In Astafiev's horse with a pink mane. Horse with a pink mane

In this article we will talk about the story “The Horse with the Pink Mane.” Astafiev Viktor Petrovich, the author of the work, has long been included in the school curriculum. The writer often turned to the village theme. The one we are considering is one of these stories. In the article we will take a closer look at the images of the main characters of the work and its summary.

Structure and brief description of the story

The story is narrated in the first person. Using colloquial speech, Astafiev reproduces the unique Siberian dialect. “The Horse with a Pink Mane,” whose main characters are distinguished by their original speech, full of dialectisms, is also rich in figurative descriptions of nature: the habits of animals and birds, rustles and sounds of the forest, river landscapes.

Now let's talk about the structure of the work:

The beginning - the narrator with other children goes to the forest to pick up strawberries.
Climax - the main character steals rolls and deceives his grandmother.
Denouement - the narrator is forgiven and rewarded with a carrot “horse”.

Astafiev, “A Horse with a Pink Mane”: a summary

The grandmother sends the narrator with the neighboring children to the ridge to buy strawberries. If the hero collects a hollow tuesk, then she will buy him a reward - “carrot with a horse.” This gingerbread, made in the shape of a horse with a tail, mane and hooves in pink icing, was the cherished dream of all village boys and promised them honor and respect.

The narrator goes for strawberries with the children of Levontius, their neighbor, who worked as a logger. Depicts village inhabitants of different levels of life and wealth, Astafiev (“Horse with a Pink Mane”). The main characters and his family are very different from Levontiev's. So, every 15 days, when Levontius received his salary, a real feast began in their family, where there was usually nothing. And Vasena, Levontius’s wife, ran around distributing debts. At such a time, the narrator tried to get into the neighbor's house at any cost. There he was pitied as an orphan and treated to goodies. But the grandmother did not let her grandson in, she does not want him to communicate with the Levontievskys. However, the money quickly ran out, and after a couple of days Vasena was again running around the village, already borrowing.

The Levontiev family lived poorly, they didn’t even have their own bathhouse. And the tyn, built every spring, was dismantled for kindling in the fall.

Meanwhile, the main characters went berry picking. Astafiev (“The Horse with a Pink Mane” is a very indicative work in this regard) depicts not only social differences between families, but also moral ones. When the narrator had already picked an almost full basket of strawberries, the Levontievskys started a quarrel because the younger children were eating the berries instead of picking them. A fight broke out, and all the strawberries were poured out of the bowl, and then eaten. After that, the guys went to the Fokinskaya River. And then it turned out that our hero still had the whole berry. Then Sanka, the eldest Levontiev boy, encouraged the narrator to eat it, taking it “weakly.”

Only in the evening did the narrator remember that his closet was empty. He was afraid to return home empty-handed. Then Sanka “suggested” what to do - put herbs in the bowl and sprinkle it with berries.

The deception has been revealed

So, now we can answer the question of who are the main characters of the story. V.P. Astafiev, as it is not difficult to notice, focuses attention not only on the narrator. Therefore, we can also count Sanka and grandmother among the main characters.

But let's get back to the story. The grandmother praised her grandson for the rich booty and decided not to pour too many strawberries - just take them to sell. On the street, Sanka was waiting for the narrator, who demanded payment for his silence - rolls. The narrator had to steal them from the pantry until the neighbor's boy had eaten enough. At night, his conscience did not let the hero sleep, and he decided to tell everything to his grandmother in the morning.

But the grandmother left before the main character of the story “The Horse with the Pink Mane” woke up. Vitya went fishing with Sanka. There, from the shore, they saw a boat on which a grandmother was sailing, shaking her fist at her grandson.

The narrator returned home late in the evening and went to the pantry to sleep. The next morning the grandfather returned from borrowing, who ordered to ask for forgiveness from the grandmother. Having scolded the hero, Katerina Petrovna sat him down to have breakfast. And she brought him a gingerbread, the same “horse”, the memory of which remained with the hero for many years.

The main character of the story “The Horse with a Pink Mane”

The main character of the work is Vitya. This boy lost his mother and now lives in a Siberian village with his grandparents. Despite the difficult times for the family, he was always shod, clothed, fed and well-groomed, because both his grandparents took care of him. Vitya was friends with the Levontiev children, which Katerina Petrovna did not like, since the latter were poorly educated and hooligans.

