A Horse Trek in Mongolia 2013: Part Four

CAMP THREE – CHEBAN HILL:  June 15

Some places have magic; Cheban Hill transports me centuries back in time.  From a high ridge I look out on a valley where life has carried on virtually unchanged for hundreds of  years.  Widely spaced gers, gleaming white in the late afternoon sun, testify to human inhabitants.  Beside the winding stream directly below, a small band of mares and foals grazes peacefully, gradually infiltrated by a large herd of sheep and goats.  The horses barely notice. Whatever motivates the herd keeps it moving through the horses to a bend in the stream, where some individuals pause to drink.  Then the mobile carpet of wool and cashmere trends back through the horses and heads across the valley.

Lifeblood of the nomads: sheep, goats, horses and camels. Click on photo for a better view.

Farther away, in all directions I can see other herds, all following some inscrutable directive to flow this way and that.  A lone rider canters the length of the valley, followed by a dog.  Shadows lengthen on the larches that spill down the hillside across from me.  The water in the stream reflects the deepening blue of the sky.

Evening in the valley

Our camels glow in the warm light.

Our camels free to graze.

The breeze stiffens, blows colder.  It’s time to return to my tent in one of my favourite campsites on earth.

Camp 3

Our wranglers have their own tents and do their own cooking.

EN ROUTE TO CAMP FOUR:  June 16

Breeze trots ahead eagerly.  He knows camp is near and he has worked hard today.  I give him his head even though I don’t want to canter.

This morning we descended from our hilltop onto a beautiful green plain strewn with yellow draba and tiny potentilla.

Riding free as the wind

After crossing a river we begin a rocky climb to a high valley.  Nothing seems to daunt our sturdy little horses – not rock stairs, precipitous descents or sheer drop-offs from narrow paths.  They may pick their way carefully where the going is difficult, but then they trot briskly to catch up.

Heading into the rocks

Eric arrives at the lunch spot.

We lunch by a group of camels, among which are a few babies.  Like all babies, these are cute.  Like all camels, they will soon lose their charm.  My opinion of camels undoubtedly stems from a ride I took two years ago when I spent three excruciating hours straddling the spine of a very thin beast.  But as I watch this bunch stupidly chewing their cuds and staring blankly at us, I find little to love.

Cute? Yes!       Goofy? Definitely!          Loveable?  Maybe camels are an acquired taste.

The rocky hills have brought us to a river and willow flats.  Two years ago the willows had leafed out and my sleepy Pun’kin was determined to get into the thick of them to scratch her belly.  This year the branches are bare and stiff, and while Breeze shows no inclination to stray from the narrow path, I find it difficult to keep my feet from being knocked from the stirrups.  As we near camp the terrain eases into grassy hills.

Despite the difficulty of the trip, we have enjoyed the matchless beauty of snow-capped mountains, ice on the river and most especially the carpets of wildflowers: whole meadows covered in blue forget-me-nots, others in yellow draba or potentilla.  Patches of bracted lousewort, white poppies and lavender.  Flowers I do not recognize.

Adrift in a sea of forget-me-nots.

CAMP FOUR – YAK MILK VALLEY: June 16, 17

ROADBLOCK!

                                                                  Yak Milk Valley camp

We camp by the icy river, below a waterfall in a narrow part of the valley.  I have less trouble setting up my tent now, but still have not learned all its secrets.

                                              The view from my tent

In this small area the camels keep us close company.

                                                        Camping with camels

It’s a beautiful afternoon, and we are soon lured onto the snow (just make sure you’re on land, not over water).

                                               Karyn and Lisa enjoying the snow.

                                                                    Laura and Amy

Normally we would spend a rest day here, but Eddie is worried about the high pass we have to cross.  Once before he found snow there, and a long path had to be dug for the camels.  These desert beasts are great in sand and they cross rivers without difficulty, but they don’t handle snow well, especially when heavily laden.  All the gear they were carrying had to be unloaded and ferried by crew and trekkers, while the camels were led across unburdened to be reloaded on the other side. All of this had taken many hours.  In order to avoid reaching the next camp after dark, Eddie plans to move us today to just below the pass.  But first he sends Dosjan and Karbai out at 0600 to check conditions.  By breakfast time they have radioed back that the snow is so deep and low that access to the pass is completely blocked.  Not only will we have our rest day – we will not be able to complete our route to Tavn Bogd base camp.  The only way out from Yak Milk Valley is to retrace our steps and return to Khotan Nur.

