, Moscow, and St. Petersburg and ­developed a passion for the natural sciences. She wanted to pursue further study, but war and revolution interrupted her plans. During the Great War, Poiré served as a nurse, a paramedic, and finally a private in the Russian army on the western and southwestern fronts. Wounded in the thigh during a battle in Podolia, she was evacuated to Kiev and made her way back to Petrograd, the recently renamed capital, in ­November 1917. As the new Bolshevik regime consolidated its power and waged the Civil War, Poiré studied for entrance exams to higher institutes and worked odd jobs. After gaining admission to the ­Petrograd Mining ­Institute, she b ­ ecame one of its first female graduates in 1925. She found work in various geological survey organizations, eventually rising to the position of senior geologist in the Leningrad ­Geological-Hydrological-Geodesic Trust, a Soviet agency, in 1933.5

Introduction 5

Ideas about permafrost were profoundly shaped by Stalinism in the Soviet Union, and so was Poiré’s life. Details of her experience emerge from materials accompanying a letter of appeal for help dated 5 May 1936. In that year of mass political repression, Poiré addressed a ­petition to an organization in the Soviet Union dedicated to providing legal aid to political prisoners.6 She wrote from Ufa, where she and her mother had been living in exile for the past year, over 1600 kilometres away from their home in Leningrad. Poiré expressed indignation that she, a skilled worker with expertise in mineral resources, capable of contributing to Soviet society, had been deprived of her livelihood. She wondered, was it because her father served in the tsarist army? Or that he had held French citizenship? Was it because her brother had been arrested and exiled in 1926, despite serving honourably in the Baltic fleet for the Reds during the Civil War? Was it that she had a sister living abroad with whom she corresponded and who regularly sent foreign hard currency to help support their ailing mother? Or was it because she made herself unpopular at the Leningrad G ­ eological-Hydrological-Geodesic Trust by demanding quality work? Poiré’s appeals to S ­ oviet procurators; to the People’s Commissar of Heavy Industry, Sergo Ordzhonikidze; and to the head of the Soviet state, Mikhail Kalinin, all went unanswered.7 Russian sources record Poiré eking out an existence as a dishwasher, “subsequent fate unknown.”8 But US sources pick up her story. Just as permafrost travelled from the Soviet Union to the United States, so did Inna Poiré. The archived membership files of the Society of Women Geographers contain information about an inductee in 1951. According to her sponsor, Poiré was “a very cultured & refined woman & has been through the horrors of being imprisoned & then escaping from the Bolsheviks & having a hard time until installed in her present position in our Geological Survey.” In a list of travels submitted to the Society, Poiré attested to moving from Ufa to the Soviet northwest in 1940. She lived through the “Great Patriotic War” in a town 130 kilometres south of Leningrad. In 1944, she left the USSR, making her way via Lithuania, Poland, and Germany to Linz, Austria, which came under American occupation in 1945.9 Perhaps it was then that she first came to the attention of US government agencies as a multilingual geologist. In that postwar moment, Poiré’s life began to intersect with, and not simply parallel, the trajectory of permafrost. The United States had recently begun organizing systematic research into permafrost in connection with military interests in the Arctic. A Permafrost Project was taking shape in the USGS, and the Army Corps of Engineers established a Permafrost Division within its St. Paul District.10 Aware that

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The Life of Permafrost

most scientific literature on the topic was written in Russian, the USGS sought people to abstract such materials in English. ­Individuals with the required technical and linguistic competence were in short supply. As Robert Black, geologist-in-charge of the Permafrost Project wrote, the USGS wanted “a person of considerable training and experience in geology.” Besides, “first hand knowledge of Russian geography and geology is essential, and familiarity with Russian geologists, their ­capabilities and drawbacks, methods of conducting field investigations and writing reports would be invaluable.” Could Poiré’s qualifications have served as her ticket out of war-devastated Europe? Records show that by 1947 she was based in Washington, DC, and employed by the USGS.11 At her new job, Poiré became attuned to linguistic and scientific problems at the heart of the term permafrost. Not only did Poiré ­consider ­permafrost a poor translation of vechnaia merzlota, but she also discovered that the Russian expression itself was contested. Some ­Soviet scientists, she learned, disavowed the adjective vechnaia – literally, “eternal” – and preferred simply merzlota. But even they did not agree on the meaning of merzlota. Some equated it with the “cryosphere,” a spatial concept. Others believed it referred to “cryophilic rocks,” a substance with a characteristic mineral composition.12 The ambiguity of Russian terms, combined with the imprecision of American neologisms, resulted in tortured texts by hapless translators that Poiré was tasked to review. Poiré perceived the confusion as arising from not only language but also ontology: “The more I read the American and f­ oreign (not only Russian) literature on this subject,” she wrote to a USGS colleague, “the more I realize what follows: the feature in question is neither permafrost, nor perennially, nor eternally, nor vechnaia frozen ground; the chief subject is not the ground itself but groundwater; and, finally, it is not yet clear, what to consider as frozen ground, or as frost in ground.”13 Difficulties of translation extended beyond terminology and exposed uncertainty about the nature of the thing itself. Poiré’s observations suggest that what we know as permafrost ­today is neither a self-evident physical-geographical reality nor a stable ­scientific concept. Water or ground, ice or earth, space or substance, structure or condition – what did scientists mean by permafrost? What did they investigate when they researched permafrost? Digging into these questions reveals that the meaning of permafrost and its antecedents has changed over time. Moreover, the terms have signified a variety of phenomena. Uncovering the range of associations linked to permafrost requires approaching it as a historical – and not only a ­scientific and an environmental – object. From origins in the quotidian

Introduction 7

existence of frozen earth, something called permafrost acquired life as people named, defined, and studied it over the course of history. Historicizing permafrost – understanding it as an idea discovered in a past world that contained multiple, competing meanings – is the goal of this book. Central to the history of permafrost has been the experience of Imperial Russia and the Soviet Union. I argue that the Russian Empire and its successor, the USSR, contributed profoundly to shaping global ideas about frozen earth. To tell this story, I embed the science of permafrost within its historical social and cultural context. Doing so presents a fresh approach: others have surveyed the history of permafrost science, but they place the social context in the background instead of allowing it centre stage. They acknowledge historical circumstances as motivating research into frozen earth but rarely focus on how scientists engaged those circumstances, actively shaping as well as being shaped by them. Furthermore, most histories of permafrost science have been written by permafrost scientists themselves. As insiders, they aim to trace their intellectual genealogies, celebrate outstanding individuals, and chronicle the development of influential scientific institutions.14 Understandably, their histories treat permafrost as a coherent and unitary phenomenon and depict the science of permafrost as progressing towards correctness. Although richly informative, histories written within the framework of progressive development carry two disadvantages. For one, they project latter-day concepts – including permafrost itself – onto the past. For another, they devote less attention to the contingencies and controversies that have shaped understandings of frozen earth.15 By contrast, I tell the contested history of frozen earth, giving expression to a range of historical voices to convey the richness of the past. On one hand, I aim to show the legacy of the past, explaining how certain ideas came to influence the present. On the other hand, I aim to reveal the past on its own terms, presenting views that hold relevance today, even if they did not “win.” In this book I do not take for granted the objectivity, universality, naturalness, or timelessness of permafrost. By tracing the shifting meanings of frozen earth in scientific imagination, I build on insights from the field of science and technology ­studies (STS). Scholars working in STS have emphasized that nature and knowledge about nature are not simply givens but rather phenomena that coalesce and evolve in interaction with society. Moreover, ­objects of scientific inquiry possess material and symbolic dimensions; they are both real and constructed.16 Using the framework of writing “biographies of scientific objects,” Lorraine Daston has encouraged ­exploration of how historical processes of making knowledge have

8

The Life of Permafrost

generated the targets of that knowledge. The idea is that scientists do not merely discover and describe preexisting realities. They summon, solidify, and shape those realities through their research methods and motivations. Scientific o ­ bjects emerge as people apply questions, ­theories, and investigative tools and techniques. Their essence and significance change over time as they become embedded in social and ­scientific practices in different ways.17 Such observations ring true for permafrost. By the seventeenth century, people had noticed that in some parts of the world, at certain depths, the earth remained frozen throughout the year. It stayed frozen regardless of dramatic fluctuations in atmospheric conditions, even when air at the surface became very warm during summer. By the twentieth century, this phenomenon had become permafrost, defined as “ground (soil or rock and included ice and organic material) that remains at or below 0°C for at least two consecutive years.”18 A reality – the earth remaining frozen for many years – came to be perceived as an aggregate structure, ground, characterized by a certain temperature. It acquired a name that suggested longevity, permafrost, and a definition oriented to the short term of two consecutive years. Explaining this peculiar transformation entails delving into how scientists interacted with the environment. To understand ontology, or the nature of permafrost, we must examine epistemology, or how people studied frozen earth. Not only scientific practices but also language form part of the ­social and cultural context that shapes scientific objects. Scholars in STS have demonstrated the importance of analysing the language of science to reveal embedded cultural and epistemological assumptions. We must pay attention to how social ideas inform science because science may in turn naturalize and legitimate those ideas.19 Language as a means of communicating scientific ideas does not exist in a vacuum. The terminology of science borrows from everyday speech and gets used in broader social contexts. And although scientists aspire to precise ­language, scientific terms accumulate multiple associations over time. STS scholars have therefore proposed tracing the many different and ­changing meanings of scientific “keywords.”20 The goals are both to ­improve the clarity and accuracy of science communication and to ­foster awareness of the mutual influences of science and society. Telling the story of the life of permafrost involves analysing keywords and distinguishing their varied meanings and connotations. In the case of permafrost, the task is complicated by the multiple languages involved. The first terms for what we now call permafrost appeared in the nineteenth century in German: Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden, rendered in English as “ground ice,” and “frozen soil,” respectively.21 Subsequently, because

Introduction 9

most research on the topic was done by R ­ ussian and Soviet scientists, Russian expressions proliferated. The most common, vechnaia merzlota, was one of several possibilities, and it was hotly contested. Then, in 1943, permafrost was coined by an American geologist of ­Russian e­ xtraction named Siemon Muller as a loan translation of vechnaia merzlota. As ­English became the dominant language of science in the postwar period, permafrost achieved international usage. But it, too, was fiercely debated. Each iteration of the terminology of frozen earth contained ambiguity, generating prolonged controversy and confusion surrounding words and their definitions into the twenty-first century. Behind disagreements about language lay deeper conceptual issues. I found that there have been two main ways of imagining permafrost: as an aggregate physical structure and as a condition, process, or space connected to the earth’s system. A dialectic that was both ontological and epistemological played out in the history of understanding frozen earth. Distinct conceptions of the nature of the phenomenon arose from different motivations for studying it. Beginning in the late nineteenth century, and for much of the twentieth century, a dominant motive consisted of solving problems connected to construction. Earth that stayed frozen throughout the year created myriad difficulties for building roads, railroads, bridges, factories, and airports. The focus on engineering favoured seeing permafrost as a structure and physical obstacle. But a persistent, alternative reason for studying frozen earth consisted of elucidating fundamental laws governing the flow of heat and chemicals throughout the planet. Scientists pursuing such questions varied in their perceptions of permafrost, which they cast sometimes as a space, sometimes as a substance, sometimes as a condition. Yet they shared a common preoccupation with fitting it into a larger system. I aim to bring to light the dialectic that has characterized perceptions of permafrost and to explain the circumstances that gave rise to such a dynamic. My goal is not to cast doubt on the legitimacy of permafrost as a scientific term or on the reality of permafrost as a feature of the earth. Nor is it to decide which conception of permafrost is more valid. Rather, it is to recover the multiple ontologies of permafrost. Historicizing permafrost shows that the phenomenon contains not one single essence but many. How its essence has been understood depended on the context of scientific research. What is to be gained by recognizing the multiple essences of permafrost? One advantage is that doing so brings clarity to scientific debate. The bitter and recurring disputes about the terminology of frozen earth often failed to acknowledge conceptual differences underlying the conflict. Revealing the various meanings of permafrost contributes to clearer

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The Life of Permafrost

understanding by illuminating the epistemological reasons behind controversies about language. It also illustrates the importance of the STS perspective of approaching scientific knowledge as situated rather than disembodied and total.22 Starting from the position that knowledge arises from concrete, specific, and incomplete vantages ­enables additional, relevant ideas to be heard. In the dialectic that played out in history between the two frameworks for understanding permafrost – structure versus system – advocates of the latter struggled to gain recognition of their view. Given that the systems framework was ­often buried or dismissed in past debates, I seek to give it due attention. ­Historians of geology have argued that the earth sciences were shaped by independent goals, including reconstructing the earth’s ­history versus ­establishing fundamental laws governing the earth’s processes. Showing the dialectic in conceptions of permafrost affirms that ­knowledge of the earth has developed via the interplay of different epistemologies rather than the triumph of a single view.23 More generally, recognizing the multiple essences of permafrost helps us approach the phenomenon with less alarm and more curiosity and awareness. In an era of global warming, a historical perspective allows access to metaphors for permafrost besides a time bomb or an “Arctic methane monster.”24 It does not insist upon a view of permafrost as hostile or scary. Instead, it encourages consideration for the societies and lands connected to permafrost. Historicizing permafrost shows that the nature of the phenomenon as a scientific and environmental object has been fashioned together with human practices, languages, and ideas. It is therefore not only permafrost that must be understood as part of the earth’s system but people as well. Our words, actions, and decisions matter for the earth’s system and the role of permafrost within it. Permafrost in Russian and Soviet history Historicizing permafrost enables us to recover multiple essences of the phenomenon and show how the concept changed over time. Delving into the epistemology and terminology of science forms an important aspect of this pursuit. But scientific practices and language do not look the same everywhere. Building upon the STS idea of knowledge as being situated, David N. Livingstone has argued that science is influenced by the places in which it is conducted. Historians must therefore “put science in its place” by exploring the local and national contexts of producing knowledge.25 Livingstone’s dictum has particular relevance for the science of permafrost. One argument of this book is that a ­dialectic between two frameworks, structure and system, characterized

Introduction 11

the evolution of understandings about permafrost. Another is that this dialectic was profoundly shaped by the historical development of the Russian Empire and its successor state, the Soviet Union. To fully understand the history of permafrost, it is necessary to look beyond the internal workings of science and consider the role of Russian and Soviet politics and culture. We can trace controversy surrounding permafrost to the evolution of vechnaia merzlota in the context of Russian and Soviet history. The Russian expression vechnaia merzlota, from which the English word ­permafrost was derived, dates to the nineteenth century in Russia. In the 1920s, it was first given the definition that forms the basis of permafrost today, “ground that remains at or below 0°C for at least two consecutive years.” Some Russian and Soviet scientists popularized the term vechnaia merzlota even though it evoked the seemingly unscientific notion of “eternal” (vechnaia). They also validated the conception of frozen earth as a physical structure, ground. Yet other scientists criticized these choices, offering alternative understandings of frozen earth as a process or condition connected to the planet’s thermal system. Debate centred on the precise meaning of an ambiguous word, merzlota. Did it refer to something material, like soil, or something less tangible, like a condition of cold? Earlier usage suggested both possibilities. How ­scientists chose to deploy the word depended on whether they thought of frozen earth in terms of a structure or a system. The idea of frozen earth as a structure was supported by one trend in Russian and Soviet history: the transformation of Siberia through colonization and industrialization. From the sixteenth through twentieth centuries, first Muscovy, then the Russian Empire and the Soviet ­Union endeavoured to conquer, settle, and transform Siberia. As people ventured east of the Enisei River, they encountered perennially frozen earth as an obstacle. Russian colonizers in eastern Siberia in the seventeenth century provided some of the earliest written reports of earth that remained frozen throughout the year.26 Their observations were occasioned by the difficulty of digging wells and tilling the soil. Later, imperial and Soviet engineers faced problems connected to frozen earth when they undertook large-scale construction projects in the lands between the Arctic and the Amur. Perennially frozen earth caused the terrain to behave in unexpected ways, complicating the surveying, building, and exploiting of infrastructure. Motivated by the goals of colonization and industrialization, the tsarist and communist governments sponsored systematic study of frozen earth. Given its focus on ensuring stable foundations, the engineering research that emerged often a­ pproached the phenomenon as an aggregate physical structure, ground.

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The Life of Permafrost

But a different trend focused attention on processes and interactions in nature rather than structures. A pattern of systems thinking in Russian and Soviet intellectual history fostered perceptions of ­frozen earth as a condition or process tied to exchanges of matter and e­ nergy. It encompassed Humboldtian science, the genetic soil science of Vasilii Dokuchaev, and a Marxist philosophy of science. ­Nineteenth-century Humboldtian science, identified with Prussian n ­ aturalist Alexander von Humboldt, enjoyed influence among savants in Imperial Russia. Oriented to discovering the laws that governed the planet as a whole, it aimed to illuminate the interaction and distribution of planetary forces shaping earth and its history. In the late nineteenth century, Russian pioneer of soil science Vasilii Dokuchaev advanced a conception of soil that stressed its relationships with its s­ urroundings. He posited soil as being the outcome of a complex of e­ nvironmental factors, including climate, geology, and the distribution of plants and animals. After 1917, with the advent of the Bolshevik regime, ­Marxism-Leninism became an official state ideology. Besides a theory of socialism, Marxism-Leninism encompassed a philosophy of knowledge dubbed “dialectical materialism” by Russian Marxist Georgi Plekhanov. Dialectical materialism as a framework for science asserted that nature developed via the conflict and synthesis of contradictions. All three of these paradigms encouraged thinking about frozen earth as integrated with the circulation of heat and chemicals throughout the planet. Despite the validity of the systems framework, historical circumstances favoured the official adoption of a definition of frozen earth oriented to the logic of engineering. A distinct scientific field centred on frozen earth took shape at a particular time and place: the Soviet Union in the 1930s. The science of frozen earth therefore became institutionalized at the same time that the Soviet regime implemented rapid, state-driven industrialization. Given the political and economic context, solving practical technical problems became a primary concern of the emerging discipline. The party-state’s policy on science demanded that research carry the potential to aid the economy and defence. ­Scientists whose work fulfilled such expectations were rewarded with status and resources. In this setting, defining frozen earth as ground (an ­aggregate structure) characterized by zero or negative temperature (a n ­ umerical value used in engineering calculations) seemed appropriate and acceptable. Soviet culture also encouraged perceptions of frozen earth as a “huge solid fact” of physical geography.27 Stalin-era literature, film, and propaganda featured the “struggle with nature” as a prominent theme. They portrayed Soviet citizens engaging in heroic battles with tangible elements such as snow and ice, thereby embracing a dualism of humans



Introduction 13

versus nature.28 The exploration and development of the Soviet Union’s peripheries was depicted using the language of conquest. Such adversarial rhetoric informed descriptions of frozen earth directed towards popular, non-specialist audiences. It cast frozen earth, too, as a concrete environmental obstacle rather than as an abstract phenomenon embedded in a system of nature. The Soviet context explains much about what later seemed controversial about permafrost, including misapprehensions about its permanence. Permafrost was a shorthand for permanently frozen ground, which was a translation of the expression vechnaia merzlota used by Soviet ­scientists.29 As Inna Poiré argued, however, “freezing is not permanent under the present conditions on the earth, known to us.” Although she blamed “American engineers” for introducing a term that suggested otherwise, the original Russian-language expression suffered from the same problem. Vechnaia meant “eternal,” yet the definition of vechnaia merzlota specified a minimum duration of only two years. Scientists who contested the term and definition pointed out that two years was not only a geologically meaningless time frame but also inconsistent with the meaning of vechnaia. Nonetheless, vechnaia merzlota gained popularity for reasons particular to the Soviet experience. The very idea of defining frozen earth on the basis of time, as ­opposed to its geological origin or composition, speaks to the cultural framework of revolution and industrialization. Vechnaia as a word and concept appealed to the popular fascination with immortality in ­Bolshevik revolutionary culture. The lower boundary of two years, rather than ­being arbitrary, helped engineers distinguish perennially frozen ground from seasonally freezing and thawing ground, which presented different challenges. Finally, the fusion of transcendent time (“eternal”) and ­engineering time (two years) paralleled patterns of social perception of time in Soviet economic life. Through the five-year plans, the ­Soviet regime aspired to fast forward to communism – Marx’s end of h ­ istory – through urgent, disciplined production. Just as the end of ­ history served as a figurative expression for communism, so vechnaia merzlota was a metaphor for perennially frozen earth. We owe a great deal about our international understanding of permafrost today to the Russian and Soviet experience. By geographical accident, a continental empire in Northern Asia encompassed ten million square kilometres of territory underlain by perennially frozen earth.30 Although permafrost was also found in North America, Greenland, and Antarctica, it was in the Russian Empire that sustained study of the phenomenon first began. Investigations were initially inspired by colonizers’ reports from Siberia and the program of Humboldtian ­science. They acquired new purpose in the late nineteenth century d ­ uring the

14

The Life of Permafrost

construction of the Trans-Siberian railway. In the Soviet era, multiple large-scale projects, including the Amur-Yakutiya ­ highway, the ­Baikal-Amur railroad, and urban development in Yakutsk, N ­ orilsk, and Igarka, unfolded in regions with frozen earth. Because of the ­urgency of socialist industrialization, frozen earth research became ­institutionalized in the Soviet Union earlier than anywhere else in the world. As Soviet scientists built the discipline, the political and cultural context of Stalinism provided favourable conditions for a certain conception of frozen earth, vechnaia merzlota, to take root. Particularities of place – ­including geography and history – influenced both the science of p­ ermafrost and the conceptions of permafrost itself. The outsized role of Russia and the Soviet Union justifies my focus in this book. To a smaller extent, up through the mid-twentieth ­century, British, French, German, Polish, Scandinavian, and North American ­researchers also investigated frozen earth, but I treat them only briefly. Other scholars have begun to explore these histories, much of which ­remains to be written.31 Centring my story on Russian and Soviet ­science results in part from the impossibility of covering all aspects of the history of permafrost in one study. But doing so also forms part of my argument about its significance for frozen earth research. Especially after World War II, Soviet science attained international influence. During the 1950s, motivated by Cold War competition, the United States government embarked upon extensive translations of ­Soviet scientific articles. In this context, vechnaia merzlota acquired an English name – while keeping its Soviet definition. Simultaneously, during the heyday of Sino-Soviet friendship, Soviet scientists helped to initiate investigations into frozen earth in the People’s Republic of China.32 Interest in Soviet knowledge about frozen earth was fuelled by the needs of engineering, which mattered for military construction in North America and regional development in China. The focus on the origin and evolution of landforms in earth history that characterized European research into frozen earth had less immediate relevance. Postwar geopolitics therefore facilitated the globalization of a particular science of frozen earth forged in the period of socialist industrialization in the Soviet Union. Our understanding of permafrost in the twenty-first century lives in the shadow of this legacy. Politics, science, and the environment If delving into Russian and Soviet history clarifies and deepens our understanding of permafrost, historicizing permafrost also contributes to our knowledge about Russia and the Soviet Union. Thus far I have



Introduction 15

endeavoured to persuade the reader that history matters for understanding permafrost. Now I want to explain why the science of permafrost matters for history, especially of politics, science, and the environment in Russia and the Soviet Union. The history of permafrost showcases the uniqueness, creativity, and productivity of science and of the environment in northern Eurasia. It also encourages us to look beyond dualisms when considering the relationship between politics and science and nature and culture. Instead of approaching these areas of life as separate or opposed, I explore their entanglements. Questions about the relationship between politics and science have dogged the historiography of the Soviet Union for good reason. The Soviet Union was governed by a single party, the Communist Party, that carried out a revolution according to its official ideology of ­Marxism-Leninism. It aspired to create an egalitarian society sustained by abundant production and the just distribution of resources. To realize its vision, the party-state directed the economy through planning, the collectivization of agriculture, and investment in infrastructure and industry. Simultaneously, the revolution gave rise to a dictatorship, not only of a single party but also of an individual, Stalin, who established a monopoly on the interpretation of Marxism-Leninism. As a guide to exercising power, Marxism-Leninism emphasized the use of force to combat class enemies and counterrevolutionaries. Under Stalin, the party-state carried out campaigns of terror against alleged spies and saboteurs said to be undermining Soviet modernization. The context of Soviet history therefore created paradoxical conditions for science. On the one hand, science and technology were valued for providing the know-how needed to improve the human condition.33 On the other hand, scientists were subject, like everyone else, to the r­ egime’s violence and ideological precepts. Did the politics and ideology of the Soviet Union hamper the development of science? Or did science flourish under sponsorship by the party-state? In the latter, did science flourish despite politics and ideology or because of them? ­Finally, did Soviet science represent an aberration in the broader history of science, or did it align with and contribute to international trends? Scholars have investigated these questions by examining the nature and extent of the Soviet regime’s influence on scientists, especially in the fields of biology and physics. The infamous case of agronomist Trofim Lysenko’s rise to positions of leadership in the Soviet scientific establishment provided evidence of the negative effects of such influence. The party-state’s demands for practical science and ideological conformity elevated Lysenko’s dubious “agrobiology,” which denied the principles of genetics. Stalin and the Communist Party endorsed

16

The Life of Permafrost

Lysenko in decrying as antithetical to Marxism-Leninism the idea that heredity occurred via the transmission of genes from parents to ­offspring. They carried out campaigns of political repression in which scientists suffered imprisonment, exile, and execution. Judging from Lysenko’s dominance, as well as the harm brought to individual ­scientists, politics and ideology appeared to hinder scientific progress.34 On the other hand, the internationally renowned successes of ­Soviet physics presented a more ambivalent picture. Historians have shown that physicists, too, were arrested and killed under the same conditions faced by biologists. But Soviet physicists’ contributions to ­industrialization and defence – including the development of nuclear weapons – enabled them to largely evade ideological interference in their research. Indeed, some have argued that the value and prestige of their work gave physicists authority, which they used to protect and promote science in general, including genetics.35 Science therefore flourished in the Soviet Union insofar as it managed to carve out a sphere of autonomy separate from politics and ideology. Unlike the narrative presented by the history of biology, the history of physics shows that politics and ideology did not necessarily prevent scientific progress. But both stories have been told on the basis of the assumption that ­science progresses when scientists pursue research freely, unencumbered by political and ideological considerations.36 Yet science in the Soviet Union advanced not in spite of politics and ideology but in association with them. Rather than focusing on the ­opposition between scientists and the Soviet regime, I build on the work of scholars who have explored their symbiosis. After seizing power, the Bolsheviks became patrons of science. The revolutionary government sponsored the formation of new scientific institutes dedicated to areas of research with potential applications for the economy, including ­hydrology, precious metals, and soil science.37 These institutes were created within the Academy of Sciences, a society founded on the pursuit of knowledge since the days of Peter the Great. Starting in 1927, with the embrace of the first five-year plan, the Communist Party initiated a takeover of the Academy of Sciences. The academy lost the right to select its members and decide its structure and agenda, which became subject to approval by the party-state. But although the academy was forced to relinquish its autonomy, it gained influence and prestige. Reorganized as a centralized agency of the Soviet government, the academy grew to encompass dozens of institutes, supported by state funding, while coordinating scientific research union-wide.38 The science of frozen earth took shape under the auspices of the transformed academy, against the backdrop of consolidated ties between scientists and the state. Its



Introduction 17

emergence as a discipline in the Soviet Union highlights the generative power of the political context for the production of knowledge. Not only politics but also ideology provided opportunities and resources for science in the Soviet Union. Marxism-Leninism furnished a repertoire of concepts and language that ordinary Soviet citizens  – including scientists – learned to use. The philosophy of dialectical materialism and the slogans of the Communist Party attacking “idealism” and embracing “criticism and self-criticism” infiltrated scientific writings and debates. Scientists deployed such ideas and vocabulary out of necessity. Given the persistent threat of persecution, adhering to the regime’s ideology constituted a strategy for survival. ­“Speaking ­Bolshevik,” to use a well-known formulation, also helped to advance one’s career, win personal and institutional conflicts, and gain backing from patrons in the party-state.39 But fear and self-interest do not fully explain why Soviet scientists wielded ideology for their own purposes. Intellectual curiosity and convictions also mattered. Scholars have shown that dialectical materialism and frameworks borrowed from socialism more generally inspired or supported innovations in ­psychology, geochemistry, and physics.40 Moreover, the insistence upon ideological conformity that prevailed under Stalinism did not preclude earnest scientific debate. Indeed, campaigns to promote ideology sometimes encouraged it, with varied and unpredictable results. To be sure, Stalin-era scientific disputes were characterized by the push for a single truth and intolerance of pluralism. Nevertheless, ideology promoted creativity and critical discussion in Soviet science in ways that belie the image of repression conveyed by the victory of Lysenko.41 The history of frozen earth research demonstrates the importance of Soviet ideology as an epistemology. As promoted by the politics of ­Stalinism, Marxism-Leninism contributed to both sides of the dialectic of the life of permafrost. The five-year plans and communist takeover of the Academy of Sciences elevated the precept that theory must be combined with practice, or knowledge made to serve society’s needs. Such an emphasis on applied science privileged engineering perspectives, which reinforced the idea of frozen earth as a physical structure. More intriguingly, however, dialectical materialism inspired some Soviet scientists to approach frozen earth not as a physical structure but as a dynamic condition, process, and space. Instead of engineering properties, they were interested in uncovering the laws of the earth’s system that governed the genesis and evolution of frozen earth. For them, the ideological campaigns of Stalinism created openings for promoting a systems framework for understanding frozen earth, one focused on ­exchanges of minerals and heat in the environment.

18

The Life of Permafrost

A systems framework for understanding frozen earth became a ­ istinctly Soviet contribution to the global intellectual movement of d systems thinking. Broadly speaking, systems thinking refers to a mode of thought concerned with approaching political, social, and natural phenomena as complex totalities rather than reducing them to their component elements. It emerged in a range of fields in the twentieth century, from biology to political economy. Subjects of study such as organisms, ecosystems, societies, and economies became conceived of as entities comprising myriad internal linkages, which generated something more than the sum of their parts. According to systems thinking, the multitude of relationships and exchanges could be analysed and modelled. Consequently, the system as a whole could be understood and, ultimately, managed. Systems thinking is most commonly associated with the development of cybernetics, computing, and automatic systems of communication and control after World War II, especially in the United States. But as an epistemology, its origins were eclectic and its manifestations diverse.42 Scholars have shown that Soviet scientists such as Vladimir ­Vernadskii and Nikita Moiseev played leading roles in developing ­systems thinking in the earth sciences and social sciences. From precursors in the nineteenth century, historians have traced the growth of systems thinking amid the cultural experimentation of the 1920s and analysed its resurgence after Stalin.43 Within this general narrative, Stalin’s rule appears as a period of stagnation. Systems thinking was repressed in favour of rote incantations of dialectical materialism and an overriding emphasis on rapid production and violent struggle.44 Yet frozen earth research constituted an area where systems thinking persisted, sometimes with the aid of Stalinist politics. I therefore make a case for intellectual continuity across the political ruptures of Russian and Soviet history. Thanks to the flexibility of ideas and the resourcefulness of individuals as they promoted their views and careers, Stalinism provided opportunities for the development of earth systems science. The history of frozen earth research offers fresh perspectives not only about the history of science but also environmental history. Since the 1970s, when the field of environmental history took shape, scholars have aimed to incorporate nature into studies of the past. Inspired by the contemporary environmental movement, they investigated the ­impacts of humans on nature and vice versa.45 One pioneering tradition highlighted the destruction of nature through human activities. Such a framework proved especially relevant to analysing the Soviet Union, where examples of state-driven ecological degradation abounded. The regime’s pursuit of industrial and agricultural production depleted forests and



Introduction 19

rivers, polluted the air with harmful sulphur dioxide, and contaminated the soil with pesticides. Infrastructure development, including the construction of roads, dams, and cities, reduced the habitats of flora and fauna. Mineral extraction, weapons manufacturing, and nuclear power generated toxic chemical and radioactive waste that percolated into the land and living bodies.46 Moreover, the poisoning of the environment occurred alongside censorship and centralized decision making, which undermined efforts by ordinary people to protect nature and human health. Political repression and ecological degradation appeared to go hand in hand, suggesting that the Soviet Union exceeded even capitalist liberal democracies in the environmental damage it caused.47 Narratives of environmental destruction offered powerful lessons about the immorality of industrialization and tyranny, but they overlooked key facets of Soviet history. Studies of ecological degradation portrayed the party-state’s attitude towards nature as negligent at best and hostile at worst, especially with the advent of Stalinism and the five-year plans.48 But even under Stalin, the Soviet regime pursued policies aimed at protecting natural spaces as well as improving them for the sake of human well-being. It shielded vast tracts of forest in the heartland from logging and carried out campaigns to plant hundreds of kilometres of trees in the southern steppes. On the Kola Peninsula, Soviet planners took the Arctic environment into consideration when pursuing urban and industrial development. They a­ spired to create liveable cities by planning infrastructure for sanitation, ­ promoting outdoor recreation, and devising methods to minimize industrial waste. Along the Black Sea, experts – with personal input from ­Stalin – ­converted wetlands that harboured malaria into a health resort where visitors could enjoy the restorative qualities of nature.49 In Soviet propaganda, dominant tropes of struggling with and conquering nature coexisted with messages about stewarding and creating harmony with the environment. Appreciation of nature and concern about its deterioration through human exploitation, which found strong expression in pre-revolutionary Russian culture, persisted into Soviet times.50 And although contamination and the depletion of resources certainly ­resulted from Soviet practices, especially in the postwar period, nevertheless they paralleled developments in capitalist liberal democracies. Confronted with evidence of such effects, Soviet scientists became ­advocates of conservation and influential communicators of environmental change at the local and international levels.51 A growing body of scholarship is finding Soviet relationships with the environment to be distinctive but not aberrant, grimly consistent with global trends rather than singularly destructive.52

20

The Life of Permafrost

In light of this research, I focus on the complex interactions between intentions and outcomes that resist straightforward narratives of environmental degradation. Examining Soviet encounters with frozen earth reveals contradictions between rhetoric, practices, and results. As participants in the Stalinist five-year plans, Soviet scientists used the aggressive language of struggle and conquest in discussions about frozen earth. Doing so helped them to conform to official culture and thereby attract state support for their work. But when it came to ­implementing industrialization in eastern Siberia, they advised engineers on ­preserving – not destroying – frozen earth. Preserving frozen earth turned out to be the most effective strategy for maintaining the stability of infrastructure. Despite their hostile pronouncements, Soviet actors behaved pragmatically. Yet their pragmatism cannot be mistaken for environmentalism. By facilitating industrial development, Soviet scientists contributed to the generation of waste and pollution that endangered human and non-human lives. A narrowly conservationist policy, ­preserving frozen earth, produced negative consequences on a broader scale. Finally, Soviet scientists developed knowledge that simultaneously fostered greater human intervention in high-latitude regions and greater appreciation for the role of such places in the earth’s system. The difficulty of assessing the record of Soviet interactions with frozen earth as either beneficial or harmful alerts us to the inherent paradoxes of human interactions with the environment. To make sense of these paradoxes, I join others in moving beyond a dichotomy of nature and culture. A dualism between nature, understood as the world of non-human life and the physical environment, and culture, the world of humans, has preoccupied narratives of environmental history.53 Indeed, both the narrative of conquering nature in Soviet propaganda and the narrative of Soviet ecological degradation positioned humans as a transcendent force capable of subjugating and destroying nature. Although diametrically opposed in their judgments about human activities, both narratives adhered to the same zero-sum framework. Either humans triumphed over the natural world by bending it to serve the betterment of society, or they undermined nature’s integrity for selfish ends. But another framework exists. Instead of considering the human and non-human as belonging to distinct worlds, we may regard them as entangled. Upon closer inspection, for example, landforms initially perceived as natural, such as mountains, rivers, lakes, and cliffs, are revealed to have been traversed, modified, and cultivated by humans. Spaces that appear to fall within the domain of humans, such as a­ irports and cities, teem with non-human life. Human-built objects, such as heating pipes, mediate interactions between people and the physical



Introduction 21

environment and its forces.54 Nature itself, instead of maintaining a stable reality, unfolds as a set of ideas crafted using science and human imagination, which are shaped by motives, values, and prejudices. Yet ideas about nature do not develop in abstraction; they emerge from concrete human collaborations with the material world, including non-human actors, both living and non-living.55 Maintaining separation between nature and culture perpetuates a construct that emerged in the seventeenth century as Europeans began distancing themselves from nature to measure and classify it. Belief in this construct, as Bruno Latour has argued, underpinned the enactment of progress based on increasing state power and economic production. But all along, entanglements of nature and culture created hybrid forms that combined the human and non-human, the material and the ideological.56 Permafrost is one such hybrid inseparable from human practices and ideas. Such a perspective encourages us to approach human relationships with permafrost not in terms of conquest or degradation but rather co-evolution. It asks us to tell histories of permafrost together with humans’ changing capabilities, concerns, and awareness of our environments. Humans appear not as a transcendent force preserving or destroying permafrost, but as diverse actors variously learning about and negotiating the constraints presented by permafrost. The costs of human interactions with permafrost for human and non-human lives must be continually explored. Mourning what we have lost, as Donna Haraway has argued, constitutes part of “staying with the trouble,” or living amid the legacies of industrialization, both capitalist and socialist. But staying with the trouble also entails becoming more aware of what Anna Tsing has called “collaborative survival,” the unexpected relationships that enable livelihoods in precarious times.57 What might collaborative survival with permafrost look like? I would start by recognizing its hybridity and acknowledging its many forms. We might see permafrost not only as a physical structure to be engineered and preserved at all costs, as one tradition of Soviet science conceived it; we might also see it as a process, condition, and space tied to the earth’s system, a system we must maintain even as the structure of frozen earth is already disappearing. The life cycle of permafrost If we treat permafrost as an idea that has evolved over time, we might liken its “life” to that of an insect such as a butterfly. The life cycle of a butterfly consists of four stages: egg, larva, pupa, and adult. In the first stage, as an egg, permafrost was born as a scientific object with two names, Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden. As it transitioned to the larval form, it

22

The Life of Permafrost

took on additional meanings and became merzlota. When it entered the pupal stage, merzlota became vechnaia merzlota. Finally, when it entered the adult stage, vechnaia merzlota became permafrost. To trace this life, I dig into published and unpublished sources from Imperial Russia, the Soviet Union, and the United States collected in both Russia and the United States. These include papers by imperial, Soviet, and US scientists and engineers, travelogues and expedition reports, administrative documents from state and scientific institutions, works of popular science, and scientists’ correspondence. To tell the story, I adopt a chronological approach framed by different scientific practices: mapping, building, defining, adapting, and translating. Chapter 1, “Mapping,” focuses on the nineteenth century and centres on European naturalists’ attempts to determine the extent of ­frozen earth in northern Eurasia. I explain the birth of frozen earth as a ­scientific object in the context of Humboldtian science. As expeditions to Siberia ascertained the land’s frozen condition, what was previously described as a characteristic – its cold temperature or its congealed quality – ­crystallized into a distinct entity with a knowable geographical distribution. But disagreement also arose over what, exactly, was the subject of interest: ice, earth, or a composite of the two. The disagreement was compounded by ambiguity in the first scientific names for the phenomenon, Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden. Already in this embryonic stage of the life of permafrost, a dialectic emerged between approaching the phenomenon as a component of the earth’s system and understanding it as an aggregate physical structure. In chapter 2, “Building,” frozen earth appears as both an obstacle to civil engineering and an object of scientific curiosity. I describe how, faced with myriad unexpected challenges to their constructions – freezing and flooding, heaving and subsiding – imperial engineers began to call explicitly for applied research into frozen earth. This trend continued after the Bolshevik Revolution, when the new Soviet government undertook its own ambitious venture in eastern Siberia: the 1167-kilometre Amur-Yakutiya highway, begun in 1925. As scientists and engineers approached frozen earth with new purposes in mind, understandings of the phenomenon evolved. During this larval stage, an epistemology oriented to the needs of engineering strengthened one side of the dialectic of the life of permafrost. It favoured an understanding of frozen earth as “ground,” a physical-geographical structure made into an ­object of engineering. Both chapter 3, “Defining,” and chapter 4, “Adapting,” centre on the crucial pupal stage of the life of permafrost. During this stage, a name and definition for frozen earth advanced by scientist Mikhail Sumgin



Introduction 23

became adopted in the Soviet Union. Eventually, this name, vechnaia merzlota, gave rise to the English word permafrost, and its definition became internationally recognized. But when the term and its new meaning were initially promulgated, they generated intense controversy. Chapter 3 therefore focuses on the debate between Sumgin and his rival, the gifted but testy geographer Sergei Parkhomenko. Sumgin and Parkhomenko adopted either side of the dialectic of understanding frozen earth. In opposition to Sumgin’s definition of frozen earth as an aggregate structure, Parkhomenko conceived it in terms of a geological process induced by the climate. Chapter 4 traces the process by which Sumgin’s definition, which more immediately appealed to the needs of civil engineering, gained ascendancy. Its practical orientation enabled it to obtain recognition in the Soviet Union during the 1930s. Chapter 5, “Translating,” takes the story into the postwar period and examines debates about frozen earth in the context of the early Cold War. In this adult stage of the life of permafrost, Sumgin’s conception of frozen earth travelled internationally even as it was challenged inside the Soviet Union. Sumgin’s death in 1942 and the postwar ideological revival in the Soviet Union provided an opening for younger scientists to revive the other side of the dialectic in understandings of frozen earth. Citing principles of Marxism-Leninism, they promoted a conception of frozen earth as a space, the cryolithozone, involved in heat exchange with the rest of the earth’s system. But as the new generation sought to reframe frozen earth research inside the Soviet Union, Sumgin’s terms and definitions were translated and adopted abroad, particularly in the United States. Increasing tensions between the United States and USSR as well as linguistic obstacles prevented a collective consideration of Soviet scientists’ new framework. Permafrost gained life thanks to crossed moments of transnational scientific exchange, born amid the Cold War eddies that disrupted the flow of ideas. Choosing words carefully Because language and terminology compose important elements of my story, I must clarify my choice of words. Readers will already have noticed that I italicize permafrost to draw attention to the term itself. I maintain this convention throughout the book to emphasize the distinction between the scientific object and the phenomenon-in-nature. When referring to the phenomenon-in-nature, I use what I intend to be a neutral, non-scientific, and non-technical expression, “frozen earth,” avoiding “frozen ground,” “frozen soil,” and “frozen rock.” Ground, soil, and rock have specific scientific and technical meanings that

24

The Life of Permafrost

became part of the debate surrounding the ontology of frozen earth. Only when such terms appear in my sources do I use them, with the goal of communicating the views of historical actors. Since permafrost was not coined until 1943, strictly speaking it is anachronistic to use it when writing about earlier time periods. Just as it might seem confusing to refer to a caterpillar as a butterfly, I do not refer to the earlier stages of the life cycle of permafrost as permafrost. Instead, I use the original German or Russian terms, such as Boden-Eis and vechnaia merzlota, leaving them untranslated – as Inna Poiré herself found it necessary to do. Choosing to keep words from a foreign language like Boden-Eis and vechnaia merzlota risks making my story less accessible to an English-speaking audience. But it is a risk I take to remain true to the complex history of permafrost. I hope that maintaining distinctions between the different stages of the life of permafrost will ultimately clarify the multiple, evolving meanings of this fascinating scientific object.

chapter one

MAPPING The life of permafrost began in the Russian Empire. In the seventeenth century, as the Russian state expanded towards the Pacific Ocean, colonizers discovered a striking feature of the lands in the east. They learned that, beginning at a certain depth, the earth remained frozen throughout the year. In 1684, the military governor of Yakutsk, a town along the Lena River, reported to tsars Peter and Ivan that “a well, Great Sovereigns, cannot by any means be made.” He noted that “the earth in summer thaws one and a half arshin [107 centimetres], and more than two arshin [142 centimetres] the earth never thaws.”1 In the nineteenth century, imperial men of science attempted to map the phenomenon. The first map appeared by the 1840s. It showed an expansive portion of northern Eurasia shaded with a smooth layer of brown and varying patches of blue. Half a century later, in 1889, another map was published. But instead of layers of colour, it showed three lines winding across Russian territory in the north and east. How did such a dramatic shift occur in representations of frozen earth, and what did it reveal about human conceptions of the phenomenon? To understand the origins of permafrost, we must delve into the multi-ethnic and multilingual world of science in the Russian Empire. Before emerging in its maturity as permafrost in the twentieth century, frozen earth appeared in embryonic form as Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden. Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden were names used to refer to the phenomenon by Karl Ernst von Baer, a respected zoologist in the Academy of Sciences in St. Petersburg. In 1843, Baer completed a treatise that for the first time characterized frozen earth and provided a framework for its study. He was responsible for the earliest, multilayered map of frozen earth.2 Instead of describing frozenness as a characteristic of the land, as earlier investigators had, Baer made frozen earth a named entity in its own right. But he did so in German, his native language and one

26

The Life of Permafrost

of three main languages of science in nineteenth-century ­Europe. Baer belonged to the German nobility of Estland, a province of the Russian Empire along the Baltic Sea. A socially privileged group, the Baltic ­Germans produced some of the empire’s leading statesmen, ­savants, military officers, and explorers. They also maintained ties to the broader transnational and cosmopolitan world of German-speaking Europe.3 It was therefore not unusual that Baer held elite status in Russian ­imperial society and simultaneously communicated in German. With his treatise and map, frozen earth was born as an object of scientific interest in the Russian Empire – in the language of German. Driven by ambiguities in language, tensions emerged during the embryonic stage of the life of permafrost. Although Baer gave birth to frozen earth as a scientific object, his treatise and map were never ­published in his time. Rather, some of his ideas filtered out to the ­European scientific community through works credited to his collaborators. But their writings transmitted a conception of frozen earth that did not correspond entirely with Baer’s vision. Baer understood the substance of ­frozen earth to be ice – hence the name Boden-Eis, which emphasized Eis, the German word for ice. Others, however, assumed the substance of ­frozen earth to be earth, or Boden – German for soil, ground, land, or terrain. They adopted the term Eisboden (without a hyphen) but changed its meaning. Baer used Eis-Boden to refer to a space within the earth’s crust where conditions favoured the persistence of ice; his interlocutors used it to mean the material object itself. Baer’s multilayered map of frozen earth depicted Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden, the substance of ice and a distinctive portion of the earth’s crust. But the published map of frozen earth in the nineteenth century depicted only Eisboden, suggesting the boundaries of a physical-geographical structure. Baer’s original understanding of Eis-Boden as a space became buried. In this chapter, I argue that frozen earth was born as an object of scientific interest in the context of mapping and exploring the Russian Empire. In its embryonic stage – as an egg – it was known as Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden. During this phase, a dialectic emerged that eventually extended throughout the entire life of permafrost, into the twenty-first century. Its thesis consisted of approaching the phenomenon as part of the earth’s system – seeing its essence as a space, process, or condition connected to other elements of the planet. The antithesis consisted of understanding it as a discrete physical-geographical structure. As the political, social, and cultural context of science evolved in the Russian Empire and its successor state, the Soviet Union, the dialectic persisted, generating fierce debate. The ontological instability of frozen earth was fuelled by differences over whether the subject was ice or earth and



Mapping 27

whether it ought to be classified by composition or age. Such disagreement stemmed from divergent motivations for studying frozen earth and from confusion about the meaning of words. We begin with early observations of frozen earth, focusing especially on eighteenth-century expeditions to eastern Siberia. For naturalists employed by the Russian Empire, frozen earth formed part of the extraordinary landscape of eastern Siberia, which they found remarkable for its extreme cold. During the nineteenth century, however, in the context of prevailing theories about the earth’s internal heat, scattered mentions of perennially frozen earth in the historical record generated scepticism. We therefore turn to Karl Ernst von Baer’s attempts to explain the reality of frozen earth in light of climatology and ice age theory. Baer not only named and visualized the phenomenon of frozen earth but also established the thesis in the dialectic of the life of permafrost by conceiving of Eis-Boden as a space defined by the planetary distribution of heat. The antithesis of the dialectic was established by Baer’s protégé, Alexander von Middendorff, who borrowed and changed his mentor’s ideas. To understand why, we examine Middendorff’s expedition to eastern Siberia and his conception of Eisboden as a geological structure. Finally, we trace the influence of Middendorff’s notion of Eisboden on late nineteenth-century investigations into the phenomenon, including the published map of frozen earth by Polish geologist Leonard Jaczewski. The writings of a cast of Baltic Germans, Poles, and Russians open a window into the multi-ethnic and multilingual world of science in the Russian Empire. The cold of eastern Siberia On 8 August 1733, naturalist Johann Georg Gmelin set out from St.  ­Petersburg as a participant in the Second Kamchatka Expedition sponsored by the Russian Empire. While others were given the tasks of mapping the northern coastline of Russia and exploring the North Pacific, Gmelin’s detachment had the responsibility of researching the interior of Siberia. “I myself had no idea of the wealth that the soil of Siberia produces and was altogether ignorant of the country,” he later wrote. During his nine-year sojourn beyond the Ural Mountains, ­Gmelin and his companions made observations of flora and fauna and measured longitude and latitude, elevation, and temperature. They travelled along and between the great rivers of the Irtysh, Ob, ­Enisei, and Lena and visited the regions around Lake Baikal. Along the way, Gmelin gained insight into differences in the character of the land across the vast territory. “It was not until I reached the Enisei that I felt

28

The Life of Permafrost

that I entered Asia,” he noted. “The entire appearance of the country up to this point gave me a European impression. But from the Enisei eastward as well as southward and northward it showed a completely different picture.” The terrain became more mountainous. Unfamiliar species of musk deer and bighorn sheep were found. Most of all, “the cold,” Gmelin observed, was “greater here than the latitude seems to require.” Compared to parts of Siberia west of the Enisei River, eastern Siberia “made the forceful impression of a completely new region.”4 Observations made during the Second Kamchatka Expedition and subsequent explorations of Siberia and the North Pacific provided information for the first map of frozen earth. Gmelin and his fellow travellers were among the earliest European naturalists to encounter perennially frozen earth and study it in situ. They were motivated by curiosity about Siberia, which up to the eighteenth century remained unknown to and unexplored by Europeans. While describing the geography and natural history of Siberia, they took notice of the extraordinary cold. Cold as a phenomenon – what it meant and how to measure it – ­remained an open question in natural philosophy into the nineteenth century.5 Siberia became a laboratory for observing and measuring cold. ­Eighteenth-century naturalists took temperature measurements of the air in various locations and noted the frozen state of the earth, beginning at a certain depth, even through summer. As a result of their investigations, the cold acquired materiality and spatiality, attributes that enabled later men of science to imagine frozen earth as a scientific object. Commerce and expansion provided the context for the earliest ­European reports of perennially frozen earth, giving rise to matter-offact descriptions of the phenomenon. Before the eighteenth century, isolated references to earth that remained frozen throughout the year to unknown depths appeared in the accounts of explorers. Seeking valuable commodities and opportunities for trade, merchants from the Old World ventured into unfamiliar northern regions. They commented upon the qualities of the land while assessing its potential to yield resources. In 1577, Englishman Martin Frobisher, during his second voyage in search of a northwest passage to Asia, landed at Baffin Island in present-day Nunavut in Canada. As the expedition explored the area for gold, one member observed that “the earth (even in the very summer time) is frosen, and so combineth the stones together, that scarcely instruments with great force can unknit them.”6 This notice was the first written mention of perennially frozen earth by Europeans, but it was not widely publicized. It was unknown even a century later to English captain John Wood. Wood was shipwrecked near Novaya Zemlya in the Eurasian Arctic while searching for a northeast passage to Asia. Stranded



Mapping 29

on the island in the summer of 1676 and attempting to dig a shelter, Wood and his men found that “about two Foot deep, after we had dug so low, we came to a firm Body of Ice; which, as I think, was never heard of before.” Wood’s only further comment on the phenomenon was that those who “would dig Caves in the Earth to preserve themselves from cold, would find here but very bad Lodging.” O ­ therwise, it contributed to his perception of Novaya Zemlya as a barren, “most miserable country that lyeth on the Foundation of the Earth.”7 Although strange, the phenomenon of frozen earth seemed relevant only insofar as it indicated the productivity, or lack thereof, of the land. While the English and other Europeans sought wealth and power by sea, Russian merchants and servitors of the tsar ventured across ­Siberia, where they, too, encountered perennially frozen earth. Similar to that of the Europeans, Russian expansion was driven by the hunt for commodities, especially revenue-generating fur, and the desire to profit from trade. But whereas European voyages to the Arctic had to ­contend with the dangerous waters of the North Atlantic, Russian exploration of Siberia benefited from geography. Not only did Siberia form part of a continuous landmass with Muscovy, but the vast network of rivers in northern Eurasia facilitated travel. West of the Urals, the M ­ uscovite state had expanded during the fourteenth through sixteenth centuries by seizing control of passage along rivers and portages, the land corridors between rivers. During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it continued this process eastward. It warred against the ­Mongolian, Turkic, Tungusic, and Indigenous tribes of Siberia and built mili­ tary forts at strategic locations at the confluence of rivers and along ­portages. It committed itself to supplying and sustaining its outposts with the goal of exacting tribute in fur from Siberian peoples and customs ­duties from merchants. Military forts formed the basis of towns such as Tiumen (established in 1586) and Tobolsk (1587) in the basin of the Ob River; Turukhansk (1607) and Eniseisk (1618) along the Enisei River; Kirensk (1630) and Yakutsk (1632) along the Lena; Verkhoyansk (1638) on the Yana; and Nerchinsk (1654) in the Amur basin.8 Compared to their European counterparts in the Arctic, the R ­ ussians in Siberia established lasting settlements earlier, which brought them into sustained contact with frozen earth. The earliest written reports of perennially frozen earth in Siberia were produced by military ­commanders in Yakutsk, where everyday life was shaped by the phenomenon. Yakutsk began as a fort on the right bank of the Lena, but its location changed after floods from the river destroyed the initial settlement in 1642. The town moved to a new site about 850 metres west of the Lena, where it grew into an administrative and economic

30

The Life of Permafrost

centre of the Russian state. Its population numbered not more than a thousand inhabitants during the seventeenth century, but merchants were attracted to its marketplace, which sold fur as well as walrus and mammoth ivory.9 The presence of perennially frozen earth imposed constraints on Yakutsk’s development, however. For one, it limited the prospects of agriculture. The first mention of perennially frozen earth in Siberia appeared in a memorandum by military commander Petr Golovin in the early 1640s. He reported that “in Yakutsk, sovereign, according to traders and trappers, land for growing grain cannot be expected, for the earth, sovereign, even in summer does not thaw ­entirely.”10 Second, frozen earth subverted attempts to establish a secure and convenient source of potable water. In 1685, military commander Matvei Krovkov resolved to create a well within the town’s walls in case a siege by hostile outsiders cut off access to the Lena. But excavating frozen earth proved laborious. Even after his men worked for five months, reaching a depth of seventeen metres, he wrote, whether it would be possible to “dig through the frozen earth to thawed earth or to a running spring, that is unknown.”11 Given doubts about the existence of groundwater, the town relied on the river, which, owing to the danger of regular flooding, nevertheless had to be kept at a distance. The presence of perennially frozen earth compelled inhabitants of Yakutsk to manage on limited supplies of food and water. While frozen earth seemed to constrain the livelihood of Russians in Siberia, for others, it served as a source of sustenance. By the time Russians arrived in the Lena River basin in the mid-1600s, the Sakha, whom Russians called the Yakut, had lived in the region for over two centuries. Turkic-speaking pastoralists whose ancestors migrated north from the steppes of southern Siberia, the Sakha managed to continue breeding horses and cattle at high latitudes.12 They did so by using spaces known to them as alaas, expanses of grassland amid a landscape otherwise dominated by forests of coniferous trees and woody plants. Alaas formed as a result of the presence and thawing of frozen earth. When periods of warm climate or local disturbances such as fires caused frozen earth to thaw, the ice that constituted frozen earth melted. As ice melted, its volume decreased, causing the terrain to sink and form a depression. The crater became filled with melted ice, or water from elsewhere drained into it and created a lake. Subsequently, some of the accumulated moisture flowed or evaporated away, but the remaining amount was sufficient to support the growth of grasses. Meanwhile, the enduring strata of underlying frozen earth, being relatively impermeable to liquid, helped to sustain wetness in the layers above. Alaas



Mapping 31

therefore consisted of grassland – used as pasture for herds or meadows for making hay – surrounding a lake.13 Through their practices of livestock herding and haymaking, the Sakha both adapted to and shaped the frozen earth environment. Living in close connection with frozen earth, the Sakha and other local peoples made observations of the land that they sometimes communicated to curious – if supercilious – European travellers. These included the Dutch merchant Eberhard Isbrand Ides, who in 1692 undertook an overland journey from Moscow to Beijing. Ides travelled as part of a diplomatic mission on behalf of Tsar Peter the Great, whose goal was to expand trade with the Qing Empire.14 Published accounts of his expedition relayed information about the nature and geography of Siberia. Based on Ides’s reports, Indigenous Siberians were familiar with heave, the phenomenon whereby the earth expanded as it froze and sank as it thawed. Moreover, they connected the pattern of ground behaviour to mammoths, mysterious creatures whose bones and partially preserved carcasses were frequently found along the Enisei and Lena. Of the mammoths, Ides wrote, “the Heathens of Jakuti, Tungusi, and Ostiaki, say that they continually, or at least by reason of the very hard Frost, mostly live under ground, where they go backwards and forwards; to confirm which [the Indigenous people] tell us, That they have often seen the Earth heaved up when one of these Beasts was on the March and after he was past the place sink in, and thereby make a deep Pit.”15 Indigenous Siberians thus attributed heave to the subterranean peregrinations of living mammoths. Later scientists understood the behaviour of frozen earth separately from mammoths they knew to be extinct. But by acknowledging mammoths as having been endemic to places with frozen earth, Indigenous Siberians anticipated a conclusion to the puzzle of the ice ages in natural history.16 European natural philosophers first learned about the perennially frozen earth of Siberia through Gmelin and his reports from the Second Kamchatka Expedition. Carried out during an era of European expansion, the Second Kamchatka Expedition aimed to elevate the prestige of the Russian Empire. Its goals consisted not only of augmenting the empire’s wealth by finding opportunities for trade, resources to exploit, and lands and peoples to control but also of acquiring knowledge about nature in places little known to Europeans at the time.17 Since the seventeenth century, European exploration and conquest had been accompanied by the goal of advancing science. Increasing commerce and colonization had taken sailors, merchants, missionaries, and naturalists to distant worlds. As curious specimens of plants and animals were brought back to Europe, they fuelled interest in natural history,

32

The Life of Permafrost

inspiring ambitions to comprehensively gather all objects of nature.18 The importance of collecting and observing nature formed part of the philosophy of Francis Bacon, who advocated travel as central to science. Bacon’s ideas inspired new learned societies such as the Royal Society of London to support voyages of discovery. Knowledge about nature promised practical benefits and useful information that could be turned into sources of profit and advantage. Natural history gave rise to novel medicines and crops; astronomy and geography facilitated navigation.19 Contributing to knowledge also conferred status and recognition upon individuals and states. As tsar of Russia, Peter the Great widened the country’s doors to European learning, which he hoped would foster commercial prosperity and military might. He also aimed for Russia to join the pursuit of knowledge, thereby reinforcing its identity as a European power. To make Russia, too, a centre of learning, in 1724, he initiated the creation of the Academy of Sciences and Arts in St. Petersburg. After his death in 1725, the academy took part in the ­Second Kamchatka Expedition, which continued the work of expanding Russian strength and European knowledge.20 In the foreword to his four-volume survey, Flora Sibirica, Gmelin ­described his attempts to investigate the qualities of the soil in Yakutsk in June 1737. At one location, he found that the top layer of earth was underlain by loose sand that became increasingly consolidated until, at a depth of about one metre, the ground proved impervious to iron tools. Upon ordering a dig elsewhere, Gmelin observed that “the fine earth was ten inches [25 centimetres] deep, then followed soft sand for two feet four inches [71 centimetres], from there onward everything was firmly frozen.”21 His curiosity piqued, Gmelin instructed another member of the expedition, the astronomer Louis Delisle de la Croyère, to conduct further research downstream from Yakutsk at the mouth of the Lena River, close to sea level. Delisle’s task was to record the vertical depth at which frozen earth was found at various local elevations and take note of any changes in this depth from May to September.22 As Gmelin recounted in his travel narrative, Journey through Siberia, when Delisle’s men attempted to use an iron bar to break into the earth, they discovered that the ground “did not allow itself to be worked as earth but rather assumed the hardness of marble; scarcely did it have the nature of the sand of which it was composed; absolutely nowhere did it allow itself to be split apart, for thick iron tools would be broken upon it.” After breaking four thermometers and two crowbars, Delisle speculated that the earth was revenging itself upon him for disturbing its surface.23 It was unclear how deeply the earth’s frozen condition prevailed. The Cossacks at Yakutsk communicated to Gmelin that in 1685,



Mapping 33

one of their men, Yakov Svyatogorov, had attempted to dig a well and encountered nothing but frozen earth for eight sazhen’ (17.1 metres). He resumed the endeavour the following year and excavated roughly another five sazhen’ (10.7 metres) without encountering any sign of ­running water. Moreover, it was said that the hole he had created, with its frozen walls, emitted a foul smell. Gmelin wondered whether there was some element “which lies hidden in the earth and makes the cold unusually strong” in eastern Siberia.24 Intelligence about the peculiar features of the earth on the far side of Eurasia accumulated following the Academy Expeditions of the 1760s and 1770s. The naturalists Peter Simon Pallas and Vasilii Fedorovich Zuev not only generated additional details about the qualities of frozen earth but also linked the phenomenon to preserved animal carcasses, including the remains of creatures believed to have perished as a result of the great flood posited in the Bible. Zuev, who journeyed to the Arctic shore, reported to ­Pallas that in spite of the warm weather which had led him to remove his fur coat, he discovered that the ground in some places thawed to an extent of only eighteen centimetres. Furthermore, he added that “in watery swamps one commonly finds under the moss cover bare ice.”25 Pallas’s interest in frozen earth grew after he was shown “the body of a large, unknown animal,” a rhinoceros, discovered in 1771 along the Viliui River, one of the Lena’s left tributaries. He inquired about the characteristics of the location at which it was found. It appeared that “the land along the Viliui never thaws to a significant depth,” and even “the most intense heat” could not, at elevated places, “soften two arshin [142 centimetres] of earth.” In the valleys, where the terrain was clayey and sandy, “at the end of summer can be found no more than half an arshin [36 centimetres] of thawed earth.” If not for this particular ­feature of the land, Pallas concluded, “it would otherwise be impossible that the hide of this creature, with other soft parts, remain in the ground undamaged.”26 The site of the rhinoceros find, roughly forty kilometres upstream from the settlement of Viliuisk on the Viliui River, was located at a considerable distance south from the Arctic coast, as was Yakutsk, where Gmelin made his investigations into frozen earth. Moreover, during Gmelin’s sojourn in the Argun River valley along the Russo-Chinese border, he learned that there, too, the earth was continually frozen beyond a depth of roughly one metre. Like the Cossacks in Yakutsk, inhabitants at the fort of Argunsk tried to dig a well but relinquished the task after thawing the earth several metres down and failing to reach running water.27 The accumulated intelligence suggested that frozen earth was not simply a feature of the terrain along the Arctic coast but extended deep into the interior as well.