All the main characters turned out to be very expressive. Astafiev (“Horse with a Pink Mane”) depicted them with his own unique features. Therefore, the reader immediately sees how different Vitya is from the Levontiev children. Unlike them, he thinks not only about himself, he knows what responsibility and conscience are. Vitya is well aware that he is doing wrong, and this torments him. While Sanka is simply taking advantage of the situation to fill his belly.

Therefore, the incident with the gingerbread shocked the boy so much that he remembered it for the rest of his life.

Grandma's image

So, who are the other main characters in the story? V.P. Astafiev, of course, attaches great importance to the image of Katerina Petrovna, Vitya’s grandmother. She is a representative of the previous generation, very sociable and talkative, thorough and reasonable, and thrifty. When Vasena tries to give back more money than she borrowed, her grandmother reprimands her, saying that she can’t handle money like that.

Katerina Petrovna loves her grandson very much, but she raises him strictly, is often demanding, and scolds Vitya. But all this is because she is worried and worried about his fate.

Grandma is the head of the house, she always commands everything, so her remarks usually sound like orders. However, Katerina Petrovna can also be delicate, which is evident in her conversation with the strawberry buyer.

Sanka

The Levontiev children are also the main characters in the story. Astafiev (“The Horse with a Pink Mane”) singles out the eldest among them, Sanka. This is a reckless, greedy, evil and unprincipled boy. It is Sanka who forces Vitya to first eat the berry, then lie to his grandmother, and to top it off, steal rolls of bread from the house. He lives by the principle “if everything is bad for me, then it should be the same for everyone.” He does not have the same respect for elders that Vitya has.

Uncle Levontius

Little is said about Uncle Levontius; he is described only at the beginning of the work. a man, a former sailor, who retained a love of freedom and the sea. He treats Vita very kindly and feels sorry for him - “he’s an orphan.” But Levontius has one negative trait that prevents him from living well - drunkenness. There is no wealth in their family because there is no owner. Levontii lets everything take its course.

These are the main characters in the story. Astafiev (“The Horse with a Pink Mane” is an autobiographical story) put a lot into the characters and into the story from his childhood. This is probably why all the characters turned out to be so alive and original.

1924–2001

This book contains the story “Vasyutkino Lake”. His fate is curious. In the city of Igarka, Ignatiy Dmitrievich Rozhdestvensky, a later famous Siberian poet, once taught Russian language and literature. He taught, as I now understand, his subjects well, he forced us to “use our brains” and not lick expositions from textbooks, but write essays on free topics. This is how he once suggested that we, fifth graders, write about how the summer went. And in the summer I got lost in the taiga, spent many days alone, and I wrote about it all. My essay was published in a handwritten school magazine called “Alive.” Many years later I remembered it and tried to remember it. And so it turned out “Vasyutkino Lake” - my first story for children.

The stories included in this book were written at different times. Almost all of them are about my homeland - Siberia, about my distant rural childhood, which, despite the difficult time and difficulties associated with the early death of my mother, was still an amazingly bright and happy time for me.

Vasyutkino Lake

You won't find this lake on the map. It's small. Small, but memorable for Vasyutka. Still would! It's no small honor for a thirteen-year-old boy to have a lake named after him! Even though it is not big, not like, say, Baikal, Vasyutka himself found it and showed it to people. Yes, yes, don’t be surprised and don’t think that all the lakes are already known and that each has its own name. There are many, many more nameless lakes and rivers in our country, because our Motherland is great, and no matter how much you wander around it, you will always find something new and interesting.

The fishermen from the brigade of Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin - Vasyutka’s father - were completely depressed. Frequent autumn rains swollen the river, the water in it rose, and the fish began to be difficult to catch: they went deeper.

Cold frost and dark waves on the river made me sad. I didn’t even want to go outside, let alone swim out to the river. The fishermen fell asleep, became tired from idleness, and even stopped joking. But then a warm wind blew from the south and seemed to smooth out people’s faces. Boats with elastic sails glided along the river. Below and below the Yenisei the brigade descended. But the catches were still small.

“We don’t have any luck today,” grumbled Vasyutkin’s grandfather Afanasy. - Father Yenisei has become impoverished. Previously, we lived as God commanded, and the fish moved in clouds. And now the steamships and motorboats have scared away all the living creatures. The time will come - the ruffs and minnows will disappear, and they will only read about omul, sterlet and sturgeon in books.

