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The Wild Ones Invasion
We explain what’s wrong with reindeer herding — and where the domestic reindeer really go, on the ground and on paper.
Between 2020 and 2024, five billion rubles were allocated to support reindeer herding in Yakutia. This year alone, the regional budget will provide more than 1.3 billion. These optimistic figures were announced by Yakutia’s head, Aisen Nikolaev, at the Fourth Reindeer Herders’ Congress. And yet, this traditional livelihood of the local Indigenous peoples is in dire straits. Reindeer fall ill, go missing, are killed by wolves — and last autumn, a wild herd from the tundra entered Olenyok District and took off with more than 1,500 domestic animals.
Why is this happening — and, as always, who’s to blame? Takie Dela and Arctida investigate.
On October 27, 2024, alarmed reindeer herders called the administration of Olenek village in northwest Sakha Republic. Wild reindeer from Taimyr had suddenly clashed with domestic herds. Such incidents had already occurred since the late 1970s, and the “wild ones” caused issues from 2013 to 2015—but this time, it was far more serious.
“It’s like a horde of wild reindeer charging in. Like the Mongols invading Rus in ancient times. They destroy everything in their path,” says Anatoliy Egorov, head of the district’s agriculture department, his narrow beard lending him the look of a figure from an old Chinese engraving.
Thousands of “wild” reindeer moved in scattered herds, and domestic ones joined them. “Wild and domestic reindeer are closer to each other than Russians and Belarusians,” says Pavel Kochkarev, director of the Central Siberian Reserve. Like bees, these animals don’t know they’re domesticated. Humans have learned to use them but haven’t tamed them. They didn’t escape—they simply ignored humans and wandered off with their wild kin for dozens of kilometers along the Bolshaya Kuonamka River.
People fired shots, lit fires, and brought in a helicopter. The district declared a state of emergency, and hunters were urgently recalled from leave, but it was too late. A total of 1,698 domestic reindeer—over a quarter of Olenek district’s herds—were lost. According to documents from the municipal enterprise (obtained by “Takie Dela”), 255 were recovered by the end of 2024. The other 217, which couldn’t be brought back, were shot—“better for meat than gone entirely.”
The blow struck not only reindeer herding but also the cultural identity of the Evenk people, whose traditions are deeply tied to reindeer. Analysis of this disaster reveals it wasn’t accidental. Yakut reindeer herding is in a systemic crisis, driven not by the “wild” intruders but by long-standing social processes, ecological issues, and the war in Ukraine.
Olenek
The Oleneksky Ulus is the largest district in the Sakha Republic. Larger than Poland, yet home to just 4,400 people. About 3,300 live in the district center, Olenek, and the village of Kharyalakh, separated by a river.
There are no roads in the usual sense. In midwinter, people travel to the nearest city via a frozen “zimnik” road; in summer, an all-terrain vehicle runs irregularly from late June. Half the local businesses are unprofitable. In 2024, 66% of the district’s budget came from external subsidies, and 17% from diamond mining payouts. The church is closed—the priest left and hasn’t returned. The Evenk majority here anyway manages without him, warding off evil spirits with smoke.
Still, by northern standards, Olenek is a thriving village. It has a large school, cell service, and high-speed internet. Wooden barracks are gradually giving way to modern multi-storey buildings on piles driven into the permafrost. Perishable goods, like everywhere in the Far East’s north, are pricey—cucumbers and tomatoes cost 700 rubles per kilo. The most common luggage on the local An-24 flight from Yakutsk is three taped-up cardboard boxes, each holding a hundred eggs, allowed as free carry-on.
Reindeer meat, meanwhile, is affordable at 300–400 rubles per kilo, thanks to hunters taking down wild reindeer. Domestic herds are considered breeding stock, and slaughtering them is permitted only for herders’ needs.
In spring, the animals, like their wild ancestors, migrate north to the tundra with herders. The journey is exhausting—herders push through snowdrifts, swim across icy rivers with their reindeer, fend off wolves and, increasingly, bears. Each herd, numbering over a thousand, is tended by a team: a leader, 7–8 herders, and a “chum” worker—a woman handling camp chores. In summer, if a helicopter is arranged with industrialists, schoolchildren join them. Migrating with elders, teens learn skills essential to becoming herders, working under contracts and earning wages like adults.