34

The Life of Permafrost

What seemed peculiar was that the earth remained frozen even when the ambient temperature was relatively high. Eighteenth-century ­European naturalists speculated that the source of the cold in eastern Siberia derived from the land rather than the atmosphere.28 They had become aware that coldness as a general condition became more severe the further east one travelled across the Russian Empire. A location on a given latitude in eastern Siberia was colder on average than one that was on the same parallel but situated farther west. Birth of a scientific object During the 1830s, European savants witnessed exciting developments in understanding the history of the earth and its contemporary dynamics. Prussian naturalist and scientific traveller Alexander von Humboldt had revealed connections in climate between far-flung parts of the world. His ideas about the climate of a location being dependent upon its physical geography inspired Charles Lyell’s landmark Principles of Geology, first published from 1830 to 1833. In this work, the British ­geologist posited that the earth’s climate as a whole changed over time because of shifts in the distribution and location of continents and seas. Meanwhile, theories circulated about a past era of intense cold when all of Europe was covered by glaciers. The notion of an ice age – E ­ iszeit – was famously promoted by Swiss zoologist Louis Agassiz beginning in 1837. It inspired searches around the world for telltale signs of ­extensive glaciation.29 It was in St. Petersburg at this time that Karl Ernst von Baer began to study frozen earth, eventually giving rise to its birth as a scientific object. He established the initial thesis – the approach of ­understanding frozen earth as part of the earth’s system – in the dialectic between system and structure that ran through the life of permafrost. An associate of Humboldt’s and Agassiz’s, Baer was intrigued by possible connections between frozen earth and the ideas of his colleagues.30 In 1843, he completed Materialien zur Kenntniss des unvergänglichen Boden-Eises in Sibirien, roughly, “Materials toward knowledge of the imperishable soil-ice of Siberia.” The treatise revealed the influence of Agassiz and Humboldt. In it, Baer revealed a dual conception of frozen earth, advancing two terms in connection with the phenomenon: BodenEis, as in the manuscript’s title, and Eis-Boden. The first term ­posited the substance of the phenomenon as ice, tying it to debates about the extent of past glaciation in Eurasia fuelled by Agassiz. By contrast, the second term referred not to a substance but to a space, one that encompassed “the imperishable Boden-Eis.” The dimensions of the space could be ­approximated by analysing the distribution of heat on earth, a practice



Mapping 35

pioneered by Humboldt. In the spirit of Humboldt, Baer tied Eis-Boden to the workings of the earth’s climate as a whole. Baer became a persistent advocate of sending an expedition to eastern Siberia to gather temperature measurements of Eis-Boden, a phenomenon whose existence was still contested. Although frozen earth appeared to contribute to the uniqueness of eastern Siberia that Gmelin identified, its presence came under doubt in the context of evolving theories about the earth in the nineteenth century. European natural philosophers posited that the planet at its nucleus contained a source of heat independent of the sun. A corollary to this theory was the ­existence of a molten core at the centre of the earth, a hypothesis that seemed to be supported by empirical measurements in European mines showing that soil temperature increased with depth.31 Underground layers that remained perennially frozen to unknown depths appeared to be an ­inexplicable anomaly. In the pages of the Papers of the Royal ­Prussian Academy of Sciences in Berlin in 1825, the German geologist ­Leopold von Buch stated that Gmelin’s reports about the earth at Yakutsk ­being frozen to a depth of twenty-eight metres, based upon the word of ­Cossacks, “cannot be sufficient proof of a fact so extraordinary and so much at variance with physical science.” He believed that the fact that vegetation was capable of growing in eastern Siberia should be further evidence that the soil could not be frozen.32 A turning point in the study of frozen earth occurred during the 1830s, when the phenomenon caught the attention of Russian scientists at the Imperial Academy of Sciences. In the summer of 1828, a merchant named Fedor Shergin began excavating a well in Yakutsk. Since the seventeenth century, the town’s inhabitants, unable to sink wells in the frozen earth, had relied on the Lena River for water. Despite the Lena’s mighty discharge, however, spring floods filled its streams with sand and altered its shape, directing its waters farther from town. By the nineteenth century, the clean waters of the river’s fairway were over two versts (two kilometres) away. In winter, residents stored snow and ice, but making supplies last through the summer was ­difficult. Besides, Yakutsk had a dry climate with relatively little precipitation.33 E ­ mboldened by his dissatisfaction with the accessibility of ­water, Shergin reckoned that, if only a well were sunk to a sufficiently great depth, groundwater would eventually be found.34 For two years, ­workers dug a shaft roughly two metres square through layers of sand, silt, and limestone, reaching a depth of nearly thirty metres – to no avail. Its walls remained frozen, and no water was struck. At this point, Shergin gave up hope of establishing a working well, but his curiosity was piqued about the extent to which the earth was frozen.35

36

The Life of Permafrost

Shergin’s project attracted the attention of scientifically minded ­ isitors to Yakutsk. Among them was Ferdinand von Wrangell, the v Baltic German explorer, imperial naval officer, governor of Russia’s colonies in America, and chief administrator of the Russian American Company.36 Wrangell offered to finance the continued excavation of the well to determine the depth of the earth’s frozenness. For another seven years, as Shergin oversaw the work at the company’s expense, the well extended deeper and deeper. Its walls were so frozen that workers dispensed with bracing them with timber. Digging now had to be done in winter because in summer, warm surface air could not displace the cold air in the well’s depths. Without fresh oxygen, matches quickly extinguished, and labourers became light-headed. In 1835, returning to European Russia from Russian America, Wrangell visited Yakutsk again and noted that the well had reached fifty-four sazhen and two arshin deep, or about 116 metres. Still, the earth at the bottom of the well stayed frozen.37 Word of Shergin’s well reached St. Petersburg and, from there, ­scientific circles across Europe. A key role in publicizing its existence was played by Baer, a friend of Wrangell’s. Although known for his work on embryology, Baer had a long-standing fascination with the sciences of the earth.38 As a subject of the Russian Empire, he also took interest in its natural history, so much of which remained unstudied. Intrigued by the dispatches from Yakutsk, he urged the academy to ­organize further investigations. He also sent notices to German and British scientific journals aimed at dispelling scepticism about the ­frozen earth of ­Siberia. Baer helped to persuade the minister of public education, Sergei Uvarov, to secure the tsar’s approval for an Academy of Sciences expedition to the Taimyr Peninsula. It provided an opportunity for European scientists to acquire temperature measurements of the ­atmosphere and ground on Taimyr and, by making a detour to ­Yakutsk, carry out further observations at Shergin’s well. With the crucial support of Egor Kankrin, the minister of finance, the proposal ­received Tsar Nikolai’s endorsement in November 1841.39 Baer’s ­protégé, Alexander von Middendorff, was appointed to lead the venture.40 One of Baer’s primary objectives for the expedition was the execution of accurate and credible investigations into frozen earth. To provide a guide for Middendorff and his companions, Baer sifted through published and unpublished expedition accounts and collected both ­explicit and implicit references to frozen earth.41 Not only did Baer gather the written evidence, but he also presented a synthesis that ­offered a ­conceptualization of frozen earth and its relationship to ­climate, physical geography, and the history of the planet. The document, Baer’s



Mapping 37

“Materials toward knowledge of the imperishable Boden-Eis of Siberia,” engaged him until 1843 and amounted to the first attempt at a scientific treatise about frozen earth, not merely a set of instructions.42 Because so little was known about the phenomenon, Baer’s descriptions and analyses represented a creative act that helped to crystallize frozen earth as a distinct natural object. To begin with, Baer gave the phenomenon a name, Boden-Eis. The expression Boden-Eis elevated the significance of ice, and accordingly, in Baer’s conception the physical properties of frozen earth derived from the phase change of water under cold conditions. Boden-Eis was his overarching term for “all varieties of the state of ice” on the continent, ranging “from pure deposits of ice, which sometimes like rock alternate with layers of earth or sand, sometimes in the form of passages transect moist soil and even rock, to frozen mud with a lesser quantity of frozen water.”43 Baer’s decision to use one name to encapsulate both pristine ice, which he believed to exist naturally in the earth, and composites of ice and sediment was controversial. Indeed, the debate over whether frozen earth was principally ice or principally earth lay at the heart of a conceptual dilemma that persisted into the twentieth century. To add to the confusion, Baer also developed the idea of Eis-Boden, by which he meant “such parts of the earth’s surface that contain persistent Boden-Eis.”44 In an attempt to distinguish between Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden, Baer stated that Boden-Eis was a substance, whereas Eis-Boden referred to a space. The relationship between Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden was “analogous to the words sea ice and Arctic Ocean.”45 Boden-Eis denoted a category of stable, visible forms. According to this definition, a subset of Boden-Eis, namely, the “permanent” (bleibend) or non-melting kind, was contained within the realm of Eis-Boden. But confusion later arose when people assumed that Eis-Boden was not a space but rather the substance itself. They made Eis-Boden synonymous with the substance of the earth. To extend Baer’s analogy, people took his term for “Arctic Ocean” and assumed it to mean “seawater.” Through his idea of Eis-Boden, Baer attempted to establish a relationship between atmospheric temperature and ground temperature. According to Baer, Eis-Boden consisted of vast, continuous expanses of territories in Siberia and North America where “the warming above the freezing point does not penetrate the soil as deeply as does the cooling below 0°.”46 This circumstance favoured the appearance of frozen earth. A question that particularly intrigued Baer was the presence and movement of water on the surface in cold months when the air temperature was below freezing. Shergin’s lack of success in reaching an

38

The Life of Permafrost

aquifer after digging through the frozen earth at Yakutsk for more than 100 metres suggested that groundwater did not exist in regions with Boden-Eis. Yet when the Academy of Sciences posed to him the question of whether streams near the town carried running water during winter, the merchant replied with a qualified affirmative. He reported that “according to old-timers, small rivers in the vicinity of Yakutsk remain without water in winter with the exception of a few that have springs.” Where these springs existed, “the water rises upward and, spreading, forms extensive ice crust [ledianye nakipi]” over the surrounding land.47 Baer expressed wonder and curiosity at these alleged springs. The Russian word nakip’, he mused, “expresses a notion of swelling, r­ ising, bubbling (as when cooking).” Wrangell, who had encountered the phenomenon while travelling in the valley of the Dogdo, a river that ran between the Yana and the Indigirka, called it taryn after the word used by the Sakha. The sheetlike layers that distinguished a taryn suggested that it was indeed fed by water from below rather than the sky. Baer tried to imagine the mechanism whereby water would behave in this manner when the earth appeared frozen to great depths. Perhaps subterranean water “reaches the surface with a temperature less than 0° and there builds masses of ice that gradually become larger? Or are these masses of ice simply the result of the fact that water on the surface during winter becomes cold at temperatures below the freezing point?” Confronted with questions that, as he confessed, “make me question,” Baer could only conclude that “everywhere there is only material for new investigations!”48 Baer formulated his understanding of Eis-Boden and Boden-Eis at a time when views of the planet among European natural philosophers were rapidly developing. By the 1840s, the science of geology had emerged based on the realization that earth’s prehuman history could be periodized and studied.49 Meanwhile, a growing network of observation stations began enabling the collection of data about climate from around the world, contributing to a picture of the earth as a whole. In connection with such developments, of particular interest to Baer were the ideas of Humboldt and Agassiz. Humboldt embraced the goal of uncovering the forces and laws that governed the earth’s physical and biological geography. Instead of description and classification, he emphasized measurement and analysis of parameters such as temperature, humidity, pressure, and magnetism.50 Agassiz advanced a bold theory about the entire world having been covered by a giant ice sheet during a geologically recent ice age. His was the most radical of several theories aiming to explain via transport by glaciers the presence of erratic boulders all over Europe.51 The paradigms and concerns of



Mapping 39

both Humboldt and Agassiz shaped Baer’s conception of Eis-Boden and Boden-Eis. Baer’s map depicted the extent of Eis-Boden in the Russian Empire. But Baer did not arrive at the outlines of Eis-Boden based on direct, year-round observations of Boden-Eis at every location. Rather, he ­deduced the area of Eis-Boden from what he knew about the distribution of temperatures on the planet, a parameter popularized by Humboldt. Humboldt developed the idea of isotherms, or lines on a world map connecting points of equal air temperature at sea level. Isotherms formed part of Humboldt’s conceptual toolkit for uncovering the forces and laws that shaped the earth as a whole.52 By deriving Eis-Boden from known values of average yearly temperatures, Baer suggested that the presence of continually existing Boden-Eis within it resulted from the global climate system. Baer used colour in his map to distinguish between Eis-Boden and Boden-Eis (see Map 2). He depicted Eis-Boden in brown and Boden-Eis in blue.53 On his map, the brown field of Eis-Boden covered a vast, continuous extent from the Kanin Peninsula in the west to the Bering Strait in the east. The islands of Novaya Zemlya, the New Siberian Islands, islands of the North Pacific, and the western Arctic were also shaded brown, but they were separated from the Eis-Boden of Eurasia by bodies of water. The northern extent of the Eis-Boden of Eurasia was the ­Arctic coast. But the southern extent was less easily defined. In the west, Eis-Boden did not extend far to the south, but east of Lake Baikal, it extended as far south as the Qing Empire. The shape of Eis-Boden was therefore irregular. It had a wide extent in the north but became narrower at lower latitudes and tapered off southeast of Lake Baikal. Within the brown field of Eis-Boden, Baer depicted Boden-Eis in blue. Unlike Eis-Boden, Boden-Eis was not shown as a continuous field. Rather, Boden-Eis was depicted as clusters of blue points more densely concentrated in some areas than others. The densest clusters of blue Boden-Eis appeared in the north, such as on the Taimyr Peninsula. Areas closer to the Arctic coast had denser concentrations of blue, and those farther away had lighter concentrations. Given sparse empirical evidence, how did Baer assemble his map of frozen earth? Written records of specific locations where travellers had encountered the phenomenon produced a set of isolated points scattered across a wide territory. But Baer drew upon more data than direct observations of frozen earth alone. The realm in which Boden-Eis could dwell without thawing, Baer observed, must be situated beyond the influence of the sun’s warmth and heat from the earth’s core. ­Analysing atmospheric and ground temperatures, then, provided a means of

40

The Life of Permafrost

Map 2.  Karl Ernst von Baer’s map of frozen earth in greyscale (original in colour). © St. Petersburg Branch of the Archive of the Russian Academy of Sciences. SPbB ARAS, f. 129, op. 1, d. 759, l. 1. Reproduced with permission.

discerning the contours of Eis-Boden and estimating the volume of perpetual Boden-Eis within. Following the establishment of meteorological stations across the globe, including in Russia during the 1830s, Baer and other naturalists acquired information about temperature changes at various sites over sustained periods. By determining places where cold air dominated, Baer identified expanses where the earth likely contained a smaller store of heat. On the basis of “increasingly well-known atmospheric isotherms” and “the general laws according to which heat is distributed over the earth’s surface,” it became clear that “in eastern Siberia the Eis-Boden is spread furthest to the south,” a conclusion that Baer incorporated into his map.54 The thermal conductivity of the earth, determined by the rate at which temperature changed with depth,



Mapping 41

could be used to calculate the vertical dimension of Eis-Boden. Together with details about precipitation and physical geography, it provided a clue to the amount of water locked in a frozen state underground. Global temperatures therefore helped to illuminate the spatial variation of frozen earth.55 Baer himself acknowledged that his map was only an initial foray into visualizing Eis-Boden and Boden-Eis. He urged future researchers to improve upon and modify the map as they gathered more observations. But despite the incompleteness of his map, he articulated a clear conceptual framework for depicting frozen earth, one that resonated with his concepts of Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden. The brown field on the geographical map represented Eis-Boden, or those parts of the earth that contained perpetual Boden-Eis. In reality, Baer’s Eis-Boden was not always visible at the earth’s surface. His graphical depiction therefore showed its horizontal extent below the surface. Although Eis-Boden was a three-dimensional space, the picture he presented was necessarily flat. Within the area encompassed by Eis-Boden, however, Baer used shading to portray changing proportions of Boden-Eis within the earth, thereby conveying some sense of depth and volume. Recall that, for Baer, Boden-Eis referred to everything from thick deposits to tiny crystals embedded within sediment. The density of blue in his visualization illustrated this varying distribution of ice, with darker sections indicating high ice content and lighter sections marking places with lesser quantities. By employing different gradations over a continuous expanse, Baer was able to render both Eis-Boden and Boden-Eis. Mapping Eis-Boden showed its regional aspect: it extended across the northern and eastern portions of the Russian Empire. Yet at the same time, this region had to be part of a global system. In the late nineteenth century, geographers were cultivating an empire-wide and global perspective, and they aimed to fit eastern Siberia into that vision: that was the puzzle. Baer had been interested in the southern boundary of Eis-Boden for what it might reveal about the extent of glaciation in Eurasia. Although his map was not published, Baer made the question of the southern boundary of Eis-Boden part of the agenda for ­Middendorff’s expedition in the 1840s. From Boden-Eis to Eisboden In 1858, the fourth volume appeared of Alexander von Humboldt’s monumental Cosmos: A Sketch of a Physical Description of the Universe. Dedicated to the relationship between the surface and the interior of the earth, it included information about “the conditions of Bodeneis in the steppes of Northern Asia.” For reliable information about this elusive

42

The Life of Permafrost

phenomenon, “whose very existence was doubted, n ­ otwithstanding the early testimony of Gmelin and Pallas,” Humboldt turned to ­Alexander von Middendorff. Humboldt praised the young zoologist for his “keen observation, adventurous daring, and the greatest perseverance in a ­laborious undertaking” – an expedition to eastern Siberia from 1842 to 1845. Based on firsthand observations, Middendorff elucidated patterns in the spatial distribution and temperature of frozen earth. ­According to Humboldt, he showed the phenomenon to be not anomalous but in accord with the laws of nature.56 Endorsed by a famed savant like Humboldt, Middendorff became recognized as the nineteenth century’s authority on frozen earth.57 That Middendorff, and not Baer, gained distinction as a pioneer of frozen earth research had enduring consequences for the life of permafrost. Middendorff transmitted a conception of frozen earth that differed from Baer’s vision in key ways. Whereas Baer considered Boden-Eis the substance of frozen earth and Eis-Boden the space, ­Middendorff ­elevated Eisboden (now without the hyphen) as the substance. He changed the subject of focus from Eis to Boden – to the soil and rock – a shift that ­carried epistemological and ontological implications. Middendorff considered the substance that was frozen to be Boden, not only ice. Moreover, he considered Boden to be frozen so long as its temperature measured ­below 0° on the thermometer.58 To Middendorff, the m ­ eaning of “frozen” (gefroren) centred not on the qualitative transformation of a substance but rather on its quantitative temperature measurement. The presence and transformation of water into ice was not primary to M ­ iddendorff’s conception of frozen earth as it was to Baer’s.59 ­Middendorff therefore classified liquid water as a separate substance from Eisboden, indeed arguing that Eisboden was impermeable to w ­ ater. The idea of Eisboden as a water-impermeable entity introduced an ­antithesis into the dialectic of the life of permafrost: the approach of understanding frozen earth as a physical-geographical structure. The birth of frozen earth as a scientific object was accompanied by ambiguities surrounding its nature. One tension emerged between conceiving the substance of it as ice and as earth. Another centred on the meaning of Eisboden and whether it referred to a space or a structure. These tensions in understandings of frozen earth grew as more ­investigators were drawn to the phenomenon by different trends in the rapidly growing sciences of the earth. During the second half of the nineteenth century, the field of g ­ eology bloomed in the Russian Empire, spurred by the desire to find and ­exploit natural resources for industrialization.60 But geology did not consist of a single, unified discipline. Rather, it comprised multiple



Mapping 43

areas of study with distinct focuses, goals, and methods. Historical geology centred on reconstructing the earth’s history. But other subfields aimed to classify rocks by composition, identify patterns in the distribution of minerals, or elucidate the processes shaping the earth. Such varying intentions gave rise to diverse approaches to researching frozen earth. Treating ice as rock, some geologists classified frozen earth by the amount of ice contained within its strata. Others sought to determine the age of ice, just as they would the age of rock. Both approaches emphasized the substance of ice while introducing a new dimension – time – into understandings of frozen earth.61 Meanwhile, motivated by practical concerns, mining geologists attempted to map the distribution and determine the depth of frozen earth. Their maps privileged the substance of earth while nudging the development of permafrost towards structure. Published in 1889, Leonard Jaczewski’s map of frozen earth provided a visualization of Middendorff’s idea of Eisboden as both substance and structure. Born in 1858 in the western province of Kalisz, Jaczewski, like numerous other Poles in the Russian Empire, made his career studying Siberia. Unlike many of his compatriots, however, his path did not result from arrest and exile for participating in nationalist uprisings or underground activities. Rather, after graduating from the Mining ­Institute in St. Petersburg, Jaczewski prospected for coal and gold in the Ural Mountains and the Enisei River basin.62 Having encountered frozen earth as an obstacle to mining, Jaczewski studied reports about the phenomenon from Middendorff’s expedition. Whereas Middendorff wrote in German, Jaczewski wrote in Russian, an outgrowth of the ­effort to promote Russian as a scientific language in the second half of the nineteenth century. The push arose partly in response to the rise of nationalism in Europe at the time. But it also formed part of the imperial government’s attempt to integrate its multi-ethnic empire through a common official language.63 In this context, Middendorff’s Eisboden became ledianaia pochva (“ice soil,” a literal translation of Eisboden) or simply merzlaia pochva (“frozen soil”), expressions that emphasized soil as the phenomenon’s essence.64 Jaczewski’s map of frozen earth, inspired by Middendorff’s conception of Eisboden, differed significantly from Baer’s. Rather than two layers of blue and brown, it featured three lines snaking across northern Eurasia (see Map 3). One line consisted of the isotherm connecting places with an average annual temperature of −2°C. The other two consisted of what Jaczewski called the “border of the distribution of eternally frozen soil” (vechno merzlaia pochva), which corresponded to Middendorff’s “southern boundary of Eisboden.” Although Baer had

Map 3.  Jaczewski’s map of frozen earth. Reproduced from Izvestiia Imperatorskogo Russkogo Geograficheskogo Obshchestva (1889). Courtesy of the New York Public Library.



Mapping 45

also conceived of a “southern boundary” for Eis-Boden, his map distinguished between the space of Eis-Boden and the substance of Boden-Eis. Besides portraying Eis-Boden and Boden-Eis in different colours, Baer explained, “I consider the great Eis-Boden of the Old World as a continuum without wanting to claim that the substance itself, the Boden-Eis, is continuously connected.”65 For Baer, Eis-Boden represented a space with a characteristic distribution of heat on a macro level. It appeared continuous because it was based on the aggregate climatic conditions of a region. The presence of Boden-Eis, however, depended on micro-level factors such as the availability of water, whose transformation into ice played a central role in Baer’s understanding of frozen earth. Given its dependence on local circumstances, Boden-Eis did not necessarily exist continuously throughout the space of Eis-Boden. But for Jaczewski, as for Middendorff, Eisboden constituted both space and substance. The line Jaczewski drew approximated the contours of what Middendorff called “the main mass of frozen soil [gefrorene Boden], which alone earns the name Eisboden.”66 It depicted not only a space but also a p ­ hysical-geographical structure. Jaczewski composed his line by combining insights from meteorology and geology. He drew upon the work of meteorologists Heinrich von Wild and Aleksandr Voeikov, as well as mining engineer Innokentii Lopatin. The Russian Empire set up a system of meteorological stations. The head meteorologist was Heinrich von Wild. Wild connected frozen earth to a yearly isotherm of −2°C. But Voeikov disagreed with him. First, Voeikov said that the isotherms in eastern Siberia were ­inaccurate because there were phenomena specific to eastern Siberia that did not operate in the same way as other places. These included the ­anti-cyclone, which pushed cold air down and made the temperature at higher elevations higher than the temperature at lower elevations, which was counterintuitive to imperial geographers. Second, Voeikov argued that snow acted as an insulating layer that thereby reduced the manifestation of frozen earth.67 So, if Wild’s isotherm did not reflect the action of snow cover, then it could not be considered an accurate depiction of the distribution of frozen earth. Jaczewski’s map aimed to synthesize and reconcile the two meteorologists’ views. Conclusion The period from the mid-seventeenth through the mid-nineteenth century constituted the embryonic stage of the life of permafrost. During this time, frozen earth evolved from a quotidian phenomenon that simultaneously sustained and frustrated livelihoods in Siberia into an object of scientific interest as well. At the beginning, subjects of the Muscovite

46

The Life of Permafrost

tsar developed sustained contact with perennially frozen earth, seeing it as a barrier to establishing a water supply and cultivating the land. Towards the end, imperial men of science undertook studies of the phenomenon, producing the earliest treatises and maps focusing on frozen earth. By sponsoring expeditions to Siberia, the Russian Empire participated not only in commerce and colonization, geopolitical competition, and resource extraction, but also in European science. During this embryonic stage, frozen earth acquired multiple names and meanings that revealed varied understandings of its essence. As subjects of the Russian Empire with linguistic ties to Europe, B ­ altic German savants fit their investigations of Siberia’s frozen earth ­ into ongoing debates in natural history and geology. These debates ­encompassed questions about what mechanisms shaped the earth’s appearance and climate and whether the earth stayed mostly the same or changed dramatically over time. Like the mammoths contained within it, frozen earth formed a piece of these puzzles. But linguistic ambiguity and conceptual disagreement emerged around the terms given to frozen earth, Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden. Men of science disagreed about whether Boden-Eis or Eisboden signified frozen earth – whether the substance under investigation consisted of ice or earth – and what it meant to be frozen. Ambiguity also surrounded Eisboden and whether it referred to a space of heat exchange within a framework of causal geology or a structure in the framework of historical geology. These multiple ontologies became the basis of the dialectic of the life of permafrost.

chapter two

BUILDING A troubling situation greeted Aleksandr Pushechnikov on his visit to Chita in 1901. As chief of construction of the Trans-Baikal line, a section of the Siberian railway, Pushechnikov had come to inspect the town’s recently built locomotive works. The massive complex was one of four major facilities in the Trans-Baikal region for assembling and repairing steam engines and other rolling stock. It consisted of six power stations and over a dozen workshops for casting, forging, turning, milling, woodworking, finishing, and upholstering. Within a month of operations, however, cracks began appearing in the walls of its ­edifices. In the lathe workshop, Pushechnikov noted an especially dismaying development. There, a fissure over sixteen metres long snaked across the length of one wall, which had also sunk 6.4 centimetres. ­Besides the  walls, he observed further damage in the archway above the gate to the l­ocomotive-assembly building. Making matters worse, a ­thirty-two-metre-high smokestack had started to lean to one side. By the ­following year, it would diverge from the vertical by over one metre.1 Nearly three decades and two revolutions later, elsewhere in eastern Siberia, meteorologist Valerian Petrov registered astonishment at another instance of damage to infrastructure. Petrov was tasked with investigating a peculiar form of flooding that was plaguing the construction of a highway. He spent the winter of 1927–8 surveying the highway’s route from the Ussuri line, another section of the Siberian railway, to the new Yakut Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic (Yakut ASSR). At kilometre 124, where the highway crossed the Onon River, Petrov noted the appearance of six large mounds along the side of the road. Then, at 5:00 a.m. on 28 March 1928, one of the mounds – four ­metres tall, thirty metres in diameter – erupted with a boom akin to cannon fire. Water gushed forth, inundating an area containing the highway that measured seventy-five metres wide and five kilometres

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The Life of Permafrost

long. The outburst scattered enormous chunks of ice weighing up to 205 metric tons, destroying a small bridge. “If a cargo transport had been crossing the aforementioned bridge at that moment,” Petrov reported, “it would have been unavoidably doomed, wiped out by the ice.”2 Both Pushechnikov and Petrov traced the damage they observed to the presence of underlying perennially frozen earth. Their reports reveal the difficulties that frozen earth created for building, maintaining, and exploiting infrastructure during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Built from 1891 to 1916, the Siberian railway stretched over seven thousand kilometres from Chelyabinsk in the southern Ural Mountains to Vladivostok on the Pacific coast.3 Not only was it one of the world’s longest railroads, but it was also the first large-scale project to confront the obstacle of perennially frozen earth.4 Less than a decade after the Siberian railway was completed, another ambitious undertaking was begun, this time by a new regime. In 1925, the ­Bolshevik government decreed the construction of the Amur-Yakutiya Mainline (AYAM), a highway from the Amur region to the Yakut Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic. Over 1100 kilometres long, it, too, faced problems connected with frozen earth.5 Although the two projects were separated by the revolutionary divide of 1917, they experienced ­continuities in the engineering challenges posed by the environment of eastern Siberia. In this chapter, we examine these two infrastructure projects: the Siberian railway in the late tsarist period, and the Amur-Yakutiya highway in the early Soviet period. I argue that the imperative of building infrastructure generated new demands for research into frozen earth that shaped the second, larval phase of the life of permafrost. In the previous chapter, we analysed the birth of frozen earth as an object of scientific interest. We saw that, during its embryonic phase, frozen earth was studied in the contexts of ice age theory, climatology, and geology. In this chapter we analyse frozen earth as an object of engineering. D ­ uring this larval phase, research into frozen earth was motivated by construction. In terms of the ontology of frozen earth, engineering research strengthened the antithesis in the dialectic of the life of permafrost, casting frozen earth as a physical-geographical structure: ground. Examining the larval phase of the life of permafrost reveals continuities across the revolutionary divide of 1917. Seen through the story of frozen earth, the late imperial and early Soviet periods were characterized by common experiences in state ambition, relationships to nature, and knowledge production.6 Both the late tsarist and the early ­Bolshevik regimes aspired to colonize eastern Siberia and exploit its natural resources. The persistent colonizing mission prompted repeated

Building 49

attempts to overcome the climate, terrain, and distances of eastern ­Siberia through the construction of large-scale infrastructure. But time and again engineers tasked with overseeing such projects encountered problems associated with frozen earth. In response, government agencies sponsored investigations into the phenomenon. Not only engineers but also soil scientists mobilized to take part, creating a field of inquiry they called the “soil science of roads” (dorozhnoe pochvovedenie). Such applied work on frozen earth began in the period of Imperial Russia and grew in the Bolshevik era, conducted by “bourgeois” experts who continued their research under the Soviet state.7 Tracing the work of tsarist-era experts into the early Soviet period sheds light on the nature of Russian science. In the previous chapter, we examined Russian science as an imperial science, a multi-ethnic and multilingual endeavour dominated by Baltic Germans. In this c­ hapter, we focus on Russian science as a national science. In particular, we look at how the field of soil science – that Russian national science par excellence – shaped research into frozen earth. Soil science originated in ­Russia, born of practical and progressive desires to understand the nature of Russian soils with the aim of improving domestic ­agriculture.8 It a­ dvanced Russian-language concepts, including terms such as chernozem and podzol that became incorporated into English.9 As soil scientists were drawn into studying frozen earth, the phenomenon increasingly became known by a Russian name: merzlota. As a noun, however, merzlota contained ambiguities. It referred sometimes to a substance, soil, and sometimes to a condition, something like “frozenness.” The different meanings corresponded to opposing sides of the dialectic of the life of permafrost. When denoting a substance, merzlota reinforced the antithesis, or the idea of frozen earth as a discrete physical-geographical structure. When denoting a material condition, merzlota evoked the thesis, or the idea of approaching frozen earth as a manifestation of the earth’s thermal system. The essence of the phenomenon being signified shifted depending on the context in which merzlota was used – whether the focus centred on road research or soil formation. To understand the larval phase of the life of permafrost, we first ­analyse the new context for studying frozen earth in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The imperative of colonization and challenges of mobility in eastern Siberia led to decisions by the tsarist and Bolshevik states to undertake large-scale infrastructure projects favouring roads over rivers. We then examine the difficulties during construction experienced by imperial and Soviet engineers, focusing on the Trans-Baikal and Amur sections of the Siberian railway, as well as the Amur-Yakutiya highway. The need to solve such problems

50

The Life of Permafrost

gave rise to the “soil science of roads.” Road researchers promoted an ­understanding of frozen earth as “ground,” a physical-geographical structure made into an object of engineering. Finally, we explore the contested meanings of merzlota. Whereas the epistemology of engineering research treated merzlota as ground, the study of soil formation – genetic soil science – cast merzlota as a process connected to planetary thermodynamics. Colonization and construction Sparsely populated but rich in natural resources, eastern Siberia was targeted for colonization by both the tsarist and the Bolshevik ­regimes. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, colonization ­encompassed the aspiration to not only control land, resources, and people but also achieve social progress through state-directed ­development.10 It constituted an element of continuity across the revolutionary divide of 1917, embraced by the Russian Empire and by the Soviet Union. But accomplishing goals such as mass settlement and ­resource extraction required infrastructure for transportation. In the eyes of ­Russian and Soviet modernizers, however, eastern Siberia suffered from a gross deficiency of reliable ways of communication. Proposals for rectifying the situation varied. Some advocated the improvement of preexisting routes for travel, which centred on the system of rivers in the region. Others aimed to transcend the limitations of river transport by calling for the building of railroad trunk lines and arterial highways. The desire for year-round, high-volume overland communications with Siberia inspired plans for the Siberian railway in the late tsarist period and the Amur-Yakutiya highway in the early Soviet period. Through these monumental projects, government agencies became keenly aware of the difficulties for construction posed by perennially frozen earth. The Siberian railway and the Amur-Yakutiya highway introduced a practical, engineering motivation for understanding frozen earth that shaped the second, larval, phase of the life of permafrost. In the late nineteenth century, transportation in eastern Siberia had to contend with challenges of space, climate, and terrain. Such ­factors affected mobility in the Russian Empire more generally. But they ­elicited comment from travellers to eastern Siberia because of the ­region’s low population density, extreme temperatures, and distance from the capital. From St. Petersburg to Yakutsk on the Lena River lay a ­journey of 9195 kilometres along the government’s postal route. Vast ­distances also divided towns within eastern Siberia. Between Yakutsk and ­Krasnoyarsk on the Enisei River lay a journey of 4076 kilometres;

Building 51

between Yakutsk and Irkutsk near Lake Baikal lay 3008 kilometres.11 Separating these provincial centres were expanses of dense, swampy boreal forest – the taiga. Within this environment lived a sparse human population. In 1883, Yakutsk province encompassed over 3.9 million square kilometres but contained only 250,471 people. The density of its most populated county (okrug) consisted of one person per 5.8 square kilometres. A single district (ulus) alone exceeded the area of France but had a population one thousand times less.12 The combination of vast distances and low population meant long and arduous journeys in the absence of provisions between settlements. Depending on the season and location, passengers could travel along the government’s postal routes relatively comfortably and conveniently. Such routes were punctuated with relay stations that provided shelter and a change of horses and coach drivers. One observer who travelled frequently in Irkutsk province found the main government postal route eminently reliable.13 But in other places in eastern Siberia, travel even on the government postal route made for a risky proposition. The route from Yakutsk to Kolymsk in the far northeast of Siberia, for example, was scarcely signposted. The 2481-kilometre journey took no fewer than thirty days, and accommodations along the way consisted of spare, damp, and isolated wooden huts situated up to 288 kilometres apart.14 The extreme continental climate of eastern Siberia exacerbated conditions for travel. Winter temperatures in Yakutsk province averaged −39°C, with a minimum of −69.8°C recorded in Verkhoyansk in 1892, the lowest observed anywhere on the earth’s surface at that time. Yet travellers unanimously preferred winter journeys to summer ones in eastern Siberia. During the warm months, temperatures reached 30°C and the air in these waterlogged parts became infested with mosquitoes – a menace to travellers since the days of ­Johann Georg Gmelin. “If you let them have their way,” the naturalist wrote, “the pain they cause is nearly unbearable.”15 Not only did climatic conditions cause discomfort during travel, but so, too, did the terrain. One feature, called naled’ by Russians and taryn by the Sakha, attracted particular attention for its turbulence. Ferdinand von Wrangell encountered these ice fields in the valley ­ of the Dogdo River, a tributary in the Yana River system. Using the Sakha term and declaring it a “phenomenon peculiar to these regions,” Wrangell ­explained that taryn appeared when “a large quantity of water gushes up from the earth, spreads itself on all sides, and immediately freezes.” This happened in winter, “when the cold is most intense,” and once ­begun had the potential to sustain momentum, as “the first crust of ice is soon broken by fissures, through which fresh water rises,

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The Life of Permafrost

and a second crust is formed.” The layers accumulated until a thick sheet of ice encased every stationary object on the surface within reach, ­including “even trees of moderate size.”16 During instances of taryn, the ground did not merely swell but seemed to gather more dimensions onto itself, right before one’s eyes. Because the processes that gave rise to taryn took place out of sight, underground, its appearance was unpredictable. It was capable, ­however, of making overland travel inconvenient at best and treacherous at worst. The combination of smooth ice and flowing water created extremely slick surfaces. Although similar icings on the ground were also known to occur in northern Europe, Gerhard von Maydell observed that those in Siberia “immediately distinguish themselves by their formidable expanse and also by their uneven but hilly surface.”17 A Baltic German official who served the imperial government in Yakutsk province, Maydell travelled to the far northeast of the empire in 1866 with the task of investigating commercial relations in the region.18 In the valley of the Kyra River, southwest of Verkhoyansk, he encountered a recurring instance of taryn that stretched for fifteen kilometres. Because its appearance was prevalent and extensive, taryn was difficult to avoid or manage. Maydell lamented that even reindeer, whose hooves were capable of cutting into ice, made their way slowly, “perpetually slipping and falling” when travelling across taryn surfaces bearing a load. Horses were altogether helpless. Unable to gain traction, they “barely dared [to go] one foot after another, as if groping for movement, trembling throughout their bodies – in short, it is real misery.” The injuries they sustained when they fell often killed them or immobilized them so that their human companions were compelled to end their suffering.19 If taryn manifested itself in winter, during other seasons travellers had to contend with a peculiar type of bog called badaran by the Sakha and mar’ by Tungus speakers. In the western parts of the Eurasian continent, wetlands were often found in low-lying territories. Beyond the Enisei River, however, scientists encountered viscous ground at a range of elevations and angles, even on mountain sides “at rather considerable gradients.”20 When undisturbed, badaran and mar’ had the appearance of a stable surface, an illusion augmented by vegetation that seemed to be rooted in the ground. Beneath their solid veneer and mossy covering, however, oozed mud, clay, and peat, interspersed with layers of ice that “attained a meter’s thickness.”21 Moreover, the trees that stood in their midst were “freakishly misshapen,” their stunted trunks leaning this way and that.22 The landscape was said to have a depressed look. Wrangell also wrote, “There can scarcely be anything more desolate than the appearance of these badaràny, covered only with

Building 53

half-withered moss, and bearing here and there, on the higher spots, a few miserable larch-bushes, which just show themselves above the ground.”23 These physical markers distinguished the badaran and mar’ of eastern Siberia from more familiar marshes. The laboriousness and discomfort of movement is a recurring theme in the writings of travellers in eastern Siberia. Reindeer struggled to keep their feet whenever taryn appeared.24 Horses sank to their bellies in mar’.25 The taiga stymied movement in all seasons with its “chaotic jumble of living and nonliving trees, masses of fallen deadwood, thick underbrush of trailing pine, and chronic bogginess.” Travel through them was “especially torturous,” and gave rise to feelings of foreboding. One traveller to the Verkhoyansk district of the Yakut ASSR wrote that, while being pulled on a sled by reindeer at high speed through jumbles of coarse woody debris, an inexperienced rider suffered constant anxiety that a stray branch would unexpectedly “pierce him in the eye, skewer him, or break his leg.” To make things even more ­nerve-racking, changes of direction were frequent and sharp, and fog from the reindeer’s breath obscured the view of dangers.26 ­ Hydrographer Ivan Molodykh, travelling in the Yakut ASSR, felt that the taiga possessed a “grandeur, inscrutable silence, and sinister power, that evoke within the city dweller who finds himself within its limits an involuntary sensation of abandonment and loneliness.”27 The fact that roads in eastern Siberia changed with the seasons also hindered colonization and development. As Molodykh wrote, “In general the summer pack roads and winter roads completely do not coincide.” This occurred because, in winter, the local people endeavoured as much as possible to travel along rivers and avoid the forests, whereas in summer they tried to keep to higher elevations to avoid swamps and marshland.28 These shifting lines of communication seemed ill-suited to the needs of comprehensive economic development. For motivations both geostrategic and developmental, the tsarist government by the late nineteenth century decided to invest in building infrastructure to encourage settlement and development in the region. In the 1880s, the Russian government was debating greater investment and a more aggressive assertion of its power in the eastern domains of the empire. Historians of the Russian Empire have demonstrated that these debates mixed economic rationales with political and strategic calculations. Russia’s policies in Asia were tied to its colonial rivalry with Britain, as well as territorial expansion at the expense of the Qing Empire. Having extended its borders in the east southward to the Amur River and acquired the right bank of the Ussuri River, Russia faced the task of protecting its gains from the Qing while continuing to

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The Life of Permafrost

press for advantage along the Sino-Russian border in Central Asia.29 At the same time, Britain was endeavouring to block Russian ambitions in the Balkans and Afghanistan. Competition between the two powers brought them to the verge of war, one which could have potentially spanned multiple theatres, Mediterranean, Asian, and Pacific. In anticipation of such a conflict, officials in the Russian Admiralty expressed dismay about their empire’s ability to move troops and materiel across vast spaces given its poorly developed infrastructure.30 Conservative nationalists, including the minister of ways of communications from 1874 to 1888, Konstantin Poset, also perceived ­improved transportation as a means of integrating the empire, declaring that “­until there is a railroad across all of Siberia, it will be estranged from the general system and the political life of the state.”31 All these c­ onsiderations, together with visions of economic benefits, such as access to natural resources, trading opportunities, and land for agriculture, lay behind ­Aleksandr III’s initial decision in 1882 to approve construction of the “Great Siberian Mainline.”32 Undertaken during the heyday of European imperialism, the railroad symbolized both the ambition and the anxiety of the Russian state. The railroad project became the catalyst for dozens of scientific expeditions to Siberia aimed at surveying the land and identifying resources that could be exploited once the route was complete.33 It accelerated a long-term process of knowledge production in connection with the expansion and consolidation of the Russian Empire. After the revolutions of 1917, colonization continued to be relevant, and the need for road-building increased and received more ­attention. The main motivations for building the Amur-Yakutiya highway, ­according to engineer and planner Grigorii Dubelir, were to supply the gold mines on the Aldan River, to improve communications with the newly formed Yakut ASSR, and to facilitate the colonization of the ­territory and develop its productivity.34 The new Bolshevik regional government of the Yakut ASSR wanted this road built. As modernizers, they expressed frustration with the fact that the region did not have year-round road communications. There was always a period during autumn, after river navigation had ceased because of the buildup of ice but overland sleigh routes had not been established, when the town of Yakutsk was “cut off from the entire world.” Similarly, there was a period in spring, after overland routes became muddy but before rivers thawed and became navigable again, when communications were once again cut off.35 As a political and economic space, the Yakut ASSR was vast and ­tenuously connected. By the nineteenth century, trade, agriculture, and mining (especially silver in the region around Nerchinsk) were key

Building 55

economic activities in eastern Siberia. Gold mining had been an important economic activity in the Lena River Valley since the 1840s, when gold deposits were found first along the Olekma River and then along the Vitim River. The region was called the Olekma-Vitim gold-bearing region. The Olekma and Vitim were also tributaries of the Lena. In 1912, it had been the site of the so-called Lena Goldfields Massacre.36 In 1923, a gold deposit was discovered in the valley of the Aldan, a tributary of the Lena River in eastern Siberia. Boosters called this discovery the “Russian Klondike.”37 A visible and significant mining community ­existed in the Vitim River Valley, and agricultural communities existed in the valleys of the Viliui, Olekma, and Aldan. They were connected by lines of communication in the form of rivers and postal routes. Yet ­contemporary commentators were struck by the degree to which ­Yakutiya’s physical geography overwhelmed human economic activity. The regional government of Yakutiya viewed the gold-mining r­ egions as the linchpin of and first step towards comprehensive ­development.38 But responsibility for extracting and delivering the gold was given to an all-union concern called Soiuzzoloto, formed by the Council of People’s Commissars (Sovnarkom) in 1927. By its decree, all state enterprises in the gold industry were united under one umbrella organization.39 Various options for a year-round road to the gold mines of the ­upper Lena had been surveyed before the revolution. The agency that continued surveying and construction after the revolution was the ­Administration of Local Transport for the Far Eastern District (Dal’omes). It was eventually decided to build a route from Skovorodino station on the Siberian railway to the town of Tommot in the gold-mining ­region and then to the port of Kuria Bestiakh on the Lena River, near the town of Yakutsk. The initial goal was to build a basic road capable of supporting automobiles of lighter capacity under favourable weather conditions. Eventually, the road would be upgraded to allow passage of heavy cargo and travel at higher speeds.40 Planners estimated that every ton of gold mined in the Lena valley required 1500 to 2000 tons of supplies, including food and equipment for the miners.41 The problem of supplying the mines dated back to the nineteenth century. In the 1860s, for example, the geologist and anarchist Petr Kropotkin participated in a surveying expedition to determine how best to transport supplies to the gold mines of the upper Lena region.42 As we will see, the People’s Commissariat of Ways of Communication (NKPS) struggled to find the necessary personnel to build AYAM because conditions were difficult. The region was remote and sparsely populated, with dense taiga forests. It was relatively unexplored and

56

The Life of Permafrost

reliable maps did not exist. There was also “a complete lack of engineers,” not helped by the low pay and high cost of living given the ­region’s remoteness. Finally, it was necessary given limited ­resources to conserve on construction costs.43 Building on frozen earth Enticed by the prospects of colonizing eastern Siberia, both the late t­ sarist and the early Bolshevik regimes undertook construction ­projects of tremendous scale. By building the Siberian railway and Amur-­ Yakutiya highway, they hoped to transform a vast and selectively ­inhabited region into a land of settler agriculture and industry. Given the continuity of their grand ambitions, the environment of eastern ­Siberia remained a persistent challenge across the revolutionary d ­ ivide of 1917. ­During construction, basic earthworks such as cuts and fills proved costly and slow to make because of the unyielding nature of frozen earth. ­Attempts to establish year-round sources of water for railroad stations and w ­ orkshops were frustrated by the unpredictable flow of groundwater in frozen earth regions. Even after roads and factories were built and running, their foundations fell victim to the swelling and subsiding characteristic of land in areas with frozen earth. ­Structures also suffered from a peculiar form of winter flooding and freezing that encased ­objects in ice, deformed roadways and dislodged bridges, and generated destructive outbursts of water. Imperial and ­Soviet engineers attributed responsibility for the challenges of construction to the impermeability of frozen earth. By singling out frozen earth as the primary obstacle, they strengthened the antithesis within the dialectic in understandings of permafrost – the idea of frozen earth as a ­physical-geographical structure. The Russian Empire happened to stretch across territories where the earth beneath the surface was extensively frozen. These circumstances meant that Russian engineers were the first to confront frozen earth as a factor in large-scale infrastructure construction. Not even the Canadian Pacific Railway, completed in the 1880s, required builders to engage seriously with frozen earth. Although frozen earth was present in the far northern parts of Canada, the transcontinental railroad hugged the southern border, where explorers found few traces of the phenomenon.44 The difficulties that frozen earth posed for road construction included difficulties with earthwork, especially creating fills and cuts for roadbeds; ground heave, including both swelling and subsidence; difficulties finding water; difficulties traversing and building on mar’, the peatland swamps; and taryn, or icings, also referred to in Russian as naled’.

Building 57

The mossy bogs called mar’ that travellers found so laborious to navigate posed even greater problems for construction. Mar’ lay for extensive stretches along the Trans-Baikal and Amur sections of the S ­ iberian railway. Between the town of Khabarovsk and the Zeya River, for e­ xample, nearly half of the railroad’s route passed through swampland.45 Mar’ was characterized by viscous, clayey soil ­embedded with numerous rocks that, when frozen during winter, was unworkable with hand tools. In summer, however, working in mar’ meant ­sinking to one’s knees in cold mud and getting chilled to the bone, with many workers developing joint pain. To create a more stable surface for hauling supplies, it was necessary to construct wooden platforms and corduroy roads, but even these came apart after several days’ use. An engineer on the Amur section, Aleksandr Passek, recalled rescuing a driver and horse in the summer of 1910 that had sunk into the mar’, unable to ­extricate themselves. Because of the arduous and unhealthy conditions of labour, workers avoided areas with mar’ even at levels of pay six times the going rate. Engineers had no choice but to build the railroad in winter, when mar’ in its frozen state was at least stable, although dynamite was required to work the ground. Even after tracks had been laid, however, they were not safe from the action of mar’. Come spring, Passek wrote, “a road laid on an entire system of groundsills, lengthwise and crosswise, ­after a train passed, sank into the mud so that the rails were completely invisible, and of the groundsills, which were perched 0.25–0.30 sazhen [0.53–0.64 metres] above the roadbed, there remained not a trace.” A similar development occurred near Bushulei station on the Amur section. As Passek reported, “the thawed ground transformed into some kind of liquid mass in which were submerged railroad ties, groundsills, rails, and ballast.”46 The railroad promised to facilitate and regularize travel in eastern Siberia, but the land seemed to subvert the very possibility of building it. While researching mar’ along the Siberian railway, scientists established a correlation between the bogs and the presence of frozen earth. Surveying the land in the Trans-Baikal, Amur, and southern Yakutiya regions, agronomist Innokentii Kriukov observed that “everywhere where there are peat bogs or mossy mar’, it is possible to encounter frozen earth at an insignificant depth, usually no deeper than one-half to one arshin [36 to 71 centimetres] at the end of summer.”47 Between the swampland, the underlying frozen earth, and the thick layers of Sphagnum moss that covered the surface, imperial scientists perceived a mutually supportive relationship. Sphagnum moss, with its high ­water-bearing capacity and low thermal conductivity, insulated the

58

The Life of Permafrost

­ nderlying frozen earth from heat. The perennially frozen earth in u turn supported the mar’ by forming a water-impermeable stratum that ­enabled moisture to accumulate in the overlying soil. To close the loop, the moisture in the soil nourished the Sphagnum moss.48 ­Engineers learned that underlying frozen earth played a role in sustaining the ­difficult conditions associated with mar’. It also became clear to imperial and Soviet engineers that frozen earth itself presented a host of problems for construction work. The land wreaked all kinds of havoc on buildings, roads, and other infrastructure. First, there was the problem that structures built on frozen earth would sink and deform. This happened when the frozen earth lying underground beneath the structure was exposed to heat and thawed, causing the ground supporting the structure to subside. To take one example, a report from the archives described what happened to a brick building that housed the local offices of the People’s ­Commissariat of Internal Affairs (NKVD) in the town of Yakutsk. The NKVD was the state ministry in charge of the Soviet secret police. The thawing of ­underground frozen earth caused the NKVD building to sink eight to nine centimetres, which in turn caused the building’s walls to deform. One of the columns of the wall caved, causing the wall as a whole to shift, opening up a diagonal crack across the wall and scattering plaster all over the people working in the adjoining room.49 Part of the problem was that buildings generated heat, which travelled into the ground and affected the frozen earth, which then affected the buildings. Problems were caused not only by the subsiding of the ground but also by the heaving – or puchenie – of the ground. Puchenie referred to the swelling of the ground during the cold months and its subsiding during the warm months. The phenomenon occurred in cold environments even where the earth was not frozen throughout the year. But imperial and Soviet engineers found that perennially frozen earth made heaving even more extreme and hard to predict. Basically, during the cold months, moisture in the ground would freeze and expand. And if the ground was very saturated with water, this expansion could be substantial. The ground bulged and exerted pressure on structures sitting on top of it. This bulging was most extreme wherever a lot of groundwater collected. And since the layer of frozen earth underground was relatively impermeable to water, this meant that groundwater sometimes collected on top of it, rather than flowing deeper underground. This was why bulging could be more intense in places where there was perennially frozen earth than in places where there was not. But ­engineers could not necessarily tell where exactly groundwater would accumulate because underground frozen earth diverted groundwater

Building 59

in surprising ways. Sometimes groundwater collected in places where they were carrying out construction work. For example, in the winter of 1927–8, a bulge, or heave mound, appeared at the 359-kilometre mark of the Amur-Yakutiya highway in eastern Siberia. It measured 2.5 metres high, sixty-eight metres long, and twenty-two metres wide. Thanks to this heave mound, the road embankment became lopsided and passage along the road was disrupted. There was also a bridge under construction, and the heave mound destabilized the bridge as well, causing it to tilt.50 Frozen earth diverted groundwater in surprising ways, and groundwater sometimes accumulated on top of perennially frozen earth. For example, during the cold months, after a lot of the ground had frozen, groundwater continued to flow through interstices in the soil and rock. The groundwater came from rivers, streams, or underground sources, and sometimes it accumulated in large quantities. The large volumes of water sought an outlet, but frozen earth restricted the availability of passageways underground. The combination of large volumes of water and small outlets led to a buildup of pressure in places. The buildup of pressure caused the groundwater to burst out into the open, flood onto the surrounding landscape, and quickly freeze, forming successive layers of ice – the notorious taryn or naled’. Naled’ also had negative effects on infrastructure. For example, in 1932, near Skovorodino, a station on the Amur railroad in eastern Siberia, a naled’ appeared and caused the road to become flooded and encased in ice. Workers frantically worked to stop water from continuing to pour out of the ground onto the railroad tracks. They had to continually de-ice the railroad tracks to clear the way for trains. Trains that were sitting on the sidings froze to the tracks.51 Along the Siberian railway, imperial engineers encountered the most difficulties in the Trans-Baikal and Amur sections. In the Trans-Baikal region, for example, preliminary surveys of the route conducted in 1887 and 1888 revealed rough terrain between the settlements of Verkhneudinsk (known today as Ulan-Ude) and Chita. Between the two settlements lay several hundred kilometres of sparsely populated landscape that the intended railroad had to traverse. Surveyors encountered ­unwelcoming swamps, slopes, rocky terrain, dense taiga forest, and evidence of severe flooding. They also encountered frozen earth, which lay close to the surface at a depth of 0.30 to 0.40 sazhen, or sixty-four to eighty-five centimetres below the ground. From there it extended 3.64 sazhen, or nearly eight metres, deep.52 Given the difficulty of the ­terrain, the committee responsible for overseeing the building of the railroad, known as the Council for the Administration of the Construction of

60

The Life of Permafrost

the Siberian railway, had to consider a second survey, which was conducted in 1893 and 1894. The first sign that this terrain was no ordinary terrain was that a hasty survey using sparse resources was not good enough. The imperial government seemed initially to think that the survey could be done quickly, using minimal resources, but this turned out not to be the case. To appreciate the difficulties that the terrain presented, and why many difficulties were traced back to frozen earth, it is useful to consider what made terrain favourable for railroad construction in the age of steam. Terrain that was relatively flat and stable was important. But it was not just the relationship with soil and earth that mattered; equally important for engineering purposes was the availability of ­ water. ­Water was needed to power steam engines, which ran when ­water in a boiler was heated and generated steam, which was converted into mechanical energy. Given the need for water, frozen earth was problematic because it posed difficulties for water supply. There were problems if there was not enough water and if water remained in its frozen state. It was in constructing the Amur railroad that the problem of water supply was most prominent.53 Originally, following Middendorff, engineers ­believed that there was no running water in frozen earth regions. They thought that the presence of frozen earth meant that groundwater, which might usually be tapped for a water supply, would be locked in a frozen state. Through great difficulty, engineers on the Amur railroad discovered that there were many springs in the region that could be tapped for running water. Frozen earth formed a water-impermeable layer whose nooks and crannies diverted flowing water in unexpected ways. Researching the behaviour of groundwater fell within the purview of hydrology. ­Hydrologists took care to note when rivers would freeze to the bottom. This is because rivers freezing to the bottom was a sign that groundwater would meet with water-impermeable layers and have nowhere to go. Sometimes, the problem was not that there was not enough water but that there was too much. When there was an excess of water, railroad engineers faced the problem of heaving, slipping, and icing.54 Heave happened when land froze and expanded, ­pushing up on structures above. This was accompanied by seasonal thawing and sinking. ­Slipping involved unidirectional thawing. In terms of the ­Amur-Yakutiya highway, the major problem consisted of naled’. ­Sergei Podyakonov investigated naled’ and articulated its formation.55 All three problems dogged engineers. Solving them involved isolating ­frozen earth as a causal mechanism.

Building 61

The soil science of roads Difficulties experienced in building the Siberian railway and the Amur-Yakutiya highway generated new demands for research into frozen earth. In chapter 1, we saw that, in the nineteenth century, interest in frozen earth had been maintained by zoologists and geologists. With the advent of large-scale construction projects in eastern Siberia, however, civil engineers and soil scientists began to initiate investigations. Soil science or pochvovedenie had origins in Russia, pioneered by Vasilii Dokuchaev in the 1880s with his study of the fertile black earth of the country’s southwestern regions.56 Its practitioners were initially motivated by the desire to improve agriculture. But the building of the ­Siberian railway directed their attention towards the potential application of soil science to construction. At the intersection of soil science and civil engineering emerged a field of inquiry that soil scientists called “the soil science of roads” (dorozhnoe pochvovedenie). The need for research into the soil science of roads initially became apparent during the last decades of the Russian Empire. But support for the interdisciplinary field materialized in the early Soviet period, a development that illustrates another continuity across the revolutionary divide. The soil scientists and engineers involved in road research sought to understand properties of frozen earth relevant to construction. Their epistemology cast the ontology of frozen earth as “ground” (grunt), a physical-geographical structure made into an object of engineering. In 1908, as work began on the Amur section of the Siberian r­ ailway, an ambitious program was undertaken to study the soils of ­Asiatic Russia. The program was jointly organized by the Imperial Free ­ ­Economic Society, a learned society dedicated to improving agriculture, and the Resettlement Administration, an agency of the tsarist Ministry of ­Agriculture. Over seven years, parties of soil scientists travelled to more than a dozen parts of Siberia and Central Asia every summer. They spent three or four months gathering information about the vegetation, relief, and climate, collecting samples of the soil and rock, and assembling maps of the soil.57 Their activities were aimed at assessing the suitability of the areas for colonization. With the Siberian railway creating new possibilities for settlement in eastern Siberia, the Trans-Baikal and Amur regions, along with the Lena River basin, became incorporated into the research agenda. The program to study the soils of ­Asiatic Russia thus brought a fresh group of scientists into contact with perennially frozen earth. It nurtured a cluster of researchers – including Robert Abolin, Leonid Prasolov, Boris Polynov, Konstantin Nikiforov, and Nikolai Prokhorov – newly interested in the phenomenon.

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The Life of Permafrost

Soil scientists were dispatched to Siberia initially to evaluate the land’s suitability for agricultural development, but they became drawn into addressing the challenges of civil engineering. A particularly active role in bridging soil science and engineering was played by Nikolai Prokhorov, who was eventually considered a pioneer of the soil science of roads. Born in 1877 in Tambov province, Prokhorov studied at the Novo-Aleksandriiskii Institute of Agronomy and Forestry with Nikolai Sibirtsev, himself a student of Dokuchaev’s. Through working with Sibirtsev, Prokhorov received training in genetic soil science, the particular tradition of Russian soil science that Dokuchaev established. ­Genetic soil science focused on understanding processes of soil formation. According to Dokuchaev, soil – a distinct natural body – emerged from interactions between five elements: local climate, flora and fauna, underlying bedrock, relief of the terrain, and geological age. Genetic soil scientists sought to understand how interactions between these five elements gave rise to a variety of types of soil. They aimed to ­uncover patterns in the geographic distribution of different soils through fieldwork, description, analysis, and mapping. Such knowledge could be used to assess the potential of land for cultivation. With his background in genetic soil science, in 1904, Prokhorov found employment teaching at the Strebut courses, a program in St. Petersburg for women seeking higher education in agronomy.58 After his expedition to the Amur, however, Prokhorov became aware of the need for soil scientists to engage with not only agriculture but also construction. The difficulties associated with frozen earth encountered during the building of the Amur railroad highlighted the demand for expertise on soil as a factor in engineering. In January 1911, Prokhorov delivered a presentation on frozen earth at the Institute for Engineers of Ways of Communication. He outlined the research needed to anticipate the effects of frozen earth on structures, such as studying the amount of pressure exerted by the ground upon freezing. Given the specific goal of ensuring stable infrastructure, new ways of investigating the soil were required. Rather than the soil’s origin or elemental composition, Prokhorov found it relevant to study its aggregate behaviour and properties. It ought to be known how strongly particles of soil and water adhered when frozen to predict the ground’s resistance to earthwork or suitability as a foundation. The problems of engineering called for an epistemology different from that of genetic soil science.59 Prokhorov’s interest in the soil as a factor in engineering – sparked by his experience in the Amur region – led him to advocate for the ­development of a soil science of roads. As an applied, interdisciplinary field, the soil science of roads drew on other fields such as strength of

Building 63

materials and hydrology. It paralleled what was known as road research and highway research in Britain and the United States. North American engineers were testing road materials in the laboratory to determine the optimal composition of roads in terms of larger particulates like sand and smaller particulates like silt and clay. Road research encompassed new, applied fields such as soil mechanics, which combined soil science, especially soil physics, with engineering. Soil scientists formally became involved in more experimental approaches, such as working in a laboratory to determine the strength of materials.60 Scientists based in eastern Siberia, particularly those engaged in meteorology and geology, also became involved in researching frozen earth. Among them were meteorologist Vladimir Shostakovich and geologist Aleksandr Lvov. Lvov was a political exile-turned-geologist and engineer who worked on the Amur section of the Siberian railway. The questions he worked on encapsulated the full range of issues that engineers were interested in regarding frozen earth, including strength of materials and hydrology. The strength of materials approach to ­investigating the stability of frozen earth consisted of testing the bearing capacity of different types of soils – sandy soils and clayey soils, for ­example – under dry and wet conditions, as well as after repeated cycles of freezing and thawing. These experiments demonstrated an ­attempt to identify universal properties of the local materials so that they could be factored into engineering calculations. Lvov was also involved in researching water supplies and reasons for heave and slipping.61 Overall, the Siberian railway project emphasized a way of understanding frozen earth that might be called an engineering approach, ­encompassing strength of materials and hydrology.62 Imperial engineers wanted to know the bearing capacity of different kinds of rocks and soil, as well as when, why, and how the terrain might heave and slip. They were also interested in the behaviour and phase state of ­water. A sudden overflow of running water could threaten the integrity of their structures. At the same time, insufficient water, or its prevalence in frozen form, would reduce the availability of steam power necessary for industry. Instead of approaching frozen earth from the perspective of global systems of climate, which included soil, precipitation, and vegetation, engineers treated frozen earth in terms of ­universal properties. Given their concerns, imperial engineers in eastern Siberia sought to investigate the universal properties of the local environment, a ­focus that distinguished them from physical geographers who aimed to study regional particularities within a global system. Russian engineers working on the Siberian railway sought to manipulate and use frozen earth. Attributes such as temperature mattered

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The Life of Permafrost

for determining the bearing capacity of frozen earth and the stability of ­future structures. In addition, engineers were attentive to changes in the terrain and hydrology as a consequence of the presence of f­rozen earth. They sought to protect their constructions from heave, landslides, and icings. Although such phenomena occurred in other parts of the empire, the intensity of their expression in territories with frozen earth elicited astonishment. Seeking an explanation, engineers pointed to frozen earth as the culprit. On the one hand, their attempts to ­describe and measure frozen earth isolated it from the totality of nature that physical geographers envisioned. Instead of emphasizing entangled relationships between frozen earth and the rest of nature, imperial engineers approached it as a distinct object with direct, causal effects on the landscape. At the same time, thinking about frozen earth in this fashion paved the way for its incorporation into the built environment, simultaneously embedding the structures of the late imperial and ­Soviet state in the nature of eastern Siberia. The ambiguity of merzlota To practitioners of the soil science of roads, the essence of frozen earth centred on the notion of ground, a concept relevant to civil engineering. Their understanding strengthened the antithesis within the dialectic of the life of permafrost: the idea of frozen earth as a physical-geographical structure. But not all soil scientists were engaged in the soil science of roads. Some pursued fundamental questions about the origin or genesis of soils. Genetic soil scientists were interested in the components, conditions, and processes of soil formation, including factors in the surrounding environment – such as climate – that influenced the soil. When analysing soil that stayed frozen, they connected its origins to the dynamics of the distribution of heat throughout the planet. Whereas road researchers saw frozen earth as a cause of environmental instability, genetic soil scientists saw it as a consequence and manifestation of the earth’s thermal system. Whereas road researchers studied frozen earth in terms of its behaviour as an aggregate body, genetic soil scientists were interested in its constitutive elements. Different epistemologies generated distinct ontologies of frozen earth. The tension between contrasting understandings of frozen earth was captured by the ambiguous Russian word merzlota used increasingly to refer to the phenomenon in the early twentieth century. If frozen earth in its embryonic phase was named Boden-Eis and Eisboden, then in its larval phase, it became merzlota. Depending on how it was used, merzlota referred sometimes to a substance, sometimes to a condition.

Building 65

The confusion surrounding its meaning showed the persistence of the dialectic between structure and system into the second stage of the life of permafrost. As projects like the Siberian railway and the Amur-Yakutiya highway drew more experts into frozen earth research, conceptions of frozen earth itself multiplied. Civil engineers and soil scientists used a plethora of terms when referring to the phenomenon. One set of terms consisted of binomial expressions combining the adjective “frozen” (merzlyi) with various nouns for earth materials. Most common in this group were “frozen soil” (merzlaia pochva) and “frozen ground” (merzlyi grunt). Others included “frozen stratum” (merzlyi sloi), “frozen rock” (merzlaia skala), and “frozen subsoil” (merzlaia podpochva). An alternative set of terms centred on the untranslatable word merzlota. The first written appearance of merzlota dated back to 1838 in an article by an anonymous author in Mining Journal.63 By the early twentieth century, it was increasingly found in writings pertaining to frozen earth. Merzlota derived from merzlyi (“frozen”), but instead of an adjective, it was a noun. As a noun, merzlota was sometimes modified by various adjectives. For example, soil scientist Boris Polynov modified merzlota with a seasonal descriptor, summer (letniaia), as well as adjectives derived from locations or environments, such as swamp (­bolotnaia) and ground (gruntovaia).64 Other writers used adjectives that referred to time or duration. Among these were words denoting longevity and constancy, such as “permanent” (postoiannyi) and “persistent” (ustoichivyi) – as well as their antonym, “temporary” (vremennyi). Among adjectives denoting time, one that was commonly used was vechnyi, “eternal.” Geologist Petr Kropotkin was among the first writers to use the expression vechnaia merzlota, which appeared in an 1873 report that he wrote about a surveying expedition in eastern Siberia.65 The noun merzlota was ambiguous. Sometimes it seemed to refer to an actual physical substance or object, like soil or ground. When accompanied by adjectives like “eternal” or “temporary,” merzlota appeared to indicate something material. It was a tangible object with either a prolonged existence, in the case of vechnaia merzlota, or a brief one, in the case of vremennaia merzlota. Russian adjectives created from locations, such as “swamp” and “ground,” had a similar effect when modifying merzlota. In expressions like bolotnaia merzlota and gruntovaia merzlota, merzlota seemed to be a substance found in different places and classifiable according to its environment. The noun merzlota served as a shorthand for a binomial expression like “frozen soil” or “frozen ground.” But sometimes merzlota was used in a way that suggested that it was not a physical object such as soil or ground but rather a condition or

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The Life of Permafrost

a process. Such was the case when merzlota was combined with the genitive or possessive form of other nouns, generating expressions like “­merzlota of the soil” (merzlota pochvy) or “merzlota of the ground” (merzlota grunta). When this occurred, merzlota obviously referred not to the soil or ground itself but rather some feature of the soil or ground. Further evidence of this alternative conception of merzlota appeared when soil scientists used the terms vozdushnaia (“air”) merzlota and pochvennaia (“soil”) merzlota.66 Clearly, the word merzlota in the expression “air merzlota” could not refer to an earth material, such as soil and rock, since it hardly made sense to suggest that frozen soil or frozen rock comprised air or was located in the air. Moreover, the expression “soil merzlota” would be redundant if the word merzlota itself already referred to the soil. Instead, the merzlota in “soil merzlota” and “air merzlota” must refer to something other than earth material that occurred in or was characteristic of the soil and the air. The nature of the phenomenon being signified therefore shifted ­depending on how the word merzlota was used. Even when merzlota referred to a material object, its essence was inconsistent. The various binomial expressions for frozen earth encompassed a range of things: ground, soil, subsoil, rock, stratum, and others. Was merzlota a substance of the earth or a realm of the earth? The bewildering array of terms and usages revealed the variety of circumstances in which scientists and ­engineers encountered frozen earth. The proliferation of terms also hinted at ambiguousness in the ontology of frozen earth. What was the nature of the phenomenon signified by the burgeoning terminology? Under scrutiny, linguistic usage revealed contradictions within merzlota. As chemist Stanisław Zaleski bemoaned, in research surrounding frozen earth there was “complete chaos and instability in understandings.”67 The ambiguity surrounding merzlota was not simply a semantic problem. It emerged from epistemologies conditioned by historical context. As civil engineers and soil scientists joined in studying frozen earth, they shaped the ontology of the phenomenon. The concerns and ­practices of engineering research, including the soil science of roads, nurtured the perception of frozen earth as a physical structure, ground. In the laboratory, investigators tested the aggregate properties of “­frozen ground,” such as its thermal conductivity, thermal capacity, moisture-bearing capacity, and permeability to water. They examined its behaviour under stress, including its resistance to compression and changes in its volume upon thawing and desiccation.68 Used in an engineering context, the word merzlota therefore signified a material object. Structures were built “on” merzlota (na merzlote). Ditches were excavated and pilings driven “in” merzlota (v merzlote). Merzlota underwent

Building 67

thawing (ottaivanie merzloty), it could be destroyed (unichtozhenie merzloty), or it could grow (rost merzloty) and rise (podniatie merzloty).69 The epistemology and language of construction together cast the essence of merzlota as a concrete body. At the same time, desire to know the genesis and geographical distribution of frozen earth generated more abstract conceptions of merzlota. What produced the condition of frozenness, and how might its presence in the ground be predicted? Pursuing questions about the origin of frozen earth led scientists to connect merzlota to planetary thermodynamics. Along these lines, soil scientist Nikolai Prokhorov asserted that merzlota was “the crystallized form of an excess of cold over heat.”70 Analogous formulations by others similarly pointed to merzlota as the manifestation of a thermal system. Writers deployed merzlota differently in one and the same piece. Influenced by climatologists like Aleksandr Voeikov, some scientists like Nikolai Prokhorov and others connected merzlota to inputs and outputs of cold and heat. There began to emerge an understanding of merzlota as the manifestation of a thermal system. This indicated that it was an exchange or interplay between ground and atmosphere. Prokhorov’s definition of merzlota revealed an alternative, systems approach to understanding frozen earth that emphasized frozen earth not simply as a material substance but as the manifestation of processes distributing heat throughout the earth’s system. Conclusion During the late nineteenth century, the life cycle of permafrost entered the larval stage. In the Russian Empire, under the rubric of colonization and industrialization, a new imperative emerged in regions with ­underlying perennially frozen earth: building large-scale infrastructure. The imperative persisted into the twentieth century and was embraced by the Bolshevik regime. Both the imperial and Soviet governments ­undertook ambitious transport construction projects to facilitate economic production. With the Siberian railway and the Amur-Yakutiya highway, modernizers chose to pursue a particular kind of development, one that favoured transforming the environment rather than operating within its constraints. They sought to impose a heavier ­human footprint, remaking the landscape to escape the limitations historically presented by the terrain. To their consternation, however, the bogs, ­icings, and ground heave of eastern Siberia, far from giving way to earthwork, appeared to become amplified. As they made greater ­demands on the land, they faced greater resistance.