Arguing with grandfather is useless, that’s why no one contacted him.

The fishermen went far to the lower reaches of the Yenisei and finally stopped.

The boats were pulled ashore, the luggage was taken to a hut built several years ago by a scientific expedition.

Grigory Afanasyevich, in high rubber boots with turned-down tops and a gray raincoat, walked along the shore and gave orders.

Vasyutka was always a little timid in front of his big, taciturn father, although he never offended him.

- Sabbath, guys! - said Grigory Afanasyevich when the unloading was completed. “We won’t wander around anymore.” So, to no avail, you can walk to the Kara Sea.

He walked around the hut, for some reason touched the corners with his hand and climbed into the attic, straightened the bark sheets that had slid to the side on the roof. Going down the decrepit stairs, he carefully shook off his pants, blew his nose and explained to the fishermen that the hut was suitable, that they could calmly wait for the autumn fishing season in it, and in the meantime they could fish by ferry and siege. Boats, seines, floating nets and all other gear must be properly prepared for the big move of fish.

Monotonous days dragged on. Fishermen repaired seines, caulked boats, made anchors, knitted, and pitched.

Once a day they checked the lines and paired nets - ferries, which were placed far from the shore.

The fish that fell into these traps were valuable: sturgeon, sterlet, taimen, and often burbot, or, as it was jokingly called in Siberia, settler. But this is calm fishing. There is no excitement, daring and that good, hard-working fun that bursts out of the men when they pull out several centners of fish in a half-kilometer net for one ton.

Vasyutka began to live a very boring life. There is no one to play with - no friends, nowhere to go. There was one consolation: the school year would begin soon and his mother and father would send him to the village. Uncle Kolyada, the foreman of the fish collection boat, has already brought new textbooks from the city. During the day, Vasyutka will look into them out of boredom.

In the evenings the hut became crowded and noisy. The fishermen had dinner, smoked, cracked nuts, and told tales. By nightfall there was a thick layer of nutshells on the floor. It crackled underfoot like autumn ice on puddles.

Vasyutka supplied the fishermen with nuts. He has already chopped all the nearby cedars. Every day we had to climb further and further into the forest. But this work was not a burden. The boy liked to wander. He walks through the forest alone, hums, and sometimes fires a gun.

Vasyutka woke up late. There is only one mother in the hut. Grandfather Afanasy went somewhere. Vasyutka ate, leafed through his textbooks, tore off a piece of the calendar and happily noted that there were only ten days left until the first of September.

The mother said displeasedly:

“You have to prepare for school, but you disappear in the forest.”

-What are you doing, mom? Should someone get the nuts? Must. After all, fishermen want to click in the evening.

- “Hunt, hunt”! They need nuts, so let them go on their own. We got used to pushing the boy around and littering in the hut.

The mother grumbles out of habit because she has no one else to grumble at.

When Vasyutka, with a gun on his shoulder and a cartridge belt on his belt, looking like a stocky little man, came out of the hut, his mother, as usual, sternly reminded:

“Don’t stray too far from your plans, you’ll perish.” Did you take any bread with you?

- Why do I need him? I bring it back every time.

- Do not speak! Here's the edge. She won't crush you. It has been this way since time immemorial; it is still too early to change the taiga laws.

You can't argue with your mother here. This is the old order: you go into the forest - take food, take matches.

Vasyutka obediently put the edge into the bag and hurried to disappear from his mother’s eyes, otherwise he would find fault with something else.

Whistling merrily, he walked through the taiga, followed the marks on the trees and thought that, probably, every taiga road begins with a rough road. A man will make a notch on one tree, move away a little, hit it again with an ax, then another. Other people will follow this person; They will knock the moss off the fallen trees with their heels, trample down the grass and berry patches, make footprints in the mud - and you will get a path. The forest paths are narrow and winding, like the wrinkles on grandfather Afanasy’s forehead. Only some paths become overgrown with time, and the wrinkles on the face are unlikely to heal.

Vasyutka developed a penchant for lengthy reasoning, like any taiga dweller. He would have thought for a long time about the road and about all sorts of taiga differences, if not for the creaking quacking somewhere above his head.