In the past, Evenks rode reindeer and slept in chums; now they prefer all-terrain vehicles and tents. At long-term grazing sites, they build corrals—long fences to keep the animals from scattering. In autumn, the reindeer return south, wintering near villages.
The hope is that herds will eventually grow enough to supply meat to locals, but this seems uncertain. According to data obtained by “Takie Dela” from Olenek’s agriculture department, the district had 4,900 domestic reindeer in 2010 and 5,200 by early 2025—nearly four times fewer than before the USSR’s collapse.
This isn’t just Olenek’s problem. Across Yakutia, domestic reindeer numbers dropped by 57% from 1990 to 2015, with only a 4% increase despite heavy subsidies. In 2025, the republic budgeted 1.34 billion rubles for reindeer herding—over 8,000 rubles per reindeer. Sakha’s head, Aysen Nikolaev, aims to double Arctic agricultural output by 2030, but the stats aren’t encouraging.
Olenek’s coat of arms features a running reindeer; its flag shows stylized antlers. Yet, despite this symbolic nod, the decline of traditional Evenk reindeer herding in northwest Yakutia began with the district’s formation in 1935. Nomadic herders were forced into settled village life, the most successful were “dekulakizated” (dispossessed), and others were herded into collectives, their reindeer confiscated. Children were forcibly sent to boarding schools.
This policy intensified in the 1960s when the RSFSR Council of Ministers issued a decree to “settle” all indigenous peoples of the Far North within 2–3 years. Back then, about 7,000 families still roamed the tundra.
“My father recalled how, when they arrived in villages in fur clothes, teachers looked at them like savages,” says Natalia Benchik, director of Olenek’s Museum of Northern Peoples. “Those kids later grew up and left for the cities…”
After the Soviet collapse, kolkhozy (collective farms) fell apart. But most Evenks had already forgotten how to independently herd reindeer. Now, only a few—mainly descendants of herding dynasties used to this way of life—tend the herds. They work for heavily subsidized municipal enterprises that replaced the collectives. At MUP “Oleneksky,” the district’s largest, 51 herders are employed, earning 63,300 rubles monthly—slightly above the minimum wage with northern bonuses. Locals say fishing and hunting are more lucrative. Hunters once used tame reindeer but now rely on snowmobiles and ATVs.
“Reindeer need constant care; a Buran snowmobile just sits there,” an Olenek resident explains.
Declining Evenk involvement in herding affects work quality. Many herders drink, and replacements are scarce. In 2023 and 2024, over 500 reindeer died annually from wolf attacks and another 500 from “other causes”—mostly injuries, according to MUP “Oleneksky” head Artem Vinokurov. These carcasses were written off, with “some used for workers’ needs.” Paradoxically, while venison remains the dietary staple, it comes solely from hunters. The herds, providing neither meat nor significant growth, receive subsidies and feed wolves, or at least so say the papers.
Another issue is the labor shortage, creating conflicts of interest. The few skilled workers shuffle between enterprises and regulatory bodies, with some agriculture department staff even drawing salaries from MUP “Oleneksky.” “It was necessary; there are no workers,” Vinokurov says, noting one department employee worked part-time at his enterprise for nearly a year.
Many hereditary herders abandon traditional trades, opting for better-paying shift work at resource companies. These jobs avoid the long polar nights spent in tents that replaced traditional chums. These companies bring both major problems and the greatest opportunities to the district.
Industrialists
In 2018, Alrosa ceremoniously launched diamond mining at the Verkhne-Munskoye deposit in southern Oleneksky Ulus. Russia’s Finance Minister Anton Siluanov promised the president 800 local jobs and over 2 million carats mined annually. The company pledged 100 million rubles yearly to the district budget. The first gem-quality diamond was named “Oleneksky” after the district; another, milky-colored stone was named “Alexander Stepanovich Ivanov” three years later, honoring a former district head.
As of June 15, 2025, operations at Verkhne-Munskoye and Khara-Mas, another local deposit, were suspended indefinitely, deemed unprofitable with under 1 million carats mined yearly.