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The challenges of construction prompted an epistemological shift in investigations of frozen earth that endowed the phenomenon with yet more meanings. Frozen earth, beyond debates in natural history and geology, became the focus of soil science, including genetic soil science and the soil science of roads. Russian scientists became pioneers in these fields and their application to frozen earth, generating a variety of expressions and methods of classification for the phenomenon. The Russian word merzlota especially emerged as a common signifier for frozen earth, but, like Eisboden, it contained ambiguity. Did merzlota signify ground, an aggregate structure akin to Middendorff’s Eisboden? Or did it signify neither a substance nor a structure but rather a condition resulting from the distribution of heat – and related to Baer’s Eis-Boden? Whereas those who approached frozen earth as an object of engineering tended towards the former, those interested in the process by which frozen earth formed leaned towards the latter. The dialectic of the life of permafrost extended from the embryonic into the larval stage. Resolving this tension became the central focus of the next, pupal stage, when frozen earth became vechnaia merzlota, the precursor to permafrost.

chapter three

DEFINING In 1927, Mikhail Sumgin was no longer in exile or hiding. Before then, he had been arrested four times by the tsarist police, served a three-year sentence in Siberia, and lived under a fake identity for two years while eluding capture by the Bolsheviks. Now, at age fifty-three, the former revolutionary was ready to embrace a career as a scientist. After emerging from his safe haven in the Simbirsk region in 1921 and making his way to Moscow, Sumgin petitioned the OGPU – the secret police  – for a reprieve. Even though he had previously served on the Central ­Committee of the Socialist Revolutionary Party, allies-turned-mortal enemies of the Bolsheviks, Sumgin wanted a legitimate existence under the new political order. “My petition was examined for a long time by the OGPU,” Sumgin later recalled. “In March-April 1925, after comrade [Vyacheslav] Menzhinskii summoned me for personal explanations, I was fully rehabilitated, having given the OGPU my word that I would engage only in scientific activity.”1 Sumgin appeared to make good on his promise: two years later, he published his first monograph, a study of frozen earth. With his book, Sumgin simultaneously launched his new life and laid the foundations for a budding field of research. Sumgin’s monograph won recognition in the newly created Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Most notably, it advanced a definition of frozen earth that eventually received the imprimatur of the USSR Academy of Sciences. The definition bore three peculiar features. First, it defined frozen earth as an aggregate physical structure, “ground” (grunt), encompassing both soil and rock. Second, it privileged having a negative temperature as the defining attribute of frozen earth. ­Finally, it asserted the time frame of the eternal present, delineating a particular class of frozen earth as “lasting continuously for years,” a “permanent phenomenon from the point of view of human life.” The past and ­future of frozen earth were unspecified. What mattered was

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its ongoing existence, with the minimum requirement that the phenomenon be ­observed for two years.2 Taken together, these conceptual choices constituted the core of Sumgin’s understanding of perennially frozen earth, which he called vechnaia – “eternal” – merzlota. By the time of his death, the former political fugitive Sumgin was honoured as “the founder of the new scientific field of merzlotovedenie” – merzlota studies or, more loosely translated, frozen earth science.3 Yet Sumgin was not the only scientist captivated by frozen earth who aspired to pioneer its study. A contemporary, Sergei Parkhomenko, emerged as Sumgin’s critic and rival in the years following the publication of his monograph. Whereas Sumgin was posthumously honoured as a beloved teacher, capable administrator, and dedicated popularizer of a new discipline, Parkhomenko languished in obscurity. Later scientists remembered him as having a cantankerous personality, although some acknowledged the value and promise of his ideas.4 Parkhomenko left relatively few published articles, but his personal papers, stored in the archives of the Russian Academy of Sciences, provide a fuller ­picture of his thinking. He advanced an understanding of frozen earth that differed markedly from Sumgin’s. If Sumgin’s ideas advanced the antithesis in the dialectic of the life of permafrost – the notion of frozen earth as a physical structure – then Parkhomenko’s ideas advanced the thesis. Parkhomenko adopted a systems approach to frozen earth. Instead of approaching frozen earth as an aggregate structure, he emphasized the processes by which it formed. He understood frozen earth not in terms of the eternal present but as a geologically recent phenomenon constantly undergoing ­microand macro-level changes. Such changes took place as frozen earth ­interacted with its environment, including the surrounding, non-frozen earth that transferred heat between it and the rest of the planet. This chapter analyses Sumgin’s and Parkhomenko’s contrasting ­approaches to understanding frozen earth and their prolonged debate over terminology. It takes us into the pupal stage of the life of ­permafrost, when the notion of frozen earth as a physical structure became ascendant. Throughout the 1930s, fundamental differences between the two scientists led to clashes, in person and in print, on issues ranging from nomenclature to mapping. We begin by focusing on Sumgin’s idea of frozen earth as an aggregate structure defined by temperature and time. Then, we examine Parkhomenko’s understanding of frozen earth as a component and an outgrowth of a complex of conditions linked by exchanges of minerals and heat. Parkhomenko’s systems approach had bases in geography, geology, and genetic soil science. Yet his ideas met with ridicule while Sumgin’s were institutionalized. We therefore turn



Defining 71

to examining how Parkhomenko’s ideas failed to gain acceptance while Sumgin’s took root. What facilitated the positive reception of Sumgin’s ideas, thus enabling his victory over Parkhomenko? I argue that the answers lie in the historical contexts of Soviet science and the connections between frozen earth research and Bolshevik ideology, culture, and politics. Although critics like Parkhomenko considered it deeply flawed, Sumgin’s style of science found a receptive environment in Soviet society. Sumgin’s definition of frozen earth ­accorded with a focus on applied science, which appealed to the ­Bolshevik dictum of the “unity of theory and practice.” His ideas resonated with broader elements of revolutionary culture, including new understandings of time, explorations of eternal life, and populism in science. He took advantage of the centralization of Soviet science quickly and decisively, which enabled him to advance and disseminate the concept of vechnaia merzlota. Sumgin succeeded on the levels of macro politics, answering the regime’s demands for industrialization, and micro politics, attaining a patron and position in the Academy of Sciences. Yet my argument is not that Sumgin was “right” and ­Parkhomenko “wrong” – or vice versa. Rather, the two scientists’ opposing definitions of frozen earth emerged from distinct epistemologies, different motivations for and approaches to studying the phenomenon. Their debate encapsulated the historical dialectic between structure and system that characterized conceptions of frozen earth. Merzlota as aggregate structure In April 1927, 2000 copies of a newly published book arrived at the ­office of Pavel Koloskov, director of the Soviet Far Eastern Geophysical ­Observatory in Vladivostok. The book had been written by Sumgin, an old friend of Koloskov’s from before the revolution. Previously, the two scientists had worked in the Amur region as employees of the Resettlement Administration of the Imperial Ministry of Agriculture. Together they recorded data about the regional climate and soil, including the frozen earth. The events of 1917 disrupted their collaboration as Sumgin, drawn into politics, set out for western Russia. But chance reunited them six years later in Moscow. By that time, the Bolsheviks had won the Civil War and Sumgin was seeking to resume scientific work. As they rekindled their correspondence, Sumgin confided to Koloskov that he was synthesizing ideas about frozen earth and hoped someday to publish them in a monograph. An enthusiastic Koloskov promised that, if Sumgin delivered a manuscript, he would see to its publication. Two years later, with the completed work in his hands, Koloskov had fulfilled his promise.5

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The dedication of the book gave clues to Sumgin’s background and style as a scientist: “I dedicate this book to professor Nikolai Ivanovich Prokhorov,” Sumgin wrote, “who, in the Amur taiga, amid the vechnaia merzlota, sparked within me the fervent desire to solve the riddle of this Russian sphinx.”6 By mentioning Prokhorov, a pioneer in the soil science of roads, the message hinted at Sumgin’s appreciation of the significance of frozen earth for engineering. Indeed, it was thanks to Prokhorov’s guidance that, while living in the Amur region, Sumgin first learned about frozen earth as well as its effects on infrastructure. In the dedication, Sumgin also referred to frozen earth using the expression vechnaia merzlota and likened it to a “Russian sphinx.” The metaphor, with its combination of russkii, a reference to the ethnic Russian people, and sfinks, a symbol of mystery, evoked both the folksy and the exotic. An eye for the practical context and an ear for the charismatic turn of phrase – both elements complemented Sumgin’s conception of frozen earth as an aggregate physical structure. Although Sumgin renounced political activity after the Bolsheviks took power, his life and scientific work were shaped by his early commitment to populism. By the time Sumgin was born on 25 February 1873, populism had become widespread among educated Russians. As a revolutionary movement, it was defined by opposition to the tsarist autocracy and capitalism and by belief in an egalitarian, self-governing society modelled on the peasant commune. It also advocated social and economic improvement through the application of reason and science.7 As someone with peasant origins who fought to receive an education, Sumgin developed populist sympathies as a young person. His father, who worked as a village clerk in the province of Nizhnii Novgorod, taught him to read and write. After his father died, Sumgin managed to find employment on the estate of a noble family as a clerk, coachman, and children’s tutor. The owners of the estate, the Yakobi family, exposed Sumgin to intelligentsia circles and encouraged him to further his learning. Besides the Yakobis, Sumgin became acquainted with the statistician Nikolai Annenskii and the writer Vladimir Korolenko, both of whom subscribed to populist ideas. With their help, Sumgin managed to move to St. Petersburg, earn a secondary school diploma while working odd jobs, and gain admission to the university. Freed from hauling luggage at train stations and selling cigarettes, Sumgin embarked on a program of study in the physics and mathematics f­ aculty in 1895.8 If not for his political activities, Sumgin may never have undertaken research into frozen earth. As a consequence of the late tsarist regime’s efforts to assert absolute authority and quash revolutionary movements, Sumgin was expelled from St. Petersburg University and eventually



Defining 73

exiled to Siberia. His first arrest and expulsion occurred after the police learned about his attendance at student assemblies, which were officially banned, and found him in possession of forbidden literature. The Ministry of Education maintained strict control over R ­ ussia’s universities, seen to be a hotbed of liberalism and populism, and students were kept under surveillance. With the support of a few professors, who attested to his “outstanding mathematical abilities” and promised to help him stay out of trouble, Sumgin was readmitted. Less than a year later, however, he was expelled permanently for participating in the empire-wide student strike of 1899, which began in protest of police beatings of university students. Despite completing six terms of study, Sumgin was not permitted to receive a degree.9 After his final expulsion from the university, Sumgin sought opportunities – both legal and illegal – to combine service, learning, and activism. He moved to the provincial capital of Samara, where friends helped him find employment in the local government, known as the zemstvo. Established in 1864 as part of Aleksandr II’s reforms, the zemstvos were responsible for social welfare and economic stimulation, ­including organizing hospitals and schools and encouraging agriculture and trade. They created a centre of activity for the rural intelligentsia, engaging the educated population in serving the needs of ordinary people. Sumgin worked on gathering statistics to provide fire insurance to peasants.10 Simultaneously, Sumgin was attracted to the emerging ­Socialist R ­ evolutionary (SR) Party, an offspring of the populist movement that gained strength in Samara and other regions along the Volga. The SR Party aimed to overthrow the tsarist autocracy and redistribute all land to those who farmed it themselves. After joining the party in 1902, Sumgin became involved in propagandizing to peasants the need for revolution. In 1905, revolution indeed swept Russia as economic distress, d ­ esire for political rights, and outrage at tsarist repression sparked strikes, demonstrations, attacks on officials, and raids on landlords’ ­estates. Amid the upheaval, Sumgin attempted to stage a demonstration of peasants to demand land and democratic governance, for which he was arrested and exiled abroad. In 1907, however, after a period of time in Europe, an indefatigable Sumgin snuck back into Russia and resumed underground organizing. By then, the tsarist regime had reasserted authority in the country. Sumgin was arrested yet again and sentenced to exile for three years in the province of Tobolsk in western Siberia.11 Sumgin’s experiences primed him to study frozen earth from a specifically practical viewpoint. His involvement in the provincial zemstvo and in organizing the peasantry nurtured a commitment to putting knowledge to work for social good. A practical orientation

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was also reinforced by the circumstances in which he encountered frozen earth. In 1910, while serving out his sentence in a remote area of ­Tobolsk province, Sumgin met Nikolai Prokhorov. The soil scientist was leading an expedition to the Amur region on behalf of the Resettlement Administration and had stopped to investigate other territories along the way. After meeting Sumgin and realizing his aptitude for science, Prokhorov offered the political exile work as part of the expedition ­after release. Given this opportunity, Sumgin journeyed to the Amur region the following year and took a position managing a meteorological station established by the Resettlement Administration. Eventually, he became the head of a newly created meteorological ­bureau based in ­Blagoveshchensk.12 His leadership of the meteorological bureau coincided with the construction of the Amur section of the ­Siberian railway. In response to engineers’ need for information about frozen earth, he established fifteen meteorological stations along the railroad’s route that measured and recorded temperatures of the atmosphere and ­underground. He distributed questionnaires among gold miners to gather intelligence about the location and appearance of frozen earth, including the depths at which it began and to which it extended. ­Consulting with peasant settlers, he learned about the relevance of frozen earth to agriculture.13 Sumgin’s early investigations into frozen earth were steeped in the context of colonization and ­economic development. A concern with the practical suffused Sumgin’s conception of frozen earth, which he laid out in his 1927 monograph. In the book, Sumgin found it necessary first to tackle the issue of terminology. What terms ought to be used to discuss frozen earth, and what did they mean? Dealing with terminology necessarily raised the question of ontology. What was the nature of the phenomenon being studied? A dilemma that lay at the intersection of terminology and ontology consisted of the meaning of the word merzlota. Since the nineteenth century, merzlota had been used to indicate both the frozen condition of the land and the actual substance of frozen earth. Sumgin therefore needed to clarify the definition of merzlota. In this regard, the title of Sumgin’s book ­betrayed an inconsistency with the rest of the work. The title in R ­ ussian read Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR. Given such usage, ­merzlota, being combined with pochvy (“of the soil”), seemed to refer to a condition: the frozenness of the soil. Indeed, Sumgin’s book i­ncluded an ­English translation of the title page that awkwardly rendered the title as “Everfrozen of soil in the boundaries of USSR.”14 Clearly, “everfrozen” was not a recognizable English word. But it reinforced the ­impression that Sumgin’s title pointed to a condition, “frozen,” and not a physical



Defining 75

object, as the subject of study. Despite the meaning of merzlota suggested by the title, however, Sumgin throughout the text used merzlota to refer to soil and ground, that is, actual physical substances. In formulating his definition of merzlota, Sumgin made two key assumptions. First, he assumed that “soil” (pochva) and “ground” ­ (grunt) meant the same thing. As he wrote, “I will consider ‘frozen soil,’ ‘frozen ground’ equivalent.” Second, he assumed that the state of being frozen meant having a negative temperature. “It will be solely correct,” he wrote, “to place as the foundation of the definition of ‘frozen soil’ only the negative temperature of the soil.”15 By making these assumptions, Sumgin strategically – and controversially – disregarded the material composition of frozen earth in favour of conceiving it as an aggregate structure. He equated “ground,” a catch-all term for the solid surface of the planet, to “soil,” a particular feature of the planet with distinctive components in various combinations. Soil, an entity with a range of distinctions, was thereby subsumed within ground, a term with a coarser level of specificity. Similarly, Sumgin isolated the condition of frozenness from the presence and phase state of water. “I will call frozen soil (or frozen ground) such soil (or ground) that has a temperature below zero,” he wrote, “in which case whether water is present in the soil and in what quantities, or whether it is not, will not be considered at all” (sovershenno ne budet prinimat’sia vo vnimanie).16 Having a negative temperature was thus elevated as a criterion for frozenness above the physical hardening of a substance through the freezing of water within it. Sumgin sided with Middendorff, who likewise defined frozenness on the basis of temperature alone, against Baer, who regarded the phase change of liquid water into ice as fundamental. His approach to frozen earth favoured the aggregate and the quantitative over the elemental and qualitative. Defining merzlota as ground with a negative temperature made sense from an engineering perspective. By equating soil with ground, Sumgin followed the precedent set by the guidelines for research into frozen earth published by the Imperial Russian Geographical Society in 1895. The guidelines were written in response to the building of the Siberian railway – the same context in which Sumgin began research into frozen earth. In the guidelines, “soil” and “ground” were used interchangeably to refer to “a surface stratum of the earth’s crust, independent of its petrographical composition.”17 Like the Geographical Society, Sumgin found it convenient to consider the upper layer of the earth as an aggregate structure to be factored in during construction. Aggregating varied substances under the umbrella of “ground” served as a shorthand for referring to that part of the earth that served as a foundation for roads

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and buildings. The overall stability of the ground mattered most. Its internal complexity could be treated as a black box for the sake of analysing inputs and outputs. Sumgin remained committed to the idea of merzlota as ground throughout his career, reiterating it in the world’s first textbook on frozen earth, published in 1940. As lead author of the textbook, he took responsibility for the section on terminology. There it was explained that because “the term ground [grunt] is at present widely accepted in engineering,” it would be considered “fundamental” to the notion of merzlota.18 The readiness to adopt engineering concepts could be traced to Sumgin’s practically minded epistemology, informed by both his Russian populist world view and imperial ­projects of economic modernization. The idea of using negative temperature as the marker of frozenness also had a practical justification. While working in the Amur region, Sumgin observed the usefulness of temperature measurements for ­establishing the parameters of stable buildings. For a given temperature of frozen earth, engineers might test the pressure threshold at which frozen earth began to thaw. If such limits were determined for frozen earth of different temperatures, it would be possible to calculate the permissible mass of structures built upon frozen earth. Armed with the results and knowing the temperature of frozen earth at a specific construction site, engineers could build structures with the appropriate dimensions to prevent thawing.19 Given its applicability to engineering, temperature complemented the idea of merzlota as ground. As a quantitative value, it could be measured and correlated with the properties of an aggregate structure relevant to its behaviour as a building material. These properties included compressive strength and the strength of adhesion, which resulted from the freezing together of earth and construction materials like wood or concrete. Sumgin therefore insisted that temperature mattered for “essential practical interest.”20 That negative temperature did not correspond precisely to the qualitative transformation of liquid water into ice did not trouble Sumgin. In the 1940 textbook, he acknowledged that “water in the ground changes to the solid phase at temperatures somewhat below 0°.” This meant that a window of negative temperature existed where water remained liquid. But “for simplicity,” Sumgin chose 0°C as the dividing line between frozen and non-frozen earth “even though this removes us in some cases from natural conditions.”21 In his definition of merzlota, Sumgin permitted a reductive picture of nature to prioritize a value, temperature, relevant to engineering. Having defined merzlota as ground with a negative temperature, Sumgin allowed an additional factor, time, into his conception of frozen



Defining 77

earth. He distinguished between three types of merzlota on the basis of its duration of existence. According to Sumgin, frozen earth included merzlota that existed for hours or days; merzlota that existed seasonally, appearing in winter and disappearing in summer; and, finally, merzlota “lasting continuously for years” (dliashchaiasia nepreryvno godami). With this scheme, Sumgin deliberately isolated and highlighted the last type of merzlota, which he called vechnaia, literally, “eternal.”22 He did so because, compared to the other types of merzlota, he saw vechnaia merzlota as presenting unique challenges for engineering. As he ­explained, b ­ uilding practices “thoroughly suitable for Tula or Yaroslavl ­provinces” – w ­ estern regions without vechnaia merzlota – “turned out unsuitable” when “adopted wholesale in a region with vechnaia merzlota.” Compared to either transient or seasonal merzlota, vechnaia merzlota lay at a greater depth below the surface and extended deeper underground, posing an obstacle to both earthwork and drilling. Vechnaia merzlota was also distinguished by its lower degree of permeability to groundwater across space and time, which created waterlogged areas that posed problems for the stability of structures.23 Like the decision to ­define merzlota as ground and to use negative temperature as the marker of frozenness, singling out vechnaia merzlota had a practical justification. And yet, instead of classifying frozen earth on the basis of relevant attributes such as depth or permeability to water, Sumgin chose to use time as a proxy. That time served as a proxy rather than a fundamental property was evidenced by the vagueness of the boundaries that Sumgin set for “eternal” merzlota. On the minimum end, according to Sumgin, the category of vechnaia merzlota included merzlota that lasted for two years. “I will consider a period of no less than two years the minimum boundary of merzlota lasting continuously for years,” he wrote. In the 1940 textbook, he permitted an even looser minimum, “roughly equal to two, three, five years.”24 For practical purposes, Sumgin needed to mark the difference between seasonal and perennial merzlota, and a two-year existence formed a rule-of-thumb approximation. Besides, a two-year existence could be ascertained via temperature observations within a reasonable timescale for a construction project. On the maximum end, the category of “eternal” merzlota encompassed merzlota that lasted for “thousands or tens of thousands of years.” Sumgin arrived at this broad estimate from the carcasses of mammoths found buried in frozen earth. The bodies of the extinct mammals had been preserved because the earth surrounding them had frozen before they decomposed. The upper boundary of vechnaia merzlota must therefore include the time of the mammoths’ existence – whatever that may be. Thus, Sumgin wrote, “I resolve to use one term, vechnaia merzlota, for all

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merzlota of a continuously lasting character, from two years up to ‘the time of the mammoths.’”25 In essence, vechnaia merzlota originated sufficiently long ago from the perspective of human history that specifying its precise time frame did not matter. Given the bounded – albeit vague – time frame of two to tens of thousands of years used to define vechnaia merzlota, Sumgin’s use of the adjective “eternal” may seem incongruous. But in Sumgin’s usage, vechnaia primarily denoted a cyclical understanding of nature. A precedent for associating the idea of eternity with cycles of nature had been established by the ancient Greeks. According to Aristotle, the rotation of the stars in the heavens revealed a universe with neither a beginning nor an end and time itself as infinite.26 In the eighteenth century, the natural philosopher James Hutton put forth the idea of limitless time to explain the existence of the earth. Hutton theorized that the earth, like the heavens, had neither beginning nor end and that changes to its surface were governed by cycles of erosion and uplift. Later, Charles Lyell built on Hutton’s ideas to promote the idea of deep time, according to which the earth stretched across not eternity but hundreds of millions of years. Over this extremely long time, the earth’s changes cycled slowly and reversibly, with land gradually alternating with seas and periods of cooling alternating with periods of warming. Hutton and Lyell advanced a cyclical understanding of nature to support the belief that the earth would always remain habitable thanks to the design of a divine creator. The idea of cyclical nature also supported the epistemological principle of interpreting the unknown, such as the earth’s past, based on the known, including processes observable in the present.27 Sumgin did not subscribe to Hutton’s and Lyell’s deism, but his ­understanding of vechnaia merzlota gestured to cyclical nature and the geological principle, uniformitarianism, that they supported. Consistent with uniformitarianism, his definition of vechnaia merzlota ­prioritized the ongoing present, leaving its origins yet to be determined. According to him, vechnaia did not mean literally infinite or unchanging but rather “perpetual,” “long-lasting, sustained, indefinite,” and “durable.” Simultaneously, he supposed that, from the perspective of the “geological history of the earth,” it would be possible to find “a certain periodicity” to the existence of vechnaia merzlota.28 In the context of thinking about the earth, “eternal” made sense as an invocation of cyclical nature and continuity between past and present. While adhering to a cyclical understanding of nature, however, Sumgin conveyed a shallow understanding of time. He held that vechnaia merzlota, at its oldest, dated at least to the “epoch of the mammoths” and the last ice age. These occurred “tens of thousands of



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years or several thousand years before our time.” Indeed, in the early twentieth century, the last ice age was dated to 11,000 years ago.29 But Sumgin considered such a date “geologically distant” even though estimates then placed the earth’s age at tens of millions of years – orders of magnitude greater. As he wrote, “I understand the words ‘longstanding,’ ‘ancient,’ etc. to be time numbered by many, many thousands of years.”30 Sumgin thus adopted an anthropocentric view of time, in which thousands of years seemed ancient, rather than a geocentric one. His anthropocentrism made him comfortable using the word “eternal” even after others had disavowed it. Sumgin’s practical, simplified, and anthropocentric perspective shaped his approach to mapping frozen earth. In his 1927 monograph, he included a map that he created of vechnaia merzlota in the Soviet ­Union (see Map 4). The map’s design drew on the ideas of Alexander von M ­ iddendorff and Leonid Jaczewski, whose work had laid the foundations of thinking of frozen earth as an aggregate structure. Following their lead, Sumgin posited a “southern boundary” that indicated the outlines of a physical structure he called the “massif” of vechnaia merzlota. But while the massif had three dimensions – depth and area – the southern boundary on the map showed only two. In principle, it represented the southernmost points of the massif of vechnaia merzlota projected onto the surface. Sumgin acknowledged that the massif of vechnaia merzlota lacked uniformity; it began at and extended to varying depths, latitudes, and longitudes. Moreover, the lack of empirical data made it as yet impossible to verify the continuity of vechnaia merzlota across vertical and horizontal space. Sumgin’s solution consisted of collapsing variation and uncertainty into three kinds of areas where the proportions of f­rozen and non-frozen earth were expected to ­differ. The first, “geographically continuous vechnaia merzlota,” consisted of vechnaia merzlota that lay below the earth’s surface at every point. ­Another consisted of “large massifs of merzlota with islands of thawed soil within,” and a final one consisted of “islands of merzlota surrounded by thawed soil.”31 Just as Sumgin collapsed merzlota with different lengths of ­existence into one category, vechnaia, so he collapsed vechnaia merzlota of different distributions into a few basic types of regions. Such a map served less to show the precise outlines of frozen earth than to provide a general picture, for practical purposes, of where it might be found. According to Sumgin, the southern boundary was ­supposed to show the contours of the massif of vechnaia merzlota. But its rendering on the map had to be extrapolated from knowledge of average yearly temperatures and levels of precipitation, combined with scattered d ­ irect observations of the land. The resulting, flattened

Map 4.  Sumgin’s map of vechnaia merzlota. Translated and reproduced from Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR (1927). Drawn by Kate Blackmer.



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depiction did not resemble so much a geological or relief map, which showed the shape and structure of the earth. Rather, it resembled an isoline, such as an isotherm, connecting equal measurements of an ­atmospheric phenomenon – abstracted from the land itself. The elision of the atmospheric conditions that produced frozen earth and the substance of frozen earth itself did not trouble Sumgin. He left to the future an exact rendering of the boundaries of frozen earth. Meanwhile, he wrote, “it is needed, this boundary, it is necessary both for practical and scientific purposes.”32 The southern boundary of vechnaia merzlota provided a guideline as to where engineers and agronomists could expect to contend with frozen earth. Similarly, the types of vechnaia merzlota that he delineated offered an approximation of areas where frozen earth could be expected to be ubiquitous, dominant, or sporadic. Sumgin’s map functioned as a useful shorthand for anticipating the presence of frozen earth. Sumgin’s personal experiences in the broader context of Russian ­history led him to develop a practical understanding of frozen earth that subsequently proved powerful. He strengthened the perception of frozen earth as an aggregate structure, vechnaia merzlota, a conception that persists in the twenty-first century. But his definition conveyed only one side of a dialectic in the life of permafrost. For the other, we must look to his rival. Merzlota as process With the publication of Sumgin’s book, an understanding of frozen earth centred on temperature and time took shape in the Soviet Union. At the same time, however, an alternative view was evolving, one that ­approached the phenomenon in terms of its evolution in connection with the surrounding environment. Its advocate was Sergei ­Parkhomenko, a geographer by training whose ideas were also shaped by the Russian traditions of genetic soil science and regional studies. P ­ arkhomenko developed interest in both the nature of frozen earth and the language used to describe it. Like Sumgin, he perceived the need to define frozen earth and establish appropriate terminology for studying its properties. But the words and definitions that he put forth revealed a different framework for studying frozen earth. In Parkhomenko’s thinking, the subject, merzlota, was not an isolatable structure but a process of freezing that tied the various elements and layers of the earth into a system. Parkhomenko’s training in geography introduced him to a systems framework for thinking about landscapes. Born on 26 April 1886 into a teacher’s family in what was then the province of Chernigov in the

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Russian Empire, Parkhomenko studied physical geography at Kharkov University. At the university, he worked with Andrei Krasnov, who had been a student of Vasilii Dokuchaev’s.33 Like Dokuchaev, Krasnov was interested in the manifold interactions between climate, flora and fauna, and the earth’s crust. Whereas Dokuchaev investigated such interactions in the context of the formation of soils, Krasnov studied their role in shaping natural regions, such as deserts. According to Krasnov, the goal of geography as a field consisted of elucidating the mechanisms by which various material factors and physical phenomena combined to shape the region.34 The region could therefore be seen as both a product and a component of a system linking together all the entities and processes of the surrounding environment. Eventually, Parkhomenko applied this systems perspective to the study of frozen earth. Parkhomenko first came into contact with the frozen earth of eastern Siberia during the 1920s. Whereas the years of revolution and war brought Sumgin from the imperial periphery back to the heartland, they sent Parkhomenko in the opposite direction. From 1920 to 1922, Parkhomenko taught in the geography department of a newly founded university in Irkutsk, near Lake Baikal. Besides teaching, he participated in state-sponsored expeditions in the Lena River basin. An expedition in 1920 sent him to the region of the Viliui River, a tributary of the Lena, and another in 1921 sent him to the Lena delta. The goal of these expeditions consisted of conducting surveys for building transportation infrastructure, namely routes for arterial roads and ports for coastal shipping. Several years later, after Parkhomenko had moved to Moscow, he joined another expedition that took him again to eastern Siberia in 1926, this time around the upper Viliui River.35 Hopes for economic development motivated these expeditions, but so too did an intellectual tradition of regional studies or kraevedenie in Russia. Originating in the eighteenth century, kraevedenie was dedicated to understanding and celebrating the diverse regions of the empire. It combined history, demography, and physical and economic geography with the aim of facilitating socioeconomic improvement and political administration at the local level.36 When Parkhomenko travelled to the upper Viliui, he did so as part of an effort by the Academy of Sciences to create a comprehensive description of the Yakut ASSR. In 1925, the academy established a Commission for the Study of the Yakut ASSR in collaboration with the new Bolshevik administration of the Yakut Republic. To plan the future of the republic, the commission organized the Yakutiya Expedition with the aim of grasping the resources of the land and population in the region. Building on the project of kraevedenie, groups of researchers were dispatched to gather information on



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ethnic groups, public health, industry, agriculture, climate, flora, fauna, and geology.37 Within this multifaceted context, Parkhomenko’s task as a specialist in geomorphology consisted of observing and describing landforms and the processes by which they emerged and evolved. Through his expeditions, Parkhomenko became attuned to variations in the distribution and character of frozen earth across space. T ­ ravelling to various sites in the Lena River basin, he noticed differences in the depth and thickness of frozen earth. At the town of ­Yakutsk, frozen earth might be found at a depth of 1.2 metres from the surface. Less than thirty kilometres away, however, it would be found at a depth almost half a metre deeper. Factors particular to a given site, such as moisture level, soil composition, and degree of exposure to the sun, seemed to play key roles. Parkhomenko noted “irregular quantities of moisture cementing the soil particles” of frozen earth depending on microclimatic differences in precipitation. The availability of moisture limited the thickness of frozen earth. He also observed that where the soil consisted of fine clay, frozen earth lay closer to the surface, but where the soil consisted of sand particles, it lay deeper. This could be explained by “the smaller moisture capacity and greater thermal conductivity of sand.” Such a combination prevented the formation of frozen earth because it retained less moisture and permitted more heat transfer underground. Parkhomenko further observed that frozen earth on north-facing slopes remained stable while frozen earth on south-facing slopes thawed and eroded because of greater exposure to the sun. Beyond that broad pattern, however, the micro-relief made the contours of frozen earth uneven by “disturbing the uniform distribution of conditions” shaping it. Overall, Parkhomenko was struck by the extent to which frozen earth and “its evolution depend on unique conditions and poorly known mechanisms.”38 Unlike Sumgin’s focus on measuring a single property of frozen earth – temperature – ­Parkhomenko’s practice of geographic description emphasized the diversity of frozen earth. Parkhomenko’s immersion in kraevedenie also fostered interest in local knowledge about frozen earth. He especially made note of the words that Indigenous peoples used to signify frozen earth and related phenomena. According to Parkhomenko, among the Evenki who lived along the Ilim River west of Lake Baikal, frozen earth was referred to as batun. Alternating strata of frozen and thawed earth, on the other hand, were known as bulius. Badaran to the Sakha meant areas made swampy by the thawing of frozen earth. Heave mounds, depending on the region of Siberia, were called bulgunniakh or merku by the Sakha and sede or moga by the Nenets. Tuvans called them burs, and in northern ­Finland they were called pal’z. What the Russians called naled’,

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surface ice formed by winter flooding, the Sakha called taryn and the Evenki called amnunda or sometimes tsokui. The Evenki also referred to as aian those areas where large rivers divided into a multitude of smaller streams and where winter flooding often occurred. Recording these terms, Parkhomenko observed that the experiences of local peoples “often give rise to precise names for the phenomena of nature.” He therefore believed that “all of these names with their detailed descriptions ought to be gathered in the most careful way.” Doing so would “help to formulate a science of merzlota.”39 Given Parkhomenko’s sensitivity to words and their meanings, as well as to the variability of frozen earth, the concept of vechnaia ­merzlota struck him as woefully deficient. In 1928, vechnaia merzlota appeared as an entry in the first edition of The Great Soviet Encyclopedia, drawing on Sumgin’s 1927 monograph as a reference. Accordingly, the encyclopedia defined the phenomenon as “ground located at some depth from the surface that constantly maintains a negative temperature.”40 ­Parkhomenko wrote to the editorial board protesting the entry and subsequently elaborated upon his dissatisfaction with the “­ unfortunate” term, vechnaia merzlota, which was being “adopted with haste.” ­According to ­Parkhomenko, the expression vechnaia merzlota was “methodologically harmful, since it implants an idea of immobility amid ­dynamic nature and presents obstacles to an understanding of process.” The adjective vechnaia, “eternal,” implied timelessness. By contrast, Parkhomenko argued that it was necessary to ­“renounce the ­immutability and ‘eternity’ [vechnost]” of merzlota.41 For Parkhomenko, the noun merzlota referred not to a structure, ground, but rather to a process of freezing. “Merzlota,” he wrote, was “a unique process that develops in the upper layer of the l­ ithosphere.” It consisted of the freezing of earth materials, which led to the ­appearance of frozen soil and frozen rock. Merzlota was “thermal, hydrological, and dynamic, since the freezing of water in the ground must be e­ xamined in light of these three types of processes happening in parallel.” ­Parkhomenko called for elucidating the fundamental laws behind “the formation of the mechanism of the development of the process of merzlota, its mutual interaction with other phenomena of nature.” Such an endeavour would form the basis for a new discipline that he proposed to call “pagology [pagologiia], from [the Greek word] pagos (παγος) or ‘frozen,’ ‘ice.’”42 Parkhomenko’s notion of merzlota formed part of a systems approach to frozen earth. If merzlota referred to the process of freezing in the lithosphere, then it could be understood as linking multiple elements of nature into a system. Such elements included radiation from the sun;



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minerals in the earth; pressure and humidity in the atmosphere; local relief, vegetation, and groundwater; and the planet’s internal heat. Rather than focusing on frozen earth itself, then, Parkhomenko considered it crucial to examine frozen earth in connection with its surrounding environment. The entire system of frozen earth plus its proximal conditions Parkhomenko called the “complex of merzlota” (merzlotnyi kompleks). Depending on specific circumstances, the complex of merzlota produced strata of frozen earth with varying thicknesses and extents. Even “within close distances, as small as two to three kilometers,” Parkhomenko observed, “the thickness of the stratum can change very significantly.” Such differences were due to the number and variation of factors in the complex of merzlota.43 Compared to treating merzlota as a process of freezing, defining merzlota as “ground” obstructed appreciation of the variability of frozen earth. It isolated frozen earth from the complex of conditions that produced the freezing process and conflated distinct components of that complex, including ice, soil, and rock. Such elements, instead of being conceptually amalgamated as “ground,” ought to be individually identified and their role in the process of merzlota understood. Moreover, using negative temperature as the distinguishing feature of frozen earth made little sense. Sumgin’s definition of merzlota assumed that zero degrees Celsius marked the point at which the ground froze. But in fact, soil and rock could remain unfrozen even at negative temperatures because their freezing depended upon the crystallization of water into ice. And as observed in nature, water never crystallized into ice at zero degrees Celsius. The presence of salt and other minerals lowered its freezing point. Even if merzlota were treated as “ground,” the simple measure of having a negative temperature was insufficient to define its frozenness.44 Whereas Sumgin permitted a simplification of nature in defining merzlota, Parkhomenko emphasized the nuances of nature. Besides emphasizing the variability of frozen earth, Parkhomenko also aimed to situate the phenomenon on a geological timescale. He drew attention to the temporal incongruity contained within the concept of vechnaia merzlota, which Sumgin defined on the basis of a two-year minimum existence. Vechnaia, Parkhomenko wrote, “sounds especially strange when it refers to frozen strata reckoned for only two years.” Indeed, the very idea of defining frozen earth on the basis of duration defied geology, a discipline that concerned itself not with duration but with age. The salient question regarding the earth’s features consisted not of how long they lasted, but of their origins and evolution in the earth’s history. From a geological perspective, frozen earth dated not to the depths of time but merely to the “contemporary (Quaternary)

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geological period,” which began only 2.6 million years ago. Frozen earth was therefore “no more eternal,” Parkhomenko argued, than “other phenomena of nature.” After all, “there was a time in the geological history of the earth when it did not exist.” And it was “impossible to guarantee that in the future there will not come a moment when frozen rock will disintegrate.”45 Unlike Sumgin, who conveyed a cyclical and anthropocentric notion of time, Parkhomenko adhered to a linear, geocentric view. Instead of duration and temperature, Parkhomenko’s systems ­approach emphasized the mineral composition and physical properties of frozen earth. He disaggregated frozen earth into soil and rock, which differed in their origins, content, and behaviour. In Parkhomenko’s epistemology, specifying the difference between soil and rock took the place of using duration to define frozen earth. Whereas soils may freeze and thaw seasonally, certain rocks did not. The latter lay at depths beneath the surface that put it beyond the influence of yearly freezing and thawing caused by seasonal shifts in atmospheric temperature. For this reason, rocks could remain frozen for longer periods, “in some cases several years,” in others, “millennia and even the course of geological epochs.” Time ought to be seen as a dependent variable, not an independent one. Classifying frozen earth as temporary, seasonal, or “eternal” – as Sumgin did – was therefore imprecise because it failed to identify the material reasons for such variation.46 Parkhomenko further specified that what accounted for the frozenness of frozen rock was not temperature but the presence of “cryophilic minerals.” By cryophilic minerals, Parkhomenko meant chemical ­compounds that existed only in very cold conditions – hence the Greek roots cryo, “cold, frost,” and phil, “love.”47 These included not only pure ice but also, as more often found in nature, hydrates, or crystallized solutions of compounds dissolved in water. Hydrates could comprise a variety of compounds, especially those containing elements such as sodium and magnesium commonly found in the earth’s crust. They crystallized at a range of negative temperatures, not necessarily at 0°C. And it was precisely the “crystallization of water solutions” in their interstices, Parkhomenko stressed, that caused “profound changes in rocks.” Changes in density, porousness, permeability to air and water, structure, and electrical conductivity gave frozen rocks their characteristic solidity and hardness. Without the crystallization of cryophilic minerals, rocks upon experiencing negative temperatures “do not change their physical and other properties.” But given the presence of cryophilic minerals, rocks would “react to changes in both temperature and pressure that take place on the earth’s surface or in the complex of



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merzlota.” It was precisely such micro- and macro-level processes that interested Parkhomenko.48 Parkhomenko’s focus on cryophilic minerals resonated with the emerging field of geochemistry, which aimed to elucidate the laws by which minerals formed, changed, and interacted in nature. These minerals included water, which stood out for its abundance on the planet and its importance to living organisms. Indeed, Parkhomenko’s interest in cryophilic minerals was shaped by Soviet, European, and US research into the properties and behaviour of water under various conditions on earth.49 Among the pioneers of such work was Polish scientist Antoni Dobrowolski, who published The Natural History of Ice in 1923. D ­ obrowolski investigated the freezing of water as it occurred in the atmosphere and oceans, on land, and beneath the earth’s surface. He coined the term “cryosphere” to capture and assert the unity and commonality of all places on the planet where ice formed. The study of these places and the conditions that enabled the freezing of water he called “cryology,” a concept echoed by Parkhomenko’s “pagology.”50 ­Simultaneously with Dobrowolski, Soviet scientist Vladimir ­Vernadskii, a founder of g ­ eochemistry, developed a classification scheme for water, understood as a group of minerals. He classified the various manifestations of water according to their phase (solid, liquid, or gas), chemical composition (the combination of H2O with other minerals), and location on earth.51 ­Parkhomenko, by treating frozen earth as rocks containing ­cryophilic minerals, connected frozen earth to ­Vernadskii’s geochemical framework. Through Vernadskii’s geochemical framework, Parkhomenko’s conception of frozen earth as rocks containing cryophilic minerals was linked to another form of systems thinking. For Vernadskii, investigating water as a class of minerals prompted consideration of the various regions of the planet through which minerals and their molecules moved. Building on Dobrowolski’s idea of the cryosphere, he posited the existence of “regions of cooling in the earth’s crust.” These consisted of areas of the earth’s crust where water could be found in its solid phase and carbon dioxide in its liquid phase.52 As such, they hearkened back to Karl Ernst von Baer’s notion of Eis-Boden. Like Baer’s Eis-Boden, Vernadskii’s regions of cooling were connected to a planetary system of heat circulation. The totality of the region of cooling included those parts not only of the earth’s crust but also the oceans and atmosphere. It fluctuated over time depending on the sun’s radiation, the energy produced by all matter on earth, and the ebb and flow of ice ages. And it encompassed the “biosphere,” Vernadskii’s term for the “envelope” (obolochka) of the earth where life existed.53 Like Parkhomenko’s mentor

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Krasnov, Vernadskii was a student of Dokuchaev’s and interested in how parts of the earth were shaped by the interaction of elements. Vernadskii’s elements consisted of minerals and energy, and the parts consisted of the earth’s various envelopes, entities of an even grander scale than soils and regions. Parkhomenko’s cryophilic minerals circulated in planetary envelopes within a framework that posited the entire earth as a system.54 Parkhomenko’s systems approach and understanding of merzlota as a process of freezing generated a map of frozen earth that looked dramatically different from Sumgin’s (see Map 5). Unlike Sumgin’s map, which reduced the variability of frozen earth, Parkhomenko’s map showcased a range of geographical conditions for frozen earth formation. It depicted various “complexes” of merzlota, the sets of geological, meteorological, and hydrological factors that according to Parkhomenko gave rise to rocks with cryophilic minerals. The complexes were described according to the kinds of localities in which they were situated, including mountainous regions, valleys, lowlands, plateaus, riverbeds, and seabeds. In the variation it depicted, Parkhomenko’s map resembled a soil map in the tradition of Vasilii Dokuchaev – another indication of the intellectual threads that connected them.55 Although the complexes of merzlota were represented by distinct symbols, no clear borders separated them on the map. At times different icons were interspersed with each other, and the boundaries between them were left ambiguous. Parkhomenko and Sumgin’s differences were revealed by their ­respective maps. Whereas Sumgin’s map collapsed the variability of frozen earth, Parkhomenko’s map emphasized it. While Parkhomenko’s map stressed the influence of geography, Sumgin’s map appealed to the interests of engineering. Over time, these differences became not only intellectual but also personal and political. Personal and institutional politics In its August–September issue of 1932, Meteorology Herald, a journal of the State Geographical Society, published a review of ­Parkhomenko’s work. The review, which was written by Sumgin, carried the ­decidedly ambivalent title, “Tainted, Useful Book.” Most of the c­ommentary focused on what Sumgin considered the “fly in the ointment”: ­Parkhomenko’s use of the word merzlota. Parkhomenko, Sumgin wrote, created “a muddle” by using merzlota in his book when he was actually referring to vechnaia merzlota. He inexplicably used the term for the parent category of frozen earth instead of specifying the subset of frozen earth that formed the subject of the book. Because of the error, readers



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Map 5.  Parkhomenko’s schematic map of merzlota. Translated and reproduced from V.V. Elenevskii and G.Z. Nizovkin, Zheleznodorozhnoe stroitel’stvo v usloviiakh merzloty (1936). Drawn by Kate Blackmer.

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could not distinguish between frozen earth in general – i­ncluding earth that froze seasonally – and earth that stayed frozen throughout the year. The latter, Sumgin asserted, was called by the “great majority” of people vechnaia merzlota. Parkhomenko’s failure to adopt the prevailing term, whether out of incomprehension or stubbornness, ­ meant that his book was destined to have little impact.56 Sumgin’s critique of P ­ arkhomenko’s work was an early salvo in the long-running clash between his conception of frozen earth as an aggregate structure and Parkhomenko’s systems approach. The conflict between Sumgin and Parkhomenko encompassed the intellectual, the personal, and the institutional. On one level, the prolonged dispute centred on terminology, especially the meaning of merzlota and the definition of frozen earth. But words were not the only issue. Behind the choice of terms lay alternative approaches to the phenomenon. What Sumgin perceived as failure to use the term vechnaia merzlota resulted from Parkhomenko’s doubt about the very validity of “eternal frozen ground” as an idea. As we have seen, Parkhomenko did not conceive of frozen earth on the basis of duration, whether seasonal or perennial. Rather, he considered material composition to be its defining characteristic. Moreover, he understood merzlota as a process of f­ rozen earth formation, distinct from frozen earth itself. Merzlota referred to the crystallization of cryophilic minerals arising from the interaction of a complex of factors. But Sumgin did not acknowledge that Parkhomenko was developing a distinct epistemology and ontology of frozen earth. Without such an acknowledgment, controversy and confusion about terminology persisted. The two scientists’ conceptual differences were clouded by linguistic ambiguity, incompatible personalities, and professional rivalry. Sumgin and Parkhomenko’s disagreement played out against the background of personal and institutional politics. As each scientist strived to build a career as an expert on frozen earth, they competed for leadership status. Both aimed to shape the emerging discipline ­according to their own vision. But while Sumgin established a position in the Academy of Sciences, Parkhomenko remained on the margins of the Soviet scientific community. Ambitions thwarted, Parkhomenko repeatedly impugned Sumgin’s ideas. His attacks stemmed from not only the conviction that Sumgin’s ideas were wrong but also bitterness over his own lack of professional recognition. For Sumgin, a professional turning point occurred in April 1930, when he was appointed to a position in the USSR Academy of Sciences.57 The move came at a significant moment. At the time, the academy was undergoing an administrative transformation at the



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hands of the Bolshevik regime. From a mostly autonomous society dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, the academy began to transition into a ­centralized organization supervised by the party-state and oriented to its goals. The government carried out this process by packing the academy’s membership with people who belonged to the Communist Party and purging incumbent, non-communist members for political disloyalty. Simultaneously, a new charter imposed on the academy charged it explicitly with assisting the program of building socialism. The ­directive elevated the importance of applied science in the academy’s work and brought science within the purview of state planning. Just as economic modernization was supposed to be carried out according to five-year plans, so, too, was scientific research. With these changes, the academy lost autonomy. As it was being reshaped to serve the aims of the party-state, however, it also gained stature and resources. Sumgin joined the academy just as it was coming under increased control by the party-state and was poised on the cusp of dramatic expansion.58 At the Academy of Sciences, Sumgin became the de facto head of a newly created commission for the study of frozen earth. The commission’s creation came about in part through his efforts. After publishing his first monograph about frozen earth in 1927, Sumgin sought to build the study of the phenomenon into a distinct field of research. He initially found employment with the Road Research Bureau of the Central Administration of Local Transport in Leningrad, where his mentor, Nikolai Prokhorov, had also worked. The bureau fell under the auspices of the People’s Commissariat of Ways of Communication, the Bolshevik regime’s transport ministry. Its work, which included the effects of frozen earth on road construction, suited Sumgin’s practical outlook on the significance of frozen earth.59 But instead of confining his energies to a technical organization within a government ministry, Sumgin aspired to situate the study of frozen earth within the ­Academy of Sciences. Doing so became a steppingstone to establishing the science of frozen earth as a discipline. Sumgin gained his foothold in the Academy of Sciences by highlighting the importance of understanding frozen earth for the sake of economic development. He found a receptive audience in the academy’s Commission for the Study of Natural Productive Forces (KEPS) and its chair, Vladimir Vernadskii. KEPS was known for encouraging research that had the potential to benefit the economy. It had been organized under the tsarist regime with the goal of comprehensively cataloguing Russia’s natural resources – everything from medicinal plants to sources of energy. Originally established in 1915 in order to

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strengthen the country’s economic independence during the Great War, KEPS maintained its existence even after the Bolsheviks seized power. ­Vernadskii, a founding member of KEPS, despite opposing the ­Bolsheviks on ­political questions, shared their commitment to putting science to work for the country and overcoming Russia’s p ­ erceived backwardness. His privileged class background and hostility to ­Marxism notwithstanding, he was permitted to pursue research and hold administrative responsibilities, including leadership of KEPS.60 After Sumgin ­ approached ­ Vernadskii about organizing long-term, systematic research into frozen earth, KEPS held a conference in April 1929 that gathered representatives from organizations interested in the phenomenon. At the meeting, Sumgin delivered his vision of the future of frozen earth research to members of both the academy and state agencies. To emphasize the importance of the phenomenon, he highlighted its spatial extent – 9.5 million square kilometres, by his latest calculation. Such a figure, he exclaimed, was “strikingly huge.” It attested to “what a pressing issue it is to know all the characteristics of vechnaia merzlota, which constitutes almost half of the territory of our Union.”61 Drawing attention to the vast area occupied by vechnaia merzlota served two functions. For one, it communicated Sumgin’s perception of vechnaia merzlota as an aggregate physical structure. For another, it illustrated the need for specialized knowledge about the phenomenon for practical purposes. After all, vechnaia merzlota “by its presence across a most expansive territory creates formidable and unique obstacles to the economic mastery of this territory.” As examples Sumgin pointed to “deformations in buildings and structures on vechnaia merzlota, enormous and numerous heave mounds on railroads, highways, and dirt roads,” and “the destruction of bridges.” Addressing such challenges efficiently required moving beyond ad hoc responses to specific problems as they arose. It called for regular, comprehensive measurement and monitoring of the fundamental features of vechnaia merzlota, namely its southern boundary, depth, and temperature, in addition to its mechanical properties.62 In what turned out to be a professionally savvy move, Sumgin recommended that such fundamental research be coordinated by a central commission. The commission would “take upon itself overarching scientific leadership of all research on vechnaia merzlota within the USSR, as well as the formulation of research methodologies.” As the leading body of experts on the phenomenon, it would set the agenda for investigations into frozen earth and provide guidance to technical ­organizations. According to Sumgin, it might also have “the right to



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inspect all work on the study of vechnaia merzlota at the local level.” Sumgin’s ideas for the commission showed his embrace of centralized planning and the forging of close ties between science and industry. “In my opinion,” he added, “it would be most rational to create such a commission under the All-Union Academy of Sciences.”63 His words had effect. After the conference, Vernadskii leveraged his status to ­solicit support from the academy to realize Sumgin’s idea. The proposal fit within a pattern of KEPS helping to create new research institutes dedicated to topics of applied interest. It received backing from the State Institute for Construction, an agency of the Supreme Council of the National Economy (Vesenkha). Propelled by both KEPS and the state, the academy resolved in December 1929 to establish a commission on frozen earth. Chairmanship of the commission was given to the distinguished geologist Vladimir Obruchev, but Sumgin achieved recognition by being appointed academic secretary, in charge of its dayto-day workings.64 From his position in the Academy of Sciences, Sumgin had the authority to shape the terminology of frozen earth. The very name of the commission – the Commission for the Study of vechnaia merzlota, or KIVM – bore his influence, helping to institutionalize his preferred term for the phenomenon. As academic secretary of KIVM, Sumgin also oversaw the adoption of his definition of vechnaia merzlota by the Academy of Sciences. One of his first tasks consisted of organizing a sub-commission on terminology with the goal of building a standard lexicon for a science of frozen earth. In December 1931, at a conference organized by KIVM, the sub-commission, which was chaired by Sumgin, brought forth a definition of vechnaia merzlota for discussion. Afterward it was resolved that “vechnaia merzlota refers to the stratum of soil in the ground, with varying moisture content, located at some depth below the surface, that has a negative or zero temperature that lasts continuously for an indefinitely long time.” Essentially, the resolution affirmed Sumgin’s conception of frozen earth as an aggregate structure defined by temperature and time. The reference to moisture content, added upon the insistence of another scientist, appeared to concede the centrality of w ­ ater and ice to the essence of frozen earth. But as the conference report explained, “It was decided after debate to place as the foundation of this concept the temperature of the ground, while putting its moisture content on the level of a more detailed characteristic.”65 Consonant with Sumgin’s view, temperature remained primary, while the presence and properties of ice played a subordinate role. The adoption of vechnaia merzlota by the Academy of Sciences showed the advantages of having a position in the academy. From this central

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vantage, Sumgin rendered the acceptance of his term and definition a fait accompli even though objections continued to be raised from the institutional margins. After the December conference, Sumgin distributed to potentially interested individuals and organizations a list of a few dozen expressions pertaining to frozen earth. Recipients were asked to provide definitions for the terms on the list, propose new terms for inclusion in the lexicon, and solicit input from experts they knew. Of all the terms on the list, however, it was noted that one, vechnaia merzlota, had “already been discussed.” Moreover, it had been “given the definition entered into the minutes of the sub-commission [on terminology] and confirmed by the conference on vechnaia merzlota on December 18, 1931.”66 Using Sumgin’s definition as a point of departure had the virtue of convenience, providing a working solution to the need for a shared understanding of frozen earth. It also demonstrated that, as the person charged with coordinating the conversation on frozen earth, Sumgin could to a degree control it. Once registered by the Academy of Sciences, vechnaia merzlota proved difficult to dislodge, as Parkhomenko discovered. Having received Sumgin’s survey, Parkhomenko dispatched a reply declaring that it was “impossible to agree with the definition of vechnaia merzlota as it has been proposed by the commission of the Academy of Sciences.”67 While explaining his objections to the term, he took the opportunity to set forth his own conception of frozen earth. Parkhomenko’s ­paper was received and reviewed by Sumgin, but it made little impact. ­Although Sumgin expressed openness to hearing Parkhomenko’s ideas, ­Parkhomenko could not easily promote them in person. In November 1932, Sumgin extended to Parkhomenko an invitation to a meeting on terminology being held at KIVM’s office in Leningrad, where the Academy of Sciences was based. Sumgin sent the invitation one week in advance of the scheduled meeting. But by the time Parkhomenko received the invitation, it was too late to purchase tickets for economy seats on trains to Leningrad from Moscow, where Parkhomenko lived. Such tickets had to be purchased ten days in advance, as Parkhomenko noted in his terse reply.68 Logistical circumstances conspired against Parkhomenko, even without obstruction on Sumgin’s part. Sumgin and Parkhomenko’s differences intensified throughout the 1930s, with in-person encounters only increasing Parkhomenko’s ­frustration. During a series of conferences convened by KIVM, ­Parkhomenko’s efforts to win support for his systems approach to ­frozen earth fell flat. Transcripts from the meetings reveal in detail how scientists rallied around Sumgin while Parkhomenko’s ideas failed to gain traction. At the third all-union conference on vechnaia merzlota in



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January 1933, Parkhomenko reopened the question of definitions. His paper, “On the Terminology Used in the Study of vechnaia merzlota from the Point of View of merzlota as Process,” disputed the assumption that merzlota meant frozen earth itself. Challenging the conference’s focus on vechnaia merzlota, it proposed to reorient the field towards the processes and conditions of freezing that gave rise to frozen earth. As we saw earlier, Parkhomenko called this envisioned discipline “pagology,” from the contemporary Greek word for “ice.” Confusion about language contributed to the tepid reception of P ­arkhomenko’s ideas. Scientists at the conference expressed ­bemusement at Parkhomenko’s “vague Greek names.” Thinking that Parkhomenko’s “pagology” was derived from ancient rather than contemporary Greek, one scientist opined that it was “more convenient to take words from living languages.” Another insisted that the word pagos meant “cliff,” not “ice,” in Greek.69 Missing from the discussion was the recognition that Parkhomenko presented an alternative ontology and epistemology of frozen earth. The scientists acknowledged the general confusion surrounding terms, complaining that “one and the same word is often invested with different understandings of phenomena and processes.” And they lamented that such circumstances made it “extremely difficult to understand each other.” But their solution consisted of establishing a “single terminology,” an agreed upon set of words with unique definitions, instead of exploring tensions in the ontology and epistemology of frozen earth.70 Parkhomenko attempted to highlight different ways of understanding frozen earth by positioning himself in opposition to Sumgin. As a scientist sensitive to the complexity and diversity of frozen earth, he criticized Sumgin’s more reductive approach. As we have seen, ­Parkhomenko’s approach to mapping frozen earth consisted of delineating geographical zones where distinct combinations of factors gave rise to different types of frozen earth formation. On the basis of this approach, at the January 1933 conference, he challenged Sumgin’s map of frozen earth, declaring outright that “the borders of the region of vechnaia merzlota put forth by M.I. Sumgin do not reflect reality.” He argued that “numerous islands of non-frozen spaces are found to the north of the line” that Sumgin designated the southern boundary. M ­ oreover, “discrete islands of frozen rock are encountered far to the south of this ‘border.’” Sumgin’s southern boundary failed to account for encounters with frozen earth in northern Scandinavia, Mongolia, and the Ural Mountains. Also problematic was the collapsing of variation into coarse zones of continuous and discontinuous vechnaia merzlota. Such a “simplified view of the distribution of ‘vechnaia merzlota,’” ­Parkhomenko

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asserted, did not rest on a “factual basis.” Evidence pointed to “extreme variability in the thickness of frozen rock within a small space.” It was therefore misleading, Parkhomenko concluded, to depict frozen earth as a consistent phenomenon across a bounded horizontal plane.71 Parkhomenko had legitimate reasons to be sceptical of Sumgin’s ideas and passionate about his own. He approached the study of frozen earth using an alternative framework that emphasized processes of freezing, specific chemical ingredients, and connections to the surrounding environment. But he sometimes presented his criticisms in ways that struck others as strident. At a meeting at the Academy of Sciences in November 1937, Parkhomenko expressed dissatisfaction with the academy’s leadership of frozen earth research, calling it an “utter mess” (polneishaia nerazberikha). The academy, instead of establishing clear theoretical foundations for the field, allowed confusion to persist in such basic areas as terminology. As a result, researchers “do not understand what other researchers understand by one and the same term.” Furthermore, the academy failed to develop standard tools and procedures for investigating frozen earth. Consequently, research was done “amateurishly” (kustarno), with scientists working idiosyncratically, “however the spirit moves us” (kak nam bog na dushu polozhit). As Parkhomenko put it bluntly: “There is no methodology.”72 Given Sumgin’s role in spearheading the academy’s efforts in frozen earth ­research, by disparaging the academy’s work, Parkhomenko not so subtly discredited Sumgin. Indeed, Parkhomenko was so dogged in his criticisms of Sumgin that he opened himself to charges of being motivated by jealousy, spite, and desire for self-promotion. One scientist recalled listening to a presentation of Parkhomenko’s in which “the entire paper was built in such a way as to suggest that he, Parkhomenko, is a good worker, but Sumgin is fit for nothing and does not give him, Parkhomenko, chances to work.” At the sixth all-union conference on frozen earth ­science in February 1939, another observed that “the trouble with comrade ­Parkhomenko lies in that he tries first of all to settle personal a­ ccounts, and only then is he ­inclined to talk about business.” Vatslav Tumel, a colleague of Sumgin’s, exclaimed that if someone were to give Parkhomenko the transcript of his own speech, “striking out the a­ uthor’s last name and writing ‘Sumgin’ instead, then he would also rip it apart.” Parkhomenko’s behaviour, Tumel asserted, amounted to a “pathological approach to the question.” Instead of winning people over, ­ Parkhomenko’s ­tirades “made a bad impression.”73 Professional frustration lay behind Parkhomenko’s bitterness towards Sumgin. Sumgin’s status rose over the 1930s. In July 1936,



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Sumgin’s lack of academic credentials, a consequence of his expulsion from St. Petersburg University, was rectified when the Academy of Sciences awarded him a doctorate. The degree was conferred – ­without his having to submit and defend a dissertation – on account of his “outstanding work in the area of vechnaia merzlota.” The following summer, Sumgin was appointed to the academic council of the Academy of Sciences’ Institute of Geography, its governing board.74 Meanwhile, as Sumgin built his career in the Academy of Sciences, Parkhomenko worked in more peripheral scientific institutions. During the 1930s, he divided his time between various institutes under the jurisdiction of branches of the Soviet government responsible for economic development. These included the NKPS’s Institute for Roads and Construction in the Far East, the Central Institute for Hydrometeorology, and the Central Institute for Geodesy and Cartography.75 Although such entities conducted research in addition to fulfilling practical tasks for the economy, they lacked the prestige of association with the Academy of Sciences. Parkhomenko was made aware of the hierarchy of Soviet science when attempting – and failing – to establish a rival centre of frozen earth research. At the January 1933 conference, he presented his idea for an institute dedicated to frozen earth research. The proposed “­Institute of Pagology” would be established as a “central planning and research organ” under the auspices of the Hydrometeorological Committee. As its name suggested, the work of the Institute of Pagology would be guided by Parkhomenko’s epistemology. “On the basis of a view of merzlota as process,” it would decide “such questions as what to study when researching merzlota, with what methods.” ­Parkhomenko’s plan received little support, with the assembled scientists declaring that such an institute should rather be created within the Academy of Sciences. The Institute of Pagology never came to fruition, while Sumgin’s KIVM eventually became a full-fledged institute in the academy. ­Parkhomenko lamented that “I win theoretical victories, but alas, they are not accompanied by practical successes!”76 Not only did his brainchild remain unrealized, but Parkhomenko also complained of being excluded from Sumgin’s group at the ­Academy of Sciences and deprived of opportunities to publish. In 1936, the ­Commission for the Study of vechnaia merzlota was reorganized as the Committee on vechnaia merzlota (KOVM), with Sumgin as its deputy chair. The change in name reflected an elevation of status, which granted access to more funding and facilities and opportunities to hire additional personnel. Parkhomenko railed against the lack of transparency accompanying the transition. At a conference on frozen earth in February 1939, he demanded to know “why the selection of KOVM members

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happened without a wide discussion of candidates and eligibility.” He also asserted that “works that criticize the work of KOVM itself do not get published at all, as for example, my work.” Parkhomenko perceived his exclusion from KOVM as part of a deliberate and long-standing campaign aimed at “the isolation of me as a merzlota scientist.” Instead of being seriously considered, his writings were “smeared with mud” (smeshan s griaz’iu) and “met with bayonets” (vstrechen v shtyki).77 Some truth lay behind Parkhomenko’s indignant outburst. Sumgin refused to acknowledge the value of Parkhomenko’s approach to ­frozen earth and downplayed differences between their ideas in ways that seemed dismissive. On various occasions, Sumgin characterized Parkhomenko as “shooting sparrows with cannons” (pal’ba iz pushek po vorob’iam) and “tilting at windmills” (donkikhotskaia bor’ba s vetrianymi mel’nitsami).78 To him, Parkhomenko’s harping on terminology and attempts to rework fundamental concepts related to frozen earth seemed pointless. On the one hand, Sumgin demonstrated fairness to Parkhomenko by publishing an article of Parkhomenko’s in the ­journal of the Academy of Sciences dedicated to frozen earth research. Simultaneously, however, he published a response denigrating the ­ ­article. In the article, Parkhomenko presented his notion of cryophilic rocks, outlining an approach to studying frozen earth that prioritized the mineral composition and processes of formation of cryophilic rocks. But Sumgin, instead of appreciating the logic behind Parkhomenko’s framework, declared the article to be full of “deviations from fact” and “unnecessary eccentricities” (nenuzhnye zaskoki). Parkhomenko’s ideas amounted to “nothing other than a shake-up of what is old and long known” and contained “nothing new.”79 Yet Sumgin’s response exhibited almost wilful misunderstanding of Parkhomenko’s ideas. To Parkhomenko’s point about the centrality of ice to frozen earth, Sumgin conceded that “in a practical, I would even say petty [obyvatel’skii], sense it is possible to base a conception of ­merzlota on the presence of ice and other cryophilic minerals in rock.” But he insisted that such a requirement was already encompassed by premising the definition of frozen earth on having a negative temperature.80 He overlooked the objection that negative temperature conditions did not, in fact, suffice for the formation of ice. Sumgin also failed to appreciate the material and spatial distinctions that Parkhomenko made between soil and rock. In a telling passage, Sumgin rhetorically asked what distinguished “ground” (grunt) that froze only in winter from “ground long frozen and located at some depth from the surface.” His answer: nothing except for their “location in relation to the surface of the soil, but after all this is not an essential difference.”81



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To Parkhomenko, however, location did matter because it offered clues about the specific material composition of the frozen substance and its position vis-à-vis sources of heat. These two variables, in turn, could be used to understand the processes by which frozen earth formed and evolved. Furthermore, to Parkhomenko, the terms ground, soil, and rock did not refer to the same substance. By collapsing soil and rock into “ground,” Sumgin could conveniently assert that nothing but location differentiated frozen earth located near the surface from that found deep underground. But Parkhomenko was interested in cryophilic rocks – not soil or ground – which maintained their integrity by virtue of the particular conditions that prevailed at certain depths. Soil, which was located close to the earth’s surface and subject to yearly freezing and thawing, did not count. For their part, cryophilic rocks could be classified on the basis of their distinct mineral compositions and studied in relation to their surrounding environment, including the overlying soil. Ignoring the distinction between soils and rocks, Sumgin doubled down on using time or duration of existence as the basis for classifying frozen earth. He asserted that such an approach was “sufficiently simple and practically clear” even though it elided substances of varying composition. Rather than explore the distinctiveness of Parkhomenko’s scheme, he declared it a “tangle that spools further confusion” and, besides, “pretentious in the extreme [cherez krai pretentsiozna].”82 Perceiving Sumgin’s scornful attitude towards his ideas, Parkhomenko understandably bristled, but his own petulant behaviour made it difficult for others to take him seriously. Parkhomenko accused Sumgin of ad hominem attacks and objected to a situation where “everyone who does not agree with Sumgin is therefore not a scientist, but a layperson.”83 Insulted by the treatment he received, Parkhomenko perversely rejected overtures of closer collaboration with KOVM. At the February 1939 conference, Vladimir Obruchev, the nominal head of the commission-turned-committee on vechnaia merzlota, explained why some individuals had been excluded from the academic council of KOVM. Speaking for Parkhomenko’s benefit, he stated that those who “will not promote the work performance of the council and will only hinder its work” had been left out. But Obruchev nevertheless invited Parkhomenko to collaborate with KOVM by joining a commission that would further investigate questions of terminology. Parkhomenko’s response was to declare, “I’m afraid that I will only hinder this work and for this reason I withdraw my candidacy.” A frustrated Parkhomenko ended up excluding himself, and no one objected.84 Different frameworks for understanding frozen earth led Sumgin and Parkhomenko to talk past each other. Sumgin, especially, seemed

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to misunderstand Parkhomenko’s systems approach. His misunderstanding escalated Parkhomenko’s frustration, which only further discouraged mutual understanding. To Sumgin, Parkhomenko’s words and behaviour had clearly shown that “all of his actions are directed against the committee [on vechnaia merzlota].”85 Ultimately, Sumgin lost patience with Parkhomenko and used his central position in the Academy of Sciences to discontinue the debate. In his own response to Sumgin’s response to his article, Parkhomenko made a plea for ­epistemological pluralism. “For the development of frozen earth science, different approaches to cryophilic rocks are needed,” he wrote. “By studying frozen rocks from different points of view, frozen earth science will only benefit.”86 But in the same volume of the Academy of Sciences’ journal where Parkhomenko’s response was printed, a ­statement appeared by Vladimir Obruchev that reinforced a monopoly on truth. In the preface, Obruchev declared that KOVM “subscribes to the basic thesis expressed by M.I. Sumgin.” He added, seemingly questioning Parkhomenko’s patriotism, that “S.G. Parkhomenko clearly does not adequately appreciate the achievements of Soviet frozen earth science.” Such an attitude would inevitably “hinder the application of these achievements to production and lead to the slowdown of further scientific development.” Henceforth only articles that regarded their subjects “objectively” would be published.87 Parkhomenko lost the battle with Sumgin. The centralization of ­science during the first decades of Bolshevik rule created little room for multiple conceptions of frozen earth. By securing a position in the Academy of Sciences, Sumgin benefited from organizational ­advantages and influential connections that enabled him to promote his ­conception of vechnaia merzlota. As someone on the outside of the academy, ­Parkhomenko could not marshal the same resources. The structure of Soviet science made for an uneven playing field. But P ­ arkhomenko raised objections to vechnaia merzlota – including its focus on temperature and time at the expense of material composition and processes of formation – that would emerge again. Vechnaia merzlota in Bolshevik culture What enabled Sumgin’s idea of vechnaia merzlota to take root despite objections and the existence of a valid, alternative conception of frozen earth? Sumgin’s dexterity in institutional politics within a centralized system of science certainly contributed to its eventual success. But the broader cultural environment also provided favourable conditions. Vechnaia merzlota resonated with elements of revolutionary culture, invoking a politically



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relevant mode of dialectical materialism, populism, and promises of eternal life. Before it became permafrost, vechnaia merzlota was nurtured and shaped by the specific historical context of the Soviet Union. As the ruling ideology of the Soviet party-state, Marxism-Leninism had both dogmatic and flexible elements. As Loren Graham has shown, ideology could be intellectually productive. And as Slava Gerovitch pointed out, everyone felt the pressure to be a dialectical materialist and strived to demonstrate themselves to be adhering to its principles.88 Both Sumgin and Parkhomenko appealed to dialectical materialism but in different ways. The question was, who would be recognized as properly dialectical materialist? Sumgin applied the notion of a dialectic to his understanding of frozen earth by positing a “struggle” between frozen earth and water. The conceptual separation of water and frozen earth became more pronounced in writings intended for a general, non-specialist audience. For example, Sumgin described the antagonism between water and vechnaia merzlota with his co-author in their popular scientific work The Conquest of the North, published in 1937. To frozen earth, Sumgin claimed, water “is simultaneously a friend and traitor.” By positing a “struggle between water and vechnaia merzlota” Sumgin emphasized the distinct ontological identity of vechnaia merzlota rather than its existential connection to water.89 By contrast, Parkhomenko understood the dialectic to operate on a molecular level rather than on the aggregate level of frozen earth struggling against the action of water. In his view, minerals of all kinds – and, drawing on Vernadskii’s ideas, these included water – participated in a dialectical process of heat exchange. As some minerals gained heat and others lost it, cryophilic rocks were formed. Frozen earth was a manifestation of a process and itself underwent constant internal change as a result of the dialectic. Instead of focusing on temperature, Parkhomenko considered more thoroughly the material transformations of earth materials. Unlike Sumgin, who saw frozen earth as engaged in a struggle with water and being eroded by it through degradation, Parkhomenko saw water as an integral part of frozen earth. Whereas Parkhomenko valued serious engagement with dialectical materialism as an epistemology, Sumgin and most other frozen earth scientists concentrated on producing knowledge that benefited the S ­ oviet economy. Doing so, they asserted, also accorded with the ­Marxist-Leninist philosophy of science, namely the principle of the “unity of theory and practice.” They called for a “dialectical approach to the phenomenon of vechnaia merzlota,” which entailed “the closest integration of its theoretical study with questions of practical frozen earth

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science.”90 In contrast to their sense of urgency, Parkhomenko considered it prudent “not to rush.” It was necessary first to establish the correct foundations for understanding frozen earth. “Is it possible,” he asked, “not knowing the essence of the process of merzlota, the reasons that enable its development, the numerous interdependencies between this force of nature and surrounding natural phenomena, to fruitfully work out questions of merzlota?”91 To Sumgin and his allies, the answer was yes. It was possible to design solutions to engineering problems without knowing the geological origins of frozen earth and the laws behind its evolution. Approaching frozen earth in terms of structure, temperature, and duration – as Sumgin did in his definition of vechnaia merzlota – made sense in precisely such a way. Considering the deep past and projecting into the distant future were unnecessary. As one scientist explained, “It’s not worth looking 300 years ahead when we have real, successive tasks for ten years.”92 Whereas Parkhomenko criticized the expression vechnaia merzlota as misleading and illogical, Sumgin and his allies defended it on grounds of accessibility and vividness. The term contained more “artistic l­ icense than scientific precision,” they conceded. But it conveyed the phenomenon’s essential characteristics: its continuity and ­long-lastingness.93 ­Instead of exactitude, advocates of vechnaia merzlota privileged u ­ sage and intelligibility. They declared the term vechnaia merzlota “most ­successful in terms of popularity” and considered a virtue its “­widespread prevalence and general comprehensibility.” Indeed, vechnaia merzlota could be seen as a “people’s word” (narodnoe slovo), adopted by scientists from folk language.94 The arguments in support of vechnaia merzlota dovetailed with the wider movement of populism in science. Bolshevik culture promoted mass enlightenment of the public about science. It also aimed to enlist ordinary people in scientific research. As theorist and politician Nikolai Bukharin proclaimed, “The unification of theory and practice, of science and labour, is the entry of the masses into the arena of cultural creative work.”95 Vechnaia merzlota accorded with the spirit of bringing science closer to the people. Vechnaia merzlota tapped into strains of popular fascination with immortality. Some of this interest could be traced to the influence of Nikolai Fedorov, a philosopher and librarian at the pre-revolutionary Rumyantsev Museum. In the nineteenth century, Fedorov famously promoted the search for a scientific solution to death. His ideas influenced early twentieth-century artists and scientists, including those ­involved in frozen earth research, such as Pavel Florenskii and Vladimir Vernadskii.96 The project of overcoming mortality found expression in scientific experiments in anabiosis. Such experiments used



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extremely cold conditions to preserve living organisms in a dormant state before once again reviving them. They appeared to offer the possibility of p ­ reserving life for an extended period.97 Alongside engineering research, frozen earth scientists pursued work on anabiosis. From the vechnaia merzlota, they extracted and revived organisms up to 400 years old. Such research created a sensation, garnering international attention.98 As nature’s refrigerator, “eternal” frozen earth seemed to contain the potential to preserve eternal life. Conclusion Unlike Parkhomenko, Sumgin adopted a utilitarian approach to f­ rozen earth that answered Bolshevik demands for mobilization and modernization. Besides serving engineering and industry, Sumgin’s ideas resonated with broader elements of revolutionary culture, including new understandings of time, explorations of eternal life, and populism in science. Not only were cultural conditions favourable, but Sumgin also benefited from new circumstances surrounding science politics. He took advantage of the centralization of Soviet science more quickly and decisively than did Parkhomenko. Elements of revolutionary politics and culture created a receptive environment for Sumgin’s ideas and sidelined a valid alternative proposed by Parkhomenko. Having passed through the embryonic and larval stages since the days of Karl Ernst von Baer’s Boden-Eis, frozen earth had taken its pupal form as Sumgin’s idea, vechnaia merzlota.

chapter four

ADAPTING In the late summer of 1937, an ominous article appeared in the Soviet journal Socialist Transport. Penned by a frustrated engineer named Elenevsii, it warned that the tasks of economic development mandated by the third five-year plan were in danger of remaining unfulfilled. The plan called for “exploiting the natural wealth” of the north, a “huge, rich, untouched territory.” Elenevskii wrote that the region teemed with “apatite, forests, fisheries and furs, coal, minerals, copper, gold, platinum, and other resources” that could furnish the material basis of socialism. Gaining access to this abundance and bringing it into the all-union economy hinged on reliable infrastructure. But transport, Elenevskii lamented, was “butting up against the difficulty of guaranteeing stable roads (paved roads and railways) on frozen ground.” Slumping roadbeds in regions with frozen earth were stark evidence that “scientifically proven methods of executing this specific kind of construction are in fact nonexistent ... Why is work lagging,” Elenevskii demanded, “in solving the practical questions of assimilating the frozen earth expanses of the Union’s northern and eastern peripheries?”1 Nature was being permitted to undermine Soviet industrialization, and someone must be to blame. Elenevskii pointed fingers at two entities in particular. One, the Central Track Administration of the People’s Commissariat for Ways of Communication, was responsible for building and maintaining the country’s railroads. Because of its failure to cope with problems created by frozen earth, Elenevskii asserted, “vast sums are being thrown at repairing the roadbed” in what amounted to “criminal extravagance.” Then there was the committee on frozen earth of the Academy of Sciences. Supposedly a source of practical expertise, the committee instead “disorients workers” with “speculative conclusions in place of tested designs.” Elenevskii reserved special scorn for its leader, Mikhail