“Kra-kra-kra!..” came from above, as if they were cutting a strong branch with a dull saw.

Vasyutka raised his head. At the very top of an old disheveled spruce I saw a nutcracker. The bird held a cedar cone in its claws and screamed at the top of its lungs. Her friends responded to her in the same vociferous manner. Vasyutka did not like these impudent birds. He took the gun off his shoulder, took aim and clicked his tongue as if he had pulled the trigger. He didn't shoot. He had had his ears torn out more than once for wasted cartridges. The fear of the precious “supply” (as Siberian hunters call gunpowder and shot) is firmly drilled into Siberians from birth.

- “Kra-kra!” - Vasyutka mimicked the nutcracker and threw a stick at it.

The guy was annoyed that he couldn’t kill the bird, even though he had a gun in his hands. The nutcracker stopped screaming, leisurely plucked itself, raised its head, and its creaky “kra!” rushed through the forest again.

- Ugh, damned witch! – Vasyutka swore and walked away.

Feet walked softly on the moss. There were cones scattered here and there, spoiled by nutcrackers. They resembled lumps of honeycombs. In some of the holes of the cones, nuts stuck out like bees. But there is no use in trying them. The nutcracker has an amazingly sensitive beak: the bird does not even remove empty nuts from the nest. Vasyutka picked up one cone, examined it from all sides and shook his head:

- Oh, what a dirty trick you are!

Vasyutka scolded like that for the sake of respectability. He knew that the nutcracker is a useful bird: it spreads cedar seeds throughout the taiga.

Finally Vasyutka took a fancy to a tree and climbed it. With a trained eye, he determined: there, in the thick pine needles, were hidden entire broods of resinous cones. He began to kick the spreading branches of the cedar with his feet. The cones just started falling down.

Vasyutka climbed down from the tree and collected them in a bag. Then he looked around the surrounding forest and fell in love with another cedar.

“I’ll cover this one too,” he said. “It will probably be a little hard, but that’s okay, I’ll tell you.”

Suddenly something clapped loudly in front of Vasyutka. He shuddered in surprise and immediately saw a large black bird rising from the ground. "Capercaillie!" – Vasyutka guessed, and his heart sank. He shot ducks, waders, and partridges, but he had never shot a wood grouse.

The capercaillie flew across a mossy clearing, swerved between the trees and sat down on a dead tree. Try sneaking up!

The boy stood motionless and did not take his eyes off the huge bird. Suddenly he remembered that wood grouse are often taken with a dog. Hunters said that a capercaillie, sitting on a tree, looks down with curiosity at the barking dog, and sometimes teases it. Meanwhile, the hunter quietly approaches from the rear and shoots.

Vasyutka, as luck would have it, did not invite Druzhka with him. Cursing himself in a whisper for his mistake, Vasyutka fell on all fours, barked, imitating a dog, and began to carefully move forward. His voice broke from excitement. The capercaillie froze, watching this interesting picture with curiosity. The boy scratched his face and tore his padded jacket, but did not notice anything. Before him in reality is a wood grouse!

... It's time! Vasyutka quickly got down on one knee and tried to land the worried bird on the fly. Finally, the trembling in my hands subsided, the fly stopped dancing, its tip touched the capercaillie... Bang! - and the black bird, flapping its wings, fell down. Without touching the ground, she straightened up and flew into the depths of the forest.

“Wounded!” – Vasyutka perked up and rushed after the wounded wood grouse.

Only now did he realize what the matter was and began to mercilessly reproach himself:

– He banged it with small shot. Why is he petty? He's almost like Druzhka!..

The bird left on short flights. They became shorter and shorter. The capercaillie was weakening. Now he, unable to lift his heavy body, ran.

“Now that’s it – I’ll catch up!” – Vasyutka decided confidently and started running harder. It was very close to the bird.

Quickly throwing the bag off his shoulder, Vasyutka raised his gun and fired. In a few leaps I found myself near the wood grouse and fell on my stomach.

- Stop, darling, stop! – Vasyutka muttered joyfully. – You won’t leave now! Look, he's so quick! Brother, I also run – be healthy!

Vasyutka stroked the capercaillie with a satisfied smile, admiring the black feathers with a bluish tint. Then he weighed it in his hand. “It will be five kilograms, or even half a pound,” he estimated and put the bird in the bag. “I’ll run, otherwise my mother will hit me on the back of the neck.”