Oleneksky Ulus also holds oil, one of the world’s largest rare earth metal deposits, and gold reserves, but diamonds dominate extraction. A major deposit even lies along the Bolshaya Kuonamka River, where stray reindeer roam.
Diamond mining destroys the forest-tundra and disrupts reindeer migration routes. Yet, miners’ profits dwarf those of herding. From 2018 to 2024, their dividends more than doubled all other district revenues combined.
“In 2018, we raised herders’ salaries. Dividends were flowing. Diamonds delivered,” Anatoly Egorov recalls nostalgically.
But this source is drying up. Dividends fell from 1.4 billion rubles in 2018–2019 to 610 million in 2023–2024. First came the global diamond crisis during COVID, then the war. In April 2022, “Alrosa” was hit by U.S. sanctions, even sparking a wave of suicides among diamond cutters in Surat, India, reliant on Russian gems. In 2024, the EU and G7, accounting for 70% of the global diamond retail market, banned Russian diamonds, including those processed in third countries. Alrosa’s net profit plummeted 77%, slashing expenses, including social programs.
“The district budget is tight this year because of the war,” Egorov sighs. “We used to count on dividends in September. Now, there’s nothing to rely on.” A new budget priority emerged: outfitting locals sent to the war. Egorov personally delivers supplies to the front line.
On his desk, amid piles of papers, sits a transparent reindeer statuette, which he absentmindedly examines.
One unfunded item was satellite data for tracking wild reindeer via collars. This allows real-time migration monitoring from any internet-connected computer, showing locations and recent routes. For the local Lena-Olenek reindeer population, Yakut biologists provide data free. But for Taimyr reindeer, as Innokenty Okhlopkov, director of the Institute of Biological Problems of the Cryozone, notes, funding ran dry in 2024. The project, supported by Alrosa since 2016, was cut. Data could be bought commercially, and access in October 2024 might have prevented a “herd loss” disaster. After it happened, tracking for three collars was purchased until June 2025. Afterward, they’ll cut costs again, rely on luck, or, as before, consult a psychic.
"The district can’t cover all this," – Egorov sums up dryly/
The vast income disparity between industrial mining and traditional practices not only drives herders to shift work but also shifts mindsets. Some believe it’s not industrial subsidies that should support the small-numbered peoples and their traditional ways, but rather the traditional ways are maintained to secure those subsidies.
“We try to keep some herding going because miners will come eventually,” Anatoly Egorov muses. “The district is vast, rich in resources. Without reindeer, they wouldn’t even talk to us. So, we keep the herds, if only for that.”
The Evenki
“For me, being Evenk means preserving traditions first and foremost. My father was born in 1940, a nomad of the tundra. He had a different worldview. But me, I’m a settled person. A fashion designer by training, a creative person. Throw me into the tundra—would I survive? But to be an Evenk, I suppose you still need to be a nomad. To herd reindeer,” says Natalia Benchik, a tall, middle-aged woman with a striking, voluminous hairstyle. She chairs the district’s association of Indigenous minority peoples and directs the Olenek Museum of Northern Peoples. At the museum’s entrance, quotes from notable visitors greet guests. For instance, Anatoly Chubais visited in 2001, inspected the diesel power station, and declared, “The base needs to be demolished, not patched.” That’s his legacy in the village.
“When Soviet regime arrived, teachers came first,” Natalia recounts. “They demanded that children speak Yakut or Russian. Using Evenk could get you punished. In the end, we lost our language.”
This story is common among Indigenous minority peoples of the North, from Uralic Khanty to Kamchatka’s Itelmens. Though Evenk assimilation began in tsarist times, over half still spoke their language into the 1980s. The decline then sharpened. By 2010, only 4,600 of Russia’s 38,000 Evenks—mostly elders—spoke Evenk. Now, most speakers live in China, where over 35,000 Evenks were recorded in 2020. In Oleneksky Ulus, Yakut has completely displaced Evenk.
“In first grade, there were 18 of us,” Natalia recalls. “When the teacher asked our nationalities, only five were Evenk. The rest were listed as Yakut because back then, Evenks were seen as destitute. Being Yakut was prestigious.”