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Sumgin. The scientist’s “mystical ‘theories’” about frozen earth as a “Russian sphinx” encouraged an attitude of “retreat before the sphinx, before unknown powers of nature.” Elenevskii’s tirade spilled over into accusations of conspiracy. Whether by design or incompetence, he charged, scientists had enabled “Trotskyist-rightists and other enemies of the people, spies and wreckers” to sabotage research and construction on frozen earth.2 Elenevskii’s article appeared at the height of a period of political repression in the Soviet Union known as the Great Terror. The allegations of wrecking, espionage, and subversion captured the anxiety and suspicion that prevailed under Stalinism. Simultaneously, references to the abundant natural resources of undeveloped regions spoke to the potential and desire for economic development. The urgency of industrialization and the fear of failure – ­both establish the context in which Soviet scientists endeavoured to build a discipline centred on frozen earth in the 1930s. Led by Mikhail Sumgin, what began in 1929 as a fledgling commission for the study of vechnaia merzlota evolved by 1939 into a full-grown institute for frozen earth research. With the creation of the Obruchev Institute for Frozen Earth Science (Institut merzlotovedeniia imeni Obrucheva, or INMERO), the emerging field gained legitimacy. Against the background of Stalinism, a discipline centred on frozen earth became institutionalized in the Soviet Union for the first time, earlier than anywhere else in the world. In this chapter, we examine the process by which the Commission for the Study of vechnaia merzlota matured into INMERO, the Obruchev Institute for Frozen Earth Science. We explore how Sumgin and his cohort of frozen earth scientists built their discipline by adapting to the political and cultural context of Stalinism.3 Under Stalin’s rule, the Soviet Union embarked upon a series of five-year plans, which called for the rapid, state-driven development of heavy industry, aided by the brutal collectivization of agriculture.4 Socialist industrialization gave rise to a command economy that centralized power in the apparatus of the communist party-state, which exerted control over all institutions of society. Such centralization produced both opportunities and dangers for scientists. The party-state became the exclusive patron of science, enabling employment, publication, professional activities such as conferences, and organizational changes such as the creation of new institutes.5 It also monopolized the instruments of propaganda and coercion, which it deployed against perceived enemies of the USSR during campaigns of terror and repression. Under such conditions, scientists came under pressure to demonstrate usefulness to building socialism and loyalty to the Soviet Union. For both professional success and personal survival,

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they found it necessary to adopt the goals, navigate the rituals, and even speak the language of the party-state.6 Within the dangerous yet mobilizing context of Stalinism, Sumgin’s idea of vechnaia merzlota not only took root but also flourished. To understand how the concept of vechnaia merzlota became entrenched, we dwell awhile longer on the pupal stage of the life of permafrost. In the previous chapter, we analysed Sumgin’s interactions with another scientist, Sergei Parkhomenko. We focused on an internal debate between scientists about how to define frozen earth. In this chapter, we examine frozen earth scientists’ interactions with Soviet society more broadly. We look at how they communicated their work to party-state institutions and to the public to establish a science of frozen earth. I argue that, thanks to the efforts of Sumgin and his allies to educate outsiders about their new discipline, frozen earth entered the awareness of a wider audience. Moreover, it did so in the guise of Sumgin’s vechnaia merzlota. Up to this point in our story, frozen earth figured primarily as the subject of discussion among specialists. Now we see how it became a phenomenon of general interest, appearing in newspapers, radio broadcasts, and popular science publications. At this historical moment, Sumgin’s notion of frozen earth as a physical-geographical structure – a­ contribution to the antithesis of the dialectic in the life of permafrost – ­gained ascendancy. As scientists popularized frozen earth, vechnaia merzlota became more than an abstract scientific concept. It became reified as a newly discovered environmental object. We begin our second look at the pupal phase of the life of permafrost by tracing the evolution of KIVM into INMERO. To acquire resources and status, Sumgin and other scientists affiliated with KIVM adapted to the political context of Stalinism by appealing to the goals of the party-state. Their tactics – n ­ ecessary given the administrative centralization of Soviet science  – b ­ iased their emerging discipline towards applied research. We then examine how Sumgin and KIVM scientists adapted to the cultural context of Stalinism by “speaking Bolshevik,” that is, deploying ideas and language approved by the regime.7 Among these were the concept of osvoenie, the assimilation and mastery of physical spaces, inflected by the notion of zavoevanie, conquest, and the theme of struggle with nature. Such rhetoric carried an antagonistic view of the natural world, portraying nature as an opponent to be fought and overcome. Yet in practice, as we see in the next section, KIVM scientists adapted to frozen earth, advocating its preservation, not its degradation. Although rhetoric belied the realities of transforming nature, both represented scientists’ strategies of adapting to their environment, human and non-human. Finally, we explore how KIVM scientists adapted



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to the Great Terror. When attacked in politicized terms for alleged deficiencies in their research, they doubled down on the value of their work to building socialism. But the criticisms showed that, despite the prevalence in usage of Sumgin’s vechnaia merzlota in the context of socialist industrialization, doubts about its validity did not go away. From commission to institute The establishment of a scientific discipline centred on frozen earth took place over the course of a transformative decade in the history of the Soviet Union. During the 1930s, the communist regime under Stalin embraced industrialization as the key to building socialism. Given this context, Soviet scientists hoping to institutionalize frozen earth research adapted to the goals of the party-state by promoting their work as crucial for economic development. Simultaneously, however, they aimed to distinguish themselves as scientists from mere engineers, a process of delineating authority that sociologist Thomas Gieryn called “boundary work.”8 Sumgin and his cohort at KIVM aspired to fundamental research and intellectual leadership through planning and coordination, not narrow industrial calculations. But they were besieged by requests from government agencies to solve concrete problems related to construction – a­ nd dogged by complaints that their work failed to do so. KIVM scientists found the distinction difficult to maintain between pursuing theoretical research with practical applications and solving technical questions on behalf of state industrial ministries. On the one hand, the political and economic context of Stalinism enabled them to win status and resources for their discipline, which they pitched to the regime in utilitarian terms. On the other hand, the pressures of socialist industrialization pushed the emerging science of frozen earth towards engineering research. From its inception, KIVM embraced opportunities to contribute to the Soviet Union’s program of rapid industrialization. Doing so constituted an effective strategy for institutional survival and growth in the aftermath of the communist regime’s purge of the Academy of Sciences in 1929. As part of the academy’s subordination to the party-state, new administrative bodies were created to align scientific research more closely with the goals of the five-year plans. In 1930, the academy established the Council for the Study of the Productive Forces of the USSR (SOPS), which superseded KEPS as the organization responsible for coordinating applied research. It also formed a Committee for Scientific Consultation and Propaganda to aid the transfer of technical advice to government agencies and serve the regime’s aim of popularizing

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science. As an indication of its connections to the party-state, in 1934, the academy was relocated from Leningrad – ­formerly St. Petersburg, its headquarters since its founding in 1725 – ­to Moscow. KIVM likewise moved from its office on University Embankment in the old imperial capital to Moscow’s Pyzhevskii Lane, closer to the seat of the Soviet government.9 Throughout the 1930s, under the auspices of SOPS, KIVM’s scientists participated in expeditions in support of development projects unfolding across the northern and eastern USSR. After Sumgin became academic secretary, in 1931, three others joined the commission fulltime: soil scientist Boris Gorodkov, engineer Aleksandr Liverovskii, and Vladimir Yanovskii, a young worker beginning his career. Most of KIVM’s membership, however, consisted of representatives of state agencies whose activities touched on frozen earth. These included branches of Sovnarkom and Vesenkha engaged in construction and agriculture.10 During the first five-year plan, which lasted through 1932, expeditions were carried out to the Pechora and Vorkuta river basins in the northern Urals, an emerging coal-producing region. Another expedition focused on the town of Igarka along the lower reaches of the Enisei River, where factories for processing timber had been built. During the second five-year plan from 1933 through 1937, KIVM’s scientists were sent to the Angara River, near Lake Baikal, where a hydroelectric station was planned. Sumgin himself led an expedition to the Kola Peninsula in the far north of the western USSR, the site of mining for apatite, a mineral used to produce fertilizers. Others travelled to the gold-mining regions of the northeast, in the basins of the Indigirka and Kolyma rivers. Finally, scientists went to Yakutsk to make recommendations for the city’s industrial growth and to the Trans-Baikal region to survey the route of a new railroad, the Baikal-Amur Mainline.11 State agencies sent queries to KIVM whenever they encountered problems with frozen earth. Although other agencies were developing expertise in this area, KIVM aspired to the role of primary coordinator. Scientists at KIVM received such queries as, “How do concrete and reinforced concrete behave in conditions of merzlota and is it possible to use them?”12 Sumgin and Yanovskii took part in the Academy of Sciences’ Far Eastern Expedition to the Trans-Baikal and Amur regions, where the Baikal-Amur Mainline (BAM) was being built.13 A massive railroad construction project begun in the 1930s, BAM remained unfinished during the Stalin era and was resurrected in the 1970s as a “project of the century.” Of the 3200 kilometres of track that was supposed to cut across eastern Siberia by 1945, only 440 kilometres had been built by 1947. During World War II, parts



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of the railway that had been built, such as the Bam-Tynda and Izvestkovaya-Urgal sections, were dismantled. By 1957, four years after Stalin’s death and twenty-five years after the project’s inception, a further 730 kilometres were completed. Then, political winds shifted; in the aftermath of talks between the USSR and Japan in 1956, Japanese prisoners of war who had taken part in constructing the railroad in Irkutsk province were allowed to return home. The remaining 2030 kilometres of the project were then shelved for a decade until soured relations with the People’s Republic of China in the 1960s reminded the central government of the strategic vulnerability of its eastern territories. Volumes of surveying reports from the 1930s and 1940s were dusted off and the project resurrected under Brezhnev’s leadership.14 KIVM scientists pointed to their involvement in building socialism as reason for receiving additional resources, including personnel, laboratories, and instruments. Obruchev as chairman and Sumgin as deputy chairman repeatedly petitioned the leadership of the Academy of Sciences for more workers and funds. In 1934, they argued that the tasks facing the commission far exceeded the capacity of the “meagre staff” of two scientists on its payroll, Sumgin and Yanovskii. At least ten additional positions were needed. Obruchev and Sumgin also requested 50,000 rubles for research, of which 40,000 would be put towards setting up a laboratory for testing samples of frozen earth. The laboratory was needed for establishing “a whole range of physical-technical constants for frozen grounds.” As KIVM’s annual report for 1935 stated with regard to laboratory experiments, “the economic significance of this work is self-evidently understood, since its results consist of data calculations necessary for the rational and well-founded design of engineering structures in the region of vechnaia merzlota.”15 By adopting a utilitarian perspective, KIVM appealed and adapted to the interests of the communist regime to attract financial support. While assisting the party-state’s development projects, KIVM’s scientists also aspired to intellectual leadership and prestige. In its work plan for the second five-year plan, KIVM described as its guiding principle “the closest connection between profound theory and all branches of socialist construction.” Fundamental research – ­“profound theory” – ­played a key role in producing knowledge that would benefit the economy. KIVM’s commitment to applied science was therefore connected to not only organizational growth but also a vision of building a rigorous discipline. Given the number of agencies and projects needing its expertise, KIVM ought to become an institute within the Academy of Sciences “with an expansion of cadres and with laboratories.” Acquiring the status of an institute promised both enlarged resources and

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licence to focus on higher-order questions. The institute would serve as the “planning and instructing organ for all research on vechnaia merzlota in the territory of the USSR.” It would also carry out “deep theoretical study of vechnaia merzlota in field conditions.”16 Institutional legitimacy would pave the way for the establishment of frozen earth research as a respected scientific field. In his capacity as a science administrator, Sumgin referenced the significance of frozen earth science to industrialization in nearly all his writings. While delineating theoretical and applied sides of the field, he emphasized that both were crucial to solving economic problems, specifically those connected to infrastructure development.17 Fear of becoming a target of state repression was only part of the motivation. Proclaiming the importance of an emerging discipline to the literal building of socialism was strategic for obtaining funding and resources. Taken together, the political and cultural environment of the Soviet Union, and Sumgin’s navigation of science politics in that context, oriented frozen earth science towards civil engineering applications. They also help to explain why Sumgin’s technical definition of vechnaia merzlota as ground that sustained a temperature of 0°C or lower for two years or more gained acceptance in the Soviet Union. As Sumgin and his cohort worked to grow KIVM over the 1930s, the commission also had to defend its institutional existence, which came under threat twice, in 1932 and 1935. In 1935, the director of the Academy of Sciences’ Geological Institute, Andrei Arkhangelskii, proposed to absorb KIVM into the Geological Institute. Obruchev intervened and managed to not only preserve the commission’s existence but also facilitate its transition to a committee, with access to more resources.18 KOVM’s research carried on the pre-revolutionary effort to determine the presence, depth, and distribution of frozen earth, as well as engineering properties such as resistance and strength. As KIVM transitioned to KOVM and finally INMERO, it acquired more research stations in Yakutsk, Igarka, Anadyr, and eventually Vorkuta.19 By 1939, KIVM had grown into INMERO with a central laboratory in Moscow and three field stations. Compared to the two fully salaried positions with which the commission began, the institute had on its payroll ninety-three workers, including two graduate students. Sumgin became the deputy director of the institute and de facto acting director.20 Sumgin continually made the case that frozen earth research was crucial to the five-year plans. The research focused primarily on construction and engineering, even though scientists expressed interest in and demand for research related to agriculture.21 KOVM’s scientists held inter-agency conferences and began publishing a journal. As an



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indication of their embrace of applied science, Sumgin and Tsytovich wrote a book called Fundamentals of the Mechanics of Frozen Ground.22 Sumgin’s and KOVM’s embrace of applied science can be seen in the research agendas and plans that they produced in the 1930s. For example, Sumgin developed his idea of the degradation of vechnaia merzlota in a 1932 article. The empirical basis for his theory consisted of observations of the soil near Skovorodino, a town along the Amur section of the Siberian railway. From 1928 to 1930, researchers carried out temperature measurements of the frozen earth at various points along a borehole twenty-eight metres deep. Sumgin transferred the data onto a graph, plotting temperature along the x-axis and depth along the y-axis. The resulting curve, rather than veering right in the direction of positive temperatures, slid towards the negative end of the spectrum, arriving at −1.6°C at twenty-eight metres below ground. The plot showed, contrary to expectations, that the temperature of the frozen earth decreased with depth, revealing a layer that was “abnormally cooled.” Sumgin anticipated that the temperature of the earth would eventually arrive at some minimum and begin to increase. But it remained that there were “reserves of cold [zapasy kholoda] left over to us in inheritance from an era with a colder climate.”23 In Sumgin’s view, vechnaia merzlota was a relic of an age when the planet was colder than it had become in the twentieth century. Sumgin’s notion of a warming climate derived from ideas about polar warming advanced during the late 1930s by scientists such as Swedish glaciologist Hans Ahlmann.24 The “reserves of cold” contained within the earth at Skovorodino, revealed in the plot of temperature versus depth, were evidence in support of his assertion that the climate had become warmer over time. They suggested to Sumgin that the conditions of past climates were stored in vechnaia merzlota and that changes in the atmosphere would eventually be felt underground. Because of a lag in time as these shifts took place, the temperature of the frozen earth in Sumgin’s day was “out of tune [disgarmoniruiushchii] with the contemporary climate.”25 As this disharmony corrected itself, vechnaia merzlota itself would warm, thaw, and thereby disappear. Sumgin and other KOVM scientists navigated dangerous political waters. They had to carry out complicated “boundary work,” to use Thomas Gieryn’s expression. Some scientists in the Academy of Sciences considered that KOVM’s work strayed too far from fundamental research in the direction of applied science and wanted to disband it. Sumgin and KOVM’s scientists wanted to establish their bona fides as legitimate scientists and pioneers of a new and genuine discipline. But to acquire the resources to build a discipline, they continually had

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to make the argument that they produced useful research. This move opened them up to criticism that their research was not sufficiently useful and concrete, to which they responded that their goal consisted of establishing general engineering principles, not solving every specific engineering problem. Navigating between fundamental research with potential applications and overt applied science was a difficult tightrope to walk. Rhetoric of transforming nature As Sumgin and his fellow KIVM scientists established a discipline centred on frozen earth, they adapted to the cultural and economic project of building socialism. They did so by publicizing the subject of their research through works of popular science using the rhetoric of osvoenie. The Russian word osvoenie referred to the assimilation and mastery of physical spaces. During the five-year plans, it was used to convey the transformation of apparently undeveloped, untamed lands into productive, industrialized territories.26 When KIVM scientists deployed the concept of osvoenie, they invested it with two features. First, they promoted Sumgin’s notion of “the region of vechnaia merzlota,” a natural, physical-geographical region defined by the presence of underlying perennially frozen earth. They highlighted the region of vechnaia merzlota as a vast, unique area whose development required specialized expertise. Second, KIVM scientists drew upon the theme of the struggle with nature that featured prominently in socialist realism, the state-sponsored artistic movement. When applied to the region of vechnaia merzlota, the idioms of socialist realism endowed frozen earth with agency, casting it as an opponent to be fought and overcome. The rhetoric of osvoenie enabled KIVM scientists to impress upon the Soviet public the significance of a little-known phenomenon and thereby justify the mobilization of resources to study it. Simultaneously, it further consolidated Sumgin’s idea of vechnaia merzlota and the ontology of frozen earth as a physical-geographical structure. As frozen earth scientists institutionalized the new field of merzlotovedenie by adapting politically and orienting their research agenda towards the five-year plans, they also adapted culturally. Given the fraught environment, it was important to participate both politically and culturally. On the one hand, they cooperated with the agencies of the Soviet state. On the other hand, they pitched their work in Soviet discourse. Within Soviet discourse, the framework of conquering nature formed part of a revival of romanticism. It posited humans as separate from nature and thereby capable of conquering it.



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Conquering nature as a framework for describing humankind’s relationship with the non-human world had precedents in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. When Europeans spoke of “conquering nature,” they meant dramatically transforming the landscape to suit human needs. They imagined that building great machines and structures enabled them to emancipate themselves from historical limitations on human habitation, thereby defeating, controlling, or taming non-­human elements.27 In the USSR, the familiar notion of conquering nature carried additional ideological significance. The struggle against nature was a central theme in Stalin-era culture and propaganda. Literature, film, and media portrayed Soviet society as engaged in battles with features of the environment, including rivers and oceans, ice and snow, the tundra and the taiga. They cast Soviet development projects, such as urban construction and resource extraction, as heroic endeavours akin to military campaigns.28 Osvoenie, the mastery or assimilation of territories, became conflated with zavoevanie, literally “conquest.”29 The rhetoric of conquest served to mobilize the Soviet population, amplifying Stalinism’s emphasis on voluntarism, or the omnipotence of human will. It also resonated with the Soviet aspiration to remake humans encapsulated by Maksim Gorkii’s famous statement that people, in the course of transforming nature, would also transform themselves.30 One example of the Soviet rhetoric of conquering nature appeared in October 1932 in Banner of the Commune, a Soviet newspaper from Bamlag, the system of labour camps associated with construction of the BAM: “The impenetrable, uninhabited taiga, eternally frozen soil, turbulent rivers and cliffs, everlasting mar’ will not halt the [Communist Party]-led offensive of workers’ regiments and detachments. Bolshevik might and will [volia], in combination with the power of technical thought, will vanquish the taiga.”31 Interpreting the environment as an enemy to be defeated was as reductive as painting a picture of untouched, harmonious nature. Besides promoting a dualism of humans and nature, the language of osvoenie was also a form of Soviet spatial rhetoric, as Emma Widdis has shown. It centred on opening up spaces. Sumgin and other KOVM scientists contributed to this spatial rhetoric by developing their own spatial rhetoric centred on the “region of vechnaia merzlota” (oblast’ vechnoi merzloty). The “region of vechnaia merzlota” represented their application of the Soviet spatial rhetoric of osvoenie. They created their own spatial rhetoric centred on frozen earth, and the way they talked about the region of frozen earth fit into the broader Soviet rhetoric. The notion of conquest formed an important rhetorical element. But the idea of conquest also formed part of a broader romanticism that celebrated

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the beauty, mystery, and wealth of nature. Interestingly, when it came to talking about nature, the images of conquering nature and nature as a treasure trove coexisted – t­ he two tropes were not mutually exclusive. Soviet scientists waxed poetic about conquest – z­ avoevanie – a­ nd development – ­osvoenie – ­at the same time. While professing a love of nature, they also wanted to develop, tame, control, and conquer it. Loving nature in the sense of being awed and moved by nature and aspiring to conquer it were consistent in their rhetoric. Sumgin promoted the notion of a vast region that was distinct from the rest of the country. This diverse but unified region occupied ten million square kilometres or nearly one-half the total area of the entire USSR. The region of vechnaia merzlota, which included parts of the far north of the western Soviet Union and encompassed all of eastern Siberia, presented special challenges and opportunities for economic transformation, he claimed, which only Soviet power together with Soviet science was capable of meeting. Sumgin’s spatial rhetoric fit into the broader rhetoric of osvoenie. Understanding vechnaia merzlota as a distinct entity, including establishing its physical contours, became a central focus of the Soviet science of frozen earth. Scientists themselves wrote vividly about the power and mystery of frozen earth to heighten the effect of the drama of the struggle to conquer it. Sumgin was very active in this regard. When Sumgin’s article was published in Pravda, he and other KIVM scientists celebrated by going to a restaurant.32 In his many popular scientific pieces, as part of his role as a science communicator, he used his map of frozen earth to point out an anomalous region that required the expertise of scientists to conquer. Repeatedly in his popular scientific writings, Sumgin combined spatial rhetoric with the rhetoric of conquest and assimilation. He emphasized the areal extent of vechnaia merzlota using the expression “region of vechnaia merzlota,” reinforcing the image of a cohesive space dominated by a “massif,” a physical-geographical structure.33 In 1938, Sumgin, together with a writer, Boris Demchinskii, published a work of popular nonfiction entitled Conquest of the North (in the Region of vechnaia merzlota). The book told audiences about the desirability and difficulties of economic development of “the north.” For the authors, the north corresponded to “the region of vechnaia merzlota,” an area of ten million square kilometres. The north, wrote Sumgin and Demchinskii, “intimidated with its severe mystique but also beckoned with its wealth.” Its riches included gold deposits in the valleys of the Enisei, Lena, Aldan, Amur, and Kolyma rivers; coal basins in the Trans-Baikal and Amur regions; and sources of silver, lead, zinc, tin, molybdenum, antimony, bismuth, and oil. But these resources



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remained beyond reach because “vechnaia merzlota enfetters [skovyvaet] the earth’s depths.”34 In their narrative of “conquering” the north, Sumgin and Demchinskii cast vechnaia merzlota as the key enemy to be defeated. The visions of defeating vechnaia merzlota presented in the book centred on its elimination. According to Sumgin and Demchinskii, thawing one cubic metre of frozen earth required three kilograms of coal. Thawing one square kilometre of the region of vechnaia merzlota, assuming an average thickness of frozen earth of fifty metres, therefore required 150,000 tons. For the entire region of vechnaia merzlota, 1.5 trillion tons of coal were needed. However, humans cannot be “so reckless as to expend billions of tons of coal on thawing vechnaia merzlota.” Rather, they must “observe the most vulnerable [uiazvymye] areas of vechnaia merzlota, and by directing their efforts there, they will even have the opportunity to cause the self-destruction [samorazrushenie] of merzlota.”35 In keeping with the idea of conquest, Sumgin and Demchinskii talked about how the Soviet Union might get rid of vechnaia merzlota entirely to remove it as an obstacle to industrialization. They were not alone. Scientists that gathered at conferences hosted by KOVM also used the language of conquest. At the sixth all-union conference on frozen earth science in 1939, for example, one scientist declared that “it is necessary to defeat the enemy – v­ echnaia merzlota – a­ nd not surrender.”36 In Soviet culture, the term vechnaia merzlota also helped to link the struggles against nature and time. As Stephen Hanson has shown, notions of time occupied a central position in the Soviet project. The ideology of Marxism-Leninism-Stalinism centred on what he calls a “charismatic-rational conception of time,” which combined adherence to the linear time of modernity with the aspiration to transcend it. Under Stalin, the goal of synthesizing the rational and the charismatic was manifested in the “planned heroism” of the five-year plans. The party-state urged that production norms be exceeded to realize the five-year plan in four years. Rapid economic development was necessary not only to catch up to the capitalist world but also to reach communism, the “end of human prehistory” according to Marx. Socialist industrialization therefore entailed applying labour discipline towards achieving the revolutionary compression of time.37 In contrast to the charismatic-rational conception of time, vechnaia merzlota evoked the cyclical time of nature. As suggested by Sumgin’s evocative expression, vechnaia merzlota was “eternal,” set apart from the forward movement of socialism. By struggling against vechnaia merzlota, Soviet society also struggled against spontaneous, undisciplined time.

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Sumgin’s rhetoric was not wholly antagonistic, however; it also drew on romanticism and pragmatism. In the Soviet Union during the 1930s, “the region of vechnaia merzlota” was not a preexisting geographical space but rather an emerging concept with political, economic, and social dimensions. According to Sumgin’s map, it was centred on the continental geopolitical space of the USSR. It was touted as being “so huge, moreover so rich with resources” that it could not “remain without integration into the cycle of economic life in the Union.”38 In the context of the sociology of science, “the region of vechnaia merzlota” functioned as a piece of spatial rhetoric that helped a pioneering generation of frozen earth scientists establish their disciplinary space in the era of socialist industrialization.39 But images of “the region of vechnaia merzlota” also shaped understandings of frozen earth itself. When addressing a broader public and non-specialist audience, Sumgin portrayed “the region of vechnaia merzlota” as an anomalous place. It was characterized by a range of dynamic phenomena that simultaneously presented challenges for economic development and evoked fascination in observers. According to Sumgin, the source of this dynamism was vechnaia merzlota itself, which he depicted not as one phenomenon among many, but as the central actor in a threatening but alluring environment. The dynamic geography of “the region of vechnaia merzlota” enabled Sumgin to construct an image of vechnaia merzlota as a mysterious and dangerous agent, helping to crystallize the ambiguous phenomenon of frozen earth into an object called vechnaia merzlota. The romantic notion of conquering nature and struggling against frozen earth therefore played an important role in the ontology of vechnaia merzlota because the rhetoric of struggling against frozen earth, which fit in with Soviet-style romanticism, reified vechnaia merzlota and helped to reinforce its status as a concrete object. This also reinforced Sumgin’s notion of frozen earth as a physical-geographical structure rather than the more abstract, systems-thinking approach to frozen earth that people like Parkhomenko advocated. While describing the unique obstacles that had to be overcome in the region of vechnaia merzlota, Sumgin tapped into strains of romanticism to elicit fascination with the landscape. He emphasized the beauty, mystery, and wonder of the region, rhapsodizing that “vechnaia merzlota astounds the human intellect and imagination with its distinctive characteristics.”40 The examples he presented focused less on the frozen earth itself and more on a range of phenomena that he asserted were uniquely and intimately connected to frozen earth. “Only in the region of vechnaia merzlota,” Sumgin insisted, was it possible to come across sheets of buried ice, up to fifty metres thick, embedded across great,



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continuous stretches in the ground. Echoing the nineteenth-century explorer Eduard von Toll, Sumgin called them the “marvel of polar Siberia.” The interplay between buried ice, frozen earth, and groundwater gave rise to a peculiar hydrology and constantly shifting terrain where lakes appeared and subsequently disappeared. As a result, villagers “now catch fish where fifteen years ago, in the same place, there were fields in which inhabitants of the same settlement harvested crops.”41 Even phenomena that were obstacles to development were wondrous to behold, according to Sumgin. The appearance of naled’, for example, was “an altogether extraordinary vision” because of the juxtaposition of seemingly incongruous elements. In winter, naled’ formed in a floodlike event as groundwater poured onto the surface in a landscape covered with ice and snow. An outsider to the region of vechnaia merzlota expected floods in the warmer seasons, but not in winter, whereas naled’ appeared exclusively in winter. As groundwater came into contact with frigid air temperatures of −40°C, it generated mist as it froze, giving the impression that the land boiled and seethed (kipit).42 Sometimes, groundwater spilled out onto steep river banks or rock outcroppings and became an ice cascade (ledopad) that looked, as Sumgin quoted from another scientist’s description, “as if a mighty waterfall had been stopped in its tracks by the will of a sorcerer and remained that way ... It seemed that even the finest chisel of an artist could not sculpt a waterfall so naturally. The illusion is heightened by the fact that, on all sides girded with thin trickles of water, [the cascade] is shrouded by steam and smoke ... Only the surrounding undisturbed stillness indicates that this is no animate current, full of might, but rather the petrified creation of sinister nature.” The description of a natural phenomenon as both beautiful and terrible recalled the idea of the sublime in European romanticism and emphasized the mysteriousness of the region of vechnaia merzlota.43 At the centre of the mystery was vechnaia merzlota itself, which Sumgin referred to using the metaphor of a sphinx. In his 1927 monograph, he had alluded to his “fervent desire to solve the riddle of this Russian sphinx.” Sumgin also spoke of frozen earth as an “impenetrable sphinx” in an earlier 1914 article.44 Thanks to him, the sphinx gained traction as a symbol for vechnaia merzlota, especially in popular writings directed at nonspecialists. In addition to journalists, Soviet scientists themselves, especially those who traced their intellectual lineage to Sumgin, deployed the image.45 Like a sphinx, vechnaia merzlota presented puzzles, the range of obstacles that had to be overcome in the course of industrialization. It also guarded access to treasures, both in terms of underground minerals and the fruits of economic development

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more generally. By likening vechnaia merzlota to a sphinx, Soviet scientists were in part honouring and defending Sumgin’s legacy. But the figurative language also fit into the tradition of Soviet romanticism that cast nature simultaneously as an enemy to be conquered, a mystery to be unravelled, and a trove of wealth to be unlocked. Such tropes were recycled in the press and in literature. Sumgin and his disciples both drew upon and contributed to them.46 Like the map of the region of vechnaia merzlota, metaphors such as the sphinx crystallized an abstract concept, such as ground with a negative temperature, into a vivid object. By casting vechnaia merzlota as a sphinx, Sumgin and other Soviet scientists brought it to life as a central actor influencing events across a vast, dramatic landscape. They endowed vechnaia merzlota with agency, portraying it as the source from which all phenomena in “the region of vechnaia merzlota” emanated, including heave mounds, landslides, and icings. Their rhetorical moves might begin, for example, with the observation that “nowhere else on the globe is it possible to observe such peculiar and, at first glance, inexplicable violence on the part of water as in the regions of vechnaia merzlota.” From there, it was a short leap to the assertion that the freezing and bursting of a naled’ was “the most destructive manifestation of vechnaia merzlota.”47 In this register, not only was the region of vechnaia merzlota depicted as a dangerous place, but a hydrological process shaped by a host of geographical factors became a direct consequence of vechnaia merzlota itself. Naled’ and frozen earth were not jointly features of the regional climate. Instead, Sumgin elevated vechnaia merzlota as the key actant. The geographical space encompassed by the map of the region of vechnaia merzlota was important to the reification of vechnaia merzlota as an object in the environment. As a scientist, Sumgin conceptualized frozen earth as a quantifiable entity, ground that sustained a temperature of 0°C or lower for two years or more. His map of “the region of vechnaia merzlota” reinforced his definition by depicting frozen earth with knowable borders. But the “southern boundary” on Sumgin’s map was distinct from an isotherm, which connects points of equal temperature abstracted from the land itself. The “southern boundary” was in principle tied to the physical geography of the landscape. After all, it purported to delineate the contours of the “massif of vechnaia merzlota.” The “southern boundary” therefore created a physical-geographical area: “the region of vechnaia merzlota.” As a propagandist, Sumgin integrated features of this geographical space into the public image of vechnaia merzlota. Frozen earth was not simply one attribute of the region of vechnaia merzlota. Rather, it was the source of its dynamism, a dynamism that helped to cast vechnaia merzlota as an object in relief.



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The focus of the Soviet science of frozen earth on applied research had a similar effect. As engineers, workers, and scientists interacted with frozen earth as an object in the ground, they easily conceived it as a physical structure. They attributed the dynamism of the environment to frozen earth, which acquired greater agency and materiality. For example, according to a report produced by an agency of the NKVD on surveying a route for BAM, “thanks to the mountainous relief and vechnaia merzlota, which provides a minimum of absorption, spring floods are short (from two to twelve days), tumultuous (the increase in water level can reach up to a half a meter per hour) and accompanied by great levels of destruction.”48 Vechnaia merzlota was treated as an aggregate structure with a powerful, destructive agency. Adapting to frozen earth During the era of building socialism, KIVM scientists adapted not only to the political and cultural context of Stalinism but also to frozen earth itself. As they sought solutions to problems of construction, they learned to accommodate the presence of perennially frozen earth. The practices of adapting to frozen earth diverged significantly from the rhetoric of assimilation and conquest that KIVM scientists used when publicizing their discipline. When employing the discourse of osvoenie, KIVM posited an adversarial relationship with frozen earth. But when interacting with frozen earth, they aimed to preserve and use it for the sake of maintaining the stability of industrial infrastructure. Whereas socialist realism showcased the heroism of industrializing the periphery, developing solutions for construction on frozen earth often played out as messy processes of trial and error. The narrative of struggle with nature emphasized the dualism of nature and culture. But scientists’ applied research focused on entangled histories of the land as revealed by traces of earlier human settlement and cultures of technology. Where rhetoric and practice complemented each other was in reinforcing the idea of frozen earth as a physical-geographical structure. Attributing agency to frozen earth and viewing frozen earth through the lens of engineering focused attention on its existence as an aggregate. Both outcomes of adaptation to Stalinism enabled the ascendancy of the antithesis in the dialectic of the life of permafrost. During the 1930s, Soviet projects continued to suffer from the negative consequences of being built in regions with underlying frozen earth. Such negative consequences, including the subsidence and deformation of structures, had been encountered in the past, but Soviet builders learned about and experienced them all over again. Buildings that fell

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into disrepair included a power station in Chita and a bathhouse in Mogocha, both in the Trans-Baikal region, as well as a fish cannery in Anadyr on the Chukotka Peninsula. Each structure had been built after the revolution.49 Even edifices of more recent vintage, such as a tanning factory constructed in Yakutsk during the Soviet Union’s first five-year plan, had become misshapen within a decade. By 1939, floor-to-ceiling cracks up to five centimetres wide had opened up along its walls, and engineers uncovered a deep pocket of thawed earth beneath the premises.50 Because plans for urbanization entailed the construction of ever more installations in Yakutsk, including factories and power stations, it became necessary to find ways to counteract the forces of rapid decay. In Vorkuta, KOVM scientists consulted on projects to build dams, reservoirs, and water pipelines and canals.51 KOVM scientists were especially active in consulting with the government of the Yakut ASSR. For example, they consulted with the republic’s People’s Commissariat of Food Production, which planned to build a series of factories, by providing descriptions of frozen earth at the planned construction site and assessing which locations would present problems for construction. Extensive stretches of underground ice posed especially difficult problems.52 KOVM scientists provided expert consultations for the construction of a glass factory in the northern part of Yakutsk. A state agency seeking to build a cement factory wanted to know how deeply to lay the factory’s foundation and the permissible pressure of the ground.53 In designing and systematizing norms for building in frozen earth conditions, Soviet scientists and engineers focused on preventive measures that preserved the stability of their foundations. They conducted careful study of local conditions and delved into historical archives to reconstruct patterns of interaction between earlier inhabitants and the environment. Their findings revealed, for example, that the land beneath Yakutsk consisted of a mixture of “natural” (estestvennyi) sandy and clayey soil, as well as “dung, construction debris, and garbage that has accumulated over the course of three hundred years of the city’s existence.”54 Scientists referred to the refuse left behind from previous settlement as the “cultivated layer” (kul’turnyi sloi). Its thickness was greater in parts of the town that had been settled longer and smaller in parts where human habitation was more recent. It could reach a thickness of 1.5 to 1.75 metres.55 Remnants of the past became embedded in the earth itself, attesting to the inextricability of nature and culture. The “cultivated layer” introduced additional features to prevailing patterns of freezing and thawing that Soviet engineers had to consider when adapting construction to the local environment. It was a



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“characteristic peculiarity” of the land in Yakutsk that, where detritus from the past was plentiful, the associated accumulation of chloride and sulphate ions lowered the freezing point of water in the soil and increased its heat capacity.56 The subtle change in the uppermost stratum affected the underlying perennially frozen earth. It insulated the perennially frozen earth from heat in the atmosphere, and it also fed the perennially frozen earth with moisture. As water froze and became a constitutive part of the perennially frozen earth, “the surface of the vechnaia merzlota rose [podnimalas’] by way of accretion [nakopleniia] of the ‘cultivated’ layer.”57 Ultimately, scientists observed, the interaction between perennially frozen earth and the cultivated layer contributed to a “magnification of the heaving of the earth [uvelichenie puchinistykh svoistv grunta],” as evidenced by the “bulging up [vypuchivanie] of fences, gates, and porches” in areas of Yakutsk that had experienced a longer period of human settlement.58 Traces of earlier human activities reverberated upon structures built by later generations. Soviet scientists and engineers investigated not only local particularities of the soil, but also preexisting building practices in Yakutsk. Pre-revolutionary edifices that managed to sustain their solid condition shared a common feature: they helped to preserve frozen earth by preventing heat from reaching the underlying perennially frozen earth. By the first half of the nineteenth century, architects in Yakutsk had begun designing wooden houses with raised floors. Blueprints called for the lowest plane to rest, at various sections, on logs stacked lengthwise, which separated it from the ground by a distance of up to one metre.59 The gap between the floor and earth was important because buildings, especially those intended for human occupancy, discharged heat generated by indoor stoves. If underlying perennially frozen earth was exposed to the warmth, it would thaw and settle, causing overlying structures to buckle. Another example of a solution to the problem was the cellar space included in a stone building constructed in 1911. The cellar functioned as an insulating layer, protecting the earth from the building’s heat in winter. In summer, inhabitants kept its doors open, allowing air to pass through and cool the space.60 Examining past precedents thus provided the Soviets with techniques for counteracting the thawing of perennially frozen earth, a key source of structural deformation. In addition to methods for preventing the unidirectional thawing of perennially frozen earth, research into the local environment generated techniques for minimizing the effects of annual heave. Soviet scientists learned that, even before laying a single stone, selecting a propitious location for a building could increase its stability. They recommended

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avoiding sites where the cultivated layer was thick and the soil was silty and clayey because of the likelihood of pronounced heave and substantial subsiding. By selecting a place where the relief allowed surface water to drain, and where the earth was relatively sandy, engineers could reduce the extent to which the ground’s movement impacted their structures.61 Embedding foundations deeply was another protective measure. Doing so permitted the edifice to stand on the perennially frozen earth itself, instead of the yearly heaving stratum above.62 It complemented the strategy of maintaining vechnaia merzlota. To ensure the stability of urban infrastructure, the Soviets endeavoured to simultaneously protect and use frozen earth. By the 1940s, Soviet engineers had begun constructing buildings in Yakutsk that incorporated multiple features to prevent and counteract heave and the thawing of perennially frozen earth. They recognized that measures oriented to preserving frozen earth were both more economical and more effective than working towards its elimination.63 By building on “the principle of maintaining the vechnaia merzlota,” engineers found that they were able to accommodate higher structures that generated large amounts of heat required for industrial processes. One such four-storey stone building in Yakutsk rested on pillars of reinforced concrete that lifted the structure one and a half metres off of the earth, creating a ventilated cellar space. Its foundation was embedded four and a half metres into the ground, on the layer of perennially frozen earth.64 The techniques of raised floors and deep foundations represented adaptations that became norms for construction. As multistorey structures proliferated, the newspaper Socialist Yakutiya declared that Yakutsk had “become younger, has straightened its shoulders,” and “unbent its back and become much ‘taller.’”65 Soviet construction practices embedded the visage of a city in the frozen earth landscape. Although Soviet propaganda described this learning process in dualistic terms as a struggle between humans and nature, from an outsider’s perspective it could also be seen as a process of learning to adapt. Scientists sought ways to preserve frozen earth, divert naled’ and other harmful phenomena associated with frozen earth, insulate buildings and roadbeds, and increase the thermal resistance of the ground. At Igarka, as at Yakutsk, scientists and engineers also learned the lesson of laying foundations deeply in the ground, on the layer of perennially frozen earth, while maintaining the frozen earth. Maintaining frozen earth could be done by maintaining its low temperature and by protecting it from contact with flowing water.66 In contrast to images depicted in Soviet propaganda of sublime, untouched landscapes in eastern Siberia, KOVM scientists understood



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that the land had been modified by humans in the past. They therefore sought knowledge from the existing built environment of an inhabited landscape. They sought to learn about and systematize the adaptations to the land that past people had made. Ventilated cellars and pilings were examples of such adaptations. KOVM scientists knew that human culture played a key role in shaping nature and sought to learn from earlier cultures of technology. The nature that the Soviets encountered bore traces of past human interactions with the land. By learning to preserve and use frozen earth, they embedded their own creations in the environment and simultaneously changed the landscape. Soviet scientists helped to transform the landscape, but despite the rhetoric of conquest, they did not emancipate themselves from the constraints of the environment; they and their creations remained embedded within it. They had to learn to operate within and negotiate the constraints of the environment even as they worked to transform it. They never were able to conquer nature, even if they spoke of doing so. Soviet actors, like humans elsewhere, adapted to the environment with varying degrees of success. Whereas the rhetoric of conquest posited humans as separate from and above nature, the adaptations of Soviet scientists and engineers showed that they and their creations were part of the environment. Moreover, although KOVM scientists talked about the agency of frozen earth, in practice, they were the ones adapting to the constraints of frozen earth. Frozen earth – ­and nature more generally – ­comprised an ever-evolving set of constraints that were imperfectly understood. Even the process of drilling for water in regions with underlying frozen earth showed that Soviet scientists and engineers had to operate within the constraints of the environment.67 The disjuncture between rhetoric and practice is worth emphasizing because of the seductiveness of a romantic conception of nature that posited humans as being locked in a struggle with nature and needing to conquer it. To refuse to validate the rhetoric of conquest is to recognize humans as part of nature and subject to its constraints. Soviet actors were not exceptional in this regard. Survival of the systems approach The Soviet Union of the 1930s constituted a formative historical backdrop for the life of permafrost. During the pupal phase of its development, frozen earth entered popular awareness in Soviet society, extending beyond the concerns of specialists. Vechnaia merzlota as defined by Sumgin took shape as an environmental object in the Soviet Union, one that would eventually gain global recognition. These developments

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occurred as a result of scientists adapting to Stalinist politics and culture while striving to establish a discipline centred on frozen earth. But even as Sumgin’s idea of frozen earth as a physical-geographical structure defined by temperature and time became ascendant, it continued to face scepticism  – a­ nd not only from Parkhomenko. Indeed, it was contested on the very grounds that Sumgin used to justify its validity: its usefulness for applied research. Some scientists cautioned that engineers could be misled by the impression of eternity conveyed by vechnaia and the use of temperature as the defining parameter of frozen earth. They promoted conceptions of merzlota as a process or material condition connected to the planet’s thermal system, evoking the thesis in the dialectic of the life of permafrost. Some did so without succumbing to attacks on Sumgin the way Parkhomenko did. But others – ­especially engineer Elenevskii, whose criticisms opened this chapter  – a­ llowed frustration to fuel personal denunciations during the Great Terror. The Elenevskii affair showed not only that ordinary people participated in campaigns of repression instigated by Stalin, but also that substantive scientific disagreement lay behind politically charged rhetoric.68 With the appearance of Elenevskii’s article, a simmering dispute over the direction of frozen earth research broke into public view. Elenevskii argued that faulty conceptions of frozen earth, such as impressions of its ancient timelessness, were negatively affecting engineers’ ability to solve problems. According to him, “the very term ‘vechnaia merzlota’ enfetters or in any case limits technical thought.”69 The meaning of vechnaia merzlota was still contested. For the previous year, engineer Elenevskii had sharply criticized KOVM in internal government memos. Given the backdrop of political terror, the implications were serious. Scientists on the committee fretted that the “series of denunciations, libelous statements, and accusations” had frayed nerves  – ­especially Sumgin’s.70 Charges of treason and espionage already prompted a ferocious purge of NKPS. In January 1937, current and former high-­ranking NKPS officials, including deputy commissar Yakov Lifshits, were convicted of “anti-Soviet Trotskyist” activity and sentenced to death. Afterward, thousands of alleged “wreckers” in NKPS were arrested by the NKVD.71 Would KOVM become the next target? Sumgin survived these charges, even when many fellow scientists did not. For example, Sumgin’s mentor, Nikolai Prokhorov, was executed in the 1920s. Soil scientist Robert Abolin, who also studied frozen earth, was arrested in 1937 during the Great Terror and died one year later.72 The fact that Sumgin survived the charges despite being a potentially vulnerable figure given his SR past suggests that he was able to demonstrate his usefulness to the regime and also that his ideas seemed



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compelling in the context of the time. It also suggests that Elenevskii, like Parkhomenko, was wrong. A perfectly precise theoretical understanding of frozen earth  – ­one that might have been fulfilled by the systems approach  – ­was not necessary to solve, at least temporarily, the engineering problems surrounding frozen earth. A perfectly precise understanding was also not a prerequisite for adapting to the environment and transforming it. As a sign of recognition of KOVM’s expertise, the Soviet government codified a set of regulations and instructions about what to do when building in frozen earth environments. The regulation was called “On the impermissibility of major construction in the region of vechnaia merzlota without preliminary research.”73 The adoption of this regulation by Sovnarkom constituted a victory for frozen earth scientists because it validated their research and specialized knowledge. KOVM scientists were active in shaping the instructions. Those who participated included Sumgin, who as deputy director of KOVM also served as the chairman of the special commission for developing the instructions. It also included other KOVM scientists such as Sergei Kachurin and Petr Kapterev. Other participants were invited from other organizations, such as engineer Nikolai Bykov of the Skovorodino frozen earth research station run by NKPS; Mikhail Chernyshev, an engineer working on double-tracking the Siberian railway; Nikolai Tsytovich who worked for the Leningrad Institute of Engineers of Public Works; Nestor Tolstikhin, a mining engineer and employee of the Central Scientific-Research Institute for Geological Survey, part of the People’s Commissariat of Heavy Industry (NKTP); Vasilii Ponomarev at the Main Administration for the Northern Sea Route, who would later join INMERO; other representatives from NKTP such as Ivan Belokrylov; Aleksandr Lazarevskii from NKPS’s Institute for Roads and Construction before his arrest; and representatives of the Main Administration of Camps of the NKVD.74 Conclusion Stalinist society shaped the pupal stage of the life of permafrost. During the 1930s, Sumgin’s conception of frozen earth, vechnaia merzlota, became institutionalized and popularized in the Soviet Union, laying the foundation for its future globalization. Political, social, and cultural factors contributed to its success. The party-state’s emphasis on applied science in a time of rapid industrialization favoured an engineering perspective that viewed frozen earth as an aggregate structure. Scientists associated with KIVM took advantage of the urgency surrounding

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industrialization, appealing for resources on the basis of their contributions to building socialism. As the organization grew, so did the science of frozen earth and the understanding of frozen earth that its leader, Sumgin, promoted. KIVM scientists sought to promulgate their work to not only party-state officials but also Soviet society at large in accord with the regime’s goal of popular enlightenment and mobilization. As vechnaia merzlota was introduced to a broader audience, one particular view of frozen earth gained legitimacy as a distinct environmental object. Besides solidifying the idea of frozen earth as an aggregate structure defined by temperature and time, the pupal stage of permafrost shed light on human relationships with the environment. While using the prevailing Stalinist rhetoric of struggling with and conquering nature, Soviet scientists and engineers endeavoured to preserve frozen earth, not degrade it. Their rhetoric gave voice to the long-standing dream of modernizers to bend nature to suit the needs of industrialized society. But in practice they had to work with the constraints presented by the environment. Pointing out the disconnect between rhetoric and reality serves as a caution against adopting the modernizers’ faith in humans’ ability to triumph over nature, either through conquest or degradation. Instead of taking the rhetoric of transforming nature at face value, we must ask who is using it and for what purpose. For KIVM scientists, the rhetoric helped them to survive and establish a new scientific discipline under the conditions of Stalinism. But we need not validate it as a paradigm for describing historical or contemporary realities. Instead, we can recognize that humans ever remain part of nature and that liveability on our planet depends on not hostility or fear but curiosity, humility, and care.

chapter five

TRANSLATING On 20 April 1948, Andrei Chekotillo was confronted by colleagues at the Obruchev Institute for Frozen Earth Science. Two months earlier, he had been relieved as deputy director of the institute, a position he held for six years. Now he was called to answer charges of associating with foreign scientists, sending INMERO publications abroad, and displaying “servility before foreigners” (nizkopoklonstvo pered z­ agranitsei). At a meeting that day, fellow scientists assailed him for ­being “­anti-patriotic” and “antisocial,” for exhibiting “political myopia,” and for “chasing ­after overseas publicity.” As context for Chekotillo’s alleged wrongdoing, they made special mention of an “American compilation of frozen earth science done entirely on the basis of our Soviet work.” The book’s appearance served as proof that the Americans were “­monitoring published scientific work on frozen earth science and aspiring to obtain it for use in their own expansion.” Chekotillo’s supposed carelessness had allowed the Soviet Union’s pioneering research into frozen earth – with its applicability to engineering in strategically important t­ erritories – to fall into the hands of enemies.1 Chekotillo attempted to defend himself by pointing to changing circumstances in the recent past. During World War II, which coincided with his tenure as deputy director, the USSR Ministry of Foreign ­Affairs had authorized the sending of INMERO publications abroad. Only ­after the war, in 1947, did the government issue decrees prohibiting the disclosure of “state secrets.” Moreover, during the war, ­frozen earth research had not been considered sensitive information. Not ­until afterward did the Academy of Sciences place restrictions upon its dissemination, and Chekotillo asserted that he himself had helped to implement such measures.2 Facing accusations pertaining to national security would have caused any scientist anxiety. But Chekotillo would have found especially galling the hostility coming from an organization

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to which he had steadfastly dedicated himself during the turbulent war years. As others were evacuated or drafted into the army, Chekotillo stayed in Moscow to advocate for INMERO’s interests and maintain its operations. When the previous deputy director, Mikhail Sumgin, ­became ill and died in 1942, Chekotillo defended INMERO’s facilities and equipment, secured defence contracts, and ensured that its staff continued to be paid.3 His record of service notwithstanding, C ­ hekotillo became a scapegoat in a postwar campaign to police patriotism in the Soviet Union. Defeated, he promised his colleagues that “henceforth I will try not to commit similar mistakes.”4 Two aspects of Chekotillo’s ordeal had bearing upon the life of permafrost. One consisted of the monograph on frozen earth published in the United States using Soviet sources that was cited as a consequence of Chekotillo’s supposed negligence. The book, entitled Permafrost or ­Permanently Frozen Ground and Related Engineering Problems, was written by Siemon Muller, a Russian émigré employed by the USGS. It was issued in 1943, a time when US operations in Alaska during World War II generated urgent demands for knowledge about frozen earth. To compose the study, Muller drew heavily upon Soviet research from the 1930s. He translated and adopted Russian-language terminology that had taken root and circulated in the Soviet Union through the efforts of Mikhail Sumgin. In particular, Muller rendered vechnaia merzlota as an English neologism, permafrost, while preserving Sumgin’s definition of ground that sustained a negative temperature for at least two years. Thus the term permafrost was born as a loan translation of a Russian expression.5 Out of the chrysalis of vechnaia merzlota, permafrost had emerged in its adult form. The other aspect of Chekotillo’s experience relevant to the life of permafrost consisted of the campaign that occasioned the accusations of his colleagues. In 1947, the party-state launched a campaign against “servility before the West,” calling upon Soviet citizens to root out supposedly unpatriotic behaviour. The campaign comprised one of several that unfolded in the postwar Soviet Union. These included campaigns against “bourgeois nationalism” and “cosmopolitanism,” supposed deviations that celebrated minority or foreign cultures instead of ­Soviet patriotism, which was increasingly identified with Russian pride.6 Taken together, the campaigns aimed at reasserting the regime’s control over society after the spontaneity unleashed by the war. They gathered momentum against the background of the onset of the Cold War and increasing tensions with the West.7 One campaign targeting the sciences especially affected INMERO. The campaign for “creative discussions” had the goal of not only bolstering appreciation of Soviet priorities and achievements



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but also reviving Marxist-Leninist ideology in ­scholarship.8 In frozen earth science, it resurrected debates about terminology, exposing uncertainties about the epistemology of frozen earth science and the ontology of frozen earth itself. Long-standing questions about the nature of frozen earth – whether it was best understood as a structure or process, substance or condition – once again rose to the fore. The politics of late Stalinism renewed the dialectic of the life of permafrost. In this chapter, we examine the role of postwar politics in s­ haping ­understandings of frozen earth. I argue that the contingencies of the Cold War enabled permafrost to become an internationally recognized scientific object. During World War II, vechnaia merzlota travelled to North America as permafrost thanks to Siemon Muller’s E ­ nglish-language synthesis of Soviet research and translation of Soviet concepts. ­Subsequently in the United States and Canada, desire for knowledge about frozen earth grew as strategic priorities during the Cold War prompted military construction and resource extraction in the Arctic.9 The rapid expansion of engineering research about frozen earth institutionalized the concept of permafrost.10 Like vechnaia merzlota, permafrost was criticized by scientists who approached frozen earth not as an aggregate physical-geographical structure but as a process or condition connected to planetary thermodynamics. Echoing the situation in the USSR during the 1930s, however, the urgency of applied research relegated terminological discussions to a secondary consideration in North America. Cold War imperatives allowed permafrost to flourish – just as socialist industrialization had done for vechnaia merzlota, as we saw in chapter 4. Ironically, in the USSR itself, postwar terminology ­debates inspired leading scientists at INMERO to reject vechnaia merzlota and adopt a systems approach to frozen earth that they named “geocryology.” But hardening cultural and diplomatic divisions prevented the new framework – and its associated terminology – from being widely known outside the Soviet Union. The dialectic in understandings of frozen earth persisted, but uneven moments of transnational scientific exchange during the Cold War enabled permafrost to take flight. Given its relevance to science, politics, and ideology, language played an important role in the adult phase of the life of permafrost. ­Language has figured prominently as a theme throughout our story, but in this chapter we approach it through processes of translation. First we ­examine the translation of Russian-language terms into English, which became the single, dominant language of international science communication after World War II.11 Given the hegemony of English, the metamorphosis of vechnaia merzlota into permafrost represented a crucial step in its establishment as a global scientific and environmental object. Next

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we look at the language of scientific debate in the Soviet Union, where science was expected to affirm Marxist-Leninist ideology. During the campaign for “creative discussions,” scientists translated arguments into ideological language. At INMERO, the campaign both encouraged and distorted attempts to revise the framework of frozen earth science. It created space for a fresh approach to frozen earth while demanding that it be expressed in the vocabulary of dialectical materialism. We see how INMERO scientists of a younger generation approached frozen earth not as an aggregate physical-geographical structure but as a space of heat exchange. They aimed to translate the old science of vechnaia merzlota into the science of the “cryolithozone.” Finally, we explore questions of terminology that surfaced at the first international conferences on permafrost. At these forums, North American and Soviet scientists attributed terminological confusion to problems of semantics and translation. I argue, however, that problems of language had deeper roots in different conceptions of the essence of frozen earth contained within the dialectic of the life of permafrost. Birth of permafrost In 1943, vechnaia merzlota travelled to North America. That year, permafrost appeared as a translation of Sumgin’s term in a publication of the Office of the Chief of Engineers of the United States Department of War. Soon afterward, prompted by strategic considerations during World War II and the early Cold War, the US government expanded funding for research into frozen earth. One component of the state-sponsored agenda consisted of translating the work of Soviet scientists, who were known to possess extensive knowledge about the phenomenon.12 But as frozen earth research proceeded apace in North America, scientists encountered difficulties with translation centred on the issue of terminology. The term permafrost became a source of criticism, just as happened with Sumgin’s vechnaia merzlota in the Soviet Union during the 1930s. What appeared as debates about nomenclature concealed problems of ontology. Permafrost, like its progenitor vechnaia merzlota, promoted an understanding of frozen earth as an aggregate physical-geographical structure. Some scientists, however, emphasized the need to approach the phenomenon as a process or condition. They adopted what we have seen throughout our story as a persistent thesis in the dialectic of the life of permafrost. But as in the Soviet Union during the 1930s, ­debates about terminology were largely overlooked amid the exigencies of meeting state priorities. The needs of Cold War military construction, like those of socialist industrialization, established internationally an



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understanding of frozen earth as ground, a physical-geographical structure made into an object of engineering. As in tsarist Russia beginning in the 1890s and the Soviet Union since the 1920s, the United States undertook large-scale construction in regions with frozen earth during the 1940s. One of the leading sources of expertise in the United States about frozen earth was the USGS, whose geologists encountered what they called “ground ice” while mapping the land and resources of Alaska in the early twentieth century.13 Although the USGS made observations of frozen earth alongside producing descriptions of Alaska’s physical geography, it did not pursue systematic investigations of frozen earth until World War II.14 The impetus came from the War Department. Beginning in 1939, the US Army undertook several large-scale projects in connection with strategic imperatives. It built a series of airfields stretching from Montana via Canada to Alaska known as the Northwest Staging Route, which eventually served to deliver military aircraft to the Soviet Union as part of the Lend-Lease program. It constructed the ­2400-kilometre Alaska-Canadian Highway, an inland route connecting the US territory to the road network of Canada and the contiguous United States, to strengthen Alaska’s defence. It laid the 896-kilometre Canol pipeline from Norman Wells in Canada’s Northwest Territories to the town of Whitehorse in Yukon to deliver oil to Alaskan bases.15 In addition to immense engineering tasks in the Arctic and sub-Arctic, the army faced the logistical challenges of carrying out operations in the Pacific, Africa, and Europe. It therefore turned to the USGS for detailed information about the physical geography of distant places. The army sought intelligence about the availability of raw materials for construction, the location of sources of water, and the stability of the terrain, as well as its “trafficability,” or the extent to which it allowed vehicles to move with ease. In 1942, the USGS created an office called the Military ­Geology Unit dedicated to gathering geological knowledge to answer the a­ rmy’s practical needs.16 When recruiting its staff, the Military Geology Unit emphasized international fieldwork experience and knowledge of foreign lan­ guages. It actively sought foreign-born geologists and took pride in not having to hire outside translators to do its work.17 One individual who fit the unit’s requirements was Siemon Muller, a professor of geology at Stanford University. Muller was born in 1900 in Blagoveshchensk on the border of the Russian and Qing empires. His father had immigrated to Russia from Denmark to work on the Siberian railway and telegraph. After the revolutions of 1917, Muller took refuge in Shanghai and worked for an American company before sailing for the United

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States in 1921. He received an undergraduate degree in geology at the University of Oregon before pursuing graduate studies and academic employment at Stanford. In his research, Muller made contacts within and acquired an affiliation with the USGS, which became aware of his personal background.18 When the Military Geology Unit was called upon by the army to provide information about frozen earth needed for its wartime construction projects, it approached Muller to conduct a review of the literature, much of which was in Russian. Based on this work, in 1943, Muller completed Strategic Engineering Study #62, ­Permafrost or Permanently Frozen Ground and Related Engineering ­Problems for the Intelligence Branch of the Army Corps of Engineers.19 Muller’s study provided an overview of frozen earth and associated phenomena, emphasizing their challenges for construction. The purpose of the report, it stated, was to “acquaint those unfamiliar with the Russian language” with frozen earth and disseminate research results that had “direct practical application to various engineering problems.” Singling out the work of a handful of Soviet scientists, Muller drew heavily upon Russian-language literature, especially the journal of the USSR Academy of Sciences’ Commission for the Study of vechnaia merzlota and its successor organizations. He noted that “technical terminology pertaining to the frozen ground phenomena described in the present report is, for the most part, new and represents either a more or less free translation or a direct adoption of terms widely used in ­Russian.” Some terms, such as boolgoonyakh (bulgunniakh), pereletok, pluvoon (­plyvun’), talik, and taryn, Muller transferred without translation. ­Others he created by translating Russian words into English. P ­ rominent among the latter was permafrost itself, which Muller derived from vechnaia merzlota, the name given to frozen earth by Mikhail Sumgin. Although the literal translation of vechnaia merzlota was – according to Muller – “­permanently frozen ground,” he found the expression “too long and cumbersome and for this reason a shorter term ‘permafrost’ is proposed as an alternative.” While coining a new English word, however, Muller preserved Sumgin’s definition.20 Muller’s book was widely circulated in government and scientific circles and soon reprinted in declassified format.21 In a single work of synthesis and translation, and at a critical moment, he introduced to North American scientists and engineers concepts of frozen earth from the Soviet Union. In the years following the completion of the strategic engineering study, Muller gained recognition as an authority on permafrost and leveraged his stature to influence science policy.22 In 1943, he was posted to Alaska and served the US Army Air Force as a civilian adviser in the Air Transport Command. In this role, he gained firsthand experience



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with frozen earth and witnessed its effects on the army’s engineering installations.23 After two years in the field, Muller became convinced of the need for systematic investigations, writing to the chief geologist of the USGS that “now I really know what permafrost is but it will be some time before one can answer most of the questions as to how to solve some of the permafrost difficulties.”24 In early 1945, he attended a meeting in St. Paul, Minnesota, with officials in the Army Corps of Engineers and learned about their plans to survey frozen earth at sites marked for the construction of airfields. Concerned that the work would be focused narrowly on short-term engineering needs, he lobbied for the program to be broadened to encompass fundamental questions of geomorphology, hydrology, soils, and vegetation.25 The outcome of Muller’s organizational efforts was the creation in 1945 of a permafrost program within the USGS that evolved by 1948 into the Alaska ­Terrain and Permafrost Section of the Military Geology Unit.26 Concurrently, the Army Corps of Engineers set up its own Permafrost ­Division within the St. Paul District. Additionally, in 1949, the ­Research and ­Development Board, a joint body of the various branches of the US military, organized the Snow, Ice, and Permafrost Research ­Establishment (SIPRE) within the Corps of Engineers to coordinate work on frozen earth across the armed services.27 Permafrost became part of the lexicon of the US military and government. As these initiatives and organizations were publicized, the term and idea of permafrost filtered out from government circles to the wider public.28 Outside experts, however, contested the word. Vocal among them was Kirk Bryan, a geologist at Harvard University. In both public forums and private communications to the USGS, Bryan protested the emerging “rag-tag and bob-tail terminology” surrounding frozen earth. He declared that “the word ‘permafrost’ is quite shocking to those interested in the purity of the English language,” an “etymological monstrosity” created by “mangling the Latin root perman(e) (verb permanere, to remain) and combining it with the English word ‘frost.’”29 The problem extended beyond aesthetics and etymology. Muller intended for permafrost to be a shorthand for “permanently frozen ground,” but dictionary definitions of frost did not include “ice in the ground.” As a noun, Bryan pointed out, frost possessed meanings such as “the act of freezing,” “the state of the air which occasions freezing,” and “frozen dew or hoarfrost.” Given that it lacked any specific reference to the soil or rock, frost could not stand in for frozen ground. Permafrost, therefore, was an imprecise portmanteau word and “badly formed term.”30 Bryan’s fixation on semantics arose not simply from a desire to quibble but from substantive scientific priorities. What made frozen earth

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important to study was its “process of formation” and not simply the object itself. Scientists therefore needed language to discuss the dynamics of frozen earth. With permafrost, however, “a verb or verbal noun cannot be made as ‘permafrosted’ would convey the false idea of the formation of a permanent coating.” The verb “to frost,” after all, meant “to cover with hoarfrost,” a phenomenon that bore little resemblance to the hardening of soil or rock because of the crystallization of minerals.31 ­Without the ability to transform into a meaningful verb, the neologism permafrost actually hindered communication about an essential feature of frozen earth. In lieu of the terminology that Muller derived from Soviet sources, Bryan proposed an alternative that he asserted was more accurate, consistent, and linguistically transferable. For example, sticking to Latin roots, he coined the word “pergelisol,” a combination of per, meaning “throughout or continuing”; gel, short for “gelare, to freeze”; and sol “from solum, the soil or ground.” As a substitute for permafrost and “permanently frozen ground,” Bryan explained, the term “pergelisol” had several advantages. First, it avoided the inaccurate root perman, “because what we mean is ‘ground frozen from year to year,’ not ‘permanently’ in the sense of ‘eternally.’” Second, it was easily transformed into the verbal noun “pergelation” and thus able to capture the process of frozen earth formation. Third, it could be used to derive names for related phenomena, such as mollisol, the layer of seasonally freezing and thawing earth overlying pergelisol, from the Latin mollere, “to make softer, pliable, to melt.” Finally, it could be “easily converted without change of meaning into all European languages” because of its Latin e­ tymology. For similar reasons, Bryan proposed to call the science of frozen earth cryopedology, assembled from the Greek roots “krúos, Κρύος, icy cold; pedon, Πέδον, ground or soil; and logos, Λόγος, knowledge.” In contrast to “permafrostology,” crypedology was both “euphonious and correct.” It also gestured to the field’s affinity to pedology, or soil science, which was “obviously a related subject.”32 Ensuing discussions often glossed over Bryan’s scientific objections in favour of perceived expediency. Colonel Walter Wilson, head of the St. Paul District of the Army Corps of Engineers, drew a distinction ­between the “academic plane” and the “realm of applied science,” where “information obtained must be quickly made available to construction forces in the field who ordinarily are not masters of the fine points of scientific language.” Gesturing to the arcane-sounding quality of Bryan’s terminology, he entreated scientists to “imagine the ­consternation with which the average bulldozer operator would receive instructions to ­remove all mollisol in the supragelisol zone of a certain



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area to expose the pergelisol.”33 Similarly, Robert Wallace, a geologist in the USGS, wrote to Bryan that permafrost had been “readily adopted and understood by engineers and laymen in Alaska who are concerned with various permafrost problems in construction and mining.” He asserted that “the simplicity of ‘permafrost’ and the ease with which it conveys the essential meaning enhances its value immensely.”34 For Wilson and Wallace, the essence of frozen earth consisted primarily of its material reality in the ground as an engineering obstacle, and permafrost vividly evoked its persistence. In addition to expediency, those who accepted the term permafrost pointed to precedent. Robert Wallace informed Bryan that, “as I understand it, ‘permafrost’ is very nearly a literal translation of the R ­ ussian term ‘vechnaya merzlota’ which has been in use for a considerable ­period of time, thereby gaining a certain priority.”35 Without knowledge of Russian, Bryan was unable to assess Wallace’s claim. In fact, as we have seen, the expression vechnaia merzlota first emerged in ­Russian sources in the 1870s.36 Its use as a scientific term had been fiercely contested as recently as the 1930s, and debates about its meaning and ­validity were soon revived in the late 1940s. North American researchers were interested in the latest work on frozen earth by Soviet scientists, but up-to-date information was difficult to come by. An opportunity presented itself in November 1945, when the US Army Corps of Engineers received a proposal to exchange scientific literature from the USSR Academy of Sciences’ INMERO. The request was communicated via the American-Soviet Science Society, an affiliate of the National Council of American-Soviet Friendship based in New York City. The Corps sought permission from the General Staff of the US War Department to participate. In its memorandum, the O ­ ffice of the Chief of Engineers explained that the Corps was “vitally interested in the problems of permafrost” and that INMERO was “known to have a large collection of accurate scientific data on the phenomenon collected over a long period of years.” Given that “no similar fund of comparable data exists anywhere,” the Corps was keen to gain access to recent Soviet reports on frozen earth, redressing the current situation whereby “practically all studies on the subject as compiled by the Corps of Engineers are almost entirely taken from Russian literature of earlier years.” The Soviets were likewise eager to share information; according to the American-Soviet Science Society, the director of I­NMERO was “most anxious to establish such contact.”37 After organizations in the United States received Soviet scientific articles, however, it remained necessary to digest the information. A 1949 survey revealed that roughly fifty employees of the US government had

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Russian skills, and about half of them worked for the military. Only a dozen, however, were engaged in technical translation.38 Siemon ­Muller was one of the first and only to review sources in Russian on frozen earth, but he returned to teaching at Stanford University in fall 1945. As he transitioned back to academic life, Muller strived to ensure not only that the US government would proceed with permafrost r­ esearch but also that someone would continue cataloguing and abstracting relevant Russian literature. Initially, he passed the job onto Maxim Elias, a ­Russian-born geologist with the USGS.39 In 1947, however, the USGS also hired Inna Poiré, a more recent transplant. As one of a handful of people with both geological training and fluency in Russian, Poiré was tasked with preparing English condensations of Soviet scientific papers and reviewing translations by others. She applied herself to her assignments with notable dedication and attention.40 During her first year at the USGS, she composed sixty-one English synopses of Russian-language articles about frozen earth, some of which, to preserve important details, ran over forty pages.41 In a r­ esponse to a colleague’s request to clarify Russian definitions of geographical features found in frozen earth regions, Poiré wondered at his amazement “if you could see the books and cards that are covering my desk now, when I am writing this letter, and that I usually employ to have exact data.”42 Poiré’s exactitude led her to become keenly aware of the difficulties of rendering Russian scientific literature into English. Inadequate technical knowledge or linguistic skills partly explained the “very poor” translations that came across her desk for review. Critiquing a translation of a Soviet textbook on frozen earth science, for example, she corrected mistakes that revealed the translator’s lack of familiarity with the field’s techniques and concepts, noting that “skvazhina is a borehole or drill hole and is not a crevice,” and “snezhnik is a snow accumulation in a hollow ... not a snow flake.” She pointed to the frequency with which the translator misread subordinate clauses, noting dryly that translators “should not change the meaning by referring the clause to the wrong word.”43 The prevalence of errors reflected the challenge of finding Russian speakers with the requisite expertise in the earth sciences. In addition to inaccurate translations, Poiré’s reports also drew attention to ambiguities in terms and disagreements about nomenclature. She expressed bewilderment at the manifold misuses of the term permafrost. To say that the “ground is in [a] frozen state” made sense, Poiré wrote, but to say that it was in a “state of permafrost” did not, for permafrost was supposedly itself a material body and not a condition of something else. Texts also contained apparently nonsensical redundancies