Thinking about his luck, Vasyutka, happy, walked through the forest, whistling, singing, whatever came to mind.

Suddenly he realized: where are the lines? It's time for them to be.

He looked around. The trees were no different from those on which the notches were made. The forest stood motionless and quiet in its sad reverie, just as sparse, half-naked, entirely coniferous. Only here and there were frail birch trees with sparse yellow leaves visible. Yes, the forest was the same. And yet there was something alien about him...

Vasyutka turned sharply back. He walked quickly, carefully looking at each tree, but there were no familiar notches.

- Ffu-you, damn it! Where are the places? – Vasyutka’s heart sank, perspiration appeared on his forehead. - All this capercaillie! “I rushed like crazy, now think about where to go,” Vasyutka spoke out loud to drive away the approaching fear. - It’s okay, now I’ll think about it and find the way. Soooo... The almost bare side of the spruce means that direction is north, and where there are more branches - south. Soooo...

After that, Vasyutka tried to remember on which side of the trees the old notches were made and on which side the new ones were made. But he didn’t notice this. Stitch and stitch.

- Oh, stupid!

Fear began to weigh even more heavily. The boy spoke out loud again:

- Okay, don't be shy. Let's find a hut. We have to go one way. We must go south. The Yenisei makes a turn at the hut, you can’t pass by it. Well, everything is fine, but you, weirdo, were afraid! – Vasyutka laughed and cheerfully commanded himself: “Arsh step!” Hey, two!

But the vigor did not last long. There were never any problems. At times the boy thought he could clearly see them on the dark trunk. With a sinking heart, he ran to the tree to feel with his hand a notch with droplets of resin, but instead he discovered a rough fold of bark. Vasyutka had already changed direction several times, poured pine cones out of the bag and walked, walked...

The forest became completely quiet. Vasyutka stopped and stood listening for a long time. Knock-knock-knock, knock-knock-knock... - the heart beat. Then Vasyutka’s hearing, strained to the limit, caught some strange sound. There was a buzzing sound somewhere.

So it froze and a second later it came again, like the hum of a distant plane. Vasyutka bent down and saw the rotted carcass of a bird at his feet. An experienced hunter - a spider stretched a web over a dead bird. The spider is no longer there - it must have gone away to spend the winter in some hollow, and abandoned the trap. A well-fed, large spitting fly got into it and beats, beats, buzzes with weakening wings.

Something began to bother Vasyutka at the sight of a helpless fly stuck in a snare. And then it hit him: he was lost!

This discovery was so simple and stunning that Vasyutka did not immediately come to his senses.

He had heard many times from hunters scary stories about how people wander in the forest and sometimes die, but this was not how he imagined it at all. It all worked out very simply. Vasyutka did not yet know that terrible things in life often begin very simply.

The stupor lasted until Vasyutka heard some mysterious rustling in the depths of the darkened forest. He screamed and started running. How many times he stumbled, fell, got up and ran again, Vasyutka did not know.

Finally, he jumped into a windfall and began to crash through the dry, thorny branches. Then he fell from the fallen trees face down into the damp moss and froze. Despair overwhelmed him, and he immediately lost his strength. “Come what may,” he thought detachedly.

Night flew into the forest silently, like an owl. And with it comes the cold. Vasyutka felt his sweat-soaked clothes getting cold.

“Taiga, our nurse, doesn’t like flimsy people!” – he remembered the words of his father and grandfather. And he began to remember everything that he had been taught, that he knew from the stories of fishermen and hunters.

First things first, you need to light a fire. It's good that I brought matches from home. Matches came in handy.

Vasyutka broke off the lower dry branches of the tree, groped for a bunch of dry bearded moss, chopped up the twigs into small pieces, put everything in a pile and set it on fire. The light, swaying, crawled uncertainly along the branches. The moss flared up and everything around became brighter. Vasyutka threw more branches. Shadows scurried between the trees, the darkness receded further. Itching monotonously, several mosquitoes flew onto the fire - it’s more fun with them.

My grandmother sent me to the ridge to buy strawberries along with the neighbor kids. She promised: if I get a full tuesk, she will sell my berries along with hers and buy me a “horse gingerbread”. A gingerbread in the shape of a horse with a mane, tail and hooves covered in pink icing ensured the honor and respect of the boys of the entire village and was their cherished dream.

