Before noticing the island, I spotted the larger wooden cathedral. It floated on the horizon like a water-walking savior. And there it remained, growing bigger and bigger, the island and its holdings becoming visible around it as we drew closer. It called like a beacon until soon we were in port.

The unique thing about the Kizhi Monastery is that every bit of it is constructed of wood - the two cathedrals and the fence surrounding them. Not one nail holds the monastery together - only pine and aspen. Even the impressive onion domes are constructed of hundreds of specially cut aspen shingles.

The original church, the larger of the two, is the Church of the Resurrection. It is also known as the summer church. The winter church, or the Church of the Trinity, stands just beside it. Services are held inside, although most visitors are tourists who are there to see the architecture and the handsome icons inside.

Outside the walls of the monastery sits a wonderland of other churches, houses, shops, fences and even a windmill. They make up an outdoor museum of traditional wooden construction. A man stood outside a shop in traditional Russian clothes and whittled figurines and toys to sell as souvenirs. One of the churches had an operating belfry, and a bell master performed every half-hour, sounding throughout the island.

After the belfry's concert, we spent some time walking peacefully around the serene island of Kizhi. The song "Winter Wonderland" played in my head, only the words were different.

Belfry's ring, are you listening?
Souvenirs, men are whittling.
Our stress will release
On this island of peace,
Walking in a wooden wonderland.

A Little Respect

Although Valaam held as many religious wonders as the other two islands - ancient cathedrals, monasteries and souvenirs galore - we found the most joy on this island in the Scandinavian splendor of its nature. Flat, smooth rocks made up the shores, and rocky cliffs were topped off by pine trees, roots exposed along the rocky edges.

That's not to belittle the man-made and God-inspired sights. In one ancient brick church, inside a brick fortress at the top of a hill, we listened to monks sing angelically. Then, as though to break the illusion of being in the past, they peddled CDs of their music. Another more modern wooden church displayed impressive new icons and sold blessed Russian Orthodox crosses and the crests of saints.

After visiting some of the churches and monasteries, we hiked the forest and the open plains. At a dusty crossroad, we met a Swedish couple from another cruise ship. "Good day," they greeted us. "The water's lovely, you should take a dip." They pointed to the lake behind the trees, hidden from the path. We went, and found locals and visitors alike swimming.

After hiking through more forest, we emerged at the far shore of the island where we could see an out-of-the-way monastery fenced off on another small island. We walked the monk-made bridge of wood to the smaller island, opened the wooden door and entered the quiet grounds. No tourists here. This was not an attraction – which made it an attraction to us. We spied a few monks picking berries while another swam in the river.

Feeling a bit intrusive, we turned and retreated. We enjoyed the view from the smooth-stoned shore at the other side of the bridge. As we did, we saw a monk come from the door, walk to our end of the bridge, and lean against the ledge, enjoying the view himself. It was as though he was protecting the property of his brothers from us. I nodded politely at him; he gave a sour look before returning his glance to the water and trees.

The Russian Orthodox monk was dressed in a thin black summer robe, black pants underneath and black sneakers. A silver cross hung from a silver chain around his neck. His hair was as black as his long, full beard, both streaked with silver.

Almost as though he was expecting them, the monk hardened his look as two new visitors arrived: a teenage couple. The man wore tight, revealing swim pants. His shapely counterpart wore an even more revealing two-piece. They were dressed to swim but they began to walk the bridge.

The monk stood tall across the width of the bridge, his legs spread to block their passage. He held out his hand to stop them. The Russian conversation that followed was lively; fortunately my wife was there to translate it for me.

"You shall not pass," the monk said.

"We just want to see…"

"We are closed to the public. Show some respect to my brothers."

Obviously annoyed, the couple turned. But they didn't walk away. They basked in the sun on the stony shore, just beyond the bridge, near us. They pretended to be enjoying the view but they seemed to enjoy disturbing the monk more.

It was all the monk could do to resist the temptation of looking at the woman's fine body. In fact, he didn't resist, though it troubled him. "For the love of God, dress yourselves! Wear some clothes." the monk yelled at them.

"We are dressed – dressed for summer," the girl called back.

"Show some respect for men of God! Don't come around here like that."

The monk continued to lean against the wooden ledge of the bridge's railing. Thinking. Trying not to look at the scantily clad couple. Refusing to look at us. Then, another family came along. It was the Swedish family from earlier.

"Is the monastery open?" the woman asked in Russian.

"Nyet," replied the monk.

"Oh. Could you tell us how to get back to…"

"What, you couldn't afford a map?" The monk looked at their collection of clay figurines, mud bells, picture books and cups. He looked at their opened bottles of beer.

"I'm sorry," the Swedish man said, "but we're not from here. We're on an excursion."

"Of course," replied the monk. He complained about the difficulty of living a secluded life with all these tourists running about, trespassing and littering. "I don't know who is worse, the naked locals or the tourists."

All he wanted was a little respect, which was perfectly understandable. But, as I saw it, this man of God could have been more forgiving. More tolerant. More, dare I say, Christ-like.

Later that evening, as we approached a monastery along the path more traveled, we saw the same monk carrying a cloth bag. He smiled at a young mother and her five-year-old daughter and the three stopped for a cheerful exchange. He pulled some freshly-picked berries from his bag, gave them to the little girl and told her to share them with her mother. He seemed such a kind man that it was hard to believe he was the same monk we had seen earlier.

Perhaps he was forgiving, tolerant and Christ-like. But in less than half an hour he was drawn out of his sanctuary by trespassers, attacked by two naked local teens, and then questioned by another pair of foreigners rich enough to buy souvenirs but too poor to afford a map. When that happens day after day, day in and day out, it's bound to cultivate moments of weakness. He deserved the respect he sought.

The Price of Popularity

But this isn't Valaam's problem, nor is it Russia's problem. It can be seen all around the world. As billboards of camels and Marlboro men go up alongside golden arches, they cover the genuine beauty of the natural landscape behind. Places become less unique and more uniform. Fortunately, we didn't see a McDonald's during the cruise. But next time, we may.

"Show some respect for our culture," I could hear the monk saying. But in time, I'm sure he would come around and order a Big Mac and milkshake, if only out of curiosity… or convenience.