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such as “permafrost soil,” “permafrost ground,” and “permafrost of long ­duration.” How, after all, could permafrost not be of long duration, if it referred to permanently frozen ground? What was permafrost if soil or ground was not self-evidently understood? In sum, Poiré cautioned, “I believe that the translators should be more careful with the terms,” for “a permafrost mixture of this kind should not be in the translation of a scientific or a technical paper.”44 Eventually, Poiré’s careful reading of scientific literature in Russian increased her own scepticism about the English neologism permafrost. She noted that certain Soviet scientists contested the term, vechnaia merzlota, from which Muller derived permafrost. When translating their articles, she argued, “the term permafrost cannot be applied,” given that they opposed the original Russian expression. Poiré also detected the lack of clarity in the Russian word merzlota and whether it referred to a substance, condition, or structure. Rather than ignoring the ambiguity, Poiré let it sit by leaving merzlota untranslated, as when she described mar’ as “a swamp or bog occurring in the southern part of the region with merzlota.”45 Her approach, though imperfect, nevertheless attested to her geological expertise, knowledge of cultural context, and commitment to accuracy. Yet it was unlikely to satisfy those in the US government who sought a mode of quick communication. Poiré came to realize that problems of usage were connected to ambiguities in the meaning of permafrost and uncertainty about the very object of study. Criticism and self-criticism While Sumgin’s idea of vechnaia merzlota circulated internationally as permafrost in the postwar period, it came under renewed criticism within the USSR. Once again, political context shaped scientific ­developments, but this time in a different direction. During the 1930s, as we saw in chapter 4, the urgency of socialist industrialization overshadowed disputes about the terminology of frozen earth. Similarly, in the United States during the 1940s and 1950s, the needs of military engineering took priority over discussing nomenclature. But in the Soviet Union after World War II, during the last years of Stalin’s rule, events transpired that placed theoretical questions in the limelight. The Communist Party’s campaign for “creative discussions” occasioned meetings where debate took place according to the party ritual of “criticism and self-criticism.” While discussing important theoretical questions in their fields, scholars were also expected to demonstrate active commitment to Marxism, pride in Russian achievements, and service to the state. At INMERO, scientists utilized the impetus of the

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party campaign to interrogate long-standing problems of terminology in their field. While encouraging scientific debate, however, the politics of late Stalinism also twisted it. It reopened possibilities for thinking about frozen earth as a process or condition connected to the planet’s thermal system. But it also mandated that such ideas be translated into the language of Marxism-Leninism. The heated, drawn-out controversy surrounding the terminology of frozen earth in the postwar Soviet Union began in 1946. That year, INMERO commemorated two recent anniversaries: the centenary of Middendorff’s expedition to Siberia, marking the start of systematic research into frozen earth, and fifteen years since the creation of KIVM within the Academy of Sciences.46 While marking their achievements, INMERO scientists betrayed anxiety about their academic status. They sought to beat back suggestions that their field was “narrow and limited” and “aimed only at catering to the sporadic needs of practical work.” Their repeated assertions that their field, merzlotovedenie, was an “independent branch of science” had the ring of an appeal as much as a description.47 Scientists in more established neighbouring disciplines, such as geography, continued to criticize INMERO for failing to produce far-reaching results.48 Confronted with scepticism from their colleagues, INMERO scientists sought to elevate the theoretical rigour and sophistication of their work. While doing so, they used the ideology of Marxism-Leninism and the opportunities presented by C ­ ommunist Party politics. Discussions about theory, however, exposed a lack of clarity and consensus about the most basic concepts and assumptions. Attempts to resolve understandings inevitably brought INMERO ­scientists face to face with a host of existential questions. What was the subject matter and scope of their discipline? What set their methods and frameworks apart from other sciences? To what extent was their expertise centred on frozen earth – and how should they understand that phenomenon? Because questions of language lay at the intersection of science, ideology, and politics, terminology became a particular focal point for contention. In 1946, an editorial statement in the inaugural issue of the journal ­Merzlotovedenie hinted at the aspiration to put frozen earth science on a stronger footing. It duly emphasized the maturation of a “young scientific ­discipline” centred on frozen earth. At the same time, however, it ­declared that “up until now there has been a lack of consensus on the formulation of definitions, and there is no generally accepted terminology.” To e­ nable the field’s development, the editors expressed interest in fostering “­objective criticism” of existing assumptions. Moreover, in charting the future direction of research, they affirmed as their guiding



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principle “the Marxist-Leninist world view – dialectical materialism,” which served as an “unshakeable foundation, imparting boldness and confidence to scientific pursuits.”49 The journal gave notice that core concepts were open to question and averred that ideology would help overcome the shortcomings of their science. What would it mean for dialectical materialism to guide the science of frozen earth? The editors gave some indication by situating it within a systems framework. They pointed to the importance of investigating the “dynamics of vechnaia merzlota” (dinamika vechnoi merzloty) and its relationship with the “geological-geographical environment.” ­Especially needed was better understanding of “all the particularities of the process of freezing and thawing in earth of varying composition, structure, and moisture content.” Even more than frozen earth, they perceived their focus to be transformations associated with the phase change of water. Such processes might take place underground, but they also occurred on the earth’s surface, in the atmosphere, and at sea. The authors therefore anticipated the expansion of their field to encompass the study of “water in its solid state in general,” including “snow, firn, avalanches, glaciers, and river, lake, valley, and sea ice.” In this broadened perspective, the discipline would “unite the methods and achievements of different branches of science such as physics, geography, geology, hydrology.”50 The editors envisioned their subject as being characterized by change and connectedness on a global scale. Although the editorial mentioned no names, its perspective was markedly different from Sumgin’s treatment of frozen earth as an aggregate structure. It borrowed instead from a trend in geography that emphasized the study of processes shaping the earth’s surface. The process approach was associated with Andrei Grigorev, director of the Academy of Sciences’ Institute for Geography, who began advocating the framework in the 1930s and continued developing it in the postwar period.51 Grigorev drew a contrast between his method and ­previous geographers’ focus on classification and description. Instead of ­delineating types of physical-geographical landscapes, he aimed to understand changes in the planet’s “geographical envelope”: that realm where the earth’s various parts interacted, including the “lithosphere, atmosphere, hydrosphere, biosphere, solar radiation, and a number of other categories of energy.” He proclaimed interest in not only the connections between these spheres but more importantly their impacts upon each other and the effects of their mutual influences on the earth’s crust as a whole.52 As one of the Soviet Union’s leading geographers, Grigorev demonstrated that ideology could be fruitfully combined with science. He

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connected his ideas to the philosophy of Friedrich Engels and to the geochemistry of Vladimir Vernadskii. Like Vernadskii’s biosphere, Grigorev’s “geographical envelope” was a site of energy exchange and central to an integrated view of the planet that anticipated earth systems science. Following Engels, Grigorev tied the emphasis on process, interaction, and change to the principles of dialectical materialism.53 In the postwar period, he campaigned for his framework to become the theoretical foundation for research in geography. His fusion of Marxist thought, systems thinking, and active politicking served as a model for a rising group of frozen earth scientists. The systems approach resonated especially with three leading members of INMERO: Petr Shvetsov, Vladimir Kudryavtsev, and Arkadii Kolesnikov. Shvetsov graduated from the Ordzhonikidze Institute for Geological Surveying in Moscow with a degree in hydrogeology and engineering geology. He was a member of the Communist Party, a Red Army veteran of World War II, and secretary of INMERO’s party ­organization.54 Shvetsov therefore had an obligation to communicate and reinforce the party’s positions and concerns at the institute, ­including the ideology of Marxism-Leninism. Kudryavtsev graduated from the Plekhanov Mining Institute in Leningrad and Moscow State University. His research centred precisely on the “dynamics of vechnaia merzlota,” which he explained as deriving from “two sources, the first being climate and the second being the geological-geographical environment.”55 Kolesnikov, who studied thermal physics at Moscow State University, focused on sea ice in his research.56 He brought a hydrological perspective and attention to marine as well as terrestrial freezing. Their political and intellectual backgrounds prepared them to translate scientific ideas into ideological language and draw upon Communist Party ideology to advance their field. Shvetsov, Kudryavtsev, and Kolesnikov took the responsibility of policing proper uses of the systems approach. As other ­scientists attempted to develop frozen earth research by investigating the ­ “­dynamics of vechnaia merzlota,” they encountered pitfalls. Their work could be deemed unacceptable not only if their ideas were flawed, but also if they used ideologically suspect language. Such was the case with Dmitrii Redozubov, a geophysicist who had worked at the Vorkuta frozen earth research station.57 In 1946, he published an article in the institute’s journal Transactions that attempted to view frozen earth from a systems perspective, through the lens of geothermal processes and the distribution and flow of heat as exhibited by temperature gradients. Although the journal’s editor, Andrei Chekotillo, qualified in footnotes certain of Redozubov’s statements, scientists during the



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review process praised the originality of the work on the whole.58 In a volume dominated by articles focusing on engineering problems (specifically, building foundations), Redozubov’s piece was notable for elucidating connections between frozen earth and climate on a broad scale. A year after its publication, however, a scathing response appeared in Merzlotovedenie by Shvetsov, Kudryavtsev, and Kolesnikov. Their polemics conveyed the belief that innovations in frozen earth science had to meet standards of both scientific and ideological correctness. Because the exchange illustrates concretely how scientific, linguistic, and ideological issues were intertwined, it is worth exploring in more detail. Shvetsov, Kudryavtsev, and Kolesnikov focused in particular on ­Redozubov’s terminology. According to them, Redozubov’s ­language  – his terms and concepts – were both incompatible with dialectical materialism and symptomatic of faulty science. In his article, Redozubov modified existing concepts and introduced new ones to communicate his research, which focused on patterns in the distribution of temperatures in frozen earth. To begin with, he proposed an alternative definition of vechnaia merzlota. Instead of Sumgin’s notion of ground with a negative temperature, Redozubov took vechnaia merzlota to ­refer to negative temperature itself. Specifically, he wrote: “By vechnaia merzlota is understood the existence of a negative temperature field located ­beneath the depth of zero annual amplitude in the upper layers of the lithosphere.” Note that Redozubov’s vechnaia merzlota consisted foremost of a “negative temperature field” (otritsatel’noe temperaturnoe pole). It was clearly distinct, in his mind, from “the rock in which the negative temperature field is spread.” The rock, he asserted, was the “environment [sreda]” for vechnaia merzlota.59 Redozubov’s understanding ­borrowed from physics, which distinguishes a field – the region in which a force exerts influence – from any given material body. In his version of the systems approach, frozen earth was viewed not in terms of particular substances but as a space. While adopting a systems approach, however, Redozubov introduced a set of terms featuring the adjective “stationary” (statsionarnyi) that turned out to be ideologically suspect. The goal was to outline, in broad strokes, the process by which frozen earth reacted to changes in climate, here understood as mean annual air temperatures.60 Recall that, in his definition, Redozubov restricted vechnaia merzlota to the space below “the depth of zero annual amplitude.” The depth of zero annual amplitude referred to a certain level underground at which temperatures remained the same throughout the year. Beneath this level, the earth was unaffected by short-term, seasonal fluctuations in air temperature.

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Figure 1.  “Diagram of the establishment of a stationary temperature condition in the eternally frozen layer” by Redozubov. Translated and reproduced from Trudy Instituta merzlotovedeniia (1946). Drawn by Kate Blackmer.

Redozubov therefore expected temperatures at such depths to normalize in relationship to depth. To explain this, Redozubov depicted vechnaia merzlota – understood as a negative temperature field – on a graph with temperature on the horizontal axis and depth on the vertical axis (see Figure 1). Given a sufficiently long period of stable climate, the graph would show a straight line. With every increase in depth towards the centre of the earth, there would be a proportional increase in temperature in accord with the ­geothermal gradient produced by the planet’s internal heat. The temperature would increase with depth until it reached 0°C, the point at which the negative temperature field abutted the positive temperature field below it. Vechnaia merzlota that exhibited a linear relationship between depth and temperature, Redozubov posited, had achieved a “stationary condition” (statsionarnoe sostoianie), the baseline stage. If the climate changed substantially, then the temperature at the level of zero annual amplitude would also change, and the graph of temperature versus depth would deviate from a straight line. After some time, a straight line, or constant gradient, would be restored under the new conditions. Redozubov called the number of years required to reach this second stage “stationary time” (statsionarnoe vremia). Finally, after a prolonged stretch of stable climate, the changed gradient of the negative



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temperature field would equalize with the positive temperature field underneath it. As this happened, the lower boundary of vechnaia merzlota would either rise, in the case of a warmer new climate, or d ­ escend, in the case of a cooler climate (see Figure 2). When the lower boundary had settled at the level appropriate to the new temperature gradient, vechnaia merzlota had arrived at its “stationary capacity [­statsionarnaia moshchnost’].”61 Redozubov’s work had affinities with the notion of investigating the dynamics of frozen earth advocated by Shvetsov, Kudryavtsev, and Kolesnikov. He aimed to shed light on changes in the thermal profile of frozen earth and connect these phenomena to atmospheric warming and cooling. The three scientists, however, rejected the possibility of common ground with Redozubov. To begin with, the three scientists suggested that Redozubov’s redefinition of vechnaia merzlota smacked of idealism, tantamount to heresy within an ideology based upon dialectical materialism.62 “Insofar as the author defines vechnaia merzlota as a negative temperature field,” they wrote, “so it is that vechnaia ­merzlota itself, for Redozubov, has ceased to be material and become something ideal, existing in the imagination as purely the fruit of ideas.” By separating vechnaia merzlota from the substances of rock and ­water, Redozubov had apparently rendered it intangible and “mythical [mificheskii].”63 Not only was the conceptual move ­objectionable on ­ideological grounds, but it was also problematic scientifically. The ­version of the systems a­ pproach advocated by Shvetsov, K ­ udryavtsev, and Kolesnikov e­ ntailed more precise attention to the specific materials that constituted frozen earth. Redozubov’s definition of vechnaia merzlota as a negative temperature field, divorced from any particular substance, was a step in the wrong direction. To Shvetsov, Kudryavtsev, and Kolesnikov, Redozubov’s mistake lay in his language and his understanding of frozen earth. The three scientists recoiled at the notion of “stationary.” Redozubov used the term to talk about a process of stabilization that occurred under conditions of a prolonged climatic steady state. But his critics argued that such conditions did not exist. “The idea of a stationary state,” they wrote, was “divorced from nature, from tangible reality.” In their conception of the dynamics of frozen earth, the earth’s climate experienced multiple ­oscillations of varying periodicities, all of which caused fluctuations in the transfer of heat through the earth. Such “constant movement,” they wrote, “precludes a stationary state of heat flow.” By contrast, both the word “stationary” and the assumption that mean annual air temperatures and temperatures at the depth of zero annual amplitude could remain consistent from year to year showed a belief in stagnation.

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Figure 2.  Redozubov’s diagrams of temperature changes in the layer of vechnaia merzlota given a warming climate (above) and a cooling climate (below). Translated and reproduced from Trudy Instituta merzlotovedeniia (1946). Drawn by Kate Blackmer.



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Redozubov promoted the “absurd” perception that “vechnaia merzlota was frozen and solidified not only in the usual understanding of the word but frozen as well in its development.”64 Given that a central element of dialectical materialism consisted of progressive change, his thinking was alien to Marxism-Leninism. As Shvetsov, Kudryavtsev, and Kolesnikov’s article showed, in 1947, INMERO scientists were already engaging with Marxism-Leninism in their scientific thought. By 1948, the party had launched a campaign for “creative discussions” in the sciences as part of efforts to reassert control of Soviet intellectual life.65 Taking their cue from the Party leadership, INMERO scientists strove to fulfil the official mandate of fostering “criticism in science and the struggle of opinions.”66 They took issues of theory and terminology to the floor of increasingly contentious meetings at INMERO. Directives from above coincided with initiatives from below. The advent of the “creative discussions” campaign provided an opportunity to simultaneously comply with the regime’s demands and force a conversation about foundational concepts in their field. It s­ imultaneously promoted and distorted scientific debate. Besides a battle of ideas, the pressure from above encouraged political posturing and dogmatism. INMERO scientists’ terminology campaign tracked key moments in the Communist Party’s campaign for creative discussions. After August 1948, when Stalin endorsed the Michurinist biology of Trofim Lysenko, INMERO held a meeting that explicitly placed the issue of terminology on the agenda. The meeting got underway with a report by deputy director Nikolai Tsytovich. Deploying party jargon, Tsytovich ­denounced instances of “formalism,” “scholasticism,” and “naked empiricism” in frozen earth research. He drew particular attention to the appearance of faulty terms and concepts in the literature. ­Building on this criticism, Pavel Koloskov, chair of a department within the Obruchev Institute, asserted that the very expression vechnaia merzlota was part of the problem. Repeating Sergei Parkhomenko’s argument from a decade earlier – although without mentioning him explicitly – Koloskov pointed out that frozen earth was not in fact “eternal,” since “in a preceding geological epoch, under different climatic conditions,” it would not have existed, and “in the future, given a severe change in climate,” it could disappear. Koloskov also unwittingly echoed ­another critic of Sumgin, Elenevskii, by adding that, with its “idealistic undertone,” vechnaia merzlota gave the wrong impression of “­tremendous stability.” The term therefore “exaggerates the difficulty of the far-reaching management” of frozen earth, a goal that carried great political significance given Soviet ambitions of industrializing the peripheries. As the discussion escalated, Tsytovich was moved to declare,

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“We need to expressly take up the question of terminology. What is vechnaia ­merzlota? What is the entire range of phenomena ­connected with vechnaia merzlota?”67 In March 1951, INMERO held another meeting concerning terminology, this time inspired by the “genius work of I.V. Stalin, ‘Marxism and Questions of Linguistics.’” During the previous year, Stalin had publicly intervened in an academic debate about the origins and development of language by publishing articles in Pravda. In his writings, he underlined the importance of “a battle of opinions” and “freedom of criticism” for scientific progress.68 His pronouncement precipitated a new wave of discussions among scientists. Paying homage to the d ­ ictator’s cult of personality, Shvetsov called upon INMERO to strive in its theoretical framework for the same “sharpness, succinctness, precision, clarity, accessibility, harmony, logic, and depth” that Stalin had displayed in his thinking. Whereas earlier discussions at INMERO touched on party politics more obliquely, on this occasion Kudryavtsev pointed boldly to “ideologically false, mistaken works.” Redozubov was again singled out for censure as Kudryavtsev stressed the “­necessity of unrelentingly monitoring the purity [chistota] of our merzlotovedenie.”69 The tone of the discussion became more strident. Harsh, politicized, and unfair as the atmosphere was, the meeting successfully raised issues of genuine relevance to the science of frozen earth. Engineering geologist Ivan Baranov put his finger on language as a fundamental problem. He declared that “the lack of precision in terminology forms a large gap in frozen earth research.” Basic terms such as vechnaia merzlota and merzlotnyi protsess (“frozen earth process”) were bandied about despite having “no indisputable definitions.” Sumgin had popularized vechnaia merzlota, but it seemed that neither committees nor textbooks had generated a consistent understanding of what it meant. Baranov found “no correspondence between ideas and the terms designating them.”70 Terms failed to give an accurate ­picture of the phenomena they referred to, while relevant characteristics of ­natural objects and processes were not reflected in the scientific nomenclature used to describe them. Take the expression vechnaia merzlota. Pavel Koloskov had already objected to the adjective vechnaia, “eternal,” but Baranov drew attention to the confusion surrounding the noun merzlota. Merzlota, Baranov underscored, meant nothing other than frozen rock – not ground, as Sumgin had stated, or soil, as usage implied. But as a term, merzlota did nothing to clarify the ambiguity because its form as a word included neither rock (poroda), soil (pochva), nor ground (grunt). Moreover, what made rock frozen was its material transformation, not its temperature.



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Defining frozenness on the basis of temperature, as existing textbooks in frozen earth science did, “does not highlight the qualitative change of rock in connection with freezing” that lay at the heart of the matter. By challenging the notion that freezing ought to be defined on the basis of temperature alone, Baranov renewed a debate that had dogged ­research into frozen earth since the days of Baer and Middendorff.71 Baranov also argued that muddled ideas about the meaning of merzlota distorted the priorities of research. Scientists should be studying every stage of the appearance, existence, and disappearance of frozen rock and analysing changes in the rock’s properties at each step – but they were not. Instead, they treated frozen rock only in its “static form, without reflecting its development in time and space,” that is, the evolution of its characteristics and the manner in which it spread. All these deficiencies led Baranov to assert that there was “no clarity about the framework and subject of the science.”72 Baranov’s declaration dealt a blow to efforts to raise the status of ­frozen earth science. He held the view that frozen earth science rested on deeply flawed assumptions, casting doubt on its overall epistemological framework. According to Baranov, terms and their definitions, and words and their meanings, were mistaken or misleading, which prevented scientists from producing genuine knowledge of frozen earth. After the 1951 meeting, a schism began to emerge between those who wanted to preserve the existing nomenclature and those who aimed to establish a fresh terminology. The new language would better suit the approach to frozen earth science that had been inspired by ­Marxism-Leninism, a systems approach that focused on processes as well as the geological-geographical environment. Its ascendancy, however, threatened to undermine Sumgin’s legacy. Moving forward, the politics of party pronouncements gave way to the politics of personal ambitions, as terminological reform became tied to individual ­scientists’ competition for leadership of INMERO. From merzlotovedenie to geocryology At INMERO, the late Stalinist campaign for creative discussions prompted a collective reconsideration of foundational concepts in the science of frozen earth. Even after Stalin’s death in March 1953, the d ­ ebate continued. Moreover, it acquired additional significance in light of a succession struggle at the institute. During the 1950s, as the ­positions of director and deputy director of INMERO became open for contest, Petr Shvetsov vied for leadership. Not only did he become ­director, but he simultaneously spearheaded a revision of the terminology and framework of frozen

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earth science. Shvetsov adopted a systems approach to frozen earth that we have encountered before as the thesis in the dialectic of the life of permafrost. Unlike Sumgin, who took frozen earth to be ground, Shvetsov approached it as a space – the “cryolithozone” – where exchanges of heat took place between different spheres of the planet. Through its participation in heat exchange, the cryolithozone made up part of the earth’s thermal system. Accordingly, Shvetsov attempted to translate merzlotovedenie, the science of vechnaia merzlota, into geocryology, the science of the cryolithozone. Genuine intellectual convictions were at stake. But their reception was shadowed by both local and global politics. Personal animosities engendered by the competition for status, habits of Communist Party political culture, and heightened expectations of patriotism during the early Cold War all militated against pluralism. Amid escalating disagreement, neither Shvetsov nor his rivals allowed for multiple epistemologies and ontologies of frozen earth, that is, for both sides of the dialectic of the life of permafrost. One individual who benefited intellectually and professionally from the upheaval at INMERO was Petr Shvetsov. During the 1950s, Shvetsov became the primary advocate for an earth systems approach to the science of frozen earth. Such a framework prioritized the understanding of processes over structures and situated frozen earth within a wider geological and physical-geographical environment. Shvetsov viewed frozen earth as a product of heat exchanges between planetary envelopes, including the lithosphere and the atmosphere. The direction and intensity of such exchanges depended on the envelopes’ material properties, which varied according to local conditions. Investigating the ­ interactions between specific geological-geographical environments and global processes of heat exchange was the essence of studying frozen earth. While promoting this perspective, Shvetsov moved to advance his career and consolidate his position in INMERO. A meeting in September 1953 revealed a shift in power within ­INMERO, where a miniature cult of personality had grown around Shvetsov. For five years, Shvetsov and Nikolai Tsytovich had served as co-deputy directors of the institute. The directorship was still held by Vladimir Obruchev, but from 1950 onward, the eminent geologist no longer visited the institute in person and by his own admission was not personally acquainted with the majority of those working there or even familiar with many of their names.73 While Sumgin was alive, Obruchev had happily ceded to him day-to-day leadership of the institute and played mostly a ceremonial role as director.74 After Sumgin’s death in 1942, Obruchev briefly and reluctantly assumed greater r­ esponsibilities, but poor health and old age began to take their toll. Now in his eighties,



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Obruchev had neither the energy nor desire to play an active role.75 His primary source of information about goings on at the institute was Andrei Chekotillo, who had temporarily fulfilled the responsibilities of deputy director until the Presidium of the Academy of Sciences ­appointed Shvetsov and Tsytovich. What Obruchev knew about the institute’s difficulties was filtered through Chekotillo’s perspective. He missed the meetings where scientists at INMERO, practising “criticism and self-criticism,” raised fundamental questions about the field. In Obruchev’s absence, Shvetsov cultivated his own supporters. His allies cast him as an innovator in frozen earth science, as well as its ­defender. At the September 1953 meeting, Vasilii Ponomarev, a colleague at INMERO, hailed Shvetsov as a “leading scientist” who carried out a “fervent struggle” for the victory of “advanced ideas based on dialectical materialism.” Eliding the contributions of Shvetsov’s co-authors, he declared Shvetsov to be the “initiator against D.V. ­Redozubov’s metaphysical ideas about vechnaia merzlota, having exposed the bankruptcy of these notions in the pages of the journal Merzlotovedenie in 1947.” Ponomarev also referred to “a real history of merzlotovedenie” being written by Shvetsov that would fully recognize Russian achievements in the study of frozen earth. The work in progress promised to demonstrate the “total absurdity of narratives by previous researchers (Sumgin and others) asserting the priority of foreigners in the area of merzlotovedenie.”76 Ponomarev’s statement revealed more about internal institutional politics than about Shvetsov’s or Sumgin’s patriotism. It signalled that Sumgin’s legacy was being re-evaluated as Shvetsov built his claim to leadership of INMERO. One aspect of the Communist Party’s postwar campaigns consisted of a movement to expose instances of alleged servility to the West. Citing and collaborating with foreign scholars became suspect, potentially revealing insufficient faith and pride in the achievements of Soviet (especially Russian) scientists. Agronomist Trofim Lysenko labelled genetics as “Mendelism-Morganism” in his efforts to win Party support for “Michurinist biology.” His success suggested that, in the case of the science of frozen earth, tarring Sumgin with the brush of “kowtowing before the West” could bolster Shvetsov’s legitimacy as the field’s new spokesperson.77 But careerism alone did not explain the impulse to undermine Sumgin’s work. Professional ambition and ideological commitments coexisted with intellectual earnestness. In Shvetsov’s case, dissatisfaction with Sumgin’s ideas grew over time as he wrestled with existential questions about the focus and framework of frozen earth research. Shvetsov published his first statement on problems of terminology in the

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Bulletin of the USSR Academy of Sciences in 1951. The article, “­Regarding the Definition of Several Concepts in Frozen Earth Science,” aimed to clarify and update existing terms while preserving and building upon Sumgin’s thinking. In light of recent debates at INMERO, Shvetsov found it necessary to address the concept that lay at the centre of controversy and the heart of the discipline: vechnaia merzlota. To INMERO scientists, including Shvetsov, vechnaia merzlota was ­associated with Sumgin, who besides being recognized as the founder of their field was also perceived as having bequeathed its terms and concepts.78 Shvetsov defended Sumgin’s term and justified its existing ­definition of ground that sustained a negative temperature for at least two years. He acknowledged that Sumgin’s definition left out key components and qualifications, but he did not yet pronounce it fundamentally flawed. Instead, he offered the justification that “zero degrees, being a physical constant of distilled water” served as a “conditional boundary that, as it were, in an objective, rudimentarily simple, and practically unmistakable way makes it possible to distinguish frozen from thawed rock and soil.” Given that the freezing point of water was an easily recognizable standard, and that water in the environment crystallized at some temperature below 0°C, then defining frozen rock on the basis of negative temperature could still be valid. To support this rather delicate reasoning, Shvetsov cited Lenin as stating that “all boundaries, both in nature and in society, are flexible and to a certain d ­ egree conditional.”79 The quotation derived from the ­Bolshevik leader’s treatise on the philosophy of science, Materialism and ­Empirio-Criticism, a defence of materialist ontology and realist epistemology. In its original context, Lenin’s comment was directed against thinkers who used scientific uncertainties to cast doubt on material reality and objective truth. Just because some elements of the world were indeterminate did not make them less real or less possible to grasp, Lenin argued.80 Shvetsov appropriated the canonical text to suggest that, similarly, a degree of imprecision in Sumgin’s definition did not repudiate the existence of frozen earth or the science of studying it. Four years later, Shvetsov changed his tune. He became convinced that, far from being a sideshow, problems with terminology and ­nomenclature were symptomatic of deeper confusion about the subject, purpose, and framework of merzlotovedenie. Instead of tweaking terms and definitions, as he did previously, Shvetsov determined to reframe the entire field. In the process, he became dissatisfied with Sumgin’s ideas and approach. Sumgin’s definition of vechnaia merzlota had emphasized temperature (ground that measured less than 0°C) and time (for at least two years). Rather than temperature and time, Shvetsov



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shifted the focus to materials, heat, and space. Where Sumgin borrowed concepts from meteorology and civil engineering, Shvetsov drew ­inspiration from geology and geography. The object of study, Shvetsov asserted, ought to be not frozen earth but the frozen zone of the earth’s crust – the “cryolithozone.” This entity was not an aggregate structure but an envelope where exchanges of heat took place between different spheres of the planet. Through its participation in heat exchange, the cryolithozone made up part of the system that was the earth as a whole. Shvetsov called this science of the cryolithozone geocryology. To great controversy, he attempted to supplant Sumgin’s discipline of merzlotovedenie with his vision of geokriologiia. Shvetsov communicated his new perspective with two publications in 1955: a book entitled Introductory Chapters to the Fundamentals of Geocryology, and an article in the Bulletin of the Academy of Sciences, “On several terms in the study of the zone of frozen soil and rock and its place among the sciences.” He co-authored the latter with Leonid Meister, a colleague at INMERO who became his ally amid a growing rift within the organization over his ideas. As a sign of the ongoing reverberations of the Communist Party’s postwar campaigns in intellectual life, Shvetsov and Meister evoked Stalin’s writings on linguistics to introduce their subject, even though the dictator had been dead for two years. Citing Stalin’s pronouncement that language “sets down the results of intellectual work” and enables people to “exchange ideas and attain mutual understanding,” Shvetsov and Meister asserted that the goal of scientific terminology was to “accurately and clearly express the essence of concepts” and “exclude the possibility of discrepancies in interpretation.” For this reason, the scientists felt compelled “to ­declare completely unsatisfactory the widely used term merzlota and its derivative, merzlotovedenie.”81 That such a statement came from two individuals working at the Institut merzlotovedeniia revealed the crisis of identity that gripped the Soviet science of frozen earth. The reasons for Shvetsov’s newfound disapproval of merzlota were semantic, ontological, and epistemological. Semantically, merzlota was problematic for reasons of grammar and usage. Shvetsov expressed dismay that Sumgin had used merzlota to mean two different things: the soil itself and a condition of the soil. He thus rediscovered the ambiguity that had dogged the word merzlota since the nineteenth century. This ambiguity was evident in Sumgin’s Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, the book that launched the field. On the one hand, Shvetsov wrote, Sumgin “put an equal sign between the terms ‘frozen soil’ and merzlota.” In this case, merzlota was a noun derived from the adjective merzlyi, “frozen,” and it referred to a physical substance,

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namely, soil. On the other hand, the title of Sumgin’s book was vechnaia merzlota pochvy – “eternal merzlota of the soil.” Given the rules of the Russian language, merzlota in this instance was not the soil itself but a quality possessed by the soil. Here merzlota “had no precise physical meaning” because it was a “noun, formed from an adjective, designating the condition of an object but abstracted from the object itself.” So much for grammar. Usage only deepened the ambiguity. “They say that a building rests upon merzlota,” Shvetsov wrote, “and when the building’s foundation thaws, they say: merzlota has disappeared from under the building.” But if merzlota referred to soil itself, then how could it “disappear from under the building”? And yet, if it were only a condition of the soil, how could it physically support a building?82 The meaning of merzlota as a scientific term was not at all clear. Not only was it unclear what the word merzlota meant, but Shvetsov also uncovered uncertainty about what the phenomenon was. If ­merzlota was understood as an actual substance, then what would that substance be? Sumgin referred to merzlota as soil and as ground, which he sometimes conflated, as in the phrase “frozen soil or ground” that appeared on a list of terms issued in 1931 by KIVM’s subcommittee on terminology, chaired by Sumgin. For Shvetsov, however, just as it had been for Parkhomenko, soil and ground were distinct bodies that ought not to be equated with each other – a fact that was “not taken into consideration by M.I. Sumgin and his disciples.”83 Furthermore, if merzlota was something that could be vechnaia, that is, frozen continuously for at least two years, then it could not possibly be soil. Invoking the words of Vasilii Dokuchaev, the pre-revolutionary founder of Russian soil ­science, Shvetsov explained that soil was the “crumbly, uppermost layer of the earth’s crust” that “emerged as a result of the mutual activity of the following agents: living and decaying organisms (vegetation as well as animals), parent rock, climate, and local relief.” Typically, “the thickness of the soil layer is quite small, rarely exceeding two ­meters.” At such depths from the surface, seasonal changes in atmospheric temperatures and levels of solar radiation had direct e­ ffects. By definition, then, soil experienced yearly freezing and thawing and therefore “cannot be perennially or eternally frozen.”84 Equating merzlota with ground did not answer the question, either. Shvetsov considered ground to be any earth material used in construction as “foundations, environment, and building materials.” It was an engineering concept understood functionally rather than on the basis of specific physical characteristics. Ground therefore had no ontological meaning that could be used to pin down the nature of merzlota. If merzlota was frozen matter, the essence of that matter was a mystery.



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The most plausible candidate for the substance of merzlota, Shvetsov concluded, was rock. Lying beneath the soil, rock was situated at depths affected by long-term climate but not seasonal changes in the atmosphere. It had the potential to be frozen continuously for many years. If the matter in question was rock, Shvetsov reasoned, then scientific terminology ought to specify it as such. Not only would naming the physical object make sense from the point of view of logic and precision, but doing so would also befit a materialist philosophy of science. Rock was gornaia poroda; frozen rock was merzlaia gornaia poroda; and rock that remained frozen for many years was mnogoletnemerzlaia gornaia poroda. As for the infelicitous word merzlota, its meaning could be restricted to the abstract condition of frozenness, thus resolving its ­semantic ­ambiguity.85 Unlike in his earlier writing, Shvetsov now framed these terminological changes as a corrective – indeed, a challenge – to Sumgin’s ideas, rather than a refinement of them. Wrestling with semantic and ontological questions exposed problems of epistemology as well. Shvetsov asserted that the “muddled understanding and definition of the word merzlota” had generated confusion about the “aims, approaches, and potential” of science. For frozen earth scientists, everything from what they studied to how they studied it had to be reimagined. Since the 1930s, frozen earth scientists had called their discipline merzlotovedenie, meaning “merzlota-ology,” or the study of merzlota. But given that merzlota was now revealed to mean only a condition rather than a physical object, it could hardly be the defining subject of a science. “The natural sciences,” Shvetsov argued, “have progressed successfully only through researching matter itself and the forms of motion intrinsic to it.” Focusing solely on “one condition of material systems does not give rise to genuine sciences” and, moreover, ran the risk of succumbing to “naked energetics.”86 In the ­Marxist-Leninist philosophy of science, energetics was anathema. Its claim that energy was the source of matter and motion and the foundation of existence was lambasted in Lenin’s Materialism and Empirio-Criticism as an immaterialist fallacy.87 Taking his cue from the Bolshevik leader, Shvetsov insisted that “the object of science is the ­material world, the forms of motion of matter and not some conditions of matter.”88 Science based on the principles of dialectical materialism could not have merzlota as its focus. What, then, ought to be frozen earth scientists’ focus of study? What kind of framework could unite their various strands of research into a coherent discipline? To answer these questions, Shvetsov drew from a tradition of conceptualizing the earth as a series of spherical “envelopes” surrounding a core. He also contributed to a trend of viewing

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the planet as a dynamic system. Shvetsov endorsed the concept of the cryosphere, a “spatially unified, uninterrupted system” that consisted of those “particular zones of the gaseous, liquid, and solid envelopes of the Earth” characterized by the presence of frost and ice. He traced the idea back to Mikhail Lomonosov, the eighteenth-century Russian naturalist whose work encompassed mineralogy, geography, and ­geognosy. As we saw in chapter 3, the word “cryosphere” itself had already been introduced by Dobrowolski and validated by Vernadskii.89 Included within the cryosphere were portions of the atmosphere, h ­ ydrosphere, and lithosphere – roughly speaking, the air, bodies of water, and land – containing ice. What frozen earth scientists studied, according to Shvetsov, was the terrestrial realm of the cryosphere, that is, “the zone of the earth’s crust consisting of frozen and negative temperature soil and rock.” Shvetsov called this space the cryolithozone: the “frozen zone of the lithosphere.”90 For Shvetsov, having the cryolithozone be the subject of study fully accorded with the principles of dialectical materialism. Instead of a condition, the cryolithozone was a space defined by the presence of certain materials, namely, ice, soil, and rock. It explicitly included water, which had been so glaringly absent from Sumgin’s conception of vechnaia merzlota. As a materially defined space, the cryolithozone could be studied in terms of the qualitative physical changes of its component elements. When water crystallized into ice, the water-bearing soil and rock likewise underwent a “fundamental change” in “structure, texture, and volume” associated with the “abrupt decrease in internal energy.” The freezing process introduced tension in the cryolithozone, resulting in the “deformation of the topsoil.” These manifold transformations, Shvetsov noted, were “extremely complex” and worthy of study.91 Besides satisfying the materialist requirements of a Marxist-Leninist philosophy of science, focusing on the cryolithozone illuminated the ­dialectics of nature. As part of the larger earth system, the cryolithozone participated in heat exchange with the atmosphere. This exchange, Shvetsov explained, was a source of the earth system’s dynamism. It ­included multiple processes: “the entry of radiation energy from the sun and other stars into the soil through the atmosphere; the earth’s own radiation into the atmosphere and interplanetary space; heat transfer connected with the moisture cycle of the soil and atmosphere; and the flow of heat in the atmosphere, which causes temperature differences and convection.” When describing the cryolithozone, Shvetsov evoked Engels’s principles of dialectics. According to the Law of Unity and Struggle of Opposites, change in a system was the outcome of ­interactions between opposing parts. In this case, the system consisted



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not of the economic organization of society, but earth itself. The mechanism of heat exchange between the atmosphere and cryolithozone was the dialectic that drove the motion of matter on the planet.92 Making the cryolithozone, rather than merzlota, the object of study entailed shifting the epistemological framework of frozen earth ­research. Where Sumgin focused on time, Shvetsov emphasized space; where Sumgin was concerned with temperature, Shvetsov was interested in heat and energy. Shvetsov acknowledged that soil and rock remained frozen for varying lengths of time, with the key distinction being between the seasonal and the perennial. But instead of treating the period of its existence as a primary characteristic of frozen earth, he foregrounded the spatial reasons for temporal differences in frozenness. Frozen soil and rock lasted for different amounts of time because, depending on their location on the planet, they were exposed to differing levels of solar radiation. To highlight this “spatial relationship,” Shvetsov depicted a quarter cross-section of Earth showing the north pole at the top and the equator along the bottom (see Figure 3). The “zonal quality” of frozen earth revealed itself along a north-south axis as well as in the interior envelopes of the planet, from the upper layers of soil to the lower layers of rock. Seasonal cryolithozones, which contained soil, were located near the planet’s surface at middle latitudes. These regions responded to seasonal fluctuations in levels of solar radiation so that soil that froze in winter subsequently thawed in summer. Perennial cryolithozones, which contained rock, were situated deeper beneath the surface and at higher latitudes. They received less solar ­radiation, enabling frozen rock to maintain its condition for years.93 Time – the duration of frozenness – was therefore a function of space. While correlating time with space, Shvetsov also reframed temperature as a function of heat and energy. For Shvetsov, temperature changes in the cryolithozone were indications of a more fundamental process: heat exchange, encompassing the “transformation of all types of energy into heat and heat into radiation, mechanical, chemical,” and other forms of energy. Importantly, such transformations sometimes occurred without a corresponding change in temperature. The freezing and thawing of soil and rock were prime examples. When a layer of earth froze, the loss of heat associated with the phase change of water into ice “put brakes on” the “further lowering of the temperature of the soil and rock lying below the freezing front.” During thawing, frozen earth experienced an “increase in internal energy,” causing ice within to melt “without a rise in the temperature of the thawing soil and rock.” Thanks to the high thermal capacity of water, the release and absorption of heat took place while temperature remained constant. This phenomenon of

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Figure 3.  Shvetsov’s schematic illustration of the cryosphere. Translated and reproduced from Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii (1955). Drawn by Kate Blackmer.

“­isothermal heat exchange” showed the necessity of focusing on heat rather than temperature in investigations of frozen earth.94 Shvetsov’s epistemology prioritized principles and processes rather than attributes such as age and temperature. To distinguish his a­ pproach, Shvetsov named the discipline geocryology, a “unification of the Greek words krios (cold, ice), geo (earth), and logos (word, study).” The neologism was superior to the existing term merzlotovedenie ­because its roots



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captured the material “essence of the subject of study.” Unlike the problematic merzlota, krios and geo referred directly to “cryogenic formations in the form of frozen soil and rock.” Besides, whereas ­merzlota was originally a “slang word among settler inhabitants or gold prospectors in eastern Siberia,” Shvetsov argued, Greek resonated universally among scientists. Its global appeal mirrored the earth systems approach that lay at the heart of Shvetsov’s thinking. Geocryology ­encompassed the study of not only the “composition, structure, condition, and characteristics” of the cryolithozone – its local features – but also “the laws of its development and distribution.”95 These laws ultimately derived from the behaviour of planetary envelopes and energy exchanges b ­ etween them. Whereas Sumgin’s merzlotovedenie was laden with idiosyncratic terms and ad hoc concepts, Shvetsov’s geocryology aspired to u ­ niversal consistency. Shvetsov found clarity in his understanding of frozen earth by ­approaching it through earth systems principles and processes. ­Turning away from the field’s epistemological traditions in meteorology and civil engineering, he embraced perspectives from thermodynamics and geophysics. Rather than build on local concerns and needs, he sought universal answers. Language was central to the ­transition. To put the discipline on a fresh footing, Shvetsov endeavoured to shed the old terms, with their local flavour, and replace them with ones that were more placeless and precise. By 1955, he had publicly ­disavowed vechnaia merzlota, the concept of frozen earth established by the founding father of the field, Mikhail Sumgin. Proclaiming the advent of g ­ eocryology, he promoted the idea of the cryolithozone, the frozen zone of the earth’s crust. But circumstances conspired to render Shvetsov’s victory incomplete. The dialectic persists By 1956, Shvetsov had become director of INMERO and launched a translation of the science of frozen earth into the terminology and framework of geocryology. But developments outside INMERO undermined his achievements. Even as Shvetsov assumed the directorship, conversations were underway at the highest levels of the party-state about reorganizing the Academy of Sciences.96 Subsequently, as institutes dedicated to applied science were excluded from the academy, INMERO suffered a loss of status and was eventually dissolved. As for terminology, Sumgin’s vechnaia merzlota continued to enjoy popular usage at the expense of Shvetsov’s cryolithozone. Having entered the awareness of the wider public during the 1930s, vechnaia merzlota could not be effaced. What made the expression so compelling

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then – its e­ uphoniousness and cultural resonance – enabled it to persist. ­Moreover, the ongoing significance of frozen earth to construction and economic development reinforced impressions of the phenomenon as an aggregate physical-geographical structure rather than a space of heat exchange. The growth of interest in frozen earth globally further bolstered acceptance of Sumgin’s terminology. Yet at international conferences made newly possible by a thaw in relations between the United States and USSR during the Cold War, questions about terminology periodically resurfaced. Scientists continued to express scepticism about the meaning and appropriateness of permafrost and the correspondence between English and Russian terms. No one recognized that the heart of the issue lay in neither language nor nomenclature but in an epistemological and ontological dialectic that ran through the history of frozen earth. The terminology debate of the 1950s coincided with a power struggle within INMERO. Shvetsov and his allies provocatively cast themselves as underdogs struggling against the “orthodoxy of vechnaia merzlota” (vechnomerzlotnaia ortodoksiia), as Bolsheviks fighting against Mensheviks. To their opponents, the defenders of Sumgin’s legacy, including Obruchev and Chekotillo, it seemed that they were making a lot of fuss about nothing. Sumgin’s defenders argued that Shvetsov and his allies were quibbling over semantics rather than saying anything substantively new. Merzlotovedenie, they said, did in practice focus on matters other than vechnaia merzlota, and it was not necessary to do away with either the term vechnaia merzlota or the name and framework of merzlotovedenie. More sinisterly, they accused Shvetsov and his allies of being unpatriotic and pandering to foreign fashions. Vechnaia merzlota and merzlotovedenie were good Russian words; geokriologiia, kriosfera, ­kriolitozona, with their Greek roots, were strange borrowings. Graduate students at INMERO complained that it was difficult to do their work given that senior researchers could not agree on the basic terms of their science and gave diametrically opposed evaluations of the same work.97 Shvetsov managed to secure the position of INMERO director for two years, but institutional upheaval undermined his ability to ensure that his terms superseded Sumgin’s. Some Soviet scientists embraced Shvetsov’s revision of Sumgin’s terms, but others opposed it for reasons personal and intellectual. Individuals like Andrei Chekotillo defended Sumgin’s terms out of loyalty to a pioneer of the field.98 Moreover, developments outside the control of INMERO scientists also shaped the fate of Shvetsov’s terms. In the early 1960s, at the initiative of the new Soviet leader, Nikita Khrushchev, the USSR Academy of Sciences was reorganized. The institute in Moscow that Sumgin had



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established to conduct research into frozen earth was removed from the academy and placed under the auspices of a government ministry. A  new ­INMERO was formed in 1960 as part of the Siberian ­Section of the Academy of Sciences established in 1957. Its director was Pavel Melnikov. During the reorganization, those who spearheaded the new INMERO ­embraced Sumgin’s legacy, while Shvetsov and others moved into other institutions. The factors that contributed to the longevity of Sumgin’s terms were therefore cultural, social, institutional, and political. Ultimately, the terminology debate remained inconclusive, with scientists involved in researching frozen earth settling for an uneasy compromise. When merzlotovedenie appeared in scientific publications, geokriologiia appeared next to it in parentheses, or vice versa.99 And despite the use of “cryolithozone,” vechnaia merzlota persisted, especially in popular science publications.100 These contingencies showed that the life of permafrost as a scientific idea contained manifold twists and turns, rather than developing progressively towards perfection. While domestic reforms disrupted the institutional basis of frozen earth research in the Soviet Union, shifts in foreign policy created new opportunities for transnational exchange. Khrushchev’s turn ­towards “peaceful coexistence” with the United States after 1956 opened the door to renewed contact between Soviet and North American ­scientists. In 1959, in connection with Khrushchev’s visit to the United States – the first for a Soviet leader – a scientist from INMERO, Nikolai ­Tsytovich, toured American universities. He aimed to assess the methods and topical emphases of research into frozen earth being done in the United States. That year, INMERO also received a proposal from the ­National Research Council of Canada to carry out an exchange of scientists ­studying frozen earth.101 The initiative led to a visit to Canada in 1963 by Petr Shumskii, INMERO’s director after Shvetsov’s departure. Three years later, a Canadian delegation visited the new INMERO of the ­Siberian ­Section in Yakutsk. It included geographer Roger J.E. Brown, a p ­ ioneer of the science of permafrost in North America. Besides bilateral exchanges, Soviet scientists resumed participation in international congresses. Six representatives led by Tsytovich attended the First ­International ­Conference on Permafrost, held at Purdue University in Indiana in November 1963. A decade later, the new INMERO of the Siberian Section hosted the Second International Conference on Permafrost in Yakutsk.102 The increase of contacts appeared to presage growing cooperation in frozen earth research. But transnational exchange was also accompanied by anxiety and friction. Soviet scientists expressed concern that their superiority in

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frozen earth research was being eroded as the US and Canadian governments poured resources into catching up to and surpassing them. During the 1940s and early 1950s, INMERO scientists still believed that “American frozen earth science lags behind Soviet science by at least 15–20 years.” In 1948, amid the Stalinist regime’s campaign to promote patriotism, Shvetsov declared that Americans had contributed “not one substantive idea in the area of the study of eternal and seasonal ­merzlota.” INMERO scientists noted Americans’ reliance on Soviet sources – while failing to give the Soviets due credit – and their struggles in building the Alaska-Canadian Highway and Canol pipeline.103 By the mid-1950s, however, reports communicated wariness of the scale of investment being made in studying frozen earth in North America and the militarization of such research.104 Chekotillo warned that the Americans “spare no effort or expense in organizing the study of vechnaia merzlota and engineering problems connected to it.” Thanks to government largess, a greater number of organizations were dedicating themselves to researching frozen earth. According to publicly available sources, fifty military groups, five government and eight industrial laboratories, ninety-seven educational institutions, seven commercial institutes, and two professional societies were thus engaged. By contrast, INMERO’s facilities were so tight that in 1952, Obruchev was compelled to appeal directly to Stalin in an effort to secure additional workspace.105 INMERO scientists particularly envied access to advanced technology, including aerial surveys, as well as opportunities for experimental construction, an area where “the Americans have left us behind.” Noting the “vigorous growth of American literature” on frozen earth, Chekotillo also pointed to the Americans’ commitment to systematic bibliographic and translation work compared to the Soviets’ meagre efforts. Their commitment had payoffs, for by “taking advantage of our experience as represented in our open prewar publications, Americans avoided many mistakes and delays in the development of their own frozen earth research.” Now the US was evidently relying less on Soviet sources. Chekotillo drew attention to the comment by Robert Black of the USGS that “the Russians have led the world in the number of research projects and in the volume of publications on permafrost. However we have caught up with them in the status of knowledge in some basic phases of the subject, and may even have passed them in others.” Given the threat of being outstripped by the US, ­Chekotillo argued that “it is very desirable to establish contact and systematic ­exchange between the frozen earth organizations of the USSR on the one hand and the USA and Canada on the other.”106 Transnational



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e­ xchange served the interests of competition and the maintenance of scientific leadership no less than cooperation. Besides the pressure of competition, another factor complicating transnational scientific exchange consisted of language. The difficulties stemmed from not only the challenge of translating between Russian and English but also the terminology of frozen earth science. Scientists attributed misunderstandings caused by language to the faulty usage of terms that they assumed had clear meanings. For example, at the First International Conference on Permafrost, Robert Legget of the National Research Council of Canada drew attention to the meaning of permafrost. “Agreement will surely be given,” he stated in his opening ­remarks, “to the fact that permafrost is a condition of the ground and not, of itself, a material.” Because of “sloppy scientific semantics,” h ­ owever, the term was also “very generally reserved to describe, colloquially, waterbearing silts and clays that are perennially frozen.” According to Legget, permafrost possessed an obvious meaning – the condition of maintaining a negative temperature – but colloquial speech gave it a different meaning – soil material. The former he considered “correct,” whereas the latter he considered a “misuse” of the word. Yet rather than demonstrating one meaning of permafrost as correct and the other as incorrect, Legget actually exposed a lack of clarity about the very essence of the phenomenon. He acknowledged, “The word ‘permafrost’ itself, first coined, it is believed, by Siemon Muller, is regarded by some as semantically unfortunate.” Instead he endorsed Kirk Bryan’s alternative term, pergelisol, as “logical and entirely correct.” But Bryan’s pergelisol referred to soil material, a meaning that when attributed to permafrost Legget labelled a “misuse.”107 Instead of right versus wrong, usage laid bare multiple essences of frozen earth and the inherent ambiguity of its many signifiers, from Eisboden to merzlota to permafrost. As we have seen throughout the life of permafrost, confusion surrounding language revealed disagreements about ontology, and ­ disagreements about ontology could be traced to differences in epistemology. But underlying ontological and epistemological issues often went ­unrecognized in discussions about language. Legget lamented that permafrost would likely be misused to refer to a material substance, as opposed to a condition, even at the conference. Indeed, conference participants spoke of the “extent and thickness of permafrost” and “bodies of permafrost,” language that cast the phenomenon as a physical structure. References to the “age of permafrost” reinforced the impression. Age as a property in the context of geological research was often attributed to material substances, including ice and rock,

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rather than to a condition such as negative temperature. Furthermore, ­during discussions about engineering, people spoke of driving “piles in ­permafrost” – anchoring posts in frozen earth – for the purpose of constructing foundations.108 Using permafrost to indicate a physical structure rather than a condition made sense within the epistemological context of geology and engineering. The frequency of such usage demonstrated its viability and validity despite Legget’s disavowals. Confusion surrounding terminology was perpetuated by not only the absence of consensus about any given term but also lack of ­recognition of the multiple essences of frozen earth. Dissatisfaction with language emerged again at the Second International Conference on Permafrost. This time, the issue was raised by a Soviet scientist, Evgenii Pinneker of the Institute of the Earth’s Crust of the Siberian Section of the Academy of Sciences. Pinneker pointed to the “considerable disagreement and indeterminacy” that prevailed with regard to the terminology of frozen earth. He argued that the terminology failed to “meet the requirement for a one-to-one correspondence between the concepts and the terms.” Furthermore, the “lack of complete synchronism between the Russian and English terms” had the effect of “hindering the translation of scientific papers from one language to the other.” Pinneker assumed that each concept had a single, “inherent” (as he put it) meaning. The goal consisted simply of agreeing upon which exact term corresponded to the concept in each language. For example, to ­illustrate a situation where “three terms reflect one and the same concept,” ­Pinneker listed the terms “tolshcha merzlykh porod,” “geokriozona,” and “kriolitosfera.” In the published version of Pinneker’s remarks, the Russian-to-English translator kept these Russian terms in transliterated form. But the terms Pinneker presented did not necessarily have “identical meanings.”109 Tolshcha merzlykh porod (“layer of frozen rock”) pointed to the substance of rock, whereas geokriozona (“geocryozone”) and kriolitosfera (“cryolithosphere”) invoked Shvetsov’s concept of a space or envelope of the earth. So long as these multiple meanings went unacknowledged, agreement about language remained elusive. During the Cold War, transnational scientific exchange in frozen earth research was complicated by not only geopolitics but also language. Difficulties of translation exposed ambiguity about the ontology of frozen earth. Disagreement about the nature of the phenomenon resulted from different epistemologies on both sides of the iron curtain. These included an earth systems approach that focused on spaces of heat exchange and an engineering approach focused on aggregate structures. Despite objections by Soviet and North American scientists, vechnaia merzlota and permafrost remained commonly used terms in the study of



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frozen earth. Vechnaia merzlota was reborn as permafrost, and acceptance of permafrost abroad sustained vechnaia merzlota in the USSR. Moreover, Sumgin’s conception of frozen earth as ground endured in the definition of permafrost. Nevertheless, alternative ideas about frozen earth as condition, process, and space did not disappear. Recurring attention to these alternative understandings of frozen earth kept alive the dialectic in the life of permafrost. Conclusion As vechnaia merzlota was challenged by Shvetsov’s “cryolithozone” in the Soviet Union, it metamorphosed into permafrost in North America. Politics played a role in both developments. In the United States, just as in the USSR, politics and the exigencies of military requirements also shaped frozen earth research, with the result that permafrost was born. In the USSR, Communist Party campaigns sparked real debates in INMERO that challenged the framework of merzlotovedenie inherited from Mikhail Sumgin. Unlike the example of Lysenkoism in biology, the movement to revive ideology in the sciences was not intellectually unfruitful in the case of the science of frozen earth. INMERO scientists’ efforts to bolster the status of their discipline coincided with the Communist Party’s campaigns to revive the role of ideology in postwar Soviet society. Subsequently, Stalin’s scholarly interventions sparked discussions at INMERO that questioned the field’s basic terms. Hopes for updating and clarifying terminology evolved into demands for the wholesale overhaul of the language of frozen earth science. The politicization of science created impetus for airing real intellectual debates while also heightening their stridency, as revealed in personal attacks and dogmatic assertions. Scientific culture mirrored political culture. The earth systems approach that Shvetsov advocated claimed to be a truer application of dialectical materialism than Sumgin’s. It, too, was a valid approach to the science of frozen earth. Shvetosv was a political player in that he vied for personal advantage in INMERO and used Communist Party campaigns for his own ends. Yet he also had genuine intellectual objections to Sumgin’s ideas. The contingencies of politics were crucial to shaping the life of permafrost.

epilogue

RESURRECTING In 2010, a group of leading permafrost scientists published a note in Eos, the newspaper of the American Geophysical Union. The piece drew attention to “a glaring example of scientifically incorrect terminology appearing frequently in scientific and public communication.” Respectable news organizations and even scientists themselves, when describing the effects of global warming on permafrost and vice versa, had been using the expression “permafrost melting.” But melting, the authors pointed out, refers to the process whereby a solid becomes a liquid. Ice melts, but permafrost – ­which “is composed of soils, sediment, bedrock, and organic materials, which may or may not include water in the form of ice” – ­did not. “To speak of ‘melting permafrost,’” the authors wrote, “implies that all components of permafrost are turning into a liquid, which is erroneous.” Rather, permafrost thaws, meaning that “only the ground ice melts, while mineral and organic particles, which represent the majority in many permafrost types by volume, remain solid.” The authors urged science writers and editors to rectify misuses of terminology, asserting that “‘permafrost melting’ is partly an oversimplification that ignores basic geophysical processes and partly sloppy science communication, both with unwanted implications for communicating scientific information and educating students and the public about climate change.”1 For the scientists, the misuse of terminology reflected misunderstandings about permafrost. But I have argued in this book that debates about terminology signalled tensions in the very nature of the phenomenon. Such tensions emerged from a dialectic running through the life of permafrost. The dialectic consisted of the interplay between different ways of conceiving the essence of permafrost that arose from different motivations for studying the phenomenon. Practices shaped perceptions; epistemology shaped ontology. And both processes were shaped



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by the course of Russian and Soviet history. Historicizing permafrost has revealed that the phenomenon contains many essences. Instead of ignoring them, it is time to resurrect the multiple ontologies of permafrost. The insistence that permafrost thaws rather than melts rests upon a conception of the phenomenon as an aggregate structure, ground. Such a conception represents the dominant view bequeathed, as we have seen, by Soviet scientists who pioneered a discipline centred on frozen earth during the 1930s. Inspired by an engineering perspective and motivated by the need to contribute to socialist industrialization, Soviet scientists led by Mikhail Sumgin approached frozen earth as a distinct material object. They conceived of it as a physical obstacle that acted upon and reacted to external forces and as a foundation for infrastructure. Their view is embedded in contemporary scientists’ notion that permafrost must be understood as a solid, composite entity that softens, instead of as any single component that liquifies. “Only the ground ice melts,” noted the scientists in Eos, pointing out that permafrost consists of more than ice alone. Indeed, permafrost “may or may not include water in the form of ice.” Following in the footsteps of Sumgin, most contemporary scientists do not perceive ice or any specific substance as essential to the ontology of permafrost. Like Sumgin, they assume as the defining feature of permafrost its temperature, a property that pertains to the body as a whole rather than to any particular element. But another view persists. In June 2016, I travelled to Potsdam, Germany, to participate in the Eleventh International Conference on Permafrost. My purpose was to share findings from my research about the history of permafrost science with permafrost scientists themselves and to learn about the current state of their field. At the conference, I was one of a handful of people working in the humanities and social sciences amid hundreds of natural scientists and engineers. I drifted through panels and poster sessions, fascinated as much by the people as by the information being presented. The permafrost scientists tolerated my presence and questions with grace, generosity, and good humour. I absorbed as much as I could from specialized discussions about changes in high-­ latitude and high-altitude landscapes and methods of monitoring and modelling them. But one abstract in the program struck especially close to my own interests. A glaciologist named Wojciech Dobiński proposed to discuss “new terms and definitions” in permafrost science, asserting that it was “necessary to revise the understanding of the definition of permafrost.”2 Astonished to see a central theme of my book appear as a focus of someone’s ongoing work, I knew that I had to meet this person. A tall, burly Polish scientist in his forties, Dobiński expressed as much surprise at my research as I did at his. I listened attentively as he

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explained that permafrost must be defined as a condition of cold and not an actual physical object. As he wrote in his abstract for the conference, permafrost was “a (geo)physical state of the lithosphere” that “does not have a material manifestation.”3 Aware that Dobiński’s perspective represented one side of a long-running dialectic in the life of permafrost, I wanted to know the reasons for his approach to the phenomenon. I learned that he aspired to unite the disciplines of permafrost science and glaciology, earth science and planetary science. For such an epistemological shift to occur, however, scientific terminology must be universally consistent and valid. The same phenomena had to be described and understood in the same way regardless of whether the focus was glaciers or rocks, earth or Mars.4 Given that the same phenomenon of cold governed ice on the earth’s surface and ice beneath the earth’s surface, the term used for it ought to be the same. Yet the current definition of permafrost was restricted to include only ice in the ground, explicitly excluding glaciers, which appeared on the earth’s surface. Dobiński considered such a division arbitrary and flawed. By ridding permafrost of the stipulation that it referred to the ground and recognizing it as a condition, it could become the basis for a unified science of cold.5 In his explanation I perceived the logic of the systems approach that represented the synthesis in the dialectic of the life of permafrost. Dobiński’s insistence upon the connections between ice and frozen earth, glaciers and ground ice recalled Karl Ernst von Baer’s interest in BodenEis and its relationship to ice age theory. In Baer’s day, the study of frozen earth, glaciers, and glaciation had not separated into different disciplines; all these phenomena fell within the broad purview of nineteenth-century geology. Furthermore, Dobiński’s assertion that permafrost “does not have an explicit material form” evoked Parkhomenko’s notion of merzlota as a process.6 For Parkhomenko, as we have seen, the material form of frozen earth consisted of “cryophilic rocks,” or rocks containing minerals, including ice, that existed only in cold conditions. Dobiński similarly argued that ice must be recognized as a mineral. Therefore, glaciers and frozen earth, both of which contain ice, must be considered rocks, or part of the earth’s lithosphere.7 Finally, Dobiński’s idea of permafrost as a condition encompassing all parts of the lithosphere – ­including glaciers and frozen earth – ­was consistent with Shvetsov’s conception of the cryolithozone. Like Dobiński’s permafrost, Shvetsov’s cryolithozone comprised the frozen zone of earth’s crust, that is, not a distinct object but an envelope or space where cold conditions prevailed. The obsession with classification and definitions may seem like quibbling. Dobiński admitted that he felt somewhat isolated in his views.