I went to Uval together with the children of our neighbor Levontius, who worked in logging. About once every fifteen days, “Levonty received money, and then in the neighboring house, where there were only children and nothing else, a feast began,” and Levonty’s wife ran around the village and paid off debts. On such days, I made my way to my neighbors by all means. Grandma wouldn't let me in. “There’s no point in eating these proletarians,” she said. At Levontius’s place I was willingly received and pitied as an orphan. The money the neighbor earned ran out quickly, and Vasyon’s aunt again ran around the village, borrowing money.

The Levontiev family lived poorly. There was no housekeeping around their hut; they even washed with their neighbors. Every spring they surrounded the house with a miserable tine, and every autumn it was used for kindling. To his grandmother’s reproaches, Levontii, a former sailor, replied that he “loves the settlement.”

With the Levontiev “eagles” I went to the ridge to earn money for a horse with a pink mane. I had already picked several glasses of strawberries when the Levontiev guys started a fight - the eldest noticed that the others were picking berries not in dishes, but in their mouths. As a result, all the prey was scattered and eaten, and the guys decided to go down to the Fokinskaya River. It was then that they noticed that I still had strawberries. Levontiev’s Sanka “weakly” encouraged me to eat it, after which I, along with the others, went to the river.

I only remembered that my dishes were empty in the evening. It was shameful and scary to return home with an empty suit, “my grandmother, Katerina Petrovna, is not Vasyon’s aunt, you can’t get rid of her with lies, tears and various excuses.” Sanka taught me: push herbs into the bowl and scatter a handful of berries on top. This is the “deception” I brought home.

My grandmother praised me for a long time, but didn’t bother pouring the berries in - she decided to take them straight to the city to sell. On the street, I told Sanka everything, and he demanded kalach from me - as payment for silence. I didn’t get away with just one roll, I carried it around until Sanka was full. I didn’t sleep at night, I was tormented - I deceived my grandmother and stole the rolls. Finally, I decided to get up in the morning and confess everything.

When I woke up, I discovered that I had overslept - my grandmother had already left for the city. I regretted that my grandfather’s farm was so far from the village. Grandfather’s place is good, it’s quiet, and he wouldn’t hurt me. Having nothing better to do, I went fishing with Sanka. After a while I saw a large boat coming out from behind the cape. My grandmother was sitting in it and shaking her fist at me.

I returned home only in the evening and immediately ducked into the closet, where a temporary “bed of rugs and an old saddle” was “set up.” Curled up in a ball, I felt sorry for myself and remembered my mother. Like her grandmother, she went to the city to sell berries. One day the overloaded boat capsized and my mother drowned. “She was pulled under the rafting boom,” where she got caught in the scythe. I remembered how my grandmother suffered until the river let my mother go.

When I woke up in the morning, I discovered that my grandfather had returned from the farm. He came to me and told me to ask my grandmother for forgiveness. Having shamed and denounced me enough, my grandmother sat me down to breakfast, and after that she told everyone “what the little one did to her.”

But my grandmother still brought me a horse. Many years have passed since then, “my grandfather is no longer alive, my grandmother is no longer alive, and my life is coming to an end, but I still cannot forget my grandmother’s gingerbread - that marvelous horse with a pink mane.”

We hope you liked the summary of the story The Horse with the Pink Mane. We will be glad if you read this story in its entirety.

The book includes stories about the writer’s homeland - Siberia, about his childhood - this amazingly bright and beautiful time.

For middle school age.

Viktor Petrovich Astafiev
Horse with a pink mane
Stories

1924–2001

In this book there is a story "Vasyutkino Lake". His fate is curious. In the city of Igarka, Ignatiy Dmitrievich Rozhdestvensky, a later famous Siberian poet, once taught Russian language and literature. He taught, as I now understand, his subjects well, he forced us to “use our brains” and not lick expositions from textbooks, but write essays on free topics. This is how he once suggested that we, fifth graders, write about how the summer went. And in the summer I got lost in the taiga, spent many days alone, and I wrote about it all. My essay was published in a handwritten school magazine called “Alive.” Many years later I remembered it and tried to remember it. And so it turned out “Vasyutkino Lake” - my first story for children.

Vasyutkino Lake