If you’re not prepared to be flexible, stay out of Mongolia!

A Horse Trek in Mongolia 2013: Part Three

All things considered, I’d rather pass on the day’s activities.

LOWER KHOTAN NUR:  June 14

Eight camels to load for the first time, multiple horses to round up and saddle, eight participants who haven’t quite figured out how to take down their tents or help with camp chores.  Not quite chaos, but hardly an efficient start to the day.  We don’t set out until 1130.

Camels can carry far more than horses.

Our path along the lake leads through a larch forest, the soft needles aglow in early season green.  Small herds of goats scatter at our approach, then cry frantically as they rush to rejoin their companions.  In the open we pass white gers, some just being set up after a long winter that brought record amounts of snow.

A practical, comfortable and ecologically friendly mobile home.

This is no nose-to-tail ride; so long as we keep each other in sight we may ride as we please.  Laura, Heather and I keep our steeds to a sedate walk, but Eric is soon cantering back and forth with some of the crew members.  Lisa and Karyn are more restrained but also let their horses run.  The rivers and streams are high, and our hikers, Tom and Viktor, have to mount up for the difficult crossings.

Laura in pink, Heather in blue, while Eric, Eddie and a wrangler lead the way.

Dosjan cuts a striking figure on a white horse as he keeps track of us all.

Dosjan

We have to check in at a military post, so Dosjan rides ahead with our passports.  Meanwhile Tom, walking alone, encounters a soldier who, of course, demands to see his documents.  How does one convey to a monolingual Mongolian that one’s passport is somewhere ahead on a horse?  We’re close to the Chinese border, so soldiers are on the lookout for people who shouldn’t be here.  Visions of arrest and a jail cell!  Fortunately help arrives in the form of some of our crew.

Our campsite by the upper lake is as beautiful as the first one.  We arrive about 1700, tired but happy after an enchanting first day of riding.  Now I’m supposed to prove to Eddie that I had good reason to bring my own tent (I used one of his at the first camp because it was already set up).  My stated justification is that I find the Tusker tents too big for one person (= too cold) and too difficult for me to put up (I don’t have the necessary hand strength).  Mine, I claim, goes up in five minutes or less.  The truth is that I bought the tent, a Hilleberg Jannu, for a dogsledding trip in Greenland that I had to cancel.  It’s designed for extreme weather, cost a small fortune, and I’m determined to get some use out of it.  Eddie, of course, wants to see this eighth wonder of the world.

I am what is called an expert on winter camping in Canadian conditions.  What do I tell novices?  ALWAYS put your tent up at home and learn its secrets before you take it into the field. You may have to put it up in the dark, in a raging storm,  when you’re cold, dog tired and wearing heavy mitts.  I’ve set this tent up only once, on a calm day, without attaching the footprint or pegging out the guy lines or bothering to investigate the basic construction.  Today the wind is howling and as the tent flops around wildly, I can’t distinguish front from back or figure out how to mate the footprint to the tent.  The poles don’t want to go in the proper sleeves, and I run out of pegs before all the guy lines are set.  Thirty frustrating minutes later, the tent is more or less rigged, but I’m embarrassed, and Eddie is looking smug.

Camp 2. Tusker tents and my little green Hilleberg.

DAILY ROUTINE

Aside from putting up our own tents and looking after our gear, we trekkers have few responsibilities.  Wranglers tend to the horses and camels.  The camp crew put up the cook tent and the two large tents we use for meals in bad weather, as well as fetch water, dig the toilet hole and set up the “outhouse,” and generally help wherever needed.  Alex looks after the kitchen.  So what do we do?

Up at 0730.  Pack duffle.  Take down tent. Eat breakfast.  Help pack tables and chairs.  Mount up.  Picnic lunch.  Rest. More riding.  Arrive at next campsite, usually before the camels.  Set up tent. Rest, wash, read or enjoy tea, juice, etc. and popcorn provided by Alex.  Vodka anyone?  Dinner. Bed.  Sleep and repeat.