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At the conference, I learned that other scientists found his research and polemics about terminology rather eccentric. But to me they revealed an effort to establish connections between various cold-related phenomena and create a framework for studying cold as part of the earth’s system. I thought of the controversial and sometimes curmudgeonly figures of the past who had been similarly preoccupied with epistemological and ontological questions. Dobiński was the reincarnation of Kirk Bryan, Petr Shvetsov, or Sergei Parkhomenko, only – ­in relation to the Soviet scientists – ­without the dialectical materialism.8 As much sympathy as I had for the systems approach, Dobiński and I differed in our perspectives in key ways. He argued that the purpose of science as an endeavour consisted of uncovering fundamental laws of nature. It was therefore necessary to prioritize the establishment of correct theoretical foundations. By first establishing sound principles, including definitions, it would then be possible to deduce true insights about nature. I acknowledged that his view had been shared by many investigators of frozen earth in the past. But others held an alternative perspective: that the purpose of science consisted of solving problems and fulfilling the perceived needs of society. My research showed that the science of frozen earth especially had been shaped by the priorities and values of the Soviet Union. The social, cultural, and political circumstances of socialist industrialization helped to institutionalize the idea of frozen earth as ground. Instead of being established a priori, the definition of frozen earth emerged ad hoc. Perceiving the ad hoc nature of the definition of frozen earth as a shortcoming, Dobiński raised the idea of using history to set the record straight. Exposing the historical contingency behind the current definition would show its foundations to be flawed, reinforcing the need to revise the terminology of frozen earth. Simultaneously, revealing the intellectual lineage of the systems approach would bolster its validity. Like Dobiński, scientists in the past, including Parkhomenko and Shvetsov, had sought to mobilize history to legitimate their ideas. But to me, the lesson of the history that I have uncovered is precisely not to fall into insisting upon a single, “correct” view. Indeed the story of the life of permafrost demonstrates the futility and even danger of doing so. At each stage – ­from egg to larva to pupa to adult in the metaphor I have constructed – a­ dialectic persisted, unable to be suppressed. Even after the USSR Academy of Sciences adopted Sumgin’s definition of frozen earth in 1931, Parkhomenko challenged it from the perspective of a systems approach. When Shvetsov promulgated a systems approach from his position of influence during the 1950s, Chekotillo and other scientists defended Sumgin’s definition, which had also taken root in the

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United States. Throughout the period, the political structure and incentives of Stalinism tempted scientists to infuse intellectual disagreement and personal rivalry with accusations of anti-patriotic behaviour. In the quest to establish a single, correct view, scientists of both persuasions employed political rhetoric and rituals. This history does not lend itself to an easy triumphalism, scientific or political, for either side. It speaks instead to the necessity of pluralism. Moreover, the ad hoc nature of the definition of permafrost does not make it invalid. We have seen that the conception of frozen earth as ground, an aggregate physical structure, emerged as a result of approaching the phenomenon from the perspective of construction. Such a conception made sense within the engineering framework that motivated research into frozen earth starting in the late nineteenth century. It was associated with industrialization in the Russian Empire and Soviet Union. The notion of frozen earth as a distinct material object resonated for cultural reasons as well. We saw that during the Stalin era, in connection with the five-year plans, the idea of struggle with nature became a central theme in official culture and propaganda. Simultaneously, frozen earth became widely known for the first time as scientists active in researching the phenomenon sought to educate the regime and the public. They were motivated by the need to attract interest in and support for their work and to contribute to the party-state’s goal of mass enlightenment. Speaking the approved language of struggle with nature, they cast frozen earth as an enemy to be defeated. Broadcast through popular science publications and radio, the metaphor reinforced perceptions of frozen earth as a concrete, physical entity. That such political and cultural circumstances gave rise to the conception of permafrost that dominates today does not make the definition wrong. Rather, the definition affirms the social character of science. The concerns of the twenty-first century differ from those of the Stalin era, but the idea of permafrost as a distinct material object continues to inspire powerful metaphors. Since 1990, global warming has become more apparent and the need to address it more urgent. That year, the United Nations’ Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) issued its first report, which established global warming as a matter of scientific consensus and political importance. The IPCC’s assessment resulted from decades of research into the greenhouse effect, the phenomenon whereby gases in the atmosphere warm the earth by absorbing infrared radiation. Meanwhile, increased awareness of humans’ ability to pollute the environment contributed to worries that global warming was being accelerated by the burning of fossil fuels.9



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In 1994, the environmental organization Greenpeace International published a report arguing that anthropogenic global warming was already manifested in the frequency and intensity of extreme climatic events. The Climate Time Bomb used the language of catastrophe to highlight the consequences of failing to mitigate global warming by reducing greenhouse gas emissions. Like nuclear weapons, global warming had the capacity to cause economic and ecological devastation. Challenging readers to “imagine for the moment that we are back in the Cold War,” it posited a scenario whereby “the Soviet Union is rumored to have developed two new and deadly weapons systems.” In fact, the catalogue of disasters presented in the report suggested that “latter-day equivalents of both these weapons systems exist, and may well be clocking up their casualties.” To reinforce the analogy, the cover of the report showed the sun in the shape of a mushroom cloud. The warming climate was likened to a bomb whose explosion was imminent.10 In the twenty-first century, the evocative metaphor of the time bomb became applied to permafrost itself. Concerns mounted about emissions of methane from the thawing of frozen earth. Historically, research into the greenhouse effect focused on the role of carbon dioxide in absorbing infrared radiation. Starting in the 1980s, scientists began to appreciate the significance of methane, each molecule of which absorbs twenty times as much infrared radiation as a molecule of carbon dioxide. Although methane exists at much lower concentrations in the atmosphere than carbon dioxide, its increase since the beginnings of industrialization in the eighteenth century has been larger. Moreover, given its lower initial concentrations and its greater ability to absorb infrared radiation, every addition of methane has a bigger impact on global warming.11 Methane eventually reacts with oxygen to be replaced with carbon dioxide, thus lowering its amount in the atmosphere. But a large increase in methane over a short period of time – ­such as a decade – ­would dramatically accelerate global warming. Researchers of permafrost in Siberia identified possibilities for just such a catastrophic scenario. One mechanism by which methane may be emitted through the thawing of frozen earth consists of anaerobic decomposition of organic matter previously frozen within the earth. Anaerobic decomposition occurs when microbes digest dead plants and animals in environments with low levels of oxygen. Such low-­oxygen environments include waterlogged areas in eastern Siberia with underlying frozen earth that is particularly rich in ice. When earth that had been perennially frozen thaws, the underground ice melts and the surface of the land sinks, creating depressions where water accumulates: new anaerobic environments. The accumulation of water causes more

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frozen earth to thaw, making previously frozen organic matter available to microbes that, in an anaerobic environment, decompose it to produce methane gas. One estimate predicted the release of fifty billion tons of methane into the atmosphere as a result of anaerobic decomposition triggered by the thawing of frozen earth in Siberia.12 Another mechanism by which methane may be emitted consists of the breakdown of methane hydrates previously trapped beneath perennially frozen earth. Methane hydrates comprise molecules of methane dissolved in water that has crystallized into ice. We have encountered hydrates before: Sergei Parkhomenko considered them a prime example of the class of minerals that make up “cryophilic rocks.” His attention to specific material components of frozen earth thus anticipated their relevance to global warming. As Parkhomenko understood, hydrates maintain their existence under conditions of sufficiently low temperature and sufficiently high pressure. Methane hydrates have been found buried beneath the earth’s surface and under the ocean floor. The methane comes from anaerobic decomposition either on its own or combined with heat and pressure from the earth. As overlying layers of frozen earth thaw, methane hydrates break down, or “dissociate,” because of changes in temperature and pressure.13 Liberated methane gas may then make its way through sediment and water into the atmosphere. Via such a mechanism, researchers of permafrost beneath the shallow ocean waters off the coast of eastern Siberia predicted the abrupt release of fifty billion tons of methane. Such emissions, combined with the fifty billion tons generated by anaerobic decomposition, would increase levels of atmospheric methane by twenty times compared to early twenty-first century levels.14 Alarmed by the prospect of sudden, massive releases of methane, writers began associating permafrost with a time bomb. “The thawing of permafrost could become the epicenter of climate change,” wrote the Associated Press, likening the carbon contained within frozen earth to “a climate time bomb waiting to explode.” Regarding methane, The Telegraph reported that “vast amounts of the natural gas trapped in the frozen tundra of the Arctic could be unlocked as the permafrost is melted [sic] by rising temperatures.” Such an outcome would activate “a ‘methane time bomb’ that could cause temperatures to soar.”15 By contrast, some scientists caution against assuming catastrophic releases of methane, arguing that the more gradual but seemingly inexorable buildup of carbon dioxide remains the crux of global warming. They point out that the thawing of frozen earth indeed exposes previously frozen organic matter to decomposition, but that aerobic rather than anaerobic decomposition has a greater impact. Under aerobic conditions,



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such as in upland environments where the land is better drained, microbes produce carbon dioxide instead of primarily methane. Scientists see this mechanism as more extensive and alarming.16 Moreover, methane produced by either anaerobic decomposition or the breakdown of methane hydrates may not actually reach the atmosphere. It may be blocked by physical barriers, dissolved in water, or oxidized into carbon dioxide. Methane is being emitted – ­but not at rates sufficient to justify apocalyptic scenarios.17 The thawing of frozen earth both results from and contributes to the continuation and intensification of anthropogenic global warming. Appreciating this reality does not require assuming the imminence of a catastrophic methane bomb. Yet both metaphor and scenario persist. In 2013, Nature published a projection of the cost of the effects of global warming in the Arctic. Countering rosy presumptions of access to natural resources and shipping routes, the commentary warned of an “economic time bomb” in the form of “methane released by melting [sic] permafrost.” Drawing from research into methane hydrates off of the coast of eastern Siberia, it imagined fifty billion tons of methane being released over a single decade. The resulting environmental disasters would require $60 trillion to address, an amount “comparable to the size of the world economy in 2012.”18 Although the projection encountered scepticism from some, for others it lent credence to catastrophe.19 The image of permafrost as a bomb gathered momentum in 2014, when news swept the world of a cavernous crater discovered in northwestern Siberia. Initial reports by Russian sources were quickly picked up by English-language media, including The Washington Post and The New York Times. Pictures of a dark, gaping cavity of untold depths – a­ s if from a massive explosion – ­became linked to permafrost and global warming.20 Scientists attributed the hole’s creation to the breakdown of methane hydrates. Pressure from liberated gas accumulated until it burst the ground, in its wake leaving a hollow with a protruding rim some sixty metres wide.21 Amid the flurry of discussion, some writers attempted to contextualize the small scale of methane emitted. But others saw evidence of the likelihood of catastrophic release. The idea of the “permafrost bomb” lives.22 The ongoing debate about permafrost – w ­ hether it will be the source of catastrophic releases of methane into the atmosphere – ­involves not only data but also narrative. At issue is not only how to interpret available evidence related to frozen earth but also what story to tell about humans’ relationship with non-human nature. In this context, the idea of permafrost as a bomb seems compelling. The metaphor builds upon one dimension of the ontology of permafrost. It accords with perceptions of the phenomenon as a distinct material object, the antithesis in the

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dialectic of the life of permafrost that I have traced in this book. Permafrost as a physical structure, ground, is compared to a time bomb because its thawing, like the burning of a fuse, will potentially trigger a disastrous explosion. The metaphor promotes a narrative in which permafrost is an external force that threatens human and planetary well-being. By heightening alarm about permafrost, the narrative aims to mobilize people to act to mitigate global warming. Spurred by fear of imminent catastrophe, we may finally take the necessary steps to reduce the extraction and consumption of fossil fuels, thereby “disarming the ticking permafrost bomb.”23 To the extent that it encourages societies to lower emissions of greenhouse gases and pursue alternative sources of energy, the idea of permafrost as a time bomb has usefulness. But I also see problems with the metaphor. The idea of permafrost as a time bomb has the potential to inspire not only fear but also despair and apathy. While mobilizing some people to take action, it may paralyze and alienate others. Fatalism becomes a tempting response when confronted with a narrative of humanity’s certain and imminent doom. The idea of permafrost as a time bomb may therefore work to divest people of agency, making individual and social change seem futile. On the other hand, given a narrative of possible, future catastrophe, mitigating global warming may seem worthwhile, but it must also be considered alongside other priorities. When seeking to understand how global warming fits with myriad ongoing political and socioeconomic challenges, the idea of permafrost as a time bomb may seem remote. The phenomenon and the danger it threatens appears distant from the lives of the majority of the world’s population living outside of regions with perennially frozen earth. For many people, the idea of permafrost as a time bomb may fail to inspire the care and connection that can expedite action on global warming. Even more troubling to me is the impression conveyed by the image of a time bomb of permafrost as a hostile, threatening force. The metaphor suggests a narrative that pits humans against permafrost, perpetuating a dualist, even adversarial relationship between humans and nature. We have seen that a narrative of struggle against nature was promoted in Soviet propaganda during the period of Stalinist industrialization. Complementing this narrative was a celebration of human will that asserted the possibility of mastering nature through heroic effort. But a framework of struggle, conquest, heroism, and mastery seems ill-suited to the dilemmas of global warming. An outsized faith in human agency fails to account for the inescapable paradoxes and inevitable unintended consequences that accompany human interactions with the environment. The adaptations that Soviet scientists



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and engineers developed in response to the challenges of construction in regions with perennially frozen earth enabled industrialization in northern and eastern Siberia. Human agency transformed places like Anadyr, Igarka, Norilsk, Vorkuta, and Yakutsk into urban centres. But it could not prevent the thawing of frozen earth caused by global warming – i­ndeed, by burning fossil fuels, Soviet industrialization contributed emissions of greenhouse gases. Now the thawing of frozen earth, exacerbated by global warming, is causing renewed deformations in infrastructure across Siberia.24 Humans make environmental changes whose negative effects redound on humans – ­so continues the circle of solutions generating problems requiring further solutions that historian David Blackbourn called the Faustian bargain.25 According to this pattern, solving global warming through drastic applications of human agency like geoengineering will only bring more unforeseen effects.26 To counter hubris, we must be reminded that, with global warming, the threat to people’s well-being arises not from a hostile, external force of nature, but from humans ourselves. When it comes to permafrost, I want to offer a narrative that balances human agency and humility. I seek a framework that prompts action to mitigate global warming while keeping in mind the power of non-human nature to behave in ways beyond human control and imagination. Digging up the history of permafrost has revealed possibilities for an alternative mode of relating to frozen earth. We have seen that, besides conceiving of frozen earth as a distinct material object, thinkers have approached it as a space, condition, or process tied to the earth’s system. These variants in the ontology of frozen earth represent the other side of the dialectic in the life of permafrost. They, too, have been shaped by Russian and Soviet history, inspired by Humboldtian science, the genetic soil science of Vasilii Dokuchaev, and a Marxist philosophy of science. The approach taken by characters we have encountered – ­Baer, Parkhomenko, Redozubov, Shvetsov, even Dobiński  – ­has the potential to situate humans and permafrost within a shared system of nature. Within the system, human agency has undeniable influence, but so, too, do non-human elements, whose behaviour demands careful consideration. Therefore, even as humans continue to reshape environments, we must also live within nature’s dynamic constraints. The systems approach provides the basis for a narrative that emphasizes humans as being part of nature while highlighting the mutual relationship between human and non-human nature. The relevant metaphor for permafrost in this narrative is not a time bomb but rather a living species. But I do not mean to invoke the narrative of endangered species that has emerged around melting glaciers,

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The Life of Permafrost

as historian Mark Carey pointed out. Carey showed that, while urging the protection of glaciers, the narrative of an endangered species requiring preservation may overlook the role that glaciers play as resources for local peoples. It encourages measures, such as covering glaciers at ski resorts with plastic foam, that perpetuate patterns of consumption fuelling global warming – t­ he vicious circle again. Moreover, it seeks to arrest glaciers in their development, even though they have advanced and retreated across geological and human time.27 The assumption of stability as nature’s baseline seems especially automatic in the case of permafrost, given that the notion of permanence is embedded in its very name. When juxtaposed with the reality of the thawing of frozen earth, the name permafrost itself heightens the abnormality and crisis of its disappearance. As one report put it, “Until recently, permafrost was not a major concern of climate scientists, because, as the name suggests, it was soil that stayed permanently frozen.” Observing that permafrost “is no longer permanent,” The New York Times warned of the consequences of the “loss of frozen ground.”28 In these narratives, permafrost takes on the qualities of a distinct physical object, “frozen ground,” that, like endangered glaciers, must be prevented from vanishing. But permanence was never an inherent property of frozen earth. Rather, as I have argued in this book, permanence became attributed to frozen earth at specific moments in history. We saw that frozen earth was born as a scientific object in the first half of the nineteenth ­century and called Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden by Baer. Back then, European ­science – ­a world to which Baer and other savants in the Russian Empire belonged – w ­ as coming to terms with the discovery of geological time. Famously advanced by Charles Lyell, geological time extended the earth’s age back into the depths of eternity. The idea of a deep past formed the basis of Lyell’s theory about how the earth’s features were formed: by the gradual action of processes observable in the present. It supported the notion of “time’s cycle,” the view that the world remained fundamentally constant, with nature operating according to cyclical patterns.29 In this context, frozen earth, too, constituted a perpetual reality with neither beginning nor end. It acquired the adjective “eternal,” ewig in German and vechnaia in Russian. By the twentieth century, people recognized that frozen earth might date relatively recently to the last ice age, from eleven thousand to two million years ago. But Mikhail Sumgin nevertheless persisted in calling the phenomenon vechnaia. This rhetorical invocation of cyclical time served to highlight the contrast between nature and the forward momentum of Soviet industrialization under the five-year plans. Then, from vechnaia merzlota frozen earth became “permafrost or permanently frozen ground”



Epilogue 175

thanks to Siemon Muller, who translated Sumgin’s term with little attention to its political and cultural baggage. The concept of permanence became attached to frozen earth as a consequence of historical twists and turns. Now in the twenty-first century, we inhabit a different historical ­moment. Human impacts on the environment have become so great that scholars have declared the onset of a new epoch, the Anthropocene. The framework of the Anthropocene casts humans as a defining geological force, leaving imprints not only in the earth’s atmosphere but also in its soils, oceans, flora, and fauna.30 Our eyes opened to the global scale of human influence, we have become more attuned not to time’s cycle but to “time’s arrow.” The world in this view does not remain constant or cyclical but rather develops in a certain direction as a result of the force of unique events. Time’s arrow is evoked by the concept of the Great Acceleration, which refers to the age since 1945 when, within the Anthropocene, human-caused environmental changes increased exponentially. The burning of fossil fuels, mass extinction of non-human species, and accumulation of pollution and waste seem to be propelling the earth towards a dangerous and uncertain future.31 Such an epoch calls for a name for frozen earth oriented not to time’s cycle but to time’s arrow. In place of monikers that invoke perpetuity, such as permafrost and vechnaia merzlota, we may need to resurrect historical alternatives: Boden-Eis, Eis-Boden, cryolithozone, or merzlota without the vechnaia. My metaphor for this non-eternal frozen earth has been an insect transitioning through the stages of egg, larva, pupa, and adult. The kindred spirits of this creature are the matsutake mushroom of Anna Tsing and the Pimoa chthulu spider of Donna Haraway. These species illustrate the necessity and promise of living in the ruins of “blasted landscapes.”32 In this damaged and troubled but persistent world, frozen earth will continue to shape and be shaped by humans, materially and intellectually. Frozen earth will also surprise us, for better and for worse. It will be studied, learned from, lived with, and perhaps mourned, but neither saved nor conquered.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book began as a left turn from my initial path of researching the economic development of Siberia. While reading Soviet sources about railroad construction, I repeatedly came across mentions of the dangers posed by something called vechnaia merzlota. What was this phenomenon? Little did I know that this question would become the focus of my attention and of the entire project. Pulling at its thread revealed an alternative history of permafrost and drew me into wonderful and ­unfamiliar areas of inquiry. I must therefore give thanks to all those who helped me learn how to tell this story and enabled me to share it. The early stages of research and writing for this project were supported by Princeton University, the United States Department of ­Education, and the Eurasia Program of the Social Science Research Council with funds provided by the US State Department under the Program for Research and Training on Eastern Europe and the I­ndependent States of the Former Soviet Union (Title VIII). I am grateful to these organizations for enabling me to travel to archives and libraries around the world and follow intellectual twists and turns. Periods of residency at vibrant research institutions gave me opportunities to rethink and rewrite in the company of accomplished scholars. Thanks to Rawi Abdelal, Terry Martin, and William Mills Todd for accepting me into the Informing Eurasia program at the Davis Center for Russian and Eurasian Studies, where my work was strengthened by the insights and questions of Robyn Angley, Tomasz Blusiewicz, Ian Campbell, Maria Belodubrovskaya, Maria Khotimsky, Cathy Frierson, Loren Graham, Kelly O’Neill, and Alexandra Vacroux. At the Summer Research Laboratory at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, I gained access to not only a wonderful library but also the expertise of the Slavic Reference Service. I am indebted to the Russian, East ­European, and Eurasian Center for supporting my stay and to Joseph Lenkart for

178 Acknowledgments

teaching me to use Russian bibliographic materials. It was during my time at the Rachel Carson Center for Environment and Society that this book began to crystallize. I am grateful to Christof Mauch and Helmuth Trischler for pushing for pluralism in narratives about human relationships with the rest of nature and gathering creative and passionate writers to further that mission. Additionally, I thank ­Saskia Beudel, Veit Braun, Arnab Dey, Carrick Eggleston, Hanna Erlinger, Yan Gao, Vimbai Kwashirai, Ernst Langthaler, Alan MacEachern, Salma ­Monani, Cindy Ott, Vidya Sarveswaran, Sarah Strauss, Allen T ­ hompson, and Robert M. Wilson for generously yet incisively ­engaging with my ideas. Pomona College gave me the chance to grow as a scholar and a teacher. My colleagues in the History Department have provided models of building community through research and teaching to which I continually aspire. Thanks to Angelina Chin, Benjamin Keim, Arash Khazeni, Sidney Lemelle, April Mayes, Char Miller, Tomás Summers Sandoval, Victor Silverman, Ousmane Traoré, Miguel Tinker Salas, Kenneth Wolf, and Samuel Yamashita for their guidance and encouragement. I am ­especially grateful to Gary Kates and Helena Wall for investing in the ­development of a junior colleague and to Gina Brown-Pettay for always keeping things in perspective. Cecilia Conrad and Audrey Bilger made time and resources available for follow-up research and more rewriting. Anne Dwyer and Konstantine Klioutchkine provided invaluable advice about navigating Russia and inspired me to explore the cultural dimensions of Russian and Soviet science. At Pomona, I am fortunate to belong to a consortium of institutions devoted to both scholarship and undergraduate education. Faculty reading groups at Harvey Mudd College and Scripps College provided mini-retreats where I could feel like a student again and be exposed to exciting new ideas in science and technology studies. For o ­ rganizing them I thank Alison Cool, Vivien Hamilton, Alyssa Newman, Seo Young Park, and Christy Spackman. Students across the Claremont Colleges challenged me with their talent and scepticism. Max Bramlett and Aldo Urquiza patiently scanned sources for my research, and Israel Diaz created the artwork that graces the cover of this book. Colleagues in the wider worlds of Russian and Soviet history, ­environmental history, and the history of science have served as my motivation and audience. I have grown intellectually from the ­comments and critical feedback of Stephen Brain, Andy Bruno, Johanna Conterio, Mieka Erley, Catherine Evtuhov, John McNeill, David Moon, Jonathan Oldfield, Maya Peterson, Steven Seegel, and Alla Vronskaya. Nicholas Breyfogle and Erika Monahan went above and beyond professional courtesy by encouraging me to persist in my work. For including me



Acknowledgments 179

in conferences where I honed my ideas, I thank Tina Adcock, Deborah Coen, Julia Barr, Brigid O’Keeffe, Jessica Reinisch, Peder Roberts, and Ksenia Tatarchenko. This story centres on the past efforts of scientists to understand and navigate the world around them. Many contemporary scientists shared their time and expertise with a stranger and provided views on permafrost I found nowhere else. Thanks to Jerry Brown, Wojciech Dobiński, the late Hugh French, Mikhail Grigoriev, Valentin Kondratiev, Anne Morgenstern, Frederick Nelson, Nikolay Shiklomanov, and Erki Tammiksaar, a historian in his own right. My work relied on the labour of librarians and archivists who preserve historical documents and make them accessible to researchers. I am grateful to the staff of the Russian State Archive of the Economy, Russian State Archive of Scientific-Technical Documentation, State ­Archive of the Russian Federation, National Archives at College Park, the archive of the Local Studies Museum of the Republic of M ­ ordovia in Saransk, and both the Moscow and St. Petersburg branches of the ­Archive of the Russian Academy of Sciences as well as the Russian ­National Library, Russian State Library, State Public Historical Library of Russia, the library of the Melnikov Permafrost Institute in Yakutsk, and the library of the Scott Polar Research Institute in Cambridge. ­Special thanks to Irina Tarakanova for creating a welcoming environment in the archives and Larisa Belozerova and the Institute for the History of Science and Technology in Moscow for crucial visa support. The University of Toronto Press gave me an unprecedented opportunity to share this story with a wider audience. My deepest thanks to Richard Ratzlaff for taking interest in the work of a first-time book author and to him and Stephen Shapiro for deftly and patiently guiding me through the process of scholarly publishing. Lisa Jemison and Dawn Hunter shepherded the book’s production with care. Three anonymous reviewers reminded me of the importance of getting the science right and urged me to clarify what made my perspective unique. Any errors remain my own. A grant from the EnviroLab Asia Program at the Claremont Colleges and The Henry Luce Foundation enabled me to engage the services of Kate Blackmer, whose elegant illustrations enhance this book. Daniela Blei created the index. The Dean’s Office of Pomona College generously provided funds to support the book’s publication. Parts of chapters 3 and 4 appeared previously in the article, “Mapping Permafrost Country: Creating an Environmental Object in the Soviet Union” in Environmental History 20, no. 3 (July 2015, pages 396 to 421), and the chapter, “Encounters with Permafrost: The Rhetoric of Conquest and Practices of Adaptation in The Soviet Union” in Eurasian Environments: Nature

180 Acknowledgments

and Ecology in Imperial Russian and Soviet History (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2018, pages 165 to 184). I  am grateful for permission to draw from them. It was my privilege to study with distinguished scholars and dedicated teachers who turned my childhood fascination with the “evil empire” into a commitment to empathetic yet critical historical research. Katherine Jolluck, Nancy Kollmann, Norman Naimark, and Amir Weiner nurtured my interest as an undergraduate. At Princeton, Stephen Kotkin believed in my potential and challenged me to take intellectual risks, while he, Michael Gordin, Ekaterina Pravilova, and Paul Josephson shaped this project from its beginnings. Even after I left Princeton, at some particularly despairing junctures, Michael helped me see that I had a story to tell. Writing this book posed not only intellectual but also emotional challenges. My writing coach K. Anne Amienne set me on a path towards quieting my demons and achieving greater sustainability in my work. Ghenwa Hayek and Seo Young Park became my first friends in ­Claremont, sharing their solidarity and wisdom. Larisa Bogdanova, Galina Mitkina, Julia Rubchinskaya, and Anna Epshtein-Rudnitsky made trips to Russia feel not so lonely. Sarah Rorimer Chen and N ­ ishtha and Ajay Singh cheered me on constantly through times of doubt. In Brigid Vance I found the most dedicated writing partner anyone could hope for. She read every chapter in this book – multiple times – and I hope our years of exchanges become decades. My parents, Eunice and Michael, and siblings, Eileen and Kevin, taught me enduring lessons about hard work, independence, and sacrifice. Finally, I am grateful to Ted for genuinely listening when I felt stuck and asking the clarifying questions that helped me move forward. One question in particular motivated me to take a big step towards letting go of perfectionism. With his love and courage, more than one decade-long project has been brought to a conclusion. Here’s to the next chapter of our lives.

GLOSSARY

Throughout the main text, Russian proper nouns are rendered in ­English using the Library of Congress system with the following modifications: (1) “ia” is transliterated as “ya”; and (2) diacritical marks have been dropped. For all other words, and throughout the citations, I have adhered strictly to the Library of Congress system. alaas  S  akha term for grassland surrounding a lake formed as a ­result of the thawing of frozen earth ATPS  Records of the Alaska Terrain and Permafrost Section, 1945–1954 ARAN  Arkhiv Rossiiskoi Akademii Nauk, Russian for Archive of the Russian Academy of Sciences ASSR  Avtonomnaia sovetskaia sotsialisticheskaia respublika, Russian for Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic AYAM  Amuro-Iakutskaia magistral’, Russian for Amur-Yakutiya Mainline BAM  Baikalo-Amurskaia magistral’, Russian for Baikal-Amur Mainline Boden-Eis  Literally, “soil-ice,” a German word signifying frozen earth that emerged in the nineteenth century d.  Abbreviation for delo, Russian for “folder” Dal’omes  Dal’nevostochnoe okruzhnoe upravlenie mestnogo transporta, Russian for Administration for Local Transport for the Far Eastern District Eis-Boden, Eisboden  Literally, “ice soil,” another German word ­signifying frozen earth that emerged in the nineteenth century f.  Abbreviation for fond, Russian for “collection”

182 Glossary

Gen. Corr.  Abbreviation for General Correspondence Files, 1945–1953 GARF  Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii, Russian for State Archive of the Russian Federation GUSMP  Glavnoe upravlenie severnogo morskogo puti, Russian for Main Administration of the Northern Sea Route INMERO  Abbreviation for Instituta merzlotovedeniia, Russian for ­Institute of Frozen Earth Science KEPS  Komissiia po izucheniiu estestvennykh proizvoditel’nykh sil, ­Russian for Commission for the Study of Natural Productive Forces KIVM  Komissiia po izucheniiu vechnoi merzloty, Russian for ­Commission for the Study of vechnaia merzlota KOVM  Komitet po vechnoi merzloty, Russian for Committee on vechnaia merzlota l.  Abbreviation for list and listy, Russian for “page” and “pages” LOC  Library of Congress MD  Manuscript Division merzlota  Ambiguous Russian word that emerged in the nineteenth century signifying frozen earth merzlotovedenie  The study of merzlota or, roughly, “frozen earth science” MGB  Military Geology Branch MROKM  Mordovskii respublikanskii ob’’edinennyi kraevedcheskii muzei, Russian for Unified Local Studies Museum of the Republic of Mordovia NACP  National Archives at College Park naled’  Russian word for “icing,” a form of winter flooding occurring in regions with frozen earth NKPS  Narodnyi komissariat putei soobshcheniia, Russian for People’s Commissariat of Ways of Communication NKVD  Narodnyi komissariat vnutrennykh del, Russian for People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs of.  Abbreviation for osnovnoi fond, Russian for “core collection” OGPU  Ob’’edinennoe gosudarstvennoe politicheskoe upravlenie, Russian for Joint State Political Directorate op.  Abbreviation for opis’, Russian for “inventory”



Glossary 183

osvoenie  Russian for “assimilation,” referring to the mastery and transformation of undeveloped territories puchenie  Russian for “heave,” the phenomenon whereby the ground swells during the cold months and subsides during warm months RG57  Record Group 57, referring to the records of the USGS RGAE  Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv ekonomiki, Russian for Russian State Archive of the Economy RGANTD  Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv ­nauchno-tekhnicheskoi dokumentatsii, Russian for Russian State Archive of ­Scientific-Technical Documentation SIPRE  Snow, Ice, and Permafrost Research Establishment SOPS  Sovet po izucheniiu proizvoditel’nykh sil, Russian for Council for the Study of Productive Forces Sovnarkom  Sovet narodnykh komissarov, Russian for Council of ­People’s Commissars SR  Socialist Revolutionary (Party) SWG  Society of Women Geographers taryn  Sakha term for naled’ USGS  United States Geological Survey vechnaia merzlota  “Eternal merzlota,” a Russian expression ­signifying frozen earth that became the basis of the English word “permafrost” Vesenkha  Vysshii soviet narodnogo khoziaistva, Russian for Supreme Council of the National Economy zavoevanie  Russian for “conquest”

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NOTES

Introduction: Historicizing Permafrost 1 Inna Poiré to William Benninghoff, 19 January 1953/Army: Snow, Ice and Permafrost Research Establishment/ATPS/MGB/RG57/NACP. E ­ mphasis and punctuation in the original. 2 On temperatures in the Arctic, see J.E. Overland et al., “Surface Air ­Temperature [in Arctic Report Card 2017]” (The Arctic Program, National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, US Department of Commerce, 30 November 2017), http://www.arctic.noaa.gov/Report-Card. For ­estimates of permafrost’s geographical extent, see J. Alan Heginbottom et al., “Permafrost and Periglacial Environments,” Professional Paper 1386-A-5 (Reston: US Geological Survey, 2012), 425, 430–41. 3 See Ted Schuur, “The Permafrost Prediction,” Scientific American, ­December 2016; E.A.G. Schuur et al., “Climate Change and the ­Permafrost Carbon Feedback,” Nature 520 (9 April 2015): 171–9; Edward Schuur and Benjamin Abbott, “High Risk of Permafrost Thaw,” Nature 480 (1 December 2011): 32–3; Chris Mooney, “Scientists Have Long Feared This ‘Feedback’ to the Climate System. Now They Say It’s Happening,” Washington Post, 30 November 2016, https://www.washingtonpost.com /news/energy-environment/wp/2016/11/30/the-ground-beneath-our -feet-is-poised-to-make-global-warming-much-worse-scientists-find/; Chris Mooney, “The Arctic Climate Threat That Nobody’s Even Talking about Yet,” Washington Post, 1 May 2015, https://www.washingtonpost .com/news/energy-environment/wp/2015/04/01/the-arctic-climate -threat-that-nobodys-even-talking-about-yet/. 4 For worst-case scenarios of global warming, see David Wallace-Wells, “The Uninhabitable Earth,” New York, 9 July 2017, http://nymag.com /daily/intelligencer/2017/07/climate-change-earth-too-hot-for-humans .html. On permafrost as a “time bomb,” see Michaeleen Doucleff, “Is

186

5

6

7 8 9 10

11

12 13 14

Notes to pages 4–7 There a Ticking Time Bomb Under The Arctic?,” NPR, 24 January 2018, https://www.npr.org/sections/goatsandsoda/2018/01/24/575220206 /is-there-a-ticking-time-bomb-under-the-arctic; Eli Kintisch, “On the Trail of the Arctic’s Carbon Time Bomb,” New Scientist, 12 August 2015, https://www.newscientist.com/article/mg22730344-500-on-the-trail-of -the-arctics-carbon-time-bomb/; Gail Whiteman, Chris Hope, and Peter Wadhams, “Vast Costs of Arctic Change,” Nature 499 (25 July 2013): 401–3. GARF, f. 8409, op. 1, d. 1521, “Zhizneopisanie,” l. 92–3. Poiré’s birthdate is given here according to the “New Style” or Gregorian calendar, which was adopted in Russia in 1918. The date according to the “Old Style” or Julian calendar was 12 February. St. Petersburg was renamed Petrograd in 1914, which was renamed Leningrad in 1924. The organization, Pomoshch’ politicheskim zakliuchennym or POMPOLIT (“Aid to Political Prisoners”) was headed by the activist (and former wife of Soviet writer Maksim Gorkii) Ekaterina Peshkova, to whom Poiré addressed her petition. POMPOLIT’s papers, housed in the State Archive of the Russian Federation, have been transcribed and made available via a publicly accessible digital database thanks to the joint efforts of the archive and the civil society organization Memorial. Poiré’s file is among them. See http://pkk.memo.ru/index.html. GARF, f. 8409, op. 1, d. 1521, I. Puare to Ekaterina Pavlovna, l. 91, ­“Zhizneopisanie,” l. 92–3, “Zaiavlenie,” l. 96–7. V.P. Orlov, ed., Repressirovannye geologi, 3–e izd., i dop. (Moskva, SanktPeterburg: MPR RF, VSEGEI, RosGeo, 1999), 258. I, 27, SWG, MD, LOC, Washington, DC. J.S. Aston to Commanding General, 11 July 1945/(Alaska) 1943–July 1945 Permafrost: Vol. I-A/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP; Duane W. ­Ackerson to Robert F. Jacobs, 5 November 1945/(Alaska) Aug. ’45–Dec. ’45 Permafrost: Vol. I-B/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP; Edmund Wright, CRREL’s First Twenty-Five Years, 1961–1985, June 1986, ii. Conference Report of Mr. W. Marks Jaillite, 26 March 1946/(Alaska) April 1946–December 1946 Permafrost: Vol. II-B/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP; Robert F. Black to Charles A. King, 30 October 1946/Poire, Inna V./ATPS/ MGB/RG57/NACP; Frederick Betz, Jr. to Henry Aldrich/Geological ­Society of America 1948–1950/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP; I, 27, SWG, MD, LOC, Washington, DC. I.V. Poiré to W.S. Benninghoff, 16 January 1953/Army: Snow, Ice and Permafrost Research Establishment/ATPS/MGB/RG57/NACP. Inna V. Poiré to Robert F. Black, 2 June 1950/Poire, Inna V./ATPS/MGB/ RG57/NACP. Permafrost scientists who have delved most deeply into the history of their discipline include Rostislav Kamenskii, Igor Klimovskii, Nikolay Shiklomanov, Jerry Brown, Hugh French, and Frederick Nelson, several



Notes to pages 7–8

15

16

17

18 19

187

of whom have shown great kindness and generosity by pointing me towards resources for my research and educating me in the basics of permafrost science. Their work is cited in the bibliography and referred to periodically throughout the book. Historical overviews of p ­ ermafrost science also appear as introductory material in permafrost science ­textbooks. See, for example, E.D. Yershov, General Geocryology, ed. Peter J. Williams (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 18–26. Some exceptions exist where permafrost scientists have delved into the history of their field with attention to contrasting approaches to frozen earth. See, for example, P.F. Shvetsov, Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii (Moskva: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1955), 13–17, and Hugh French, “North American Periglacial Geomorphology as a Branch of ­Geocryology: A Brief History,” Physical Geography 26, no. 4 (2005): 264–78. In such cases, however, the goal has been to assert a particular view or make recommendations in order to resolve controversies or inconsistencies in the field. As a historian, I do not seek to resolve scientific disputes. Instead, I dig deeper into controversies in order to explain the reasons ­behind disagreements and offer insight into all sides’ thinking. In my story, the different ways of writing the history of permafrost science ­become part of the history of debates surrounding permafrost itself. These ideas are encompassed by the STS concept of “co-production.” See Sheila Jasanoff, “The Idiom of Co-Production,” in States of Knowledge: The Co-Production of Science and Social Order (London: Routledge, 2004), 1–12. See Lorraine Daston, “The Coming into Being of Scientific Objects,” in ­Biographies of Scientific Objects (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), 1–14. Other examples of biographies of scientific objects include Kim TallBear, Native American DNA: Tribal Belonging and the False ­Promise of Genetic Science (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2013) and Lundy Braun, Breathing Race into the Machine: The Surprising Career of the Spirometer from Plantation to Genetics (Minneapolis: University of ­Minnesota Press, 2014). Robert O. van Everdingen, ed., Multi-Language Glossary of Permafrost and Related Ground-Ice Terms (International Permafrost Association, 1998), 55. A landmark essay in this line of inquiry is Emily Martin, “The Egg and the Sperm: How Science Has Constructed a Romance Based on ­Stereotypical Male-Female Roles,” Signs 16, no. 2 (Spring 1991): 485–501. The feedback loop between social and scientific ideas aptly illustrates the STS concept of co-production. An especially fraught example of ­social ideas being utilized in science – and running the risk of becoming ­naturalized – concerns the concept of race. See Jonathan Kahn, Race in a Bottle: The Story of BiDil and Racialized Medicine in a Post-Genomic Age (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013).

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Notes to pages 8–12

20 See Evelyn Fox Keller and Elisabeth A. Lloyd, eds., Keywords in E ­ volutionary Biology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992); Stefan Helmreich and Sophia Roosth, “Life Forms: A Keyword Entry,” Representations, no. 112 (Fall 2010): 27–53. 21 Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden were terms advanced by German naturalist Karl Ernst von Baer, who played a key role in conceptualizing frozen earth as a scientific object. Baer did not write in English, but the terms he used were communicated to an English-speaking audience by his friend, the naval officer and explorer Adam Johann von Krusenstern. As we will see in chapter 1, the English expressions communicated by Krusenstern did not fully convey the meaning of Baer’s German terms. For the English communications, see Karl Ernst von Baer, “On the Ground Ice or Frozen Soil of Siberia,” Journal of the Royal Geographical Society of London 8 (1838): 210–13 and Karl Ernst von Baer, “Recent Intelligence upon the Frozen Ground in Siberia,” Journal of the Royal Geographical Society of London 8 (1838): 401–6. 22 The notion of situated knowledges is particularly central to feminist epistemologies of science. See Donna Haraway, “Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective,” in Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature (New York: ­Routledge, 1990), 183–201. 23 On the distinction between historical geology and physical, causal, or process geology, see Rachel Laudan, From Mineralogy to Geology: The Foundations of a Science, 1650–1830 (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1987), 1–17. On the need to challenge heroic master narratives in the history of geology, see Mott T. Greene, Geology in the Nineteenth ­Century: Changing Views of a Changing World (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1982), 19–45. 24 The metaphor of “Arctic methane monster” has been used to convey the danger of the release of large amounts of methane from perennially ­frozen earth. See, for example, the articles of science and environment writer Robert Marston Fanney at https://robertscribbler.com/tag/arctic -methane-monster/. 25 See David N. Livingstone, Putting Science in Its Place: Geographies of Scientific Knowledge (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003). 26 P.F. Shvetsov, “Istoriia geokriologicheskikh issledovanii do 1917 g.,” in Osnovy geokriologii (merzlotovedeniia), chast’ pervaia: obshchaia geokriologiia, ed. P.F. Shvetsov and B.N. Dostovalov (Moskva: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1959), 22–3. 27 The phrase comes from Martin J.S. Rudwick, Bursting the Limits of Time: The Reconstruction of Geohistory in the Age of Revolution (Chicago: U ­ niversity of Chicago Press, 2005), 96–7.



Notes to pages 13–16

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28 The theme of struggle with nature in Stalinist propaganda is explored in Katerina Clark, The Soviet Novel: History as Ritual (Chicago: The ­University of Chicago Press, 1981); John McCannon, “To Storm the Arctic: Soviet Polar Expeditions and Public Visions of Nature in the USSR, 1932–1939,” Ecumene 2, no. 1 (January 1995): 15–31; John McCannon, Red Arctic: Polar Exploration and the Myth of the North in the Soviet Union, 1932–1939 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998); Emma Widdis, Visions of a New Land: Soviet Film from Revolution to the Second World War (New Haven: Yale ­University Press, 2003). 29 U.S. Geological Survey, Permafrost or Permanently Frozen Ground and Related Engineering Problems, vol. 62, Strategic Engineering Study (Intelligence Branch Office, Chief of Engineers, 1943), 2–3. 30 As calculated in M.I. Sumgin, “Merzlotovedenie,” in Uspekhi geologogeograficheskikh nauk v SSSR za 25 let (Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk Soiuza SSR, 1943), 126. 31 For overviews of research into frozen earth outside Russia and the Soviet Union up to the mid-twentieth century, see RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 104, “Vechnaia merzlota v zarubezhnykh stranakh,” and Hugh French, “The Development of Periglacial Geomorphology: 1 – up to 1965,” Permafrost and Periglacial Processes 14, no. 1 (March 2003): 29–60. For a closer look at research in the US and Canada in the 1950s, see Andrew Stuhl, U ­ nfreezing the Arctic: Science, Colonialism, and the Transformation of Inuit Lands (­Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2016), 89–110. 32 On US efforts to translate Russian science, see Michael Gordin, Scientific Babel: How Science Was Done Before and After Global English (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2015), 213–66. Soviet influence on frozen earth investigations in China is mentioned in Tingjun Zhang, “Historical Overview of Permafrost Studies in China,” Physical Geography 26, no. 4 (2005): 279–98. 33 On Bolshevik faith in science, see David Bakhurst, “Political Emancipation and the Domination of Nature: The Rise and Fall of Soviet Prometheanism,” International Studies in the Philosophy of Science 5, no. 3 (1991): 215–26. 34 On Lysenko, see Zhores Medvedev, The Rise and Fall of T.D. Lysenko, ed. Lucy G. Lawrence, trans. I. Michael Lerner (New York: Columbia ­University Press, 1969); Zhores Medvedev, Soviet Science (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1978); David Joravsky, The Lysenko Affair (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1970); Nils Roll-Hansen, The Lysenko Effect: The Politics of Science (Amherst: Humanity Books, 2005); Nikolai Krementsov, Stalinist Science (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997); Jenny Leigh Smith, Works in Progress: Plans and Realities on Soviet Farms, 1930–1963 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014); Loren Graham, L ­ ysenko’s Ghost: Epigenetics and Russia (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2016). On

190

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

Notes to pages 16–17 campaigns against scientists, see S.A. K ­ islitsyn, Shakhtinskoe delo: nachalo stalinskikh repressii protiv n ­ auchno-tekhnicheskoi intelligentsii v SSSR (Rostov-naDonu: Izdatel’stvo NMTs “Logos,” 1993); V.A. K ­ umanev, ed., Tragicheskie sud’by: repressirovannye uchenye Akademii Nauk SSSR (Moskva: Nauka, 1995); V.P. Orlov, ed., Repressirovannye geologi, Izdanie vtoroe, ispravlennoe id ­ opolnennoe (Moskva-Sankt-Peterburg: ­Roskomnedra, VSEGEI, VIMS, SPb obshchestvo “Memorial,” SPbGGI, 1995). On the autonomy and authority of Soviet physicists, see David Holloway, Stalin and the Bomb: The Soviet Union and Atomic Energy 1939–1956 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994); David Holloway, “Physics, the State, and Civil Society in the Soviet Union,” Historical Studies in the Physical and Biological Sciences 30, no. 1 (1999): 173–92; Paul Josephson, Physics and Politics in Revolutionary Russia (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991); Mark Adams, Networks in Action: The Khrushchev Era, the Cold War, and the Transformation of Soviet Science (Trondheim: Norwegian University of Science and Technology, 2000). On the political history of the idea of scientific freedom, see Audra Wolfe, Freedom’s Laboratory: The Cold War Struggle for the Soul of Science (­Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2018). A.V. Kol’tsov, Sozdanie i deiatel’nost’ Komissii po izucheniiu estestvennykh proizvoditel’nykh sil Rossii, 1915–1930 gg. (Sankt-Peterburg: Nauka, 1999), 44, 82, 90. On the subordination and expansion of the Academy of Sciences, see Alexei Kojevnikov, “The Phenomenon of Soviet Science,” Osiris 23 (2008): 115–35; Alexander Vucinich, Empire of Knowledge: The Academy of Sciences of the USSR (1917–1970) (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984); Loren Graham, The Soviet Academy of Sciences and the Communist Party, 1927–1932 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967); Krementsov, S ­ talinist Science. The phrase is from Stephen Kotkin, Magnetic Mountain: Stalinism as a Civilization (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). On scientists’ use of the language of the party-state, see also Slava Gerovitch, From ­Newspeak to Cyberspeak: A History of Soviet Cybernetics (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2002) and Krementsov, Stalinist Science. On concepts in socialism inspiring scientific ideas, see Loren Graham, Science, Philosophy, and Human Behavior in the Soviet Union (New York: Columbia University Press, 1987); Loren Graham, Science in Russia and the Soviet Union: A Short History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); Alexei Kojevnikov, Stalin’s Great Science: The Times and Adventures of Soviet Physicists (London: Imperial College Press, 2004). On the mutual impacts of Soviet ideology and scientific debate, see Alexei Kojevnikov, “Rituals of Stalinist Culture at Work: Science and the Games of Intraparty Democracy circa 1948,” Russian Review 57, no. 1



Notes to page 18

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(January 1998): 25–52; Kojevnikov, Stalin’s Great Science, 186–216; Ethan Pollock, Stalin and the Soviet Science Wars (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006). On the potential of expanding analyses of Soviet science beyond the case of Lysenko, see Michael Gordin, “Was There Ever a ‘­Stalinist Science’?,” Kritika 9, no. 3 (Summer 2008): 625–39. 42 On the emergence of systems thinking in the US, see Ronald Kline, The C ­ ybernetics Moment, Or Why We Call Our Age the Information Age (­Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2015); Hunter Heyck, Age of System: Understanding the Development of Modern Social Science (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2015). 43 For explorations of systems thinking in Russian and Soviet culture, see ­Ilmari Susiluoto, The Origins and Development of Systems Thinking in the ­Soviet Union: Political and Philosophical Controversies from Bogdanov and Bukharin to Present-Day Re-Evaluations (Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1982); Douglas Weiner, Models of Nature: Ecology, ­Conservation, and Cultural Revolution in Soviet Russia (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988); Catherine Evtuhov, “The Roots of Dokuchaev’s Scientific Contributions: Cadastral Soil Mapping and Agro-Environmental Issues,” in Footprints in the Soil: People and Ideas in Soil History (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 2006), 125–48; Giulia Rispoli, “Between ‘Biosphere’ and ‘Gaia’: Earth as a Living ­Organism in Soviet Geo-Ecology,” Cosmos and History: The Journal of Natural and Social Philosophy 10, no. 2 (2014): 78–91; David Moon, “The Steppe as Fertile Ground for Innovation in Conceptualizing Human-Nature Relationships,” Slavonic and East European Review 93, no. 1 (2015): 16–38; Isabel Wünsche, The Organic School of the Russian Avant-Garde: Nature’s Creative Principles (Surrey: Ashgate, 2015); Jonathan Oldfield and Denis Shaw, The ­Development of Russian Environmental Thought: Scientific and Geographical Perspectives on the Natural Environment (London: Routledge, 2016); Andy Bruno, “A ­Eurasian Mineralogy: Aleksandr Fersman’s Conception of the Natural World,” Isis 107, no. 3 (2016): 518–39; David Moon and Edward Landa, “The Centenary of the Journal Soil Science: Reflections on the Discipline in the United States and Russia Around a Hundred Years Ago,” Soil Science 182, no. 6 (June 2017): 203–15; Eglė Rindzevičiūtė, The Power of Systems: How ­Policy Sciences Opened up the Cold War World (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2016); Eglė Rindzevičiūtė, “Soviet Policy Sciences and Earth System Governmentality,” Modern Intellectual History, May 2018, 1–30. 44 On the repression of systems thinking and creative uses of ideology under Stalin, see David Joravsky, Soviet Marxism and Natural Science, 1917–1932 (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1961); Susiluoto, The Origins and Development of Systems Thinking in the Soviet Union, 141–54; Weiner, Models of Nature, 121–33; Graham, Science in Russia and the Soviet Union, 121.

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Notes to pages 18–19

45 See Donald Worster, “Transformations of the Earth: Toward an ­Agroecological Perspective in History,” The Journal of American ­History 76, no. 4 (March 1990): 1087–106; J.R. McNeill, “Observations on the ­Nature and Culture of Environmental History,” History and Theory, no. 42 (­December 2003): 5–43; Douglas Weiner, “A Death-Defying ­Attempt to Articulate a Coherent Definition of Environmental History,” ­Environmental History 10 (July 2005): 404–20. 46 See Boris Komarov, The Destruction of Nature in the Soviet Union (White Plains: M.E. Sharpe, 1980); Murray Feshbach and Alfred Friendly, E ­ cocide in the USSR: Health and Nature Under Siege (New York: Basic Books, 1992); D.J. Peterson, Troubled Lands: The Legacy of Soviet Environmental ­Destruction (Boulder: Westview Press, 1993); Paul Josephson, “War on ­Nature as Part of the Cold War: The Strategic and Ideological Roots of Environmental Degradation in the Soviet Union,” in Environmental ­Histories of the Cold War (­Washington: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 21–49; Paul Josephson et al., An Environmental History of Russia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). For a review of the literature, see Andy Bruno, “Russian Environmental ­History: Directions and Potentials,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 8, no. 3 (2007): 635–50. 47 See Douglas Weiner, A Little Corner of Freedom: Russian Nature Protection from Stalin to Gorbachev (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999). On the connections between authoritarianism and environmental degradation, see also Judith Shapiro, Mao’s War Against Nature: Politics and the Environment in Revolutionary China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). 48 This tendency was pointed out in Stephen Brain, “The Environmental History of the Soviet Union,” in A Companion to Global Environmental ­History (West Sussex: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 222–43. 49 See Stephen Brain, Song of the Forest: Russian Forestry and Stalinist ­Environmentalism, 1905–1953 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2011); Andy Bruno, The Nature of Soviet Power: An Arctic Environmental History (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2016); Johanna Conterio, “­Inventing the Subtropics: An Environmental History of Sochi, 1929–36,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 16, no. 1 (Winter 2015): 91–120. 50 See Christopher Ely, This Meager Nature: Landscape and National Identity in Imperial Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2002); Jane Costlow, “Imaginations of Destruction: The ‘Forest Question’ in ­Nineteenth-Century Russian Culture,” The Russian Review 63, no. 1 (­January 2003): 91–118; David Moon, The Plough That Broke the Steppes: Agriculture and Environment on Russia’s Grasslands, 1700–1914 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013).



Notes to pages 19–21

193

51 On the Soviet environmental legacy in comparative context, see Bruno, The Nature of Soviet Power; Kate Brown, Plutopia: Nuclear Families, Atomic Cities, and the Great Soviet and American Plutonium Disasters (Oxford: O ­ xford University Press, 2013); Bathsheba Demuth, “The Walrus and the Bureaucrat: Energy, Ecology, and the Making of the State in the Russian and American Arctic, 1870–1950,” American Historical Review 124, no. 2 (April 2019): 483– 510. On conservation, see Nicholas Breyfogle, “At the Watershed: 1958 and the Beginnings of Lake Baikal Environmentalism,” The Slavonic and East European Review 93, no. 1 (2015): 147–80; Marc Elie, “Formulating the Global Environment: Soviet Soil Scientists and the International Desertification Discussion, 1968–91,” The Slavonic and East European Review 93, no. 1 (January 2015): 181–204; Julia Obertreis, “Soviet Irrigation Policies under Fire: Ecological Critique in Central Asia, 1970s–1991,” in Eurasian Environments: Nature and Ecology in Imperial Russian and Soviet History (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2018), 113–29. 52 This point was articulated in Douglas Weiner and John Brooke, “­Conclusions,” in Eurasian Environments: Nature and Ecology in Imperial Russian and Soviet History (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2018), 298–315. See also Randall Dills, “Forest and Grassland: Recent Trends in Russian Environmental History,” Global Environment 12 (2013): 38–61. 53 For a critical perspective on this dualism, see Douglas Weiner, “­Demythologizing Environmentalism,” Journal of the History of Biology 25, no. 3 (Fall 1992): 385–411; William Cronon, “The Uses of Environmental History,” Environmental History Review 17, no. 3 (Fall 1993): 1–22; ­Kristin Asdal, “The Problematic Nature of Nature: The Post-Constructivist ­Challenge to Environmental History,” History and Theory 42 (December 2003): 60–74. 54 See Stephan Harrison, Steve Pile, and Nigel Thrift, Patterned Ground: ­Entanglements of Nature and Culture (London: Reaktion Books, 2004), 50–1, 126–7, 199–200. Despite its title, David Blackbourn, The Conquest of ­Nature: Water, Landscape, and the Making of Modern Germany (New York: Norton, 2006) also explores the intermingling of nature and culture. 55 See Donna Haraway, “The Promises of Monsters: A Regenerative P ­ olitics for Inappropriate/d Others,” in Cultural Studies (New York: R ­ outledge, 1992), 295–337; Dolly Jørgensen, Finn Arne Jørgensen, and Sara Pritchard, eds., New Natures: Joining Environmental History with Science and T ­ echnology Studies (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2013); Gregg Mitman, “Living in a Material World,” Journal of American History 100, no. 1 (June 2013): 128–30. 56 On the origins of the nature versus culture divide, see Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences (New York: ­Vintage Books, 1994). On the power of the construct, see Bruno Latour,

194

Notes to pages 21–6

We Have Never Been Modern, trans. Catherine Porter (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993). On the turn towards hybridity in ­environmental history, see Paul Sutter, “The World with Us: The State of American ­Environmental History,” Journal of American History 100, no. 1 (June 2013): 94–119; Linda Nash, “Furthering the Environmental Turn,” Journal of American History 100, no. 1 (June 2013): 131–5. 57 See Donna Haraway, Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006); Anna Tsing, The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2015). 1. Mapping 1 “Otpiska tsariam Iakutskago voevody Matveia Krovkova, o rabotakh, kakiia dolzhny byt’ proizvedeny po sluchaiiu pereneseniia Iakutska na novoe miesto,” in Dopolneniia k aktam istoricheskim, sobrannyia i ­izdannyia arkheograficheskoiu kommissieiu, vol. 11 (Sanktpeterburg: Tipografiia ­Eduarda Pratsa, 1869), 200. 2 Erki Tammiksaar, “The Contributions of Karl Ernst von Baer to the ­Investigation of the Physical Geography of the Arctic in the 1830s–40s,” Polar Record 38, no. 205 (2002): 128. Baer’s map was unearthed from among Baer’s papers in the St. Petersburg Branch of the Archive of the Russian Academy of Sciences and brought to the attention of a wider audience by historical geographer Erki Tammiksaar. See Tammiksaar, “Geograficheskie aspekty tvorchestva Karla Bera v 1830–1840 gg.,” (Estonia: University of Tartu, 2000), 49. Tammiksaar has been a pioneer in drawing attention to Baer’s and other Baltic Germans’ roles in early frozen earth research, and I am indebted to him for sharing his expertise. However, whereas Tammiksaar treats permafrost as a fixed, universal, and natural object, my goal is to historicize the phenomenon and treat it as an evolving and contested idea with multiple meanings. While Tammiksaar describes Baer as investigating permafrost and vechnaia merzlota, I argue that Baer’s understanding of frozen earth as Boden-Eis and Eis-Boden was distinct from permafrost and vechnaia merzlota and must be understood on its own terms. 3 On the Baltic Germans of the Russian Empire, see Heide Whelan, ­Adapting to Modernity: Family, Caste, and Capitalism among the Baltic ­German Nobility (Köln: Böhlau Verlag, 1999), and Willard Sunderland, The Baron’s Cloak: A History of the Russian Empire in War and Revolution (Ithaca: Cornell ­University Press, 2014), Ch. 1–2. On the importance of German language to scholars in the Russian Empire, see Michael Gordin, Scientific Babel, Ch. 2.



Notes to pages 28–30

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4 My translations are based on Johann Georg Gmelin, “Vorwort zur ‘Flora Sibirica,’” in Johann Georg Gmelin, 1709–1755: Der Erforscher Sibiriens (München: Verlag Otto Gmelin, 1911), 44–6, 65–6. For the original preface in Latin, see Joanne Georgio Gmelin, “Praefatio,” in Flora Sibirica sive Historia Plantarum Sibiriae, tomus I (Petropoli: Typographia Academiae Scientiarum, 1747), iii–cxxx. 5 Hasok Chang, Inventing Temperature: Measurement and Scientific Progress (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 159–68. 6 Dionise Settle, “The Second Voyage of Master Martin Frobisher, Made to the West and Northwest Regions, in the Yeere 1577, with a Description of the Countrey, and People,” in Haklyut’s Collection of the Early Voyages, ­Travels, and Discoveries of the English Nation, vol. 3 (London: Printed for R.H. Evans, 26, Pall Mall; J. Mackinlay, Strand; and R. Priestley, Holborn, 1810), 64. On attempts by European merchants to find passages to Asia via the Arctic, see Shelagh Grant, Polar Imperative: A History of Arctic ­Sovereignty in North America (Vancouver: Douglas & McIntyre, 2010), Ch. 3. 7 John Wood, “Relation of a Voyage for the Discovery of a Passage by the North-East, to Japan and China, Performed in His Majesties Ship the Speedwel, and Prosperous Pink, Anno Domini 1676,” in An Account of Several Late Discoveries to the South and North towards the Streights of ­Magellan, the South Sea, the Vast Tracts of Land Beyond Hollandia Nova, &c., Also towards Nova Zembla, Greenland or Spitsberg, Groynland or Engrondland, &c. (London: Sam Smith and Benj. Walford, 1694), 165–7, 193–4. 8 On Russian expansion into Siberia, see Erika Monahan, The Merchants of Siberia: Trade in Early Modern Eurasia (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2016), 111–44; Robert Kerner, The Urge to the Sea: The Course of Russian History, the Role of River Portages, Ostrogs, Monasteries, and Furs (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1942); George Lantzeff and Richard Pierce, Eastward to Empire: Exploration and Conquest on the Russian Open Frontier, to 1750 (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1973); Basil Dmytryshyn, E.A.P. Crownhart-Vaughan, and Thomas Vaughan, Russia’s Conquest of Siberia, 1558–1700: A Documentary Record, vol. 1 (Portland: Western Imprints, The Press of the Oregon Historical Society, 1985). 9 On Yakutsk in the seventeenth century, see F.G. Safronov, Gorod Iakutsk v XVII - nachale XIX vekov (Iakutsk: Iakutskoe knizhnoe izdatel’stvo, 1957), 21–46. 10 “Otpiska Lenskogo voevody Petra Golovina s tovarishchami, ob osmotre mest, udobnykh pod pashni i senokosy po reke Lene,” in Dopolneniia k aktam istoricheskim, sobrannye i izdannye arkheograficheskoiu komissieiu, vol. 2 (Sanktpeterburg: Tipografiia Eduarda Pratsa, 1846), 249. 11 “Dvie otpiski tsariam Iakutskago voevody Matvieia Krovkova o nachatoi im postroikie novykh ukrieplenii v Iakutskie i kolodezia i o nedostatkie

196

12

13

14 15

16

17

Notes to pages 30–1 liudei i deneg dlia uspieshnago ikh okonchaniia,” in Dopolneniia k aktam istoricheskim, sobrannyia i izdannyia arkheograficheskoiu kommissieiu, vol. 10 (Sanktpeterburg: Tipografiia Eduarda Pratsa, 1867), 316. See Waldemar Jochelson, The Yakut, vol. 33, Anthropological Papers of the American Museum of Natural History (New York: American Museum of Natural History, 1933); A.P. Okladnikov, Yakutia Before Its ­Incorporation into the Russian State, ed. Henry N. Michael, trans. Stephen P. Dunn, vol. 8, Anthropology of the North: Translations from Russian Sources (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1970). See Ferdinand Wrangell, Narrative of an Expedition to the Polar Sea in the Years 1820, 1821, 1822, and 1823 (Fairfield: Ye Galleon Press, 1981), 35–6; Hiroki Takakura, “The Social and Symbolic Construction of Alaas ­Landscapes in the Siberian Forest among the Sakha,” Acta Slavica ­Iaponica 28 (2010): 51–69; Susan Crate et al., “Permafrost Livelihoods: A ­Transdisciplinary Review and Analysis of Thermokarst-Based ­Systems of Indigenous Land Use,” Anthropocene 18 (2017): 89–104. David Collins, ed., Siberian Discovery, vol. 1, 12 vols. (Surrey: Curzon Press, 2000), vii. E. Ysbrants Ides, Three Years Travels from Moscow Over-Land to China: Thro’ Great Ustiga, Siriania, Permia, Daour, Great Tartary, &c. to Peking (London: Printed for W. Freeman, J. Walthoe, T. Newborough, J. Nicholson, and R. Parker, 1706), 26. On the process by which mammoths came to be understood as extinct inhabitants of cold climates of a past epoch, see Claudine Cohen, The Fate of the Mammoth: Fossils, Myth, and History, trans. William ­Rodarmor (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2002); Erki Tammiksaar and Ken Kalling, “Siberian Woolly Mammoths and Studies into ­Permafrost in the Russian Empire in the 19th Century,” in Proceedings of the Ninth ­International Conference on Permafrost, vol. 2 (Ninth International ­Conference on Permafrost, University of Alaska Fairbanks: Institute of Northern Engineering, 2008), 1745–50; John J. McKay, Discovering the Mammoth (New York: Pegasus Books, 2017). The Second Kamchatka Expedition has been referred to by many names, including Bering’s Second Voyage, the Northern or Great N ­ orthern ­Expedition, and the First Academy Expedition. On the planning, ­motivations, and outcomes of the expedition, see A.P. Sokolov, Severnaia Ekspeditsiia, 1733–1743, vol. 9, Zapiski Gidrograficheskogo Departamenta Morskogo Ministerstva (Sanktpeterburg, 1851); F.A. Golder, Bering’s Voyages: An Account of the Efforts of the Russians to Determine the Relation of Asia and America, vol. 1, 2 vols., American Geographical Society Research Series 1 (New York: American Geographical Society, 1922); Alexander Vucinich, Science in Russian Culture: A History to 1860 (Stanford: Stanford University



Notes to pages 32–3

18

19

20

21 22

23

24 25

26 27

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Press, 1963), 90–1, 99–100; Raymond H. Fisher, Bering’s Voyages: Whither and Why (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1977); Ryan Tucker Jones, Empire of Extinction: Russians and the North Pacific’s Strange Beasts of the Sea, 1741–1867 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014), 21–59. On the importance of collecting as a practice to the development of ­natural history, see Paula Findlen, Possessing Nature: Museums, ­Collecting, and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Italy (Berkeley: University of ­California Press, 1996). Ted Binnema, Enlightened Zeal: The Hudson’s Bay Company and Scientific Networks, 1670–1870 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2014), 48–9; Sverker Sörlin, “Ordering the World for Europe: Science as Intelligence and Information as Seen from the Northern Periphery,” Osiris 15 (2000): 54–67. On the connections between travel, knowledge, and profit in the context of colonialism, see James Delbourgo and Nicholas Dew, eds., ­Science and Empire in the Atlantic World (New York: Routledge, 2008). Sokolov, Severnaia Ekspeditsiia, 5; Fisher, Bering’s Voyages, 120–1, 174. On the creation of the Petersburg Academy of Sciences, see Vucinich, Science in Russian Culture: A History to 1860, 65–74, and Michael Gordin, “The Importation of Being Earnest: The Early St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences,” Isis 91, no. 1 (March 2000): 1–31. On science and technology as part of the performance of Russia’s European identity, see Richard ­Wortman, “Texts of Exploration and Russia’s European Identity,” in ­Russia Engages the World, 1453–1825 (Cambridge: Harvard ­University Press, 2003), 91–117 and Simon Werrett, “Technology on Display: ­Instruments and Identities on Russian Voyages of Exploration,” The ­Russian Review 70, no. 3 (July 2011): 380–96. Johann Georg Gmelin, “Vorwort zur ‘Flora Sibirica,’” 57. Die Große Nordische Expedition von 1733 bis 1743: Aus Berichten der Forschungsreisenden Johann Georg Gmelin und Georg Wilhelm Steller (München: Verlag C.H. Beck, 1990), 80. Johann Georg Gmelin, Reise durch Sibirien, von dem Jahr 1738 bis zu Ende 1740, Dritter Theil (Göttingen: Abram Vandenhoecks seel. Wittwe, 1752), 141–2. Johann Georg Gmelin, “Vorwort zur ‘Flora Sibirica,’” 58; RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 31, “Materialy k istorii izucheniia vechnoi merzloty,” l. 14, 16. P.S. Pallas, Reise Durch Verschiedene Provinzen Des Russischen Reichs in ­Einem Ausführlichen Auszuge, Dritter Theil in Denen Jahren 1772–1773 (Frankfurt und Leipzig: Johann Georg Fleischer, 1778), 18–19. Pallas, Reise Durch Verschiedene Provinzen Des Russischen Reichs in Einem Ausführlichen Auszuge, Dritter Theil in Denen Jahren 1772–1773, 101. RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 31, “Materialy k istorii izucheniia vechnoi ­merzloty,” l. 13.

198

Notes to pages 34–5

28 This was the opinion of, for example, the French natural philosopher Jean-Jacques Dortous de Mairan, who advanced it in his Dissertation sur la glace, ou Explication physique de la formation de la glace et de ses divers phénomènes in 1749. See Karl Ernst von Baer, Materialien zur Kenntniss des unvergänglichen Boden-Eises in Sibirien: Unveröffentlichtes Typoskript von 1843 und der erste Dauerfrostbodenkunde, ed. Erki Tammiksaar (Giessen: Universitätsbibliothek, 2001), 12. 29 On these developments, see Laudan, From Mineralogy to Geology; Martin Rudwick, Worlds Before Adam: The Reconstruction of Geohistory in the Age of Reform (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2008); Tobias Krüger, Discovering the Ice Ages: International Reception and Consequences for a ­Historical Understanding of Climate, trans. Ann M. Hentschel (Leiden: Brill, 2013); Andrea Wulf, The Invention of Nature: Alexander von Humboldt’s New World (New York: Vintage Books, 2015). 30 Tammiksaar, “Contributions of Karl Ernst von Baer,” 123; Baer, M ­ aterialien zur Kenntniss des unvergänglichen Boden-Eises in Sibirien, 6–7. 31 Baer, Materialien zur Kenntniss des unvergänglichen Boden-Eises in Sibirien, 16. Notwithstanding the general scepticism of the times, additional reports of perennially frozen earth in Siberia continued to appear in explorers’ ­accounts from the 1820s. See X. Gansteen, “Magnitnaia sila zemnogo shara,” Biblioteka dlia chteniia 3 (1834), 35; Figurin, “Zamechaniia mediko-khirurga Figurina o raznykh predmetakh estestvennoi istorii i fiziki, uchinennye v Ust’iansk i okrestnostiakh onogo v 1822 godu,” ­Sibirskii vestnik, 1823, 199. 32 Buch’s paper is quoted in Karl Ernst von Baer, “On the Ground Ice or ­Frozen Soil of Siberia,” 210. For another reference to contemporary disbelief about perennially frozen earth extending to great depths, see “Extracts from a Letter from Mr. Adolph Erman, Dated Berlin, March 5, 1838,” The Athenaeum, no. 546 (1838): 274. 33 On the Lena’s behaviour and Yakutsk’s water supply, see N.S. Shchukin, Poezdka v Iakutsk (St. Peterburg: Tipografiia Konrada Vingebera, 1833), 117–18; G. Gel’mersen, “Zamechaniia o kolodtse, vyrytom v Iakutske,” trans. Rashkov, Gornyi zhurnal ch. II, kn. 4, otd. V (1838): 121. On the climate and precipitation of Yakutsk, see V.B. Shostakovich, Materialy po klimatu Iakutskoi Respubliki i sopredel’nykh s nei chastei Severnoi Azii, vol. 6, Trudy Komissii po izucheniiu Iakutskoi Avtonomnoi Sovetskoi ­Sotsialisticheskoi Respubliki (Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1927), 20. 34 Adolph Erman, Travels in Siberia: Including Excursions Northward, down the Obi, to the Polar Circle, and Southwards, to the Chinese Frontier, trans. ­William Desborough Cooley, 2 vols. (London: Longman, Brown, Green, and Longmans, 1848), 366–7.



Notes to pages 35–7

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35 Zlobin, “O gorakh Iakutskoi oblasti i o poleznykh mineralakh v nikh ­nakhodiashchikhsia,” Gornyi zhurnal, 1831, 33–4; Shchukin, Poezdka v ­Iakutsk, 128–9. 36 On Wrangell, see Erki Tammiksaar, “Wrangell or Wrangel – Which Is It?,” Polar Record 34, no. 188 (January 1998): 55–6; Erki Tammiksaar, “Ferdinand von Wrangell: White Spots on the Northeast Coast of Siberia Disappear,” Polar Record 37, no. 201 (April 2001): 151–3; Ilya Vinkovetsky, Russian America: An Overseas Colony of a Continental Empire, 1804–1867 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 56–7. 37 Gel’mersen, “Zamechaniia o kolodtse, vyrytom v Iakutske,” 121–2; Baer, Materialien zur Kenntniss des unvergänglichen Boden-Eises in Sibirien, 23–5. On Shergin’s observations of frozen earth, see “Temperatura pochvy v Iakutske,” Zhurnal ministerstva narodnogo prosveshcheniia 21, no. 3 (March 1839): 28–30. 38 On Baer’s geographical interests, see Tammiksaar, “The Contributions of Karl Ernst von Baer to the Investigation of the Physical Geography of the Arctic in the 1830s–40s”; Tammiksaar, “Geograficheskie aspekty tvorchestva Karla Bera v 1830–1840 gg.” 39 The German-born Kankrin, despite his fiscal conservatism, was nevertheless interested in supporting research that could enable the more effective utilization of natural resources. See V.L. Stepanov, “E.F. Kankrin and the Development of Mining and Metallurgy in Russia,” Russian Studies in History 47, no. 3 (Winter 2008–2009): 7–37. 40 Baer had helped Middendorff obtain a position at the University of Kiev, but Middendorff was not happy there. After being selected to lead the expedition thanks to Baer’s endorsement, he was able to leave his post at the university. See Erki Tammiksaar and Ian R. Stone, “Alexander von Middendorff and his Expedition to Siberia (1842–1845),” Polar Record 43, no. 226 (2007): 193–216. 41 Baer worked deeply in the archives of state ministries and departments and endeavoured to have scientifically relevant manuscripts published. See Tammiksaar, “The Contributions of Karl Ernst von Baer,” 125. 42 Baer continued to work on the manuscript even after Middendorff had ­already departed for the Taimyr Peninsula. Although it was not completely finished, it was sent to Middendorff in parts. See “Predislovie ­Akademika V.A. Obrucheva” in K.M. Ber, Materialy k poznaniiu ­netaiushchego pochvennogo l’da v Sibiri (Sankt-Peterburg, 1842 g.), ed. R.M. Kamenskii (­Iakutsk: ­Izdatel’stvo Instituta merzlotovedeniia SO RAN, 2000), 10, and ­Tammiksaar, “The Contributions of Karl Ernst von Baer,” 127. 43 Baer, Materialien zur Kenntniss des unvergänglichen Boden-Eises in Sibirien, 40–1. 44 Baer, Materialien zur Kenntniss des unvergänglichen Boden-Eises in Sibirien, 42. 45 Baer, Materialien zur Kenntniss des unvergänglichen Boden-Eises in Sibirien, 42.

200

Notes to pages 37–42

46 Baer, Materialien zur Kenntniss des unvergänglichen Boden-Eises in Sibirien, 46. 47 “Voprosy, postavlennye Sherginu” in Ber, Materialy k poznaniiu netaiushchego pochvennogo l’da v Sibiri, 136. 48 Baer, Materialien zur Kenntniss des unvergänglichen Boden-Eises in Sibirien, 184–5. 49 On the emergence of geology, see Rudwick, Bursting the Limits of Time, and Rudwick, Worlds Before Adam. 50 Michael Dettelbach, “Humboldtian Science,” in Cultures of Natural History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 295; Rudwick, Bursting the Limits of Time, 124. 51 Rudwick, Worlds Before Adam, 532–3. It is worth noting that, although Agassiz considered Humboldt a mentor, the two naturalists had strikingly divergent views on race. Whereas Humboldt asserted the unity of the human species and the equality of all humans, Agassiz subscribed to polygenism, the idea that different human races had separate origins, a view that complemented his belief in a racial hierarchy that put Europeans at the top. See Christopher Irmscher, Louis Agassiz: Creator of American Science (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2013), 220–8. 52 Dettelbach, 295. See also Arthur Robinson, Early Thematic Mapping in the History of Cartography (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1982). 53 In his manuscript, “Materials toward Knowledge of the Imperishable BodenEis of Siberia,” Baer did not explicitly indicate the meanings of the colours on his map of frozen earth. Rather, I have provided my interpretation of Baer’s map based on the evidence and context provided in the manuscript. 54 Baer, Materialien zur Kenntniss des unvergänglichen Boden-Eises in Sibirien, 144. 55 Baer’s efforts to combine evidence from local observations with an ­understanding of regional and global patterns of climate illustrates what Deborah Coen has called a “continental-imperial” epistemology characteristic of knowledge production in the Romanov and Habsburg empires. See Deborah Coen, “Imperial Climatographies from Tyrol to Turkestan,” Osiris, 2nd, 26 (2011): 45–65. 56 Alexander von Humboldt, Kosmos: Entwurf einer physischen Weltheschreibung, vol. 4 (Stuttgart: Verlag der J.G. Cotta’schen Buchhandlung, 1858), 42–7. I have drawn from the English translation provided in Alexander von Humboldt, Cosmos: A Sketch of a Physical Description of the Universe, trans. E.C. Otté and W.S. Dallas, vol. 5 (London: Henry G. Bohn, 1858), 43. On Humboldt, see Wulf, The Invention of Nature. 57 N.G. Sukhova and E. Tammiksaar, Aleksandr Fedorovich Middendorf: K dvukhsotletiiu so dnia rozhdeniia, izdanie vtoroe, pererabotannoe i d­ opolnennoe (Sankt-Peterburg: Nestor-Istoriia, 2015), 225–7. 58 The temperature scale he used was the Réaumur, which set 0° as the melting point of ice and 80° as the boiling point of water. On the R ­ éaumur



Notes to pages 42–5

59

60 61

62

63

64 65 66 67

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scale, see W.E. Knowles Middleton, A History of the Thermometer and its Use in Meteorology (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996), 79–86. Baer’s insistence that the freezing of a substance depends on the presence and transformation of liquid water into ice can be found in Karl Ernst von Baer, “Middendorff’s denkwürdiger Expedition in das a­ rktische Sibirien,” Beiträge zur Kenntniss des Russischen Reiches und der a­ ngränzenden Länder Asiens 9, no. 2 (1855), 378–9. Middendorff’s assertion that the meaning of freezing does not depend on the presence and transformation of water into ice can be found in A. Th. v. Middendorff, Dr. A. Th. v. ­Middendorff’s Reise in den Äussersten Norden und Osten Sibiriens, Band 4, Theil 1: E ­ inleitung, Geographie, Hydrographie, ­Orographie, Geognosie, Klima und Gewächse (St. Petersburg: Buchdruckerei der K ­ aiserlichen Akademie der Wissenshaften, 1867), 426–7. Alexander Vucinich, Science in Russian Culture, 1861–1917 (Stanford: ­Stanford University Press, 1970), 398–401. Those who proposed to classify and analyse ice as a rock included ­mining engineer Innokentii Lopatin and geologist Eduard von Toll. Toll also understood frozen earth, which he called Steineis, as being connected to an earlier ice age. See I. Lopatin, “Nekotorye svedeniia o ledianykh sloiakh v vostochnoi Sibiri (Prilozhenie k 29-mu tomu zapisok Imp. Akademii Nauk,” Zapiski Imperatorskoi Akademii Nauk 29 (1877): 1–32; Eduard v. Toll, “Wissenschaftliche Resultate der von der Kaiserlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften zur Erforschung des Janalandes und der neusibirischen Inseln in den Jahren 1885 und 1886 ausgestandten ­Expedition, ­Abtheilung III: Die fossilen Eislager und ihre Beziehungen zu den ­Mammuthleichen,” Mémoires de l’Académie Impériale des Sciences de St.-Pétersbourg 42, no. 13 (1895): 1–86. Dariusz Kwiatkowski, “Leonard Feliks Stefan Jaczewski, 1858–1918,” in Polscy Badacze Syberii (Warszawa: Archiwum Polskiej Akademii Nauk, 2008), 59–61. On Middendorff’s influence on Jaczewski, see Sukhova and ­Tammiksaar, Aleksandr Fedorovich Middendorf, 226. On efforts to promote Russian ­language in the Russian Empire, see Gordin, Scientific Babel, Ch. 2–3; ­Sunderland, The Baron’s Cloak, 35–7. See L. Iachevskii, “O vechno merzloi pochve v Sibiri,” Izvestiia Imperatorskogo Russkogo Geograficheskogo Obshchestva 25 (1889): 341–55. Baer, Materialien zur Kenntniss des unvergänglichen Boden-Eises in Sibirien, 124. A. Th. v. Middendorff, Dr. A. Th. v. Middendorff’s Reise in den Äussersten Norden und Osten Sibiriens, Band 4, Theil 1, 495. See A.I. Voeikov, Snezhnyi pokrov, ego vliianie na pochvy, klimat i pogodu i sposoby issledovaniia, Izdanie vtoroe, ispravlennoe i znachitel’no dopolnennoe, vol. 18, no. 2, Zapiski Imperatorskogo Russkogo Geograficheskogo Obshchestva po obshchei geografii (Sanktpeterburg: Tipografiia Imperatorskoi Akademii Nauk, 1880).

