For twenty-three days I saw no newspapers, no clocks, no calendars, no mirrors. Time and identity melted into the landscape of the Altai: racing clouds and falling rain, a new and growing moon, shamans’ fires sputtering under spoonfuls of cow’s milk and crackling to devour dry cedar. I was transfixed by the rippling green mountains that gave way to snowy peaks as we traveled higher into the heart of central Asia, emerging onto the treeless plateau that is a secret and sacred place where Russia, Mongolia, Kazakhstan and China meet.Half way through the trip, our four-person film crew spent almost an hour struggling to figure out what day of the week it was — and what date in June? When we decided it was Saturday, June 16, I called my wife in California, only to be told that I was wrong, it was actually Sunday, June 17. We laughed. In a timeless world it didn’t matter. (Just one less day of shooting…)

But every day, everyone around us seemed to know exactly where we were in relation to the earth and the moon and the mountains. People kept noticing that we had started our new film project with the changing from old to new moon and everyone felt that was auspicious — a good sign.

I came with a list of ideas and questions: What is the history of cultural repression in the Altai? What forms did it take, and what was the effect on shamanism? How is identity tied to land here, and how does it compare to America or Australia? What areas have WWF and UNESCO and the former Soviet government “protected” and why did local Altaians establish different protections, in the new “nature parks”? What are the different standards and values reflected in these community protected areas? What do Altaians see as important and needing protection? How are culture and nature integrated in their protected areas? If these new protected areas attract tourists, spiritual pilgrims, could the influx pollute the land and undermine protection efforts? What is the Altai strategy to communicate to tourists what the land means to the local indigenous people?

We were guided through our mountain journey by Chagat Almashev, director of the Foundation for Sustainable Development of Altai. Starting long before our arrival, Chagat cautioned us that political activism is limited and is not the way the local people work. Better to work on the cultural protection level, Chagat counseled: identify sacred sites, map them, assure their authenticity and identity in the complex bureaucratic Russian system, talk to elders and leaders, seek local input and consensus, and take care not to impose an American environmental activist agenda. “This is the best way to protect the Altai,” said Chagat.

Early on, Chagat introduced us to Svetlana Baidysheva, the Altai Republic’s Deputy Minister of Economic Development. In a national tourism development competition against all the other Russian republics, the Altai won, which will translate into $2.8 million per year in federal money. Chagat wants local consultation and some measure of control of future tourism development. Major European investment is about to pour into the Altai. Svetlana told us that she projects 6.6 billion rubles per year will be invested (which I calculate at $260 million per year), with a German firm to handle infrastructure design and construction, and an Austrian firm to handle financing and financial management. On the day we met Svetlana, 20 Germans had just visited. A ski resort is being planned along with major infrastructure development. Will the Altai become a European playground?

We had dinner in Gorno Altaisk with Svetlana, who raised her glass of vodka, wished us well on our journey and offered this toast: “Altai is a sacred site. Nature responds to your intentions.”