The Evenk population in Yakutia hit an all time low of just over 9,000 in 1970, as registered in a census. It later grew again due to better living conditions and accounting, accelerating after the early 2000s laws which suppported small-numbered northern peoples. Being Evenk became more advantageous than Yakut, which was immediately reflected by census data: by 2020, their numbers reached 24,300. Yet, the language didn’t revive. Now, Yakut is being overtaken by Russian in the district. Plays and holidays still use Yakut, but not for long.
“Schoolkids only speak Russian,” Natalia notes. The main reason, she believes, is “rapid adaptation to the modern world” with gadgets, phones, and the internet, where Russian dominates content. Changing lifestyles also play a role. Natalia recalls forcing her four-year-old son to eat beef and borscht during a trip to Neryungri—he wanted only venison. Now, he’s immersed in Russian culture:
“He doesn’t understand the Yakut language. He thinks and speaks in Russian, even wondering why he looks different. He assumes that if he’s Russian-speaking, he’s Russian.”
In the museum’s far room, a diorama titled “Before the Battle at Lake Ilmen” displays a burned German plane and thirty identical figures in white camouflage, resembling Asians. A caption notes over 200 Yakuts died in those battles. Few Olenek Evenks were among them—small-numbered herders were “spared conscription.” According to a display, six district natives fought in the Great Patriotic War.
In contrast, locals say over 30 residents have gone to fight in Ukraine, about ten mobilized, including one indigenous community leader. Though small-numbered peoples engaged in traditional activities are entitled to civilian service alternatives, the entitlement wasn’t taken into account in practice. Others signed contracts willingly, including several skilled herders. An exhibit labeled “We Will Win! As We Always Did!” shows portraits of seven fallen.
“They said war knows no nationality,” Natalia explains. “Our men go, die, and return in zinc coffins.”
The deceased are buried with solemn rallies and traditional rituals. The latest funeral was June 7. Relatives quietly lamented: custom requires slaughtering a reindeer at the grave for the deceased to ride in the afterlife—but where to get one when the herder died far from the herd?
Unprofitable Business
“When I was in school, we had herding lessons. Every yard had tethered reindeer. Now kids see them once a year at festivals,” says Anatoly Egorov, thoughtfully turning the reindeer statuette in his hands. “If we don’t teach them young, who’ll do it? The elders will die out. There’ll be no herders. Everyone will leave for cities.”
He lists idea after idea: with funding, drones could monitor herds, lightweight Chinese nets could corral them when wild reindeer appear, a forest-friendly breed could be introduced, or livestock insurance implemented. Yet, he concludes ruefully:
“Herding’s unprofitable. Completely unprofitable. You pour money into a bottomless bucket. Enthusiasm only goes so far. I want more reindeer with all my heart. I’ve given years to this, but at 56, I’ve made peace with it.”
Anatoly sighs; the confession weighs heavily.
“I see one way out. If wild reindeer disappear or hunting them is banned, people will lack food. They’ll keep herds for meat.”
This view is common in the republic, but is it well-grounded? Pavel Kochkarev, director of the Central Siberian Reserve, recalls complaints in Allaikhovsky Ulus about wild Yana-Indigirka reindeer hindering herding. That population dropped from 125,000 to 2,000, yet herding didn’t recover. The Taimyr wild reindeer population, troubling Evenks, fell from about a million in the 1990s to 138,000 by 2024, per Kochkarev. Ecologists fear it may soon fail to recover losses. Poaching is partly to blame—Yakutia’s “West” ranger squad fights it but struggles since WWF, their backer, was labeled undesirable and left Russia in 2023. Climate change, another factor, shifts Taimyr migration routes eastward, leading them into Olenek’s forest-tundra, where they mix with domestic herds. Ironically, the herders’ struggles and the mass deaths of disruptive “wild ones” share the same root cause.
Uncle Ivanych
During the reindeer roundups of the mid-2010s, Anatoly Egorov tossed smoke bombs from a helicopter to scare off wild reindeer and personally conducted aerial surveys. In late October 2015, his flight over the tundra in a tiny “Fledgling-2” plane, meant for training young pilots and parachutists, ended in a catastrophe. Egorov escaped with minor injuries, but the pilot, Sergei Rogozin, suffered broken ribs and a shattered hip. He asked Anatoly to splint his injured leg. Knowing it was impossible, Anatoly tore off a couple of metal pieces from the wreckage and pretended to tie them on to calm the pilot.