202

Notes to pages 47–9 2. Building

1 On the Chita locomotive works, see N.S. Bogdanov, Vechnaia merzlota i sooruzheniia na nei, vol. LXXXIII, Vysochaishe uchrezhdeniia, Osobaia Vyschaia Komissiia dlia vsestoronnogo issledovaniia zheleznodorozhnogo dela v Rossii (S.-Peterburg: Tipografiia t-va “Obshchestvennaia Pol’za,” 1912), 115–42; R.F. Geniatulin, ed., Entsiklopediia Zabaikal’ia: Chitinskaia oblast’, tom 1: obshchii ocherk, vol. 1, 4 vols. (Novosibirsk: Nauka, 2000), 164. On Pushechnikov, see A.V. Khobta, Stroitel’stvo Transsiba: ocherki istorii (konets xx – nachalo xx vv.), vol. 2, Istoriia Vostochnoi Sibiri. Istochniki i issledovaniia (Irkutsk: OOO NPF “Zemlia Irkutskaia,” 2009), 314–22. On the particular characteristics of frozen earth in and around Chita, see P.I. Mel’nikov and V.G. Kondrat’ev, eds., Problemy geokriologii Zabaikal’ia (Chita: Zabaikal’skii filial Geograficheskogo Obshchevtva SSSR, 1984). 2 V.G. Petrov, Naledi na amursko-iakutskoi magistrali, s al’bomom planov naledei (Leningrad: Izdanie Akademii Nauk SSSR i Nauchno-issledovatel’skogo avtomobil’no-dorozhnogo instituta NKPS SSSR, 1930), 24, 45–8. See also V.G. Petrov, “Pis’ma s Iakutskoi magistrali,” Mestnyi transport, no. 8 ­(August 1928), 13. 3 “Trans-Siberian Railway” has come to refer to the route from Moscow to Vladivostok. “Siberian Railway” was used at the time to refer to the route under construction, whose western terminus was Chelyabinsk. Khobta, Stroitel’stvo Transsiba, 5, 11; N.P. Lagutina, ed., Atlas: zheleznye dorogi (Rossiia, strany SNG, Pribaltika) (Omsk: Omskaia kartograficheskaia fabrika, 2002), 14. 4 Steven Marks, Road to Power: The Trans-Siberian Railroad and the Colonization of Asian Russia, 1850–1917 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), 176. 5 GARF, f. R-5446, op. 13, d. 2460, “Spravka o sostoianii postroiki Amur-Iakutskoi magistrali,” l. 3. 6 On continuities from the imperial to the Soviet eras in state structures and dilemmas of governance, see Jane Burbank, Mark Von Hagen, and A.V. Remnev, eds., Russian Empire: Space, People, Power, 1700–1930 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007). On continuities in the regimes’ ­relationships to nature, see Andy Bruno, The Nature of Soviet Power, Ch. 2. 7 On the role of tsarist-era experts during the early Bolshevik period, see Kendall Bailes, Technology and Society under Lenin and Stalin: Origins of the Soviet Technical Intelligentsia, 1917–1941 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978) and Jonathan Coopersmith, The Electrification of Russia, 1880– 1926 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992). 8 On the Russian origins of soil science, see Vucinich, Science in Russian Culture, 1861–1917, 404–6; Evtuhov, “The Roots of Dokuchaev’s Scientific Contributions”; Moon and Landa, “The Centenary of the Journal Soil



Notes to pages 49–51

9

10

11 12

13

14

15

203

Science”; Oldfield and Shaw, The Development of Russian Environmental Thought, Ch. 3. On the spread of Russian soil science to Europe and North America, see David Moon, “In the Russians’ Steppes: The Introduction of Russian Wheat on the Great Plains of the United States of America,” Journal of Global ­History 3, no. 2 (2008): 203–25; Jan Arend, “Russian Science in Translation: How Pochvovedenie Was Brought to the West, c. 1875–1945,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 18, no. 4 (Fall 2017): 683–708. On the ties between colonization and development in pre- and ­post-revolutionary Russia, see Willard Sunderland, Taming the Wild Field: Colonization and Empire on the Russian Steppe (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2004); Francine Hirsch, Empire of Nations: Ethnographic Knowledge and the Making of the Soviet Union (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2005); Peter Holquist, “‘In Accord with State Interests and the People’s Wishes’: The Technocratic Ideology of Imperial Russia’s Resettlement Administration,” Slavic Review 69, no. 1 (Spring 2010): 151–79. Pamiatnaia knizhka Iakutskoi oblasti na 1867 god (S.-Peterburg: Tipografiia V. Bezobrazova i komp., 1869), 203. V.L. Priklonskii, “Tri goda v Iakutskoi oblasti: etnograficheskie ocherki,” Zhivaia starina, no. 1 (1890), 65; K. Iazykov, “Ocherki iakutskogo kraia,” Kolos’ia, no. 4 (April 1886), 264. For an overview of the taiga ­environment, see Denis J.B. Shaw, “Russia’s Geographical Environment,” in The ­Cambridge History of Russia, Volume 1: From Early Rus’ to 1689 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 25–7. E. Ragozin, “Neskol’ko slov o glavnom trakte v Vostochnoi Sibiri,” Amur, 17 January 1861, 35. On the reliability of the system of post-routes in the Russian Empire, see John Randolph, “The Singing Coachman or, the Road and Russia’s Ethnographic Invention in Early Modern Times,” J­ ournal of Early Modern History 11, no. 1–2 (2007), 33–4. “Puti soobshcheniia v Iakutskoi oblasti,” Sibirskii vestnik politiki, literatury i obshchestvennoi zhizni, 12 November 1886, 4; Pamiatnaia knizhka Iakutskoi oblasti na 1867 god, 210–11. On the climate of Yakutsk province in the nineteenth century, see R. Maak, Viliuiskii okrug Iakutskoi oblasti, ch. I: Material dlia izucheniia klimata Iakutskoi oblasti, izdanoe vtoroe (S.-Peterburg: Tipografiia i k ­ hromolitografiia A. Transhelia, 1883). On the minimum of −69.8°C, see V.Iu. Vize, “Klimat Iakutii,” in Iakutiia: sbornik statei (Leningrad: Izd-vo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1927), 259. On Gmelin, see “Vorwort und ­ausgewählte ­Abschnitte aus der ‘Reise in Sibirien’” in Johann Georg G ­ melin, 1709–1755: Der Erforscher Sibiriens, 104. More complaints about mosquitoes in eastern Siberia can be found in Shchukin, Poezdka v Iakutsk, 124, and I.W. Shklovsky, In Far North-East Siberia (London: Macmillan and Co., Limited, 1916), 186.

204

Notes to pages 52–3

16 Wrangell, Narrative of an Expedition to the Polar Sea in the Years 1820, 1821, 1822, and 1823, 289. 17 Gerhard Maydell, Reisen und Forschungen im Jakutskischen Gebiet ­Ostsibiriens, Erster Theil, Beiträge zur kenntniss des Russischen Reiches und der Angrenzenden Länder Asiens (St. Petersburg: Kaiserliche ­Academie der Wissenschaften, 1893), 67. 18 On Maydell, see Erki Tammiksaar, “Gerhard Baron von Maydell (1835–1894) und die Bedeutung seiner Forschungen in Nordost-Sibirien,” in Reisen an den Rand des Russischen Reiches: Die wissenschaftliche Erschließung der nordpazifischen Küstengebiete im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert (Fürstenberg/Havel: Verlag der Kulturstiftung Sibirien, SEC Publications, 2013), 243–67. 19 Maydell, Reisen und Forschungen im Jakutskischen Gebiet Ostsibiriens, Erster Theil, 67–8. See also Wrangell, Narrative of an Expedition to the Polar Sea in the Years 1820, 1821, 1822, and 1823, 290. 20 T.A. Kolpakova, Epidemiologicheskoe obsledovanie Viliuiskogo okruga IaASSR, vol. 12, Trudy Soveta po izucheniiu proizvoditel’nykh sil, seriia I­ akutskaia (Leningrad: Izd-vo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1933), 24, I.F. Molodykh, “Puti soobshcheniia Iakutii,” in Vittenburg, Iakutiia: sbornik statei, 577. 21 Moloydkh, “Puti soobshcheniia Iakutii,” 577. 22 Kolpakova, Epidemiologicheskoe obsledovanie Viliuiskogo okruga IaASSR, 28. 23 Wrangell, Narrative of an Expedition to the Polar Sea in the Years 1820, 1821, 1822, and 1823, 290, 52. 24 See, for example, M.I. Tkachenko, “Putevoi dnevnik Verkhoianskogo zoologicheskogo otriada Iakutskoi ekspeditsii Akademii Nauk SSSR 1927 g.” in A. Ia. Tugarinov, ed., Materialy k kharakteristike fauny Priianskogo kraia, vol. 5, Trudy Soveta po izucheniiiu proizvoditel’nykh sil, seriia iakutskaia (Leningrad: Izd-vo AN SSSR, 1932), 6; Iu. D. Chirikhin, “Predvaritel’nyi otchet o rabotakh Indigirskogo otriada Iakutskoi ekspeditsii Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1929–1930 gg.” in V.L. Komarov, ed., Predvaritel’nye otchety o rabotakh Indigirskogo otriada Iakutskoi ekspeditsii Akademii Nauk SSSR 1929– 1930 gg., vol. 6, Trudy Soveta po izucheniiu proizvoditel’nykh sil, seriia iakutskaia (Leningrad: Izd-vo AN SSSR, 1932), 5; M.K. Rastsvetaev, T ­ ungusy miamial’skogo roda: sotsial’no-ekonomicheskii ocherk s prilozheniem tungusskikh biudzhetov, vol. 13, Trudy Soveta po izucheniiu proizvoditel’nykh sil, seriia iakutskaia (Leningrad: Izd-vo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1993), 8. 25 S.E. Shreiber, “Predvaritel’nyi otchet mediko-sanitarnogo otriada ­Iakutskoi ekspeditsii Akademii Nauk SSSR 1925–26 gg. po obsledovaniiu Viliuiskogo i Olekminskogo okrugov,” in Kratkie otchety o rabotakh otriadov Iakutskoi ekspeditsii Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1925-1926 gg., vol. 10, Materialy Komissii po izucheniiu Iakutskoi Avtonomnoi Sovetskoi Sotsialisticheskoi Respubliki (Leningrad: Izd-vo AN SSSR, 1929), 31. 26 Rastsvetaev, Tungusy miamial’skogo roda, 7–8. 27 Molodykh, “Puti soobshcheniia Iakutii,” 576.



Notes to pages 53–7

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28 Molodykh, “Puti soobshcheniia Iakutii,” 582. 29 Marks, Road to Power, 28–41. On Russia’s expansion into the Amur, see Mark Bassin, Imperial Visions: Nationalist Imagination and Geographical ­Expansion in the Russian Far East, 1840-1865 (Cambridge: Cambridge ­University Press, 1999). 30 J.L. Black, “The Canadian Pacific Railway as a Model for the Trans-Siberian Railway,” Sibirica: Journal of Siberian Studies 4, no. 2 (October 2004), 188–9. 31 Quoted in Marks, Road to Power, 81. 32 Sidney Harcave, Count Sergei Witte and the Twilight of Imperial Russia: A ­Biography (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 2004), 52–5; David Schimmelpenninck van der Oye, Toward the Rising Sun: Russian Ideologies of Empire and the Path to War with Japan (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2001), Ch. 4. 33 Marks, Road to Power, 79, 146–53. 34 RGAE, f. 1884, op. 38, d. 1335, “Proekt Amuro-Iakutskoi magistrali,” l. 9. 35 RGAE, f. 1884, op. 38, d. 1335, “Proekt Amuro-Iakutskoi magistrali,” l. 10. 36 On the Lena Goldfields massacre, see Michael Melancon, The Lena ­Goldfields Massacre and the Crisis of the Late Tsarist State (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2006). 37 RGAE, f. 1884, op. 5, d. 223, “Smeta Dal’ne-Vostochnogo upravleniia mestnogo transporta na postroiku gruntovoi dorogi Iakutskoi magistrali na 1925–1926 g.,” l. 217. 38 N.N. Zakharenko, Aldan: ekonomicheskii ocherk, (Iakutsk: Izdanie Iakutizdata), 4. 39 A.P. Serebrovskii, Na zolotom fronte (Moskva, Leningrad: Izd–vo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1936), 122. 40 On building AYAM, see A. Semenov, “Puti k Aldanskomu zolotu,” ­Khoziaistvo Iakutii, no. 1 (1925): 79–92; P. Strizhkov, Aldanskie Priiski: Ocherki (Leningrad: Molodaia gvardiia, 1931). 41 RGAE, f. 1884, op. 38, d. 1335, “Proekt Amuro-Iakutskoi magistrali,” l. 10. 42 See P. Kropotkin, “Otchet o Olekminsko-Vitimskoi ekspeditsii,” Zapiski Imperatorskogo Russkogo Geograficheskogo Obshchestva po obshchei geografii 3 (1873): 1–636. 43 RGAE, f. 1884, op. 38, d. 1335, “Nauchno-tekhnicheskii komitet NKPS,” l. 3–6. 44 On frozen earth in Canada, see John Richardson, “Notice of a Few ­Observations Which It Is Desirable to Make on the Frozen Soil of B ­ ritish North America, Drawn up for Distribution Among the Officers of the Hudson’s Bay Company,” Journal of the Royal Geographical Society of L ­ ondon 9 (1839): 117–20 and “On the Frozen Soil of North America,” The Edinburgh New Philosophical Journal 30 (October 1840): 110–17. 45 See V.M. Sergeev, “Issledovanie bolot po linii Amurskoi zheleznoi ­doroge (izvlechenie iz otchet Gornogo inzhenera),” Izvestiia Imperatorskogo ­Russkogo Geograficheskogo Obshchestva 34 (1898), 483.

206

Notes to pages 57–61

46 See A.N. Passek, “Mestnye usloviia, klimat i vechno-merzlye grunty Golovnogo uchastka Zapadno-Amurskoi zhel. dor.,” Izvestiia sobraniia inzhenerov putei soobshcheniia, 1–5, no. 3 (22 January 1911), 2–3. 47 I.F. Kriukov, Zemli raiona Amurskoi zheleznoi dorogi (Amurskaia oblast’, Vostochnoe Zabaikal’e i iuzhnaia chast’ Iakutskoi oblasti), vol. 3, Trudy ­komandirovannoi po vysochaishemu poveleniiu Amurskoi ekspeditsii (S.-Peterburg: Tipografiia V.F. Kirshbauma, 1911), 120. 48 V.A. Val’ts and N.I. Prokhorov, “Materialy i nabliudeniia Bomnakskoi meteorologicheskoi stantsii za leto 1909 goda,” in Materialy ­meteorologicheskikh stantsii po izucheniiu klimata, pochv i rastitel’nosti Amurskoi oblasti, 1909–1910, vol. 14, Trudy komandirovannoi po vysochaishemu poveleniiu ­Amurskoi ekspeditsii (S.-Peterburg: Tipografiia V.F. ­Kirshbauma, 1913), 30, 35; P. Stakle, Zadachi sel’skokhoziaistvennoi gidrotekhniki v Amurskoi oblasti, vol. 6, Trudy komandirovannoi po vysochaishemu poveleniiu Amurskoi ekspeditsii (S.-Peterburg: Tipografiia V.F. Kirshbauma, 1911), 17; Passek, “Mestnye usloviia, klimat i vechno-merzlye grunty Golovnogo uchastka Zapadno-Amurskoi zhel. dor.,” 2. 49 ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 267, “O ustanovlenii prichin vyzvavshikh ­deformatsiiu kirpichnogo zdaniia NKVD v g. Iakutske i meropriiatiiakh neobkhodimykh dlia predotvrashcheniia dal’neishikh deformatsii,” l. 1–4. 50 V.G. Petrov, Naledi na amursko-iakutskoi magistrali, s al’bomom planov naledei (Leningrad: Izdanie Akademii Nauk SSSR i Nauchno-issledovatel’skogo avtomobil’no-dorozhnogo instituta NKPS SSSR, 1930), 70. 51 ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 309, “Stenogramma nauchnogo zasedaniia ­Instituta merzlotovedeniia AN SSSR ot 23 dekabria 1944 g.,” l. 49–50. 52 “Zabaikal’skaia zheleznaia doroga,” Zhurnal ministerstva putei soobshcheniia no. 6 (1896), 15–16. 53 M.I. Sumgin, N.N. Geniev, and A.M. Chekotillo, eds., Vodosnabzhenie zheleznykh dorog v raionakh vechnoi merzloty (Moskva: Gosudarstvennoe transportnoe zheleznodorozhnoe izdatel’stvo, “Transzheldorizdat,” 1939), 4; Stakle, Zadachi sel’skokhoziaistvennoi gidrotekhniki v Amurskoi oblasti, 1. 54 See Vladimir Shtukenberg, “O bor’be s puchinami na zheleznykh dorogakh,” Zhurnal ministerstva putei soobshcheniia no. 2 (1894): 141–51; I. Liun’, “O vlianii plyvuna i gliny na obrazovanie zhelezno–dorozhnykh ­puchin,” Zhurnal ministerstva putei soobshcheniia no. 2 (1894): 133–40. 55 See S.A. Pod’’iakonov, “Naledi Vostochnoi Sibiri i prichiny ikh vozniknoveniia,” Izvestiia Imperatorskogo Russkogo Geograficheskogo Obshchestva XXXIX, no. 4 (1903): 305–37. 56 On Dokuchaev see David Moon, “The Environmental History of the ­Russian Steppes: Vasilii Dokuchaev and the Harvest Failure of 1891,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, Sixth Series 15 (2005): 149–74; David Moon, The Plough That Broke the Steppes.



Notes to pages 61–6

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57 K.D. Glinka, Predvaritel’nyi otchet ob organizatsii i ispolnenii rabot po izsliedovaniiu pochv Aziatskoi Rossii v 1908 godu, (S.-Peterburg, Tipografiia “Mirnyi trud,” 1908), 3–6. 58 On Prokhorov, see A.V. Baranovskaia, “Nikolai Ivanovich Prokhorov (k 100-letiiu so dnia rozhdeniia),” in Pochvennye issledovaniia na Kol’skom poluostrove: pamiati vydaiushchegosia pochvoveda, issledovatelia pochv Kol’skogo poluostrova professora Nikolaia Ivanovicha Prokhorova (Apatity: Kol’skii filial AN SSSR, 1976), 3–14. On Dokuchaev’s genetic soil ­science, see Evtuhov, “The Roots of Dokuchaev’s Scientific Contributions”; ­Oldfield and Shaw, The Development of Russian Environmental Thought; Moon and Landa, “The Centenary of the Journal Soil Science.” 59 “Doklad N.I. Prokhorova o vechnoi merzlote,” Izvestiia sobraniia inzhenerov putei soobshcheniia, no. 5 (5 February 1911): 16–17. 60 On the emergence of the soil science of roads, see N.I. Prokhorov, D ­ orozhnye pochvenno-gruntovye issledovaniia, ikh vozniknovenie, tseli i z­ adachi (Leningrad, 1928), 1–9. 61 N.A. L’vova, N.I. Tolstikhin, and O.N. Tolstikhin, Aleksandr Vladimirovich L’vov, 1871–1941 (Moskva: Nauka, 1986), 13, 89–100. See also A.V. L’vov, Poiski i ispytaniia vodoistochnikov vodosnabzheniia na Zapadnoi chasti ­Amurskoi zhel. dor. v usloviiakh “vechnoi” merzloty pochvy (Letnii i zimnii rezhim rek, gruntovykh vod i usloviia pitaniia glubokikh vodonosnykh tolshch v raionakh sploshnogo rasprostraneniia “vechnoi” merzloty) (Irkutsk: Tipolitografiia P.I. Makushin i V.M. Posokhina, 1916). 62 On the science of the strength of materials, see Ann Johnson, “­ Material ­Experiments: Environment and Engineering Institutions in the Early American Republic,” Osiris 24, no. 1 (2009): 53–74; Stephen P. Timoshenko, As I Remember: The Autobiography of Stephen P. Timoshenko (Princeton: D. Van Nostrand Company, Inc., 1968). 63 “Nabliudeniia nad merzlotoi zemli v nerchinskom okruge 1836 goda, v mestakh naibolee neobitaemykh, pri rozyske zolotonosnykh r­ ossypei issledovannkyh,” Gornyi zhurnal Chast’ II, Knizhka II (1838): 115; P.F. Shvetsov, “Osnovnye poniatiia i opredelniia,” in Osnovy geokriologii (merzlotovedeniia), chast’ pervaia, 9; ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 6, “K terminologii ucheniia o merzlote,” l. 5. 64 B. Polynov, “O ‘vechnoi’ merzlote i o formakh l’da i snega, perezhivaiushchikh leto, v Amurskoi oblasti,” Zemlevedenie 17, knizhka 3 (1910), 36. 65 Kropotkin, “Otchet ob Olekminsko-Vitimskoi ekspeditsii,” 240. 66 See, for example, K. Nikiforov, “O nekotorykh dinamicheskikh ­protsessakh v pochvakh v oblasti rasprostraneniia pochvennoi merzloty,” Pochvovedenie 13, no. 2 (1912), 50; K.D. Glinka, Predvaritel’nyi otchet ob ­organizatsii i ispolnenii rabot po izsliedovaniiu pochv Aziatskoi Rossii v 1911 godu (S.-Peterburg: Tipografiia Iu. N. Erlikh (vlad. A.E. Kollins), 1912), 48.

208

Notes to pages 66–70

67 St. Zaleskii, “Prilozhenie III: Po voprosu o merzloi pochve,” Izvestiia Imperatorskogo Russkogo Geograficheskogo Obshchestva 31 (1895), 208–9. On Zaleski, see Izabela Kwiatkowska, “Stanisław Szczepan Zaleski,” in Polscy Badacze Syberii (Warszawa: Achiwum Polskiej Akademii Nauk, 2008), 69–70. 68 S. Bastamov, “Vvedenie,” in Vechnaia merzlota i zheleznodorozhnoe ­stroitel’stvo, vol. 8, Sbornik Tsentral’nogo instituta nauchnykh issledovanii i rekonstruktsii zheleznodorozhnogo puti NKPS (Moskva: OGIZ-Gostransizdat, 1931), 8. 69 See N.I. Nezhdanov, “Iz opyta ustroistva fundamentov zdanii v usloviiakh vechnoi merzloty,” and D.V. Dmitriev, “K proektam trekh opytnykh domov na Skovorodinskoi opytno-merzlotnoi stantsii,” both in Vechnaia merzlota i zheleznodorozhnoe stroitel’stvo, vol. 8, Sbornik Tsentral’nogo ­instituta nauchnykh issledovanii i rekonstruktsii zheleznodorozhnogo puti NKPS (Moskva: OGIZ-Gostransizdat, 1931), 147–8, 169, 172, 178. 70 Quoted in V.B. Shostakovich, “Vechnaia merzlota,” Priroda no. 5–6 (1916), 559–60. 3. Defining 1 MROKM, f. R-5, of. 4961/1, “Kratkaia avtobiografiia Mikhaila Ivanovicha Sumgina”; RGAE, f. 662, op. 1, d. 8, “M.I. Sumgin (zhizn’ i nauchnaia deiatel’nost’),” l. 13–15, 21; N.A. Vel’mina, K tainam vechnoi merzloty: kniga ob osnovopolozhnike merzlotovedeniia Mikhaile Ivanoviche Sumgine (Iakutsk: Institut merzlotovedeniia SO RAN, 1994), 16–17, 23–7, 53–5, 63. On Sumgin’s resignation from the Central Committee of the Socialist ­Revolutionary Party, see Oliver Radkey, The Sickle under the Hammer: The Russian Socialist Revolutionaries in the Early Months of Soviet Rule (New York: Columbia University Press, 1963), 331. Menzhinskii aka Wiesław Mȩżyński was deputy chair of the OGPU. 2 M.I. Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed. (­Vladivostok: N.K.Z. Dal’ne-vostochnaia Geofizicheskaia Observatoriia, 1927), 3–9. 3 V.A. Obruchev and A.M. Chekotillo, “M.I. Sumgin,” Izvestiia Akademii Nauk SSSR, seriia geologicheskaia, no. 2 (1943), 98. 4 For warm remembrances of Sumgin, see S.P. Kachurin and V.K. Ianovskii, “Mikhail Ivanovich Sumgin (k desiatiletiiu so dnia smerti),” Izvestiia Akademii Nauk SSSR, seriia geograficheskaia, no. 6 (1952): 56–9; V.F. Zhukov, “Mikhail Ivanovich Sumgin (On the Centennial of His Birth),” Soil Mechanics and Foundation Engineering 10, no. 3 (May 1973): 160–2; Vel’mina, K tainam vechnoi merzloty, 5–8. On Parkhomenko as a combative and disagreeable man, see Vel’mina, K tainam vechnoi merzloty, 92. For some acknowledgment of Parkhomenko’s ideas, see MROKM, of. 4961/46, l. 3



Notes to pages 71–6

5

6 7 8

9

10

11

12 13

14 15 16 17

18

209

(A.T. Akimov to T. Zhitniuk, 27 October 1967); R.M. Kamenskii, “Chto my znaem o vechnoi merzlote,” Vestnik Rossiiskoi Akademii Nauk 77, no. 2 (2007), 167. MROKM, f. R-5, of. 4961/49, “Vospominaniia professora doktora geograficheskikh nauk Koloskova Pavla Ivanovicha,” l. 2–6; Vel’mina, K tainam vechnoi merzloty, 58, 64, 72. Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., iii. Isaiah Berlin, Russian Thinkers (London: Penguin Books, 1994), 210–24. MROKM, of. 3355/108, “Svidetel’stvo”; MROKM, of. 4961/35, “M.I. Sumgin (biografiia),” l. 1–2; MROKM, of. 4961/89, MROKM, of. 4961/90, MROKM, of. 4961/98; RGAE, f. 622, op. 1, d. 8, “M.I. Sumgin (zhizn’ i nauchnaia deiatel’nost’),” l. 8–10; Vel’mina, K tainam vechnoi merzloty, 8–14. MROKM, f. R-5, of. 4961/82–7, MROKM, f. R-5, of. 4961/102; On student unrest in late Imperial Russia, see Samuel Kassow, Students, Professors, and the State in Tsarist Russia (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989). MROKM, f. R-5, of. 4961/35, “M.I. Sumgin (biografiia),” l. 3; Vel’mina, K tainam vechnoi merzloty, 18. On the zemstvos, see Catherine Evtuhov, Portrait of a Russian Province: Economy, Society, and Civilization in Nineteenth-Century Nizhnii Novgorod (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2011), 12–13, 137–54. MROKM, f. R-5, of. 731/2a, 2b; MROKM, f. R-5, of. 4961/82–8, 102; MROKM, f. R-5, of. 3355/108; RGAE, f. 662, op. 1 d. 8, “M.I. Sumgin (zhizn’ i nauchnaia deiatel’nost’), l. 12–15; Vel’mina, K tainam vechnoi merzloty, 7–27. On the SR Party, see Oliver Radkey, The Agrarian Foes of B ­ olshevism: Promise and Default of the Russian Socialist Revolutionaries, F ­ ebruary to October 1917 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958). On the 1905 revolutions see Abraham Ascher, The Revolution of 1905: Russia in Disarray (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1988). RGAE, f. 662, op. 1 d. 8, “M.I. Sumgin (zhizn’ i nauchnaia deiatel’nost’),” l. 16–20; Vel’mina, K tainam vechnoi merzloty, 29–41. MROKM, f. R-5, of. 4961/49, “Mikhail Ivanovich Sumgin,” l. 2–4; M.I. Sumgin, “Geograficheskoe rasprostranenie ‘vechnoi merzloty’ v ­Amurskoi oblasti s kartoi,” Izvestiia Meteorologicheskogo Biuro Amurskogo raiona no. 2 (1914), 2–4; Vel’mina, K tainam vechnoi merzloty, 33–4, 39–41. Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., ii. Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 3, 6. Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 3. I.V. Mushketov, ed., Instruktsiia dlia izucheniia merzloty pochvy v Sibiri, sostavlena komissiei Imperatorskogo Russkogo Geograficheskogo Obshchestva (Sanktpeterburg: Tipografiia Imperatorskoi Akademii Nauk, 1895), 2. M.I. Sumgin et al., Obshchee merzlotovedenie (Moskva i Leningrad: Izd-vo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1940), 10.

210

Notes to pages 76–83

19 Sumgin, “Geograficheskoe rasprostranenie ‘vechnoi merzloty’ v ­Amurskoi oblasti s kartoi,” 28–30. 20 M.I. Sumgin, “Vechnaia merzlota v SSSR,” in Matematika i estestvoznanie v SSSR (Izd-vo AN SSSR, 1938), 997–8. 21 Sumgin et al., Obshchee merzlotovedenie, 8. 22 Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 6–7, 10. 23 Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 216, 251, 294. 24 Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 9; Sumgin et al., Obshchee merzlotovedenie, 15. 25 Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 10, 15. 26 Pascal Richet, A Natural History of Time, trans. John Venerella (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2007), 14–15. 27 On Hutton and Lyell, see Greene, Geology in the Nineteenth Century, 19–30; Stephen Jay Gould, Time’s Arrow, Time’s Cycle: Myth and Metaphor in the Discovery of Geological Time (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987), Ch. 3–4; Laudan, From Mineralogy to Geology, Ch. 6–7; Rudwick, Worlds Before Adam, 306–8; Richet, A Natural History of Time, 158–61, 171–3. 28 Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 6, 11–12. 29 Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 238; Krüger, Discovering the Ice Ages, 475. 30 Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 218, 238. On ­estimates of the earth’s age, see G. Brent Dalrymple, “The Age of the Earth in the Twentieth Century: A Problem (Mostly) Solved,” Special ­Publications Geological Society of London 190 (January 2001): 205–21. 31 Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 104–5. 32 Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 97. 33 ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 1, “Sergei Grigor’evich Parkhomenko: ego zhizn’ i deiatel’nost’,” l. 2. 34 Oldfield and Shaw, The Development of Russian Environmental Thought, 67–9. 35 ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 1, “Sergei Grigor’evich Parkhomenko: ego zhizn’ i deiatel’nost’,” l. 5, 10–12, 15. 36 On regional studies, see Susan Smith-Peter, “How to Write a Region: Local and Regional Historiography,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 5, no. 3 (2004): 527–42. 37 On the organization and goals of the Commission for the Study of the ­Yakut ASSR, see P.V. Vittenburg, Iakutskaia ekspeditsiia Akademii Nauk, vol. 1, Materialy po izucheniiu Iakutskoi ASS Respubliki (Leningrad: Izd-vo AN SSSR, 1925); P.V. Vittenburg, ed., Iakutiia: sbornik statei (­Leningrad: Izd–vo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1927), xiii–xxvi; E.P. V ­ ittenburg, Komissiia Akademii Nauk po izucheniiu proizvoditel’nykh sil Iakutskoi ASSR, 1925–1930gg.: organizatsiia i metodika raboty (Iakutsk: Bichik, 2008).



Notes to pages 83–7

211

38 S.G. Parkhomenko, Otchet o poezdke v Viliuiskii okrug, vol. 14, Materialy Komissii po izucheniiu Iakutskoi avtonomnoi sovetskoi sotsialisticheskoi respubliki (Leningrad: Izd-vo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1928), 21–6. 39 S. Parkhomenko, Programmy dlia izucheniia iavlenii, sviazannykh s merzlotoi pochv i gruntov (Moskva: Sovetskaia Aziia, 1932), 16–17; ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 6, “K terminologii ucheniia o merzlote,” l. 13–15. 40 “Vechnaia merzlota,” in Bol’shaia Sovetskaia entsiklopediia, vol. 10 (Moskva: Aktsionernoe obshchestvo “Sovetskaia entsiklopediia,” 1928), 581; ARAN, f. 594, op. 2, d. 1, “Sergei Grigor’evich Parkhomenko: ego zhizn’ i deiatel’nost’,” l. 19–20. 41 ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 6, “K terminologii ucheniia o merzlote,” 4–6. 42 ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 6, “K terminologii ucheniia o merzlote,” l. 2, 6. 43 Parkhomenko, Programmy dlia izucheniia iavlenii, sviazannykh s merzlotoi pochv i gruntov, 6, 23–4. 44 S.G. Parkhomenko, “Merzlotovedenie kak uchenie o kriofil’nykh gornykh porodakh,” Trudy Komiteta po vechnoi merzlote 6 (1938), 182, 187; ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 86, l. 12. 45 ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 84, “Retsenziia na knigu M.I. Sumgina,” l. 24, 27. 46 ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 16, “Uchenie o genezise podzemnykh kriofil’nykh gornykh porod (konspekt),” l. 1; ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 86, l. 5–6, 8, 11–12. 47 For the meaning of Greek roots, see Donald J. Borror, Dictionary of Word Roots and Combining Forms (Palo Alto: N-P Publications, 1960). 48 Parkhomenko, “Merzlotovedenie kak uchenie o kriofil’nykh gornykh ­porodakh,” 188. Here it may be worth noting that, in the article cited, Parkhomenko used merzlota to refer to frozen rock specifically. Such usage was inconsistent with his understanding of merzlota as a p ­ rocess rather than an object. Perhaps Parkhomenko wanted himself to be u ­ nderstood by those who already assumed that merzlota signified an ­object. Ultimately, however, Parkhomenko returned to the idea of merzlota as the process of freezing, defined as the crystallization of cryophilic minerals and their “gradual passage to the solid phase.” See ARAN, f. 594, op. 2, d. 5, “Merzlotnyi protsess i ego razvitie na territorii SSSR,” l. 38. 49 Parkhomenko cited this literature in his unpublished manuscript, ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 17, “Zamerzanie pochv i rykhlykh gornykh porod.” 50 R.G. Barry, J. Jania, and K. Birkenmajer, “A.B. Dobrowolski, the First ­Cryospheric Scientist, and the Subsequent Development of Cryospheric Science,” History of Geo and Space Sciences 2 (2011), 76. On Dobrowolski’s life, see Jacek Machowski, “Antoni Bolesław Dobrowolski (6 June 1972–27 April 1954),” Polish Polar Research 19, no. 1–2 (1998); 11–13. D ­ obrowolski’s work is Antoni Bolesław Dobrowolski, Historja Naturalna Lodu z 340 rysinami w tekście (Warszawa: Wydawnistwo Kasy Pomosy dla Osób P ­ rasujących na Polu Naukowem Imienia D-ra J. Mianowskiego, 1923).

212

Notes to pages 87–93

51 V.I. Vernadskii, Istoriia prirodnykh vod, ed. S.L. Shvartsev and F.T. Ianshina (Moskva: Nauka, 2003), 186–8. 52 V.I. Vernadskii, “Ob oblastiakh okhlazhdeniia v zemnoi kore,” Zapiski ­gosudarstvennogo gidrologicheskogo instituta 10 (1933), 5. 53 Vernadskii, “Ob oblastiakh okhlazhdeniia v zemnoi kore,” 5–6; V.I. ­Vernadskii, Zhivoe veshchestvo i biosfera, ed. A.L. Yanshin (Moskva: Nauka, 1994), 355. 54 A systems approach to frozen earth can also be seen in I.Ia. Baranov, “Predvaritel’nye zamechaniia po voprosu o terminakh v nauke o ­merzlote,” in Na geologicheskom fronte Vostochnoi Sibiri, vol. 1 (Moskva, Irkutsk: OGIZ, 1933), 98–105; N.I. Tolstikhin, “Vechnaia merzlota ili ­merzlaia zona zemnoi kory,” Problemy Sovetskoi geologii, no. 8 (1935): 765–9; P.I. Koloskov, “Opyt klassifikatsii ob”ektov kriosfery,” Trudy Komissii po izucheniiu vechnoi merzloty 1 (1932): 51–4. 55 A soil map by Dokuchaev is reproduced in Evtuhov, Portrait of a Russian Province. 56 M. Sumgin, “Isporchennaia poleznaia kniga,” Meteorologicheskii vestnik, no. 8–9 (1932): 268–9. 57 ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 1, “V prezidium Akademii Nauk,” l. 14. 58 On the subordination and subsequent expansion of the Academy of Sciences, see Graham, The Soviet Academy of Sciences and the Communist Party, 1927–1932; Vucinich, Empire of Knowledge: The Academy of Sciences of the USSR (1917–1970); Krementsov, Stalinist Science, 37. 59 RGAE, f. 662, op. 1, d. 8, “M.I. Sumgin (zhizn’ i nauchnaia deiatel’nost’),” l. 23; MROKM, f. R-5, of. 4961/35, “M.I. Sumgin (biografiia),” l. 18; Vel’mina, K tainam vechnoi merzloty, 73–6. 60 On KEPS, see Kol’tsov, Sozdanie i deiatel’nost’ Komissii po izucheniiu ­estestvennykh proizvoditel’nykh sil Rossii, 1915–1930 gg.; Kojevnikov, “The Phenomenon of Soviet Science,” 117–19, 121–2; Kojevnikov, Stalin’s Great Science, 17–22. On Vernadskii being allowed to continue working under the Bolsheviks, see Bailes, Science and Russian Culture in an Age of Revolutions: V.I. Vernadsky and His Scientific School, 1863–1945, 161–74. 61 M.I. Sumgin, “Sovremennoe polozhenie vechnoi merzloty v SSSR i ­zhelatel’naia postanovka etikh issledovanii v blizhaishem budushchem,” in Vechnaia merzlota: sbornik, vol. 80, Materialy dlia izucheniia estestvennykh proizvoditel’nykh sil Soiuza (Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk, 1930), 4–5. 62 Sumgin, “Sovremennoe polozhenie vechnoi merzloty v SSSR i zhelatel’naia postanovka etikh issledovanii v blizhaishem budushchem,” 35–40. 63 Sumgin, “Sovremennoe polozhenie vechnoi merzloty v SSSR i z­ helatel’naia postanovka etikh issledovanii v blizhaishem budushchem,” 40–1.



Notes to pages 93–7

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64 ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 1, “Poiasnitel’nye zamechaniia o skheme ­Polozheniia o Komissii po vehnoi merzlote,” l. 24; ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 1, “Akademiku Vladimiru Ivanovichu Vernadskomu,” l. 80–2; MROKM, f. R-5, of. 4961/35, “M.I. Sumgin (biografiia),” l. 20. On KEPS’s role in organizing research institutes, see Kol’tsov, Sozdanie i deiatel’nost’ Komissii po izucheniiu estestvennykh proizvoditel’nykh sil Rossii, 1915–1930 gg.; Loren Graham, “The Formation of Soviet Research Institutes: A Combination of Revolutionary Innovation and International Borrowing,” Social Studies of Science 5 (1975), 313. 65 ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 11, “Soveshchanie KIVM po terminologii,” l. 43, 45. The scientist who insisted was engineering professor Mikhail EvdokimovRokotovskii of the Siberian Technical Institute in Tomsk. See also M.I. Evdokimov-Rokotovskii, “Metodologiia nauchno-issledovatel’skikh rabot po vechnoi merzlote: kratkoe izlozhenie doklada,” Trudy Komissii po izucheniiu vechnoi merzloty 1 (1932): 23–7. 66 ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 11, “Soveshchanie KIVM po terminologii,” l. 43; I.Ia. Baranov, “Predvaritel’nye zamechaniia po voprosu o terminakh v nauke o merzlote,” 98–105. 67 ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 6, “K terminologii ucheniia o merzlote,” l. 6; ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 11, “Soveshchanie KIVM po terminologii,” 17. 68 ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 11, “V Komitet po terminam KIVM,” l. 8; ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 11, “Predsedateliu Gidrometkomiteta SSSR,” l. 11; ARAN, f. 594, op.1, d. 6, “K terminologii ucheniia o merzlote,” l. 16. 69 ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 18, “Zasedanie vos’moe–utro 15 ianvaria 1933 g.,” l. 39–41. 70 ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 18, “Zasedanie chetvertoe–utro 12 ianvaria 1933 g.,” l. 24. 71 ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 18, “Zasedanie chetvertoe–utro 12 ianvaria 1933 g.,” l. 22; ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 84, “Retsenziia na knigu M.I. Sumgina,” l. 24, 27; ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 84, “Zamechaniia po povodu stat’i M.I. Sumgina, ‘Vechnaia merzlota na severe SSSR,’” l. 34; S.G. Parkhomenko, “Otvet na zamechaniia M.I. Sumgina po povodu moei stat’i ‘Merzlotovedenie, kak uchenie o kriofil’nykh gornykh porodakh,’” Trudy Komiteta po vechnoi merzlote 9 (1940), 164. 72 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 3, “Stenogramma zasedaniia Komiteta po vechnoi merzlote, 26.XI-37 goda,” l. 72–6. 73 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 3, “Vtoroi den’ zasedaniia Komiteta po vechnoi merzlote Akademii Nauk SSSR, 21 noiabria 1937 goda,” l. 45; RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 8, “Stenogramma 6-oi Konferentsii po merzlotovedeniiu,” l. 115, 134. 74 MROKM, f. R-5, of. 3355/126, “O prisuzhdenii uchenoi stepeni doktora geologicheskikh nauk Mikhailu Ivanovichu Sumginu,” MROKM, f. R-5, of. 3355/155.

214

Notes to pages 97–102

75 ARAN, f. 594, op. 2, d. 1, “Sergei Grigor’evich Parkhomenko: ego zhizn’ i deiatel’nost,’” l. 25, 31. 76 ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 18, “Zasedanie vtoroe–utro 11 ianvaria 1933 g,” l. 10–13; ARAN, f. 594, op. 2, d. 16, “Soderzhanie doklada ob Institute merzlotovedeniia [Pagologii],” l. 3; ARAN, f. 594, op. 2, d. 1, “Sergei ­Grigor’evich Parkhomenko: ego zhizn’ i deiatel’nost,’” l. 27. 77 ARAN, f. 594, op. 2, d. 1, “Sergei Grigor’evich Parkhomenko: ego zhizn’ i deiatel’nost’,” l. 28; RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 8, “Stenogramma 6-oi Konferentsii po merzlotovedeniiu,” l. 105, 107–8. 78 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 3, “Stenogramma zasedaniia Komiteta po vechnoi merzlote, 26.XI-37 goda,” l. 91; M.I. Sumgin, “Neskol’ko zamechanii po povodu stat’i S.G. Parkhomenko, ‘Merzlotovedenie kak uchenie o ­kriofil’nykh porodakh,’” Trudy Komiteta po vechnoi merzlote 6 (1938), 197. 79 Sumgin, “Neskol’ko zamechanii po povodu stat’i S.G. Parkhomenko,” 199–200. 80 Sumgin, “Neskol’ko zamechanii po povodu stat’i S.G. Parkhomenko,” 197. 81 Sumgin, “Neskol’ko zamechanii po povodu stat’i S.G. Parkhomenko,” 198. 82 Sumgin, “Neskol’ko zamechanii po povodu stat’i S.G. Parkhomenko,” 199–200. 83 Parkhomenko, “Otvet na zamechaniia M.I. Sumgina po povodu moei stat’i ‘Merzlotovedenie, kak uchenie o kriofil’nykh gornykh porodakh,’” 163, 166. 84 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 8, “Stenogramma 6-oi Konferentsii po merzlotovedeniiu,” l. 138, 146. 85 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 3, “Stenogramma zasedaniia Komiteta po vechnoi merzlote, 26.XI-38 goda,” l. 91. 86 Parkhomenko, “Otvet na zamechaniia M.I. Sumgina po povodu moei stat’i ‘Merzlotovedenie, kak uchenie o kriofil’nykh gornykh porodakh,’” 163. 87 V.A. Obruchev, “Predislovie,” Trudy Komiteta po vechnoi merzlote 9 (1940), 4. 88 Gerovitch, From Newspeak to Cyberspeak, 47. 89 M.I. Sumgin and B.N. Demchinskii, Zavoevanie severa (v oblasti vechnoi merzloty) (Moscow and Leningrad: Izd-vo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1938), 59. 90 ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 195, “Vypiski iz protokola,” l. 2. 91 ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 6, “K terminologii ucheniia o merzlote,” l. 3. 92 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 8, “Stenogramma 6-oi Konferentsii po merzlotovedeniiu,” l. 126. 93 Sumgin and Demchinskii, Zavoevanie severa (v oblasti vechnoi merzloty), 45. 94 ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 18, “Zasedanie vos’moe–utro 15 ianvaria 1933 g.,” l. 41. 95 N.I. Bukharin, “Theory and Practice from the Standpoint of D ­ ialectical Materialism,” in Science at the Crossroads (International Congress of the History of Science and Technology, London: Kniga, 1931), 21–2. On the popularization of science in the Soviet Union, see James Andrews, Science



Notes to pages 102–5

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for the Masses: The Bolshevik State, Public Science, and the Popular I­ magination in Soviet Russia, 1917-1934 (College Station: Texas A&M U ­ niversity Press, 2003). 96 On the fascination with immortality in early Soviet culture, inspired in part by Fedorov, see Richard Stites, Revolutionary Dreams: Utopian ­Vision and Experimental Life in the Russian Revolution (New York: Oxford ­University Press, 1989), 169–70; George Young, The Russian Cosmists: The Esoteric Futurism of Nikolai Fedorov and His Followers (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 46–7, 68, 119–33, 155–62. On the circumstances surrounding Florenskii’s investigations into frozen earth, see Loren ­Graham and Jean-Michel Kantor, Naming Infinity: A True Story of Religious Mysticism and Mathematical Creativity (Cambridge: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2009); Avril Pyman, Pavel Florensky, A Quiet ­Genius: The Tragic and Extraordinary Life of Russia’s Unknown Da Vinci (London: Continuum, 2010). 97 Nikolai Krementsov, Revolutionary Experiments: The Quest for Immortality in Bolshevik Science and Fiction (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014), 65–96. 98 ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 106, “Protokol zasedaniia Komissii po izucheniiu vechnoi merzloty v Konferentszale LIGEa AN SSSR 27 marta 1936 goda,” l. 4–7; P.N. Kapterev, “Ob anabioze v usloviiakh vechnoi merzloty,” ­Izvestiia Akademii Nauk SSSR, seriia biologicheskaia, no. 6 (1936): 1073–88; P. Kapterev, “New Data on Revitalization of Organisms from Perpetually Frozen Grounds,” Comptes Rendus (Doklady) de l’Académie Des Sciences de l’URSS 20, no. 4 (1938): 315–17. For international reporting on Soviet ­research on anabiosis, see “Resurrection a la Russe,” New York Times, 31 January 1936; “Reviving Frozen Life Held Aid to Research: Soviet S ­ cientist Says Finding of Dormant Organisms in Siberia May Help G ­ enetics,” New York Times, 1 February 1936. On research into anabiosis in the twenty-first century, see A.V. Shatilovich et al., “Zhiznesposobnye prosteishie v vechnoi merzlote Arktiki,” Kriosfera zemli 14, no. 2 (2010): 69–78. 4. Adapting 1 V. Elenevskii, “Problemy stroitel’stva v raionakh merzloty,” Sotsialisticheskii transport, no. 8–9 (1937), 81–2. 2 Elenevskii, “Problemy stroitel’stva v raionakh merzloty,” 84, 88–90. 3 The framework of adaptation has been used to explain external influences on science, most famously in Paul Forman’s study of theoretical physics in Weimar Germany. Forman argued that, contrary to its image as an autonomous and objective endeavour, physics was shaped by contemporary currents in Weimar culture, especially postwar intellectual mistrust of

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Notes to pages 105–8 rational, mechanical, and deterministic science. According to Forman, to maintain prestige and relevance in the new era, physicists adapted their values and ideas, including by renouncing the once axiomatic principle of causality, now deemed overly mechanistic. See Paul Forman, “­Weimar Culture, Causality, and Quantum Theory, 1918–1927: Adaptation by German Physicists and Mathematicians to a Hostile Intellectual Environment,” Historical Studies in the Physical Sciences 3 (1971): 1–115. On the devastating consequences of the collectivization campaign, see Timothy Snyder, Bloodlands: Europe between Hitler and Stalin (New York: Basic Books, 2010), Ch. 1. For an overview of the administrative mechanisms of the command economy, see Paul Gregory, “The Stalinist Command Economy,” The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 507 (January 1990), 20–1. A helpful description of the structure of the Soviet party-state can be found in Stephen Kotkin, Stalin: Waiting for Hitler, 1929–1941 (New York: Penguin Press, 2017), 907–9. For an illustration of the stark possibilities of promotion and punishment faced by scientists during the Stalin era, see David Joravsky, “The Vavilov Brothers,” Slavic Review 24, no. 3 (September 1965): 381–94. As Eric Naiman has written, “Stalinist culture and Soviet ideology are ­often—and quite rightly—regarded as verbal phenomena ... the s­ truggle for success in Stalin’s Russia was in many respects akin to an effort to master a new language.” See Eric Naiman, “Introduction,” in The L ­ andscape of Stalinism: The Art and Ideology of Soviet Space (Seattle: U ­ niversity of Washington Press, 2003), xii. See Thomas F. Gieryn, “Boundary-Work and the Demarcation of Science from Non-Science: Strains and Interests in Professional Ideologies of Scientists,” American Sociological Review 48, no. 6 (December 1983): 781–95. ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 3, “Administrativno-organizatsionnye voprosy”; ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 71, “Nauchnye i nauchno-issledovatel’skie ­voprosy”; ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 77, “Dogovory”; Graham, The Soviet Academy of Sciences and the Communist Party, 165–6; Krementsov, Stalinist Science, 37. ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 3, “Administrativno-organizatsionnye voprosy”; ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 3, “Polozhenie o Komissii po izucheniiu vechnoi merzloty AN SSSR,” l. 17. ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 17, “Plan rabot,” l. 4; RGAE, f. 662, op. 1, d. 1, “­Ekspeditsii SOPSa provedennye pri uchastii Komiteta po vechnoi merzloty Akademii Nauk SSSR ili sovmestno s nim i nauchno-khoziaistvennoe znachenie etikh ekspeditsii,” l. 243–9. On Igarka, see N. Bykov, “Vechnaia merzlota i stroitel’stvo Igarki,” Za industrializatsiiu Sovetskogo vostoka 4 (1934): 42–79. On Vorkuta, see Alan Barenberg, Gulag Town, Company Town: Forced



Notes to pages 108–11

12 13

14

15

16 17 18 19

20

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Labor and Its Legacy in Vorkuta (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014), Ch. 1. On the Kola Peninsula, see Bruno, The Nature of Soviet Power, Ch. 3. RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 9, “Stenogramma 6 konferentsii po merzlotovedeniiu ot 2.11.39 g. vecher,” l. 93. See M.I. Sumgin and V.K. Ianovskii, “Vechnaia merzlota,” in Ekspeditsii Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1934 god (Moskva, Leningrad: Izd-vo AN SSSR, 1936). On the Baikal-Amur Mainline, see O.P. Elantseva, “Kto i kak stroil BAM v 30-e gody,” Otechestvennye arkhivy, no. 5 (1992): 71–81; O.P. Elantseva, Obrechennaia doroga: BAM, 1932–1941 (Vladivostok: Izd-vo Dal’nevostochnogo universiteta, 1994). On BAM in the 1970s, see Christopher Ward, Brezhnev’s Folly: The Building of BAM and Late Soviet Socialism (­Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2009). ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 53, “Nepremennomu sekretariu Akademii Nauk SSSR,” l. 11; ARAN, f. 268, op. 3, d. 53, “Dokladnaia zapiska,” l. 82–3; ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 45, “Plan rabot Komissii po izucheniiu vechnoi merzloty Akademii Nauk SSSR na 1834 god,” l. 1; ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 68, “Godovoi otchet Komissii po izucheniiu vechnoi merzloty Akademii Nauk SSSR za 1935 god,” l. 14–15. ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 17, “Plan rabot,” l. 4–5, 7. ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 18, “Zasedanie vtoroe – utro 11 ianvaria 1933 g.,” l. 9. MROKM, of. 4961/50, l. 3; MROKM of. 4961/53, “Zhizn’ i nauchnaia ­deiatel’nost’ M.I. Sumgina,” l. 19–20. On the formation of INMERO, see GARF, f. R-5446, op. 23, d. 1652, “O ­reorganizatsii Komiteta po vechnoi merzlote v Institut merzlotovedeniia Akademii Nauk SSSR,” l. 2–4. On the establishment of the Yakutsk station for frozen earth research, see “Stantsiia po izucheniiu vechnoi merzloty,” Pravda, 19 June 1941. RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 11, l. 4; RGAE f. 82, op. 1, d. 12, “Godovoi otchet Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva Akademii Nauk SSSR za 1939g.,” l. 1–2; RGAE f. 82, op. 1, d. 13, “Zakliuchenie brygady po obsledovaniiu deiatel’nosti Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva Akademii Nauk SSSR za 1940 god,” l. 24. For an example of frozen earth research oriented to agriculture, see E.I. Tsyplenkin, “Vechnaia merzlota i ee agronomicheskoe znachenie,” Trudy Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva 4 (1944): 230–55. N.A. Tsytovich and M.I. Sumgin, Osnovaniia mekhaniki merzlykh gruntov (Moskva, Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1937). M.I. Sumgin, “O degradatsii vechnoi merzloty na nekotoroi chasti ­territorii, zanimaemoi eiu v SSSR,” Trudy Komissii po izucheniiu vechnoi ­merzloty 1 (1932), 15.

218

Notes to pages 111–14

24 As Sverker Sörlin has demonstrated, Ahlmann’s conception of polar warming was distinct from twenty-first century ideas about global ­warming. Notably, Ahlmann did not see polar warming as having anthropogenic causes. He also considered the phenomenon of a warming climate to be limited to the polar regions. Instead of Ahlmann, the intellectual genealogy of anthropogenic global warming can be traced to Ahlmann’s contemporary, Guy Stewart Callendar. See Sverker Sörlin, “The Global Warming That Did Not Happen: Historicizing Glaciology and C ­ limate Change,” in Nature’s End: History and the Environment (Houndmills: ­Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 93–114; Sverker Sörlin, “The Anxieties of a Science Diplomat: Field Coproduction of Climate Knowledge and the Rise and Fall of Hans Ahlmann’s ‘Polar Warming,’” Osiris 26 (2011): 66–88. 25 M.I. Sumgin, “K voprosu o degradatsii vechnoi merzloty,” Priroda no. 1 (1935), 17. 26 On the meaning of osvoenie, see Widdis, Visions of a New Land, 7–9; Emma Widdis, “Borders: The Aesthetic of Conquest in Soviet Cinema of the 1930s,” Journal of European Studies 30, no. 120 (2000), 404. 27 Blackbourn, The Conquest of Nature, 5–6. See also Clarence Glacken, Traces on the Rhodian Shore: Nature and Culture in Western Thought from Ancient Times to the End of the Eighteenth Century (Berkeley: University of C ­ alifornia Press, 1976), 461–2. 28 Clark, The Soviet Novel, 100–6; McCannon, “To Storm the Arctic: Soviet Polar Expeditions and Public Visions of Nature in the USSR, 1932–1939”; McCannon, Red Arctic, 83–7; Widdis, Visions of a New Land, 146–55; Alla Bolotova, “Colonization of Nature in the Soviet Union: State Ideology, Public Discourse, and the Experience of Geologists,” Historical Social ­Research 29, no. 3 (2004): 109–11; William B. Husband, “‘Correcting ­Nature’s Mistakes’: Transforming the Environment and Soviet Children’s Literature, 1928–1941,” Environmental History 11, no. 2 (April 2006): 305–7, 312–13; Bruno, The Nature of Soviet Power, 69. 29 Widdis, Visions of a New Land, 7; Widdis, “Borders,” 404–15. On the relationship between osvoenie and zavoevanie, I agree with Widdis’s view that the two concepts became rhetorically conflated in the Soviet era, more than with Andy Bruno’s view that the two concepts were rhetorically distinct and corresponded to different modes of interacting with the environment. Permafrost scientists such as Sumgin used the terms osvoenie and zavoevanie simultaneously. See Bruno, The Nature of Soviet Power, 30–2. 30 Clark, The Soviet Novel, 98, 101–3; McCannon, “To Storm the Arctic,” 19–20. 31 Quoted in Elantseva, Obrechennaia doroga, 80. 32 MROKM, of. 4961/44, l. 11. 33 See, for example, M. Sumgin, “Ob issledovanii vechnoi merzloty vo vtoroi piatiletke (1933–1937), Sovetskii Sever, no. 1 (1933): 47–53.



Notes to pages 115–20

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34 Sumgin and Demchinskii, Zavoevanie severa (v oblasti vechnoi merzloty), 8, 81. 35 Sumgin and Demchinskii, Zavoevanie severa (v oblasti vechnoi merzloty), 44. 36 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 9, “Stenogramma 7 konferentsii po merzlotovedeniiu ot 2.11.39g. vecher,” l. 91. 37 Stephen Hanson, Time and Revolution: Marxism and the Design of Soviet Institutions (The University of North Carolina Press, 1997), 13, 131–2, 136, 149–53. 38 Sumgin, Vechnaia merzloty pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 106. 39 On the concept of disciplinary space as “the territory where the concepts and methods particular to a discipline are considered authoritative and relevant,” see Stephen Bocking, “Science and Spaces in the Northern Environment,” Environmental History 12, no. 4 (October 2007): 867–94. On the need to interrogate how social and cultural factors shaped Russian and Soviet actors’ perceptions of environments, see Nick Baron, “New Spatial Histories of Twentieth Century Russia and the Soviet Union: Surveying the Landscape,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 55, no. 3 (2007): 374–400. 40 Sumgin, “Merzlotovedenie,” 121. 41 M. Sumgin, “Sovetskie oblasti vechnoi merzloty,” Pravda, 26 July 1935; RGAE, f. 662, op. 1, d. l, “Soobshcheno po radio 6.V.1939g. s. 11 ch. do 11:30 ch.,” l. 327, 330. 42 Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 272; Sumgin and Demchinskii, Zavoevanie severa (v oblasti vechnoi merzloty), 72. 43 Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., 283. See also Chauncey C. Loomis, “The Arctic Sublime,” in Nature and the Victorian Imagination (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1977), 95–112. 44 Sumgin, Vechnaia merzlota pochvy v predelakh SSSR, 1st ed., iii; M.S., “­Geograficheskoe rasprostranenie ‘vechnoi merzloty’ v Amurskoi oblasti s kartoi,” 1. 45 V. Iaroslavtsev, “Kliuchi ot ‘severnogo sfinksa’...,” Sotsialisticheskaia ­industriia, 3 January 1973. For examples of Soviet scientists deploying the metaphor, see Igor’ Vladimirovich Klimovskii, Akademik Pavel ­Ivanovich Mel’nikov, Nauka Sibiri v litsakh (Novosibirsk: Akademicheskoe ­izdatel’stvo “Geo,” 2008), 5; N. Vel’mina, Ledianoi sfinks (Moskva: Mysl’, 1975). 46 On romanticism in Soviet portrayals of nature, see Bolotova, “Colonization of Nature in the Soviet Union: State Ideology.” 47 Sumgin and Demchinskii, Zavoevanie severa (v oblasti vechnoi merzloty), 6, 59. 48 RGANTD, R-571/2–4/2257, “Vybor napravleniia trassy Baikalo-Amurskoi zhel. Dor. Magistrali na uchastke Baikal-Tynda: O ­ bshchaia chast’,” l. 26–7. 49 GARF, f. R-5446, op. 22, d. 1176, A.E. Fersman and N.P. Gorbunov to Sovnarkom SSSR, 20 September 1936, l. 7.

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Notes to pages 120–3

50 N.I. Saltykov, “O fundamentakh zdanii g. Iakutska,” Trudy Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva 1 (1946), 120. 51 RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 66, “Vorkutskaia nauchno-issledovatel’skaia ­merzlotnaia stantsiia.” See also A.N. Rodnyi, “Organizatsiia ­issledovanii po izucheniiu vechnoi merzloty na Vorkute v 1930–1950-e gody,” in Nauchnaia godichnaia konferentsiisa, vol. 1 (Moskva: Institut Istorii estestvoznaniia i tekhniki im. S.I. Vavilova, 1997), 240–4. 52 RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 145, “Zakliuchenie o merzlotno-gruntovykh ­usloviiakh stroitel’stva pishchevogo kombinata Narkompishcheproma ­Iakutskoi ASSR v g. Iakutske,” l. 2–3, 7. 53 RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 169, “Merzlotno-gruntovye issledovaniia pod stroitel’stvo stekol’nogo zavoda NKMP IaASSR,” l. 2–31; RGAE, f. 82, op2., d. 170, “Kratkoe zakliuchenie po ploshchadkam pod stroitel’stvo tsementnogo zavoda v raione Biastiakh Iakutskoi ASSR,” l. 2–4. 54 Saltykov, “O fundamentakh zdanii g. Iakutska,” 102. 55 Saltykov, “O fundamentakh zdanii g. Iakutska,” 102, and RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 13, “Godovoi otchet Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva za 1940 g. po nauchnoi deiatel’nosti,” l. 110. 56 Saltykov, “O fundamentakh zdanii g. Iakutska,” 103, and RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 13, “Godovoi otchet Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva za 1940 g. po nauchnoi deiatel’nosti,” l. 110. 57 Saltykov, “O fundamentakh zdanii g. Iakutska,” 103. 58 Saltykov, “O fundamentakh zdanii g. Iakutska,” 103–4. 59 Saltykov, “O fundamentakh zdanii g. Iakutska,” 114–18. 60 Saltykov, “O fundamentakh zdanii g. Iakutska,” 112–13. 61 Saltykov, “O fundamentakh zdanii g. Iakutska,” 108, 110, 120. 62 Saltykov, “O fundamentakh zdanii g. Iakutska,” 110. 63 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 48, “Doklady, prochitannye na sobranii Iakutskoi NIMS posviashchaemom pamiati osnovopolozhnika nauki o vechnoi merzlote Mikhaila Ivanovicha Sumgina,” l. 8. 64 Saltykov, “O fundamentakh zdanii g. Iakutska,” 120–2. 65 “In Capitals of Autonomous Republics: Yakutsk,” Current Digest of the Soviet Press 5, no. 23 (18 July 1953), 44. See also G. Lukin, “Tsennyi opyt iakutskikh stroitelei: deshevo, udobno, dolgovechno,” Sotsialisticheskaia Iakutiia 17 September 1964. 66 Bykov, “Vechnaia merzlota i stroitel’stvo Igarki,” 68. 67 On the process of drilling for water in Yakutsk, see N.P. Anisimova, S.M. Fotiev, and V.V. Shepelev, “Otkrytie Iakutskogo artezianskogo basseina,” Kriosfera zemli 2, no. 4 (December 1998): 19–26; E.A. Baskov and N.I. ­Tolstikhin, eds., Podzemnye vody Iakutii kak istochnik vodosnabzheniia (Moskva: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka,” 1967); V.M. Maximov and N.I. Tolstikhin, “On ­Hydrogeological Conditions in the Vicinity of the Town of Yakutsk,”



Notes to pages 124–8

68

69 70

71 72

73 74

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Comptes Rendus (Doklady) de l’Académie des Sciences de l’URSS 28, no. 1 (1940): 93–6; “Stroitel’stvo i vosstsanovlenie vodoprovodov,” Pravda, 27 July 1946; “Voda iz-pod vechnoi merzloty,” Pravda, 2 December 1946. On the ways that real grievances and party-state propaganda fueled popular participation in the Great Terror, see Gábor Rittersporn, “The ­Omnipresent Conspiracy: On Soviet Imagery of Politics and Social ­Relations in the 1930s,” in Stalinist Terror: New Perspectives (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 99–115; Wendy Goldman, Terror and Democracy in the Age of Stalin: The Social Dynamics of Repression (­Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Wendy Goldman, ­Inventing the Enemy: Denunciation and Terror in Stalin’s Russia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). Elenevskii, “Problemy stroitel’stva v raionakh merzloty,” 88. ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 136, “Protokol obshchego sobraniia sotrudnikov Komiteta po vechnoi merzlote Akademii Nauk SSSR ot 22 dekabria 1937 g.,” l. 34. E.A. Rees, Stalinism and Soviet Rail Transport, 1928–41 (New York: St. ­Martin’s Press, 1995), Ch. 7. S.P. Lialin and F.F. Perchenok, “Repressirovannye pochvovedy: zapiski B.B. Polynova o 1937 g.,” in Tragicheskie sud’by: repressirovannye uchenye Akademii Nauk SSSR (Moskva: Nauka, 1995), 87, 89. GARF, f. R-5446, op. 22, d. 1176, “Proekt,” l. 24. GARF, f. R-5446, op. 22, d. 6019, “Akt o sostavlenii proekta instruktsii po issledovaniiu vechnoi merzloty v stroitel’nykh tseliakh,” l. 2–3. 5. Translating

1 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 49, “Protokol zasedaniia Uchenogo soveta Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva AN SSSR, 20 aprelia 1948g.,” l. 3–5, 7–10. 2 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 49, “Protokol zasedaniia Uchenogo soveta Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva AN SSSR, 20 aprelia 1948g.,” l. 6–7. 3 INMERO’s tribulations during the war are described in a series of letters from Chekotillo to Sumgin found in MROKM, f. R-5, of. 3355/42. Before the accusations of anti-patriotism surfaced, Chekotillo had been praised for his service by INMERO’s director, Vladimir Obruchev. See ARAN, f. 642, op. 4, d. 187, V.A. Obruchev to A.M. Chekotillo, 18 April 1942, l. 40 and ARAN, f. 642, op. 4, d. 187, “Prikaz,” l. 190. 4 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 49, “Protokol zasedaniia Uchenogo soveta Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva AN SSSR, 20 aprelia 1948g.,” l. 9. 5 That permafrost was derived from vechnaia merzlota was deduced by linguists in the late 1980s even without knowledge of the history of frozen

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Notes to pages 128–9 earth research. See Victor Kabakchi and Ronald Butters, “Are Permafrost and Vernalization Loan Translations from Russian?,” American Speech 64, no. 3 (Autumn 1989): 287–8. The Russian origins of the term permafrost and Siemon Muller’s role in coining the expression are facts well known to permafrost scientists. See Hugh French and Frederick Nelson, “The Permafrost Legacy of Siemon W. Muller,” in Proceedings of the Ninth International Conference on Permafrost, vol. 1 (Fairbanks: Institute of Northern Engineering, University of Alaska Fairbanks, 2008), 475; Hugh French and Frederick Nelson, “Introduction,” in Frozen in Time: Permafrost and ­Engineering Problems (Reston: American Society of Civil Engineers, 2008), ix, xvi; Jerry Brown, “Plenary Paper: Fifty Years of P ­ ermafrost ­Collaboration with the Soviet Union and Russia,” in Proceedings of the Tenth I­ nternational Conference on Permafrost, vol. 1 (Salekhard: The State Enterprise of the Yamal-Nenets Autonomous District, The Northern Publisher/­Severnoye Izdatelstvo, 2012), 1. On the campaign for Soviet patriotism and against servility before the West, see Elena Zubkova, Russia after the War: Hopes, Illusions, and ­Disappointments, 1945–1957, trans. Hugh Ragsdale (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 1998), 119–23, and Krementsov, Stalinist Science, 136–43. On the campaigns against bourgeois nationalism and cosmopolitanism, see Benjamin Pinkus, The Soviet Government and the Jews, 1948–1967: A Documented Study (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 147–64. On the wartime awakening, see Catherine Merridale, Ivan’s War: Life and Death in the Red Army, 1939–1945 (Picador, 2006), Ch. 7; Zubkova, Russia after the War, Ch. 1–3; Donald Filtzer, Soviet Workers and Late ­Stalinism: Labour and the Restoration of the Stalinist System after World War II (­Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 3–6. On the onset of the Cold War, see Vladislav Zubok and Constantine Pleshakov, Inside the Kremlin’s Cold War: From Stalin to Khrushchev (Cambridge: Harvard ­University Press, 1996), Ch. 2–4. On the campaign for “creative discussions” in the sciences, see Pollock, Stalin and the Soviet Science Wars; Kojevnikov, “Rituals of Stalinist Culture at Work”; Kojevnikov, Stalin’s Great Science, 186–216. On US and Canadian military, economic, and scientific activities in the Arctic during the Cold War, see P. Whitney Lackenbauer and ­Matthew Farish, “The Cold War on Canadian Soil: Militarizing a Northern ­Environment,” Environmental History 12 (October 2007): 920–50; Matthew Farish and P. Whitney Lackenbauer, “High Modernism in the Arctic: Planning Frobisher Bay and Inuvik,” Journal of Historical Geography 35, no. 3 (July 2009): 517–44; Matthew Farish, “The Lab and the Land: ­Overcoming the Arctic in Cold War Alaska,” Isis 104, no. 1 (1 March 2013): 1–29; Janet Martin-Nielsen, Eismitte in the Scientific Imagination:



Notes to pages 129–31

10

11

12

13

14

15

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Knowledge and Politics at the Center of Greenland (New York: Palgrave ­Macmillan, 2013); Stuhl, Unfreezing the Arctic; Ronald Doel, Urban ­Wråkberg, and Suzanne Zeller, “Science, Environment, and the New Arctic,” Journal of Historical Geography 44 (April 2014): 2–14; Ronald Doel et al., “­Strategic Arctic Science: National Interests in Building Natural Knowledge – ­Interwar Era through the Cold War,” Journal of Historical Geography 44 (April 2014): 60–80. French, “The Development of Periglacial Geomorphology,” 36–7, 47–8; French, “North American Periglacial Geomorphology as a Branch of ­Geocryology, 266–8. On the postwar dominance of English, see Gordin, Scientific Babel, Ch. 11; Michael Gordin, “Introduction: Hegemonic Languages and Science,” Isis 108, no. 3 (1 September 2017): 606–11. On US translation efforts, see Michael Gordin, “The Dostoevsky Machine in Georgetown: Scientific Translation in the Cold War,” Annals of Science 73, no. 2 (2016): 208–23; Gordin, Scientific Babel, Ch. 9. On emerging US interest and awareness of Soviet studies of frozen earth, see George Cressey, “Frozen Ground in Siberia,” The Journal of Geology 47, no. 5 (­August 1939): 472–88. For prewar studies of frozen earth in North America, see Ernest ­Leffingwell, The Canning River Region, Northern Alaska, vol. 109, ­Department of the Interior United States Geological Survey ­Professional Paper (­Washington: Government Printing Office, 1919); Ernest ­Leffingwell, “Ground-Ice Wedges, the Dominant Form of Ground-Ice on the North Coast of Alaska,” The Journal of Geology 23, no. 7 (November 1915): 635–54; J.H. Lefroy, “Report upon the Depth of Permanently ­Frozen Soil in the Polar Regions, Its Geographical Limits, and Relations to Present Poles of Greatest Cold,” Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society 8 (1886): 740–6 and “Second Report of a Committee for ­Inquiring into the Depth of Permanently Frozen Soil in the Polar Regions,” ­Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society 9 (1887): 769–74; Margaret Hope Cysewski, “Initial Permafrost Engineering Research in Alaska” (MS diss., Fairbanks, University of Alaska Fairbanks, 2013). Frank Whitmore, “Memorandum to the Chief Geologist,” 22 December 1947/(Alaska) Program Plans/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP; Frederick Nelson, “‘America’s Glory Road’ ... On Ice: Permafrost and the Development of the Alcan Highway, 1942–1943,” in Engineering Earth: The Impacts of Megaengineering Projects (Dordrecht: Springer Verlag, 2011), 644. Nelson, “America’s Glory Road,” 646–7; Lackenbauer and Farish, “The Cold War on Canadian Soil,” 925–6; Peter Coates, The Trans-Alaska ­Pipeline Controversy: Technology, Conservation, and the Frontier (Bethlehem: ­Lehigh University Press, 1991), Ch. 2.

