Such is Lake Baikal in summer, an enchanting body of water, whose deep blue expanse merges with the skyline along the horizon.

The oldest lake in the world, its meltwater shimmers with a clarity that invites not only a dip but even a cheeky sip.

In fact, Baikal Vodka boasts of containing the “alive water”, drawn from 500 metres beneath the surface of the world’s deepest lake, which plunges to a staggering depth of 1,637 metres.

What about drinking the water directly? Most guidebooks suggest readers exercise caution, but Russians advise pairing it with a shot of liquor. Down the concoction in a gulp, and you’re ready to plunge into the freezing lake.

Despite the weather being temperate enough to walk around in swimsuits, the 20-degree cold is still chilly enough to make someone from the tropics shiver.

Yet the deep serenity of this lake, unlike anything I had experienced before, kept me wading in Baikal longer than I planned.

Part of the reason for my overstay was the mesmerising Primorsky Range across the shore, whose breathtaking lithic creases juxtapose charmingly with the lake’s composure.

Shaman’s Rock

When the sun began to descend and tincture the sky with faint orange, I made my way to Shaman’s Rock, or Cape Burkhan.

Considered by the indigenous Buryat people as one of the five global poles of shamanic energy, its entrance is guarded by 13 serges, or wooden ritual poles, gaily adorned with colourful ribbons.

Each winding sash is imbued with the prayers of devotees, or tourists eager to enjoy a cultural experience. It is believed that each pole represents one Lord of Baikal.

Passing the serges, I traced the foot trails winding down the slope, before crossing a narrow isthmus to reach the sacred site.

To be perfectly honest, Shaman’s Rock – a marble twin-peak at a crescent inlet – is not spectacular in size, but that does not make the weather-sculpted mass any less remarkable.

At dusk, the lichen covering the serrated rock turns rusty red, giving it a rustic charm. At the same time, the soothing sound of waves lapping against the pebbles lends an air of ineffable tranquillity.

If not for the darkening surroundings silhouetted by the setting sun, I could have sworn time itself had stopped in this isolated spot.

But my perception of Lake Baikal’s sempiternity is not wholly delusional, if one considers the rather unfathomable natural forces that have moulded Lake Baikal.

Estimated to be 25 to 30 million years old, the ancient rift lake was created by the continental drifts of the Eurasian Plate and the Amur Plate. The earth’s crust holding it is still slowly widening by 4mm each year.

In the grander scheme of things, human existence is merely a blip in Baikal’s story, and it will likely outlive the Anthropocene or the human age.

Perhaps this ancient history is what gives Baikal its much sought-after spiritual atmosphere, as humans’ much-vaunted ability to manipulate our surroundings seems like child’s play when compared to the natural forces that incised Baikal onto the earth’s surface.

Did I mention this? Tourists are even advised to bear only good thoughts and discard all bad wishes when stepping foot on this sacred site – it appears that Baikal is privy to our inner thoughts and will readily manifest them into reality.

Flirting with these thoughts, I hiked back up the slope and found my way back to the hostel. Yet before I could depart from Baikal, I heard a tourist yelling, “Damn, the moon!”

Looking ahead, a mythical scene came into view: a supermoon against a steel-blue sky, framed between two serges.

I sensed Baikal reminding me it was far too soon to think I had figured it all out.