“We crashed at one in the afternoon. He lay there saying, ‘A helicopter will come for us at seven.’ He was friends with the EMERCOM guys and knew their routines. They called him ‘Uncle Ivanych.’”
But no helicopter arrived at eight or nine. Resigned, Ivanych said, “That’s it, I’m done,” and advised Anatoly to take his pants and jacket after he died to survive the cold until rescuers arrived.
“We lay close, sharing warmth. Then I dozed off for a couple of seconds, it seemed. I woke up—he wasn’t breathing. I didn’t want to turn to him. I just lay there, hearing a sound: a sigh, an exhale. And that was it.”
Ivanych died at 11 p.m. Rescuers arrived the next day after noon.
“Later, his sister told me that 40 minutes after the crash, she got a call from America. Through a translator, they said they’d received an SOS signal. She contacted Ivanych’s pilot buddy, but it was evening, and they wouldn’t let him into the airport. The republic’s EMERCOM chief said, ‘Be realistic. They’re gone. We’ll pick up the bodies when the weather clears.’ Morning came, they got the green light, and they flew to us.”
Anatoly shakes his head, as if trying to shake off the heavy memories, and mutters a quiet curse.
“The man lay there from noon to night, not one bad word. If I were him, I’d have cursed everyone—those rescuers, the reindeer… But he endured quietly and died. That’s when I realized it’s because of people like him that we won the war in 1945.”
Egorov carefully places the statuette back on the table. He sighs:
“Sometimes, when you’re alone, you sit, smoke a cigarette, and think: what was it all for? In my precious time, I didn’t spend it with my kids or grandkids, I worked…”
None of Anatoly’s three children became herders. His son followed in his footsteps, becoming an administrator. His grandkids have no interest: “Why would they? They’re city kids.”
Yet, after a pause, Egorov adds:
“When I retire, I might go work as a herder. Maybe then…”
Negut
In 2024, when wild reindeer lured domestic ones away, another, quieter exodus to the forest-tundra occurred. Alexei Sergeev, a former official now retired, moved from Kharyalakh village to his own plot of land about a hundred kilometers away to hunt, fish, and herd reindeer. He named his homestead “Negut,” an Evenk word meaning both “ahead” and “before”. At his own expense, Alexei bought 20 reindeer. Such a small number can’t turn a profit, but money isn’t his goal. This sturdy 60-year-old, whose dark hair is barely touched by gray, wants to settle in, get accustomed, and slowly grow his herd. Villagers watch his venture with curiosity—will it work? For now, the outcome is unclear, and no one’s rushing to join him.
“I didn’t herd reindeer as a kid, though all my ancestors were herders,” Sergeev says. “They pushed us into settlements. It’s like a reservation, I guess. People have no incentive to leave. They’ve been cut off from the source of life they once had. I want to return to the past, to my spirits, my ancestors. I’m not chasing profit—it’s like a prayer. Just to be with reindeer until the end of my life.”
He’s undeterred by the failure of previous private herders who, after taking 150 reindeer in 2017–2018, went bankrupt in three years. Nor is he fazed by his own setbacks—he’s already lost three reindeer. Sergeev learns his ancestors’ craft on the go. Unlike municipal herders, he doesn’t migrate. His reindeer alternate between two fenced areas: while they graze in one, lichen grows in the other. Like Natalia, Alexei is certain: without reindeer, his people will vanish.
“This culture is fading. And with it, the Evenks. It’ll be someone else entirely. Sure, some spirit might remain. You can dance, sing [folk songs]. Museums will say: there were such people. If we don’t teach it now, if we don’t revive it…”
His only regret is starting too late. There’s so much to do—build a growing herd, establish a base, and most importantly, “tell some kid about it. Maybe it’ll stick in their head, and they’ll take it up instead of leaving for shift work.” After all, even now, if you ask first-graders what they want to be, most will say: a reindeer herder.