224

Notes to pages 131–3

16 “The Military Geology Unit,” 2/Geological Society of America, 1943–1945/ Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP. 17 “The Military Geology Unit,” 4–5/Geological Society of America, 1943–1945/ Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP. 18 On Muller’s biography, see Benjamin Page, Norman Silberling, and A. Myra Keen, “Memorial to Siemon W. Muller, 1900–1970,” Memorials of the Geological Society of America 4 (1975): 142–6. 19 Director to W.E. Jeffrey, 27 April 1945/(Alaska) 1943–July 1945 P ­ ermafrost: Vol. I-A/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP; Acting Director to W.C. Hall, 1 March 1943/(Alaska) 1943–July 1945 Permafrost: Vol. I-A/Gen. Corr./ MGB/RG57/NACP. 20 U.S. Geological Survey, Permafrost or Permanently Frozen Ground and ­Related Engineering Problems, 1–4, 119–35. 21 (Alaska) Publications: SES 62/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP; Siemon Muller to J.W. Edwards, Publisher, 14 July 1947/(Alaska) January 1947– July 1947 Permafrost: Vol. III-A/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP; Siemon ­William Muller, Permafrost or Permanently Frozen Ground and Related Engineering Problems (Ann Arbor: J.W. Edward, Inc., 1947); Nelson, “America’s Glory Road,” 655. 22 G.L. Parker to G.H. Canfield, 21 July 1945/(Alaska) 1943–July 1945 ­Permafrost: Vol. I-A/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP. Although unimpressed by his work, even Soviet scientists acknowledged Muller’s status in the North American permafrost community. See RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 860, “Fundamentostroenie na vechnomerzlykh gruntakh v SShA i Kanade,” l. 6; RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 635, “Vechnaia merzlota Kanady i svizannye s neiu inzhenernye voprosy,” l. 119–27. 23 For example, in order to clear land for airbases and roads, builders ­removed the surface vegetation that insulated the permafrost layer from heat. Consequently, earth that had previously remained frozen began to thaw, resulting in subsidence as well as sunken and deformed equipment and structures. The Army struggled as well with winter flooding related to the movement of groundwater in frozen earth regions that encased surfaces with ice. See Nelson, “America’s Glory Road,” 650–4; Coates, The Trans-Alaska Pipeline Controversy, 70; William Eager and William Pryor, “Ice Formation on the Alaska Highway,” Public Roads: A Journal of ­Highway Research 24, no. 3 (1945): 55–74. 24 Siemon Muller to Wilmot Bradley, 11 April 1945/(Alaska) 1943–July 1945 Permafrost: Vol. I-A/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP. 25 Siemon Muller to Wilmot Bradley, 11 April 1945/(Alaska) 1943–July 1945 Permafrost: Vol. I-A/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP; Siemon Muller to Philip Smith, 9 April 1945/(Alaska) 1943–July 1945 Permafrost: Vol. I-A/ Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP.



Notes to pages 133–6

225

26 “Functions of the Alaska Terrain and Permafrost Section”/January 1951–1953 Permafrost Activities: Defense Department/Gen. Corr./MGB/ RG57/NACP. 27 “Proposed Organization for Snow, Ice, and Permafrost Research Establishment,” 14 May 1948/Research and Development Board Committee on Geographical Exploration, May 1948/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP; H.J. Joesting, “Memorandum,” 10 June 1952/January 1951–1953 Permafrost Activities: Defense Department/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP. On SIPRE’s activities, see Edmund Wright, CRREL’s First 25 Years, 1961–1985, 1986, 12–21. 28 For examples of early uses of the term in public sources, see Lynn C. Barnes, “Permafrost: A Challenge to Engineers,” The Military Engineer 38, no. 243 (January 1946): 9–11; W. Marks Jaillite, “Permafrost Research Area,” The Military Engineer 39, no. 263 (September 1947): 375–9; Walter K. Wilson, “The Problem of Permafrost,” The Military Engineer 40, no. 270 (April 1948): 162–4. 29 Kirk Bryan, “Permanently Frozen Ground,” The Military Engineer 38, no. 246 (1946), 168; Kirk Bryan, “Cryopedology – The Study of Frozen Ground and Intensive Frost-Action with Suggestions on Nomenclature,” American Journal of Science 244 (1946), 635; Kirk Bryan, “The Study of ­Permanently Frozen Ground and Intensive Frost-Action,” The Military Engineer 40, no. 273 (July 1948), 305, 308. 30 Bryan, “Permanently Frozen Ground,” 168. 31 Bryan, “Permanently Frozen Ground,” 168. 32 Bryan, “Permanently Frozen Ground,” 168; Bryan, “Cryopedology,” 624, 635–6; Bryan, “The Study of Permanently Frozen Ground and Intensive Frost-Action,” 304–5. 33 Bryan, “The Study of Permanently Frozen Ground and Intensive Frost-Action,” 307. 34 Robert Wallace to Kirk Bryan, 23 January 1946/(Alaska) January 1946– March 1946 Permafrost: Vol. II-A/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP. 35 Robert Wallace to Kirk Bryan, 23 January 1946/(Alaska) January 1946– March 1946 Permafrost: Vol. II-A/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP. 36 ARAN, f. 594, op. 1, d. 6, “K terminologii ucheniia o merzlote,” l. 4. 37 Ignace Slotowski to Commanding Officer, 28 November 1945 and “­Exchange of technical information with USSR,” 11 December 1945/(Alaska) August 1945–December 1945 Permafrost: Vol. I-B/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP. 38 “Government Facilities for Translating Russian Technical Literature,” 12 January 1949/Research and Development Board General Correspondence August 1948–December 1949/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP. 39 Siemon Muller to Philip Smith, 9 April 1945, Siemon Muller to Wilmot Bradley, 11 April 1945, Maxim Elias to Siemon Muller, 7 June 1945/ (Alaska) 1943–July 1945 Permafrost: Vol. I-A/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/

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40 41 42 43 44

45 46

47

48

49 50 51

Notes to pages 136–9 NACP; Siemon Muller to Lynn Barnes, 23 September 1945/(Alaska) ­August 1945–December 1945 Permafrost: Vol. I-B/Gen. Corr./MGB/ RG57/NACP; Daniel Merriam, “Memorial to Maxim Konrad Elias,” ­Memorials of the Geological Society of America 31 (December 2000): 73–5. Frank Whitmore to James Gillis, 9 June 1953/Army: Snow, Ice and ­Permafrost Research Establishment/ATPS/MGB/RG57/NACP. John Reed to W.K. Wilson, 16 January 1948/Army Corps of Engineers/ ATPS/MGB/RG57/NACP. Inna Poiré to William Rasmussen, 16 February 1950/Requests for Information P-T/Gen. Corr./MGB/RG57/NACP. I.V. Poiré to W.S. Benninghoff, 16 January 1953/Army: Snow, Ice and ­Permafrost Research Establishment/ATPS/MGB/RG57/NACP. I.V. Poiré to W.S. Benninghoff, 16 January 1953/Army: Snow, Ice and ­Permafrost Research Establishment/ATPS/MGB/RG57/NACP; I.V. Poiré, “Some few remarks regarding the English translation of V ­ olume X, Trudy Komiteta po vechnoi merzlote Akademiia nauk SSSR”/Army 1945 through 1949/ATPS/MGB/RG57/NACP. I.V. Poiré to W.S. Benninghoff, 16 January 1953/Army: Snow, Ice and ­Permafrost Research Establishment/ATPS/MGB/RG57/NACP. RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 29, “15 let raboty Akademii Nauk SSSR po ­izucheniiu vechnoi merzloty,” l. 2, 28–50; V.A. Obruchev, “15-letie merzlotovedeniia v Akademii Nauk SSSR,” Priroda, no. 5 (1946): 92–4; V.A. Obruchev, “K 100-letiiu pervoi akademicheskoi ekspeditsii po izucheniiu vechnoi merzloty,” Izvestiia vsesoiuznogo geograficheskogo obshchestva 78, no. 5–6 (1946): 469–74; L.A. Meister, “Ocherk istorii geokriologicheskikh issledovanii v ­Institute merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva,” Izvestiia Akademii Nauk SSSR, seriia geograficheskaia, no. 5 (October 1957), 124; A.M. Chekotillo, “Predislovie,” Trudy Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva 1 (1946), 3. V.K. Ianovskii, “Sovetskoe merzlotovedenie (K tridtsatiletiiu Velikoi ­Oktiarb’rskoi sotsialisticheskoi revoliutsii),” Merzlotovedenie 2, no. 2 (1947), 81. Such criticisms were leveled by geographers Konstantin Markov and Dmitrii Panov at the Second All-Union Geographical Congress in ­Leningrad in January 1947. RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 50, “Stenogramma rasshirennogo zasedaniia Uchenogo Soveta Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva o napravlennosti k razvitii rabot v oblasti merzlotovedeniia,” l. 91. “Nashi zadachi,” Merzlotovedenie 1, no. 1 (1946), 1–2. “Nashi zadachi,” 2–4. On Grigorev, see Denis Shaw and Jonathan Oldfield, “Scientific, Institutional and Personal Rivalries among Soviet Geographers in the Late Stalin Era,” Europe-Asia Studies 60, no. 8 (2008): 1397–418; Denis Shaw and



Notes to pages 139–40

52

53 54

55

56

57

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Jonathan Oldfield, “Totalitarianism and Geography: L.S. Berg and the Defence of an Academic Discipline in the Age of Stalin,” Political Geography 27 (2008): 96–112; Denis Shaw and Jonathan Oldfield, “Soviet Geographers and the Great Patriotic War, 1941–1945: Lev Berg and Andrei Grigor’ev,” Journal of Historical Geography 47 (2015): 40–9. Earlier in his career, Grigorev had also taken an interest in frozen earth. See A.A. Grigor’ev, “Vechnaia merzlota i drevnee oledenenie,” in Vechnaia merzlota: sbornik (Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk, 1930), 43–104. A.A. Grigor’ev, “Nekotorye itogi razrabotki novykh idei v fizicheskoi geografii,” Izvestiia Akademii Nauk SSSR, seriia geograficheskaia i geofizicheskaia 10, no. 2 (1946), 140–1. Shaw and Oldfield, “Scientific, Institutional and Personal Rivalries,” 1402–4; Shaw and Oldfield, “Totalitarianism and Geography,” 105–6. For general biographical information about Shvetsov, see “K 60-letiiu P.F. Shvetsova,” Sovetskaia geologiia, no. 2 (1970): 98–9 and R.M. K ­ amenskii, ed., Akademicheskoe merzlotovedenie v Iakutii (Iakutsk: Institut merzlotovedeniia SO RAN, 1997), 134–5. On his role in the Institute’s party organization, see ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 382, “Kharakteristiki na sotrudnikov Instituta,” l. 4. RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 40, “Tezisy k dokladu V.A. Kudriavtseva “O dinamike vechnoi merzloty,” l. 16. See also ARAN, f. 268, op.1, d. 331, “Tezisy k kandidatskoi dissertatsii Kudriavtseva V.A. “Medotika opredeleniia dinamiki vechnoi merzloty pri inzhenerno-geologicheskikh issledovaniiakh,” l. 11–12. For biographical information, see Kamenskii, Akademicheskoe merzlotovedenie, 302. “Akademik AN USSR Arkadii Georgievich Kolesnikov (k stoletiiu so dnia rozhdeniia),” Morskoi gidrofizicheskii zhurnal, no. 6 (2007): 1–2. In 1948, Kolesnikov became the head of INMERO’s newly created Sector on Ice and Snow. See RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 50, “Stenogramma rasshirennogo zasedaniia Uchenogo Soveta Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva o napravlennosti k razvitii rabot v oblasti merzlotovedeniia,” l. 36. During the war, the leadership of the Academy of Sciences urged INMERO to organize and conduct research on snow and ice. See ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 278, A.M. Chekotillo to Biuro Otdeleniia ­Geologo-graficheskikh nauk Akademii Nauk SSSR, 16 January 1943, l. 1–2. The Vorkuta station formed part of a prison camp known as ­Ukhtpechlag (Ukhto-pechorskii lager’). Redozubov was actually a prisoner in the camp, having been arrested and sentenced for “counterrevolutionary T ­ rotskyite activity” in 1936. See Orlov, ed., Repressirovannye geologi, izdanie ­vtoroe, 144–5. On scientific research at Vorkuta, see E.V. Markova and A.N. Rodnyi, “Nauka za koliuchei provolokoi: Vorkutlag v 1930-50-e g.g.,” in Nauchnaia godichnaia konferentsiia, vol. 1 (Moskva: Institut istorii

228

58 59 60

61 62

63

64 65 66

Notes to pages 141–5 estestvoznaniia i tekhniki im. S.I. Vavilova, 1997), 83–91 and “Nauka Vorkutlaga kak fenomen totalitarnogo gosudarstva,” Vesnik Instituta estestvoznaniia i tekhniki, no. 3 (1998): 60–77; T.P. Filippova and N.G. Lisevich, “Istoriia Vorkutinskoi nauchno-issledovatel’skoi merzlotnoi stantsii v 1930-1950-e gg.,” Izvestiia Komi nauchnogo tsentra UrO RAN 3, no. 35 (2018): 101–10. On the role of scientific labor in the gulag, see Asif Siddiqi, “Scientists and Specialists in the Gulag: Life and Death in Stalin’s Sharashka,” Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 16, no. 3 (Summer 2015): 557–88. ARAN, f. 268, op. 1, d. 277, “Protokol zasedaniia Uchenogo Soveta Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva AN SSSR 24 dekabria 1943,” l. 7. D.V. Redozubov, “Zakonomernosti temperaturnogo polia vechnoi merloty na Vorkute,” Trudy Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva 1 (1946), 138. For an overview and analysis of more wide-ranging notions of climate, see James Rodger Fleming and Vladimir Jankovic, “Revisiting Klima,” Osiris 26, no. 1 (2011): 1–15. Redozubov, “Zakonomernosti temperaturnogo polia vechnoi merloty na Vorkute,” 139–40, 144–7, 149. The Communist Party’s hostility towards “idealist” tendencies in the sciences derived from Lenin’s 1909 pamphlet, Materialism and ­Empirio-criticism, which attacked the idea, associated with physicist Ernst Mach, that the material world existed only through individual perception and subjectivity, rather than as actual reality. Politically, the label of “idealism” was used to tarnish those who supposedly deviated from the orthodoxy of materialism. It was a flexible term of opprobrium that accommodated a range of purposes: agronomist Trofim Lysenko deployed it against Mendelian genetics, as did philosopher Aleksandr Maksimov against quantum mechanics and special relativity in physics. See Krementsov, Stalinist Science, 169–70, and Kojevnikov, Stalin’s Great Science, 222–3. A.G. Kolesnikov, P.F. Shvetsov, and V.A. Kudriavtsev, “O zakonomernostiakh temperaturnogo polia vechnoi merzloty,” Merzlotovedenie 2, no. 2 (1947): 127–9, 131. Kolesnikov, Shvetsov, Kudriavtsev, “O zakonomernostiakh temperaturnogo polia vechnoi merzloty,” 128–9, 131. See “Pervye itogi tvorcheskikh diskussii,” Vestnik Akademii Nauk SSSR, no. 3 (1948): 5–15. RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 94, “Zadachi nauchno-issledovatel’skii i nauchnoorganizatsionnoi raboty v Institute v svete reshenii XIX s’’ezda partii,” l. 126; Pollock, Stalin and the Soviet Science Wars, 27–40; Kojevnikov, ­Stalin’s Great Science, 189–90; Kojevnikov, “Rituals of Stalinist Culture at Work,” 26–8.



Notes to pages 146–50

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67 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 50, “Stenogramma rasshirennogo zasedaniia ­Uchenogo Soveta Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva o napravlennosti k razvitii rabot v oblasti merzlotovedeniia,” l. 8, 10, 12–13, 31, 54. 68 Pollock, Stalin and the Soviet Science Wars, 125; Kojevnikov, Stalin’s Great Science, 235–40. Tsytovich as deputy director of INMERO cites Stalin in RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 70, “­Protokol zasedaniia Uchenogo Soveta Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva AN SSSR posviashchennoe godovshchine vykhoda v svet genial’nykh trudov I.V. Stalina ‘Markcizm i voproy iazykoznaniia,’” l. 57. 69 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 70, “Protokol zasedaniia Uchenogo Soveta ­Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva AN SSSR posviashchennoe godovshchine vykhoda v svet genial’nykh trudov I.V. Stalina ‘Markcizm i voproy iazykoznaniia,’” l. 60, 66. 70 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 70, “Protokol zasedaniia Uchenogo Soveta ­Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva AN SSSR posviashchennoe godovshchine vykhoda v svet genial’nykh trudov I.V. Stalina ‘Markcizm i voproy iazykoznaniia,’” l. 77. 71 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 70, “Protokol zasedaniia Uchenogo Soveta ­Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva AN SSSR posviashchennoe godovshchine vykhoda v svet genial’nykh trudov I.V. Stalina ‘Markcizm i voprosy iazykoznaniia,’” l. 77, 79. 72 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 70, “Protokol zasedaniia Uchenogo Soveta ­Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva AN SSSR posviashchennoe godovshchine vykhoda v svet genial’nykh trudov I.V. Stalina ‘Markcizm i voproy iazykoznaniia,’” l. 77, 79–80. 73 RGAE, f. 97, op. 1, d. 76, V.A. Obruchev to A.M. Chekotillo, 25 July 1955, l. 50. 74 ARAN, f. 642, op. 3, d. 134, “Pis’ma I.V. Stalinu, v Prezidium i OGGN AN SSSR o nedostatkakh v rabote Instituta merzlotovedeniia, predostavlenii novogo pomeshcheniia, ocherenykh zadachakh Instituta, zaivlenie ob osvobozhdenii ot obiazannostei direktora Instituta,” l. 26, 33. 75 ARAN, f. 642, op. 4, d. 187, V.A. Obruchev to A.M. Chekotillo, 29 November 1955, l. 279–80. 76 RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 95, “Protokol zasedaniia Uchenogo Soveta I­ nstituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva AN SSSR 10 sentiabria 1953g.,” l. 3–6. Ponomarev was likely referring to an essay that was later ­published as chapter 2 of Shvetsov, Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii. 77 Zubkova, Russia After the War, 119–20; Pollock, Stalin and the Soviet Science Wars, 7; Krementsov, Stalinist Science, 170–6. 78 Ianovskii, “Sovetskoe merzlotovedenie,” 85; V.A. Obruchev and A.M. C ­ hekotillo, “M.I. Sumgin,” Izvestiia Akademii Nauk SSSR, seriia ­geologicheskaia, no. 2 (1943), 98; RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 394, “Otchet o rabote: ‘O terminologii v merzlotovedenii,’” l. 2.

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Notes to pages 150–7

79 P.F. Shvetsov, “K opredeleniiu nekotorykh poniatii v merzlotovedenii,” Izvestiia Akademii Nauk SSSR, seriia geograficheskaia, no. 5 (1951), 83–4. 80 Graham, Science, Philosophy, and Human Behavior in the Soviet Union, 38–46; Susiluoto, The Origins and Development of Systems Thinking in the Soviet Union, 33–4. 81 L.A. Meister and P.F. Shvetsov, “O nekotorykh terminakh v uchenii o ­zonakh merzlykh pochv i gornykh porod i ego meste sredi drugikh nauk,” Izvestiia Akademii Nauk SSSR, seriia geograficheskaia, no. 1 (­February 1955), 69. 82 Shvetsov, Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii, 13–14; Meister and Shvestov, “O nekotorykh terminakh v uchenii o zonakh merzlykh pochv i gornykh porod i ego meste sredi drugikh nauk,” 69. 83 Shvetsov, Voodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii, 7. Shvetsov noted that Ivan Baranov had made this objection to Sumgin, who ignored it. ­Baranov, “Predvaritel’nye zamechaniia po voprosu o terminakh v nauke o ­merzlote,” 104–5. 84 Shvetsov, Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii, 6–7, 24–7. 85 Meister and Shvetsov, “O nekotorykh terminakh v uchenii o zonakh merzlykh pochv i gornykh porod i ego meste sredi drugikh nauk,” 70. 86 Meister and Shvetsov, “O nekotorykh terminakh v uchenii o zonakh merzlykh pochv i gornykh porod i ego meste sredi drugikh nauk,” 70–1; Shvetsov, Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii, 22–3. 87 V.I. Lenin, Materialism and Empirio-Criticism: Critical Comments on a ­Reactionary Philosophy, trans. Abraham Fineberg, vol. 14, Lenin Collected Works (Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1972), Ch. 5.3; Susiluoto, The ­Origins and Development of Systems Thinking in the Soviet Union, 34. 88 Shvetsov, Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii, 23. 89 Shvetsov, Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii, 15–17. 90 Shvetsov, Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii, 3, 17. Shvetsov built on the ideas of Nestor Tolstikhin. See N.I. Tolstikhin, Podzemnye vody merzloi zony litosfery (Moskva, Leningrad: Gosudarstvennoe izdatel’stvo literatury Komiteta po delam geologii pri SNK SSSR, 1941). 91 Shvetsov, Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii, 9–10, 19. 92 Shvetsov, Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii, 9, 21; Graham, Science, ­Philosophy, and Human Behavior, 48, 53. 93 Shvetsov, Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii, 17–18. See also Shetsov, “K opredeleniiu nekotorykh poniatii v merzlotovedenii,” 86. Shvetsov’s schematic omitted variation along the east-west axis as well as perennially frozen earth at high altitudes. 94 Shvetsov, Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii, 9, 19–20. 95 Shvetsov, Vvodnye glavy k osnovam geokriologii, 23–4; Meister and Shvetsov, “O nekotorykh terminakh v uchenii o zonakh merzlykh pochv i gornykh porod i ego meste sredi drugikh nauk,” 70–1. As was the case during



Notes to pages 157–9

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debates about chemical nomenclature in the eighteenth century, discussions about language had implications beyond terminology and entailed acceptance of a new epistemological framework. See Jan Golinski, “The Chemical Revolution and the Politics of Language,” The Eighteenth ­Century 33, no. 3 (Fall 1992): 238–51. Loren Graham, “Reorganization of the USSR Academy of Sciences,” in Soviet Policy-Making: Studies of Communism in Transition (New York: Frederick A. Praeger, Publishers, 1967), 133–61; Linda Greenberg, “­Policy-Making in the USSR Academy of Sciences,” Journal of Contemporary History 8, no. 4 (1 October 1973): 67–80; John Löwenhardt, Decision Making in Soviet Politics (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1981); K.V. Ivanov, “Nauka posle Stalina: reforma Akademii 1954–1961 gg.,” Naukovedenie, no. 1 (2000): 184–211. RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 105, “O vypolnenii postanovleniia uchenogo soveta Institut merzlotovedeniia ot 23 aprelia 1953 g.,” l. 163ob; RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 138, “Protokol No. 7 zasedaniia Uchenogo Soveta 8 i 9 marta 1956,” l. 106, 113; ARAN, f. 642, op. 3, d. 134, V.A. Obruchev to Presidium of Academy of Sciences, l. 47; RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 95, “Protokol zasedaniia uchenogo soveta Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. V.A. Obrucheva AN SSSR, 10 dekabria 1953 goda,” l. 115. A.V. Stotsenko and A.M. Chekotillo, “Voprosy terminologii v merzlotovedenii,” in Voproosy geograficheskogo merzlotovedeniia i perigliatsial’noi ­morfologii (Moskva: Izdatel’stvo Moskovskogo universiteta, 1962), 191–5. See, for example, P.F. Shvetsov and B.N. Dostovalov, eds., Osnovy ­geokriologii (merzlotovedeniia), chast’ pervaia: obshchaia geokriologiia (Moskva: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1959); P.I. Mel’nikov and N.I. ­Tolstikhin, eds., Obshchee merzlotovedenie (Novosibirsk: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka”, Sibirskoe otdelenie, 1974), 12; R.M. Kamenskii, “Geokriologiia (merzlotovedenie)–novaia nauka v sisteme nauk o zemle,” Nauka i tekhniki v Iakutii 1, no. 1 (2001): 16–19. As an indication of how Shvetsov’s attempt to revise the framework of frozen earth science became both normalized and erased, a textbook from 1967 asserted that ­geocryology “in essence cannot be differentiated” from merzlotovedenie. See B.N. ­ Dostovalov and V.A. Kudriavtsev, Obshchee merzlotovedenie (Moskva: ­Izdatel’stvo Moskovskogo Universiteta, 1967), 5–6. See, for example, N.A. Grave, “Merzlye tolshchi zemli,” Priroda, no. 1 (January 1968): 46–53. RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d, 201, “Zasedaniia Komissii po mezhdunarodnym nacuhnym sviaziam,” l. 1–5. On Khrushchev and “peaceful coexistence,” Zubok and Pleshakov, Inside the Kremlin’s Cold War, Ch. 6. Brown, “Plenary Paper, 1–2; Klimovskii, Akademik Pavel Ivanovich Mel’nikov, 119.

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Notes to pages 160–5

103 RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 635, “Vechnaia merzlota Kanady i svizannye s neiu inzhenernye voprosy,” l. 127; RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 50, “Stenogramma rasshirennogo zasedaniia Uchenogo Soveta Instituta merzlotovedeniia im. Obrucheva o napravlennosti i razvitii rabot v oblasti merzlotovedeniia,” l. 117; RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 40, “Tezisy doklada A.M. Chekotillo ‘Inzhenernoe merzlotovedenie v SShA,” l. 33; RGAE, f. 82, op. 1, d. 92, “V Biuro OGGN AN SSSR,” l. 1. 104 On the militarization of US research in the environmental sciences, see Ronald Doel, “Constituting the Postwar Earth Sciences: The Military’s Influence on the Environmental Sciences in the USA after 1945,” Social Studies of Science 33, no. 5 (October 2003): 635–66. 105 RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 635, “Vechnaia merzlota Kanady i svizannye s neiu inzhenernye voprosy,” l. 127; RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 844, “Obzor merzlotovedeniia za rubezhom nakanune 1956 goda,” l. 15; RGAE, f. 642, op. 3, d. 134, V.A. Obruchev to I.V. Stalin, l. 9–12. 106 RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 844, “Obzor merzlotovedeniia za rubezhom ­nakanune 1956 goda,” l. 17–19, 48, 50–1; RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 860, “­Fundamentostroenie na vechnomerzlykh gruntakh v SShA i Kanade,” l. 29; RGAE, f. 82, op. 2, d. 936, “O sostoianii geokriologicheskikh issledovanii za rubezhom 1958,” l. 10. Black’s original article is Robert Black, “Permafrost: A Review,” Geological Society of America Bulletin 65, no. 9 (1 September 1954): 839–56. 107 Robert Legget, “Permafrost in North America,” in Proceedings (Permafrost International Conference, 11–15 November 1963 in Lafayette, Indiana, Washington: National Academy of Sciences and National Research Council, 1963), 2. 108 “Moderators’ Report,” in Permafrost International Conference, 11–15 November 1963, Lafayette, Indiana (Washington: National Academy of Sciences and National Research Council, 1963), 551–2, 556. 109 Ye. V. Pinneker, “Some Remarks about Terminology,” in USSR Contribution (Permafrost, Second International Conference, 13–28 July 1973, Washington: National Academy of Sciences, 1978), 852. Epilogue: Resurrecting 1 Guido Grosse et al., “Why Permafrost Is Thawing, Not Melting,” Eos 91, no. 2 (March 2010), 87–8. For one of many examples of referring to permafrost melting, see Quirin Schiermeier, “Fears Grow Over Melting Permafrost,” Nature 409, no. 6822 (15 February 2001): 751. See also Hugh French, “Thaw vs. Melt: An Editorial,” Frozen Ground 26 (December 2002): 6–7. 2 Wojciech Dobiński, “Permafrost in Synthetic View of Glacial and Periglacial Domain: New Terms and Definitions,” in Exploring Permafrost in a



Notes to pages 166–9

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Future Earth (XI International Conference on Permafrost, Potsdam: Bibliothek Wissenschaftspark Albert Einstein, 2016), 1210. This idea is reiterated in Dobiński’s published work, including Wojciech Dobiński, “Permafrost,” Earth-Science Reviews 108 (2011), 159; Wojciech Dobiński, “Permafrost: Definition and Extent,” in The International Encyclopedia of Geography (John Wiley and Sons, Ltd., 2017), https://doi-org .ccl.idm.oclc.org/10.1002/9781118786352.wbieg0277. Dobiński, “Permafrost in Synthetic View of Glacial and Periglacial ­Domain,” 1210, 1212. On the need for universal terminology, see also Wojciech Dobiński, “Ice and Environment: A Terminological Discussion,” Earth-Science Reviews 79 (2006): 229–40. The official definition of permafrost included the statement that “permafrost includes perennial ground ice, but not glaciers or icings.” See Everdingen, ed., Multi-Language Glossary of Permafrost and Related Ground-Ice Terms, 55. Besides getting rid of the division between ice in the ground and ice on the surface, Dobiński recognized that, to be precise, the definition of permafrost, understood as a condition of cold, must account for pressure, since the formation of ice anywhere depends on not only temperature but also pressure. Dobiński, “Permafrost,” 159. Dobiński, “Ice and Environment,” 232–6. As further evidence of a shared intellectual genealogy, Dobiński in our conversation mentioned the influence on his thinking of Polish scientist Antoni Dobrowolski. We saw in chapters 3 and 5 that Dobrowolski’s conception of “cryology” and the cryosphere and his work on ice also ­influenced Parkhomenko and Shvetsov. Spencer Weart, The Discovery of Global Warming (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2008), 3–4, 155–6. On the combination of factors that culminated in the consensus on anthropogenic climate change, see also Sörlin, “The Global Warming That Did Not Happen.” The Climate Time Bomb: Signs of Climate Change from the Greenpeace ­Database (Amsterdam: Stichting Greenpeace Council, 1994), 3–4, 159–60. On Greenpeace and the language of catastrophe, see Julie Doyle, “Picturing the Clima(c)tic: Greenpeace and the Representational Politics of Climate Change Communication,” Science as Culture 16, no. 2 (June 2007), 135–8, and Mike Hulme, Why We Disagree About Climate Change: Understanding Controversy, Inaction, and Opportunity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 232–3, 238–41. Weart, The Discovery of Global Warming, 123–5. See also Carolyn ­Ruppel, “Methane Hydrates and Contemporary Climate Change,” Nature ­Education Knowledge 3, no. 10 (2011): 29; Carolyn Ruppel and John Kessler, “The Interaction of Climate Change and Methane Hydrates,” Reviews of Geophysics 55, no. 1 (1 March 2017), 126.

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Notes to pages 170–1

12 Katey Walter Anthony, “Methane: A Menace Surfaces,” Scientific ­American 301, no. 6 (December 2009), 71–3. On ice-rich frozen earth as a ­significant repository of organic detritus, see Jens Strauss et al., “The Deep ­Permafrost Carbon Pool of the Yedoma Region in Siberia and Alaska,” Geophysical Research Letters 40 (2013): 6165–70; Guido Grosse et al., “Distribution of Late Pleistocene Ice-Rich Syngenetic Permafrost in the Yedoma Suite in East and Central Siberia, Russia,” USGS Open-File Report (US Geological Survey, 2013); Schuur et al., “Climate Change and the Permafrost Carbon Feedback,” 172. 13 Ruppel, “Methane Hydrates and Contemporary Climate Change,” 29; Ruppel and Kessler, “The Interaction of Climate Change and Methane Hydrates,” 126–31. 14 N. Shakhova et al., “Anomalies of Methane in the Atmosphere over the East Siberian Shelf: Is There Any Sign of Methane Leakage from Shallow Shelf Hydrates,” in Geophysical Research Abstracts, vol. 10, 2008, A01526; N.E. Shakhova, V.A. Alekseev, and I.P. Semiletov, “Predicted Methane Emission on the East Siberian Shelf,” Doklady Earth Sciences 430, no. 2 (20 March 2010), 190; Anthony, “Methane: A Menace Surfaces,” 73. 15 Arthur Max, “Siberia’s Climate Time Bomb: Thawing Permafrost Could Spell Disaster,” The Huffington Post, 21 November 2010, http://www .huffingtonpost.com/2010/11/21/siberia-climate-change-methane_n _786554.html. Heidi Blake, “Climate Change Could Be Accelerated by ‘Methane Time Bomb,’” The Telegraph, 22 February 2010, https://www .telegraph.co.uk/news/earth/environment/climatechange/7289698 /Climate-change-could-be-accelerated-by-methane-time-bomb.html. 16 Schuur, “The Permafrost Prediction,” 61; Schuur et al, “Climate Change and the Permafrost Carbon Feedback,” 172–6. 17 Ruppel and Kessler, “The Interaction of Climate Change and Methane Hydrates,” 134–40. 18 Whiteman, Hope, and Wadhams, “Vast Costs of Arctic Change,” 401–2. 19 For tempered perspectives in response to the Nature piece, see Chris Mooney, “How Much Should You Worry about an Arctic ­Methane Bomb?,” Grist, 9 August 2013, http://grist.org/climate-energy/how-much-shouldyou-worry-about-an-arctic-methane-bomb/; Andrew Revkin, “Arctic Methane Credibility Bomb,” Dot Earth (blog), 25 July 2013, http://dotearth.blogs .nytimes.com/2013/07/25/arctic-methane-credibility-bomb/. For support of catastrophic scenarios, see Nafeez Ahmed, “Seven Facts You Need to Know About the Arctic Methane Timebomb,” The Guardian, 5 August 2013, https://www.theguardian.com/environment/earth-insight/2013 /aug/05/7-facts-need-to-know-arctic-methane-time-bomb. 20 Among the earliest Russian-language reports was Anatolii M ­ en’shikov, “Bresh’ v tundre,” Rossiiskaia gazeta, 14 July 2014, http://www.rg.ru



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/printable/2014/07/14/voronka.html. English-language c­ overage ­includes “Large Crater Appears at the ‘End of the World,’” The ­Siberian Times, 15 July 2014, http://siberiantimes.com/other/others/features /large-crater-appears-at-the-end-of-the-world/; Anna Liesowska, “First Pictures from Inside the ‘Crater at the End of the World,’” The Siberian Times, 17 July 2014, http://siberiantimes.com/science/casestudy/news /first-pictures-from-inside-the-crater-at-the-end-of-the-world/; Terrence McCoy, “The Curious Case of the Massive Crater That Just Appeared at ‘the End of the Earth,’” The Washington Post, 17 July 2014, https://www .washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2014/07/17/the-curious -case-of-the-massive-crater-that-just-appeared-at-the-end-of-the-earth/; Andrew Revkin, “Scientists Begin to Demystify Hole Found in Siberian Permafrost,” Dot Earth (blog), 19 July 2014, http://dotearth.blogs.nytimes .com/2014/07/19/scientists-begin-to-demystify-hole-found-in -siberian-permafrost/. 21 Katia Moskvitch, “Mysterious Siberian Crater Attributed to Methane,” ­Nature, 31 July 2014; Marina Leibman et al., “Gas-Emission Crater in C ­ entral Yamal, West Siberia, Russia, a New Permafrost Feature,” in ­Geophysical Research Abstracts, vol. 18 (European Geosciences Union ­General ­Assembly, Vienna, 2016), EGU2016–259–2. 22 Reports dampening catastrophic projections include David Archer, “How Much Methane Came out of That Hole in Siberia?,” RealClimate (blog), 13 August 2014, http://www.realclimate.org/index.php/archives /2014/08/how-much-methane-came-out-of-that-hole-in-siberia/; Chris Mooney, “Why You Shouldn’t Freak out about Those Mysterious Siberian Craters,” The Washington Post, 2 March 2015, https://www.washingtonpost .com/news/energy-environment/wp/2015/03/02/why-you-shouldnt -freak-out-about-those-mysterious-siberian-craters/. Reports reinforcing them include Robert Fanney, “Is This the Compost Bomb’s Smoking Gun? Second Mysterious Hole Found in Yamal Russia,” Robertscribbler (blog), 24 July 2014, http://robertscribbler.com/2014/07/24/is-this-the-compost -bombs-smoking-gun-second-mysterious-hole-found-in-yamal-russia/; ­Robert Fanney, “Concern Over Catastrophic Methane Release – Overburden, Plumes, Eruptions, and Large Ocean Craters,” Robertscribbler (blog), 9 March 2015, http://robertscribbler.com/2015/03/09/cause-for-appropriate-concern -over-arctic-methane-overburden-plumes-eruptions-and-large-ocean -craters/; Raj Saha, “The Permafrost Bomb,” Yale Climate Connections, 12 February 2018, https://www.yaleclimateconnections.org/2018/02/the -permafrost-bomb-is-ticking/. 23 Saha, “The Permafrost Bomb.” Some scientists have argued that an “alarming, rather than alarmist” tone is appropriate and necessary to convey the urgency of taking immediate, far-reaching action to mitigate

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Notes to pages 173–5 global warming. Anything that falls short would amount to what ­climatologist James Hansen called “scientific reticence,” thereby failing to properly communicate the dangers of climate change and lulling people into being satisfied with “business as usual” or small-scale actions. See James Risbey, “The New Climate Discourse: Alarmist or Alarming?,” Global Environmental Change 18, no. 1 (2008): 26–37. It might be argued that the metaphor of permafrost as a bomb accords with “alarming, rather than alarmist” rhetoric. On recent and ongoing degradation of infrastructure in regions of ­Russia with underlying perennially frozen earth, see Nikolay ­Shiklomanov et al., “Conquering the Permafrost: Urban Infrastructure ­Development in Norilsk, Russia,” Polar Geography 40, no. 4 (2017), 278–83; Nikolay Shiklomanov et al., “Climate Change and Stability of Urban Infrastructure in Russian Permafrost Regions: Prognostic Assessment Based on GCM Climate Projections,” Geographical Review 107, no. 1 (January 2017), 125–8. See also Alec Luhn, “Slow-Motion Wrecks: How Thawing Permafrost Is Destroying Arctic Cities,” The Guardian, 14 October 2016, https://www .theguardian.com/cities/2016/oct/14/thawing-permafrost-destroying -arctic-cities-norilsk-russia. Blackbourn, The Conquest of Nature, 9–11. An example of geoengineering is outlined in P.J. Crutzen, “Albedo ­Enhancement by Stratospheric Sulfur Injections: A Contribution to ­Resolve a Policy Dilemma? An Editorial Essay,” Climatic Change 77 (2006): 211–19. For an argument against geoengineering, see James Fleming, Fixing the Sky: The Checkered History of Weather and Climate Control (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010). Mark Carey, “The History of Ice: How Glaciers Became an Endangered Species,” Environmental History 12 (July 2007), 512–27. On the need to understand the Arctic as a historical and not a timeless place, see Stuhl, Unfreezing the Arctic. For the first quotation, see Wallace-Wells, “The Uninhabitable Earth.” The New York Times quotation is from Henry Fountain, “Alaska’s Permafrost Is Thawing,” The New York Times, 23 August 2017, https://www.nytimes .com/interactive/2017/08/23/climate/alaska-permafrost-thawing.html. Gould, Time’s Arrow, Time’s Cycle, 11, 118–26. For an elaboration of the concept of the Anthropocene, see Paul Crutzen and Eugene Stoermer, “The ‘Anthropocene,’” and Will Steffen, “­Commentary,” both in The Future of Nature: Documents of Global Change (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), 483–90; Will Steffen, Paul Crutzen, and John McNeill, “The Anthropocene: Are Humans Now ­Overwhelming the Great Forces of Nature?,” Ambio: A Journal of the H ­ uman Environment 36, no. 8 (December 2007): 614–21.



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31 On time’s arrow, see Gould, Time’s Arrow, Time’s Cycle, 10–11. On the ecological, social, and political characteristics of the Great Acceleration, see J.R. McNeill and Peter Engelke, The Great Acceleration: An Environmental History of the Anthropocene since 1945 (Cambridge: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2014). 32 Haraway, Staying with the Trouble, 30–3; Tsing, The Mushroom at the End of the World, 3.

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INDEX

Abolin, Robert, 61, 124 Academy of Sciences, 35–6, 38, 40, 127, 149, 157; and Karl Ernst von Baer, 25; and Commission for the Study of the Yakut ASSR, 82; and Committee on vechnaia merzlota (KOVM), 104, 111; and Commission for the Study of vechnaia merzlota (KIVM), 138; communist purge of, 107; communist takeover of, 16–17; creation of, 16, 32; and Far Eastern Expedition, 108; and Geological Institute, 110, 139; and Institute of Geography, 97, 139; and Sergei Parkhomenko, 70, 82, 94, 96–8, 100; and Siberian Section, 159, 162; and Mikhail Sumgin, 71, 90–4, 97, 109, 167; and USSR, 69, 132, 135, 150–1, 158, 167 Administration of Local Transport for the Far Eastern District (Dal’omes), 55, 181 Afghanistan, 54 Agassiz, Louis, 34, 38–9 agriculture, 54, 56, 83, 110; collectivization of, 15, 105; and frozen earth, 30, 74; and soil science, 49, 61–2; and zemstvos, 73 Ahlmann, Hans, 111, 218n24

airports, 9, 20 alaas, 30–1, 181 Alaska, 128, 131–3, 135, 181 Alaska-Canadian Highway, 131, 160 Aldan River, 54–5, 114 Aleksandr III, 54 Aleksandr II, 73 American Geophysical Union, 164 American-Soviet Science Society, 135 Amur (region), 62, 71–2, 108, 114; and Amur-Yakutiya Mainline (AYAM), 48; and mar’, 57; and Siberian railway, 61, 63, 74, 111; and Mikhail Sumgin, 74, 76. See also Amur-Yakutiya Mainline (AYAM); Baikal-Amur railroad Amur River, 11, 29, 53, 114 Amur-Yakutiya Mainline (AYAM), 59–61, 65, 67, 181; construction of, 48–50, 54, 56 Anadyr, 110, 120, 173 Annenskii, Nikolai, 72 Antarctica, 13 Anthropocene, 175 Arctic (region), 3, 11, 33, 170; and Boden-Eis, 39; and Cold War, 129; Eurasian, 28, 39; European voyages to, 29; and global

280 Index warming, 10, 170–1; and Kola Peninsula, 19; and resource extraction, 131; and US military interests, 5, 131 Arctic Ocean, 37 Arkhangelskii, Andrei, 110 Associated Press, 170 Austria, 5 Bacon, Francis, 32 badaran, 52–3, 83 Baffin Island, 28 Baikal-Amur Mainline (BAM), 14, 108, 113, 119, 181 Balkans, 54 Baltic Sea, 5, 26 Baranov, Ivan, 146–7 Baer, Karl Ernst von, 35–43, 45, 68, 75, 87, 103, 147, 173; and conceptualization of frozen earth as a scientific object, 34, 37, 174, 188n21; and ice age theory, 27, 166; status of in Russian Empire, 26, 174; and treatise on frozen earth, 25–6 Beijing, 31. See also China Belokrylov, Ivan, 125 Bering Strait, 39 Black, Robert, 6, 160 Black Sea, 19 Blackbourn, David, 173 Blagoveshchensk, 74, 131 Boden-Eis (Bodeneis), 24, 46, 64, 181; and Karl Ernst von Baer, 25–7, 34–5, 37–42, 45, 103, 166, 174; and emergence of permafrost, 8, 21–2, 46, 175. See also Baer, Karl Ernst von; Eis-Boden (Eisboden); permafrost; vechnaia merzlota Bolsheviks, 17, 49, 54, 67, 106, 158; and Academy of Sciences, 91; and Amur-Yakutiya Mainline (AYAM), 48; and centralization of science,

100; and colonization of Siberia, 22, 50, 56; and consolidation of power, 4, 92; and Vladimir Lenin, 150, 153; and Marxism-Leninism, 12; as patrons of science, 16; and Inna Poiré, 5; and populism in science, 102; and revolutionary culture, 13; and Mikhail Sumgin, 69, 71–2, 103; and Yakut ASSR, 54, 82. See also Soviet Union Brezhnev, Leonid, 108 Britain, 53–4, 63 Brown, Roger J.E., 159 Bryan, Kirk, 133–5, 161, 167 Buch, Leopold von, 35 Bukharin, Nikolai, 102 Bykov, Nikolai, 125 Canada, 28, 56, 129, 131, 159–61 Canol pipeline, 131, 160 carbon, 3–4, 170 carbon dioxide, 3, 87, 169–71 Carey, Mark, 174 Central Asia, 4, 54, 61 Central Administration of Local Transport (Leningrad), 91 Central Committee of the Socialist Revolutionary Party, 69 Central Institute for Geodesy and Cartography, 97 Central Institute for Hydrometeorology, 97 Chekotillo, Andrei, 127–8, 140, 149, 158, 160, 167 Chelyabinsk, 48 Chernyshev, Mikhail, 125 China, 14, 109. See also Beijing; Qing Empire; Shanghai Chita, 47, 59, 120 climatology, 27, 48, 67 climate change, 164, 168, 170. See also global warming



Index 281

Cold War, 128–30, 148, 169; and Soviet science, 14; and thaw in Soviet-US relations, 158; and transnational scientific exchange, 23, 162 collectivization, 15, 105 Commission for the Study of Natural Productive Forces (KEPS), 91 Commission for the Study of vechnaia merzlota (KIVM), 107–9, 182; creation of, 138; and evolution into INMERO, 106, 110; and industrialization, 125; and osvoenie, 112, 119; and Sergei Parkhomenko, 94; and Stalinism, 119, 126; and Mikhail Sumgin, 93, 97, 110, 112, 114; and terminology, 152. See also Obruchev Institute for Frozen Earth Science (Institut merzlotovedeniia imeni Obrucheva; INMERO) Committee on vechnaia merzlota (KOVM), 120, 122–5, 182; emergence of, 97, 110; and language, 115; and Vladimir Obruchev, 99–100; and Sergei Parkhomenko, 97–9; and Mikhail Sumgin, 111, 113 Communist Party of the Soviet Union, 17, 113, 137–8, 148–9, 163; and Academy of Sciences, 16, 91; and Marxism-Leninism, 15; and Petr Shvetsov, 140, 151; and Stalinism, 15; and Nikolai Tsytovich, 145 conservation, 19–20 Cossacks, 32–3, 35 Council for the Administration of the Construction of the Siberian railway, 59–60 Council of People’s Commissars (Sovnarkom), 55, 108, 125, 183

Council for the Study of the Productive Forces of the USSR (SOPS), 107–8, 183 cryolithozone, 175; and geocryology, 157; and INMERO, 130; and Marxism-Leninism, 23; as object of study, 155; and Petr Shvetsov, 148, 151, 154–5, 157, 163, 166 cybernetics, 18 dams, 19, 120 Daston, Lorraine, 7 Delisle de la Croyère, Louis, 32 Demchinskii, Boris, 114–15 Denmark, 131 dialectical materialism, 17–18, 130, 139–41, 145, 167; origins of, 12; and Sergei Parkhomenko, 101; and Petr Shvetsov, 153–4, 163; and Mikhail Sumgin, 101; and vechnaia merzlota, 101 Dobiński, Wojciech, 165–7, 173, 179 Dobrowolski, Antoni, 87, 154 Dogdo River, 38, 51 Dokuchaev, Vasilii, 12, 61–2, 82, 88, 152, 173 Dubelir, Grigorii, 54 Eis-Boden (Eisboden), 24, 175, 181; ambiguity of, 22, 46, 68, 161; and Karl Ernst von Baer, 26–7, 34–5, 37–43, 45, 68, 87, 166, 174; and life cycle of permafrost, 21–2, 25, 64; meaning in English, 8; and Alexander von Middendorff, 27, 42–3, 45, 68. See also Boden-Eis (Bodeneis) Elenevskii, V.V., 104–5, 124–5, 145 Eleventh International Conference on Permafrost, 165 Elias, Maxim, 136

282 Index Engels, Friedrich, 140, 154 Enisei River, 31, 52, 108; and gold, 42, 114; and Second Kamchatka Expedition, 27–8; and settlement/ transformation of Siberia, 11, 29, 50 Eurasia, 2, 15, 29, 43, 52; and Academy Expeditions, 33; and Louis Agassiz, 34; and Eis-Boden, 39; and European naturalists, 22; and Russian Empire, 25; and John Wood, 28 Fedorov, Nikolai, 33, 102 First International Conference on Permafrost, 161 First World War, 4, 92 fisheries, 104 floods, 22, 33, 84, 119, 182; and building on frozen earth, 56, 59; and climate change, 4; and Lena River, 35; and naled’, 117; and Valerian Petrov, 47; in Yakutsk, 29–30 Florenskii, Pavel, 102 forests, 30, 53, 59, 104; depletion of, 18; protection of, 19; taiga, 51, 55, 59. See also taiga fossil fuels, 168, 172–3, 175 France, 51 Frobisher, Martin, 28 frozen earth science. See merzlotovedenie genetic soil science, 50, 62, 64, 68; and Vasilii Dokuchaev, 12, 62, 173; and Sergei Parkhomenko, 70, 81 geography, 32, 41, 55, 139, 154; and Academy of Sciences, 97, 139; and Alaska, 131; and European naturalists, 28, 31, 34, 36, 38; and frozen earth, 12, 14; and

Andrei Grigorev, 139–40, 151; and INMERO, 138; and Sergei Parkhomenko, 70, 81–2, 88; and Petr Shvetsov, 151; and Siberia, 28–9, 31; and Mikhail Sumgin, 97, 116, 118; and USGS, 6, 131 geology, 34, 45, 83, 85, 139, 162; and Vasilli Dokuchaev, 12; emergence and development of, 38, 42–3, 166; historians of, 10; and Siemon Muller, 132–3; and Sergei Parkhomenko, 70; and Petr Shvetsov, 140, 151; and Siberia’s frozen earth, 46, 63; and soil science, 68; and USGS, 6, 131, 133 Germany, 5, 165 Gerovitch, Slava, 101 Gieryn, Thomas, 107, 111 glaciers, 34, 38, 139, 166, 173–4 glaciology, 166 global warming, 3–4, 10, 111, 144, 164, 168–74 Gmelin, Johann Georg, 27–8, 31–3, 35, 42, 51 gold, 28, 104, 114, 157; mining of in Siberia, 43, 54–5, 74, 108 Golovin, Petr, 30 Gorkii, Maksim, 113 Gorodkov, Boris, 108 Graham, Loren, 101, 177 “Great Siberian Mainline.” See Siberian railway Great Terror, 105, 107, 124 Great War. See First World War greenhouse gases, 3–4, 168–9, 172–3 Greenland, 13 Greenpeace International, 169 Grigorev, Andrei, 139–40 Hanson, Stephen, 115 Haraway, Donna, 21, 175 Harvard University, 133



Index 283

highways, 47, 50, 63, 92. See also Alaska-Canadian Highway; Amur-Yakutiya Mainline (AYAM) Humboldt, Alexander von, 12, 34–5, 38–9, 41–2 Hutton, James, 78 hydrology, 16, 60, 63–4, 117, 133, 139 ice age, 38, 48, 78–9, 174, 201n61; and Louis Agassiz, 34; and Karl Ernst von Baer, 27, 166 Ides, Eberhard Isbrand, 31 Igarka, 14, 108, 110, 122, 173 Imperial Russian Geographical Society, 75. See also State Geographical Society Indigirka River, 38, 108 industrialization, 21, 71, 104, 117, 125–6, 169, 172; and the Cold War, 129–30; and command economy, 105; and environmental destruction, 19–20; and five-year plans, 115, 174; and frozen earth science, 14, 110, 165, 167–8; and greenhouse gases, 173; in Russian Empire, 42, 67, 168; and science of frozen earth, 12–13; in Siberia, 11, 20; socialist, 107, 116, 137; and Soviet physicists, 16 Institute for Engineers of Ways of Communication, 62 Institute for Roads and Construction, 97, 125 intelligentsia, 72–3 Irkutsk, 51, 82, 109 Jaczewski, Leonard, 27, 43–5, 79 Japan, 109 Kachurin, Sergei, 125 Kalinin, Mikhail, 5 Kanin Peninsula, 39

Kankrin, Egor, 36, 199n39 Kapterev, Petr, 125 Khabarovsk, 57 Kharkov University, 82 Khrushchev, Nikita, 158–9 Kiev, 4 Kola Peninsula, 19, 108 Kolesnikov, Arkadii, 140–1, 143, 145 Koloskov, Pavel, 71, 145–6 Kolymsk, 51 Korolenko, Vladimir, 72 Krasnov, Andrei, 82, 88 Krasnoyarsk, 50 kraevedenie (regional studies), 82–3 Kriukov, Innokentii, 57 Kropotkin, Petr, 55, 65, Krovkov, Matvei, 30 Kudryavtsev, Vladimir, 140–1, 143, 145–6 labour camps, 113 Lake Baikal, 27, 39, 51, 82–3, 108 Latour, Bruno, 21 Lazarevskii, Aleksandr, 125 Legget, Robert, 161–2 Lena Goldfields Massacre, 55 Lena River, 30–3, 50, 61; and gold, 55, 114; and Sergei Parkhomenko, 82–3; and Second Kamchatka Expedition, 27; and Yakutsk, 25, 29, 35 Lenin, Vladimir, 150, 153 Leningrad, 4–5, 91, 94, 108, 140, 186n5. See also Petrograd; St. Petersburg Leningrad Geological-HydrologicalGeodesic Trust, 4–5 Leningrad Institute of Engineers of Public Works, 125 Lifshits, Yakov, 124 Lithuania, 5 Liverovskii, Aleksandr, 108

284 Index Livingstone, David N., 10 Lomonosov, Mikhail, 154 Lopatin, Innokentii, 45 Lvov, Aleksandr, 63 Lyell, Charles, 34, 78, 174 Lysenko, Trofim, 15–17, 145, 149, 163, 228n62 Main Administration for the Northern Sea Route, 125, 182 Main Administration of Camps of the NKVD, 125. See also NKVD (People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs) mar’, 52–3, 57–8, 113, 137 Marxism-Leninism, 129–30, 138, 140, 145, 173; and cryolithozone, 23; and frozen earth science, 147; and genetics, 16; as official state ideology, 12, 15, 17, 101; and permafrost, 17; philosophy of science, 154; and time, 115 Maydell, Gerhard von, 52 Meister, Leonid, 151 Melnikov, Pavel, 159 merzlotovedenie (merzlota studies or frozen earth science), 146–7, 149–51, 156–8, 163; founding of, 70, 153; journal, 138, 141, 149 meteorology, 63, 88, 151, 157 methane, 3, 10, 169–71, 188n24 merzlota, 108, 115, 151–3; as aggregate structure, 71; ambiguities of, 11, 49–50, 64–8, 161; as field of study, 70, 153; and life cycle of permafrost, 22, 64, 175; as manifestation of thermal system, 67, 124; and Sergei Parkhomenko, 81, 84–5, 87–90, 95, 97–8, 102, 166; and Inna Poiré, 3, 6, 137; and Petr Shvetsov, 153, 155, 157, 160; and soil science,

49–50, 66; and Mikhail Sumgin, 70, 74–9, 85, 98, 151–2. See also merzlotovedenie Michurinist biology, 145, 149 Middendorff, Alexander von, 42–3, 60, 75, 79, 147; and Eisboden, 27, 45, 68; and Siberia expedition to Taimyr Peninsula, 138 mining, 65, 135; apatite, 108; and engineers, 45, 125; and frozen earth, 43; gold, 55, 108; in Yakut ASSR, 54. See also Petrograd Mining Institute Minsk, 4 Moiseev, Nikita, 18 Molodykh, Ivan, 53 Moscow, 179; and European travelers, 31; and INMERO, 110, 128, 140; and KIVM, 108, 110; and Sergei Parkhomenko, 82, 94; and Inna Poiré, 4; and Mikhail Sumgin, 69, 71, 158 Moscow State University, 140 Muller, Siemon, 9, 128–9, 131–4, 136–7, 161, 175, 222n5 Muscovy, 11, 29 naled’, 51, 56, 59–60, 83, 117–18, 122, 182 National Council of American-Soviet Friendship, 135 Nature, 171 Nerchinsk, 29, 54 New Siberian Islands, 39 New York City, 135 New York Times, 171, 174 Nikiforov, Konstantin, 61 Nikolai (Tsar), 36 Nizhnii Novgorod, 72 NKVD (People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs), 58, 119, 124–5, 182



Index 285

Norilsk, 14, 173 Novaya Zemlya, 28–9, 39 Novo-Aleksandriiskii Institute of Agronomy and Forestry, 62 Obruchev, Vladimir, 93, 99–100, 109–10, 148–9, 158, 160 Obruchev Institute for Frozen Earth Science (Institut merzlotovedeniia imeni Obrucheva; INMERO), 130, 137–8, 140, 145–51, 159–60, 163, 182; and Andrei Chekotillo, 127–8; and Cold War, 128–9; dissolution of, 157; origins and development of, 105–6, 110, 125; and Petr Shvetsov, 157–9; and United States, 135 Olekma River, 55 Ordzhonikidze, Sergo, 5 Ordzhonikidze Institute for Geological Surveying, 140 osvoenie, 106, 112–14, 119, 182 Pacific Ocean, 25, 27–8, 39, 48, 54, 131 Pallas, Peter Simon, 33, 42 Parkhomenko, Sergei, 81–90, 94–103, 145, 152, 166–7, 173; and methane, 170; and Mikhail Sumgin, 23, 70–1 Passek, Aleksandr, 57 peasantry, 72–4 People’s Commissariat of Food Production, 120 People’s Commissariat of Heavy Industry (NKTP), 5, 125 People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs. See NKVD (People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs) People’s Commissariat for Ways of Communication (NKPS), 55, 91, 104, 124–5, 182 pergelisol, 134–5, 161

permafrostology, 3, 134 Peter the Great, 16, 31–2 Petrograd, 4, 186n5. See also Leningrad; St. Petersburg Petrograd Mining Institute, 4. See also Plekhanov Mining Institute; St. Petersburg Mining Institute Petrov, Valerian, 47–8 philosophy of science, 12, 101, 150, 153–4 Pinneker, Evgenii, 162 pipelines, 120. See also Canol pipeline Plekhanov, Georgi, 12, 140 Plekhanov Mining Institute, 140 Podolia, 4 Poiré, Inna, 3–6, 13, 24, 136–7 Poland, 5 Polynov, Boris, 61, 65 Ponomarev, Vasilii, 125, 149 Poset, Konstantin, 54 physics, 15–17, 63, 72, 139–41 Podyakonov, Sergei, 60 Polynov, Boris, 61, 65 populism, 71–3, 76, 101–3 Poset, Konstantin, 54 Prasolov, Leonid, 61 Pravda, 114, 146 Prokhorov, Nikolai, 61–2, 67, 72, 74, 91, 124 Purdue University, 159 Pushechnikov, Aleksandr, 47–8 Qing Empire, 31, 39, 53, 131 railroads, 9, 48, 74, 92, 104, 109; and colonization of Siberia, 50, 54, 56–7, 59–60. See also Baikal-Amur Mainline (BAM); Siberian railway Red Army, 128, 140 Redozubov, Dmitrii, 140–6, 149, 173 road research, 63

286 Index Royal Society of London, 32 Rumyantsev Museum, 102 Russian American Company, 36 Russian Civil War, 4–5, 71 Russian Empire, 7, 11, 41, 56, 64, 131, 168; and Karl Ernst von Baer, 26, 36, 39; and continuities with the Soviet Union, 50; development of, 50, 52–4; and evolution of science, 26; and expeditions, 27, 31, 34, 46; and geology, 42; historians of, 53; and industrialization, 67; and kraevedenie, 82; and language, 43; and meteorology, 45; Ministry of Education of, 73; mobility in, 50; and OGPU, 69, 182; and Sergei Parkhomenko, 82; and permafrost, 13, 26; and Inna Poiré, 4; and Resettlement Administration, 61, 74; science in, 26–7, 46, 174; and soil science of roads, 61 Sakha (people), 30–1, 38, 51–2, 83–4, 181, 183 Samara, 73 Samarkand, 4 science and technology studies (STS), 7–8, 10 Second International Conference on Permafrost, 162 Second Kamchatka Expedition, 27–8, 31–2, 196n17 Second World War, 18, 127–9, 137, 140; and Inna Poiré, 5–6; and railways, 108; and Soviet science, 14; and US government, 130; and USGS, 131 Shanghai, 131 Shergin, Fedor, 35–7 Shostakovich, Vladimir, 63 Shumskii, Petr, 159 Shvetsov, Petr, 140–1, 143, 145–60, 162–3, 166–7, 173

Siberia, 29–37, 45–64, 67, 73–5, 82–3, 157, 169–70; and BaikalAmur Mainline (BAM), 108; and colonization of, 11, 13; expeditions to, 22, 27–8, 39–43, 65, 138; and global warming, 171, 173; industrialization of, 11, 20, 173; and Soviet propaganda, 122; and Mikhail Sumgin, 69. See also Academy of Sciences: and Siberian section; Siberian railway Siberian railway, 14, 67, 111, 125, 131, 202n3; construction of, 47–50, 54– 7, 59–61, 74–5; and frozen earth, 50, 57, 63, 65. See also Baikal-Amur Mainline (BAM) Sibirtsev, Nikolai, 62 Skovorodino, 55, 59, 111, 125 Socialist Revolutionary (SR) Party, 69, 73, 183 Society of Women Geographers, 5, 183 soil science, 134; emergence of, 12, 49, 152; of roads, 49–50, 61–2, 64, 66, 68, 72. See also genetic soil science Soiuzzoloto, 55 Soviet Far Eastern Geophysical Observatory, 71 Soviet Union, 15–19, 108–10, 114–16, 129–31, 137–9, 163, 169; Academy of Sciences of, 90, 132, 135, 167; and Cold War, 158; and conquest of nature, 13, 113, 115; and continuities with the Russian Empire, 26, 50; and Council for the Study of the Protective Forces (SOPS), 107; ecological degradation in, 20; five-year plans of, 120, 174; and ideas about permafrost, 5, 7, 11–12, 22–3, 101, 123, 125; and Ministry of Foreign



Index 287

Affairs, 127; and Inna Poiré, 5; propaganda of, 19, 122, 172; and socialist industrialization, 14, 107, 167–9; and Mikhail Sumgin, 69, 74, 79, 81, 92, 114–16, 132; and terror, 105; and transnational exchange, 159 Sphagnum moss, 57–8 St. Paul (Minnesota), 5, 133–4 Stalin, 12, 17–19, 105, 113, 137, 151, 168; and Baikal-Amur Mainline (BAM), 108; and five-year plans, 105, 115; and industrialization, 107; and INMERO, 146, 160, 163; and Michurinist biology, 145; rise of, 15; and terror, 15, 124 Stalinism, 5, 113, 115, 129, 138, 168, 172; and emergence of frozen earth research, 14, 17–18, 105; and fiveyear plans, 19–20; and Great Terror, 105, 124; and INMERO, 106, 147; and KIVM, 106–7, 119, 126 Stanford University, 131–2, 136 State Geographical Society, 88. See also Imperial Russian Geographical Society St. Petersburg, 36, 40, 50, 62, 108, 179, 186n5; and Academy of Sciences, 25, 32; and Karl Ernst von Baer, 25, 34; and Johann Georg Gmelin, 27; and Inna Poiré, 4; and Mikhail Sumgin, 72, 97. See also Leningrad; Petrograd St. Petersburg Mining Institute, 43. See also Petrograd Mining Institute; Plekhanov Mining Institute St. Petersburg University, 72–3, 97 sub-Arctic, 3, 131 Sumgin, Mikhail, 139, 147–9, 153, 155, 158–9; and Academy of Sciences, 91, 97, 105, 167; and

conception of frozen earth, 22–3, 70–1, 74–5, 93, 106, 118, 124–5, 128, 137, 141, 150, 163, 165, 167; and INMERO, 105–6, 110, 128, 150; and KIVM, 106–10, 112, 114, 126, 152; and KOVM, 110–11, 113, 125; and merzlota, 75–7, 85, 151–2; and rival Sergei Parkhomenko, 23, 70, 81, 83, 86, 88, 90, 94–103, 106; in Russian Empire, 69, 72–4; and vechnaia merzlota, 71, 77–80, 84, 92, 101–3, 106–7, 111, 114–18, 123, 145–6, 150, 154, 157, 174–5 Supreme Council of the National Economy (Vesenkha), 93, 108, 183 Svyatogorov, Yakov, 33 taiga, 51, 53, 55, 59, 72, 113 Taimyr Peninsula, 36, 39 taryn, 38, 51–3, 56, 59, 84, 132, 183 Toll, Eduard von, 117 Tolstikhin, Nestor, 125 trade, 28–31, 54, 73 Trans-Baikal (region), 47, 57, 59, 108, 114, 120 Trans-Siberian railway. See Siberian railway travel, 22, 31–2, 39, 50–3, 57, 61; and Francis Bacon, 32; and Alexander von Humboldt, 34; and Second Kamchatka Expedition, 27–9 Tsing, Anna, 21, 175 Tsytovich, Nikolai, 111, 125, 145, 148–9, 159 Tumel, Vatslav, 96 Ufa, 5 United Nations, 168 United States, 18, 22, 63, 87, 131–2, 168; and Air Force, 132; and Army Corps of Engineers, 133; and Cold War, 14, 129–30, 158; and frozen

288 Index earth research, 23, 128, 135–7, 159–60, 163; and Inna Poiré, 5; and Second World War, 128–31. See also Alaska; St. Paul (Minnesota); United States Department of War; United States Geological Survey (USGS); US Army United States Department of War, 130–1, 135 United States Geological Survey (USGS), 3, 128, 131, 133, 135–6, 160; and Military Geology Unit, 131–2; and Permafrost Project, 5–6 University of Oregon, 132 Ural Mountains, 27, 29, 43, 48, 95, 108 urbanization, 19, 120 US Army, 131; and Air Force, 132; and Air Transport Command, 132; and Corps of Engineers, 5, 132–5 USSR. See Soviet Union Uvarov, Sergei, 36 vechnaia merzlota, 114–19, 121–6, 139–46, 148–50, 159–60, 162–3; and Academy of Sciences, 93–4, 97, 132; emergence of, 11, 23, 65, 135; and INMERO, 105, 130, 150, 158; and KIVM, 93, 109–10, 112; and KOVM, 111, 113, 125; and life of permafrost, 22, 68, 101, 128–30, 174–5; and Marxism-Leninism, 101; and Vladimir Obruchev, 99; and Sergei Parkhomenko, 84–5, 94–5, 100–2; and Inna Poiré, 3, 6, 13, 137; and Stalinism, 14, 106; translation and meaning of, 6, 9, 13–14, 23–4, 183; and Sumgin’s definition of, 70–2, 74, 77–81, 85, 88, 90, 92–5, 97, 100–3, 106–7, 111, 123, 132, 137, 150–2, 154, 157, 174. See also merzlota

Verkhoyansk, 29, 51–3 Vernadskii, Vladimir, 18, 87–8, 91–3, 101–2, 140, 154 Viliui River, 33, 55, 82 Vladivostok, 48, 71, 202n3 Voeikov, Aleksandr, 45, 67 Volga River, 73 Vorkuta, 110, 120, 173 Wallace, Robert, 135 Washington DC, 6 Washington Post, 171 wetlands, 19, 52 Widdis, Emma, 113 Wild, Heinrich von, 45 Wilson, Colonel Walter, 134–5 Wood, John, 28–9 World War I. See First World War World War II. See Second World War Wrangell, Ferdinand von, 36, 38, 51–2 Yakut. See Sakha (people) Yakut Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic (Yakut ASSR), 47, 53–4, 82, 120, 181 Yakutsk, 25, 29–30, 83, 108, 120–2; and colonization of Siberia, 50–1, 54–5; and European travellers, 32–3, 35–6; and INMERO, 110, 159; and Gerhard von Maydell, 52; and NKVD, 58; and Fedor Shergin, 35–6, 38; and urban development, 14, 173 Yana River, 29, 38, 51 Yanovskii, Vladimir, 108–9 Zaleski, Stanisław, 66 zavoevanie, 106, 113–14, 183 Zuev, Vasilii Fedorovich, 33