Alex at work.

Breakfast. Note the comfy chairs!

Packing up. No wonder the camel wanted to opt out.

Lunch along the way.

Wranglers and horses appreciate a little rest.

Waiting at the campsite for the camels.

Here comes our gear.

Eric watches the camels being unloaded.

Setting up one of the large tents.

Viktor and Karyn at the beverage table.

How dull it all sounds!  At most the routine is the skeleton on which the trip was built.  It’s not what fills my memory or tugs at my heart as I sit in Edmonton, wondering if I will ever tread these mountains again.  No, it’s the next turn in the valley, the next climb, the unexpected setback and always the haunting beauty of the Altai.  The best lies ahead.

Whither now?

A Horse Trek in Mongolia 2013: Part Two

LOWER KHOTAN NUR:  June 13

There was frost on the tents this morning, and I could almost imagine myself back in the Canadian Rockies – if it weren’t for the goats.

Not everyone is thrilled with the temperature.

At least there aren’t any mosquitoes.

Today is a holdover day.  We will do a practice ride, enjoy the hospitality of our wrangler Karbai and his family, and watch some horse games sponsored by Eddie – a mini Nadaam festival he calls it.  All of this is intended to introduce us to Kazakh (and Mongolian) culture: the primacy of the horse and the unfailing generosity of the people.

We are a group of four Americans and four from Canada.  I’m the oldest at 76.  Eric, who works in Dubai, rides in the desert and has done more travelling than seems possible for someone his age, is 28.  The other two men, Tom and Viktor, plan to hike the route rather than ride.  Amy has brought her mother Laura along.  Heather, a grade four teacher, says she doesn’t know how to ride.  Karyn and Lisa are friends and seem confident about riding.  After breakfast the horses begin to arrive.

Our horses await us.

Laura says she wants a horse that is half dead.  Viktor wants nothing to do with four-footed transport.  I’m hoping for something a little livelier than the mount I had two years ago.  Pun’kin, I named her.  She was sweet and sleepy and nearing the age when she would no longer be useful.  The people here waste nothing; Pun’kin was eaten last year.

We have each been assigned a saddle, based on weight and butt size, and now must be matched with a horse.  Eddie gives relevant information to Dosjan, who relays it to the wranglers, who speak very little English.  Dosjan speaks Kazakh, Mongolian, English, Russian and Turkish (I’m surprised he isn’t trying to learn Swahili from Alex).

Sorting the saddles. It seems that all the local children have come to watch.

Amy helps Mom Laura get ready to ride.

I’m thrilled with my horse, a grey roan pinto that is strong but very obedient.  I name him Breeze.  The Kazakhs don’t name their horses (you really don’t want to name something you plan to eat), but we westerners can’t resist.

Breeze and me. Photo by Laura Micks.

Once we are all mounted Eddie leads us uphill and through the trees to Karbai’s ger, where we will be honoured guests.

Those of us who come from a land of locked doors and gated communities, where strangers are more to be feared than trusted, can only be amazed by the ingrained hospitality of the Mongolians.  Walk up to any ger, open the door without knocking, walk in, and you will be welcomed.  At the very least you will be offered salted milk tea (it tastes better than it sounds) and dried yogurt.  If you need shelter or more nourishing fare, you will be taken care of, no questions asked, no thanks expected.  Karbai’s family is wealthy by nomad standards, and we have been invited, but two years ago, by Lake Khovsgol, I sought shelter from the rain with impoverished strangers and was also welcomed.

On a far deeper level, if you work to establish a relationship with these people, they will be loyal friends for life.  Over the years Eddie has built such a relationship with Karbai’s family. And although I know them far less well, I have learned to love the gentle nature of our hosts, so open and genuine are they, and so untouched by the greedy competition of the outside world.  Will my fellow trekkers come to share my sense of wonder and quiet joy?  I keep my thoughts to myself.

Eddie with the elder member of the family

The wife of one of the sons prepares milk tea.

Dried yogurt, cheese, fried bread and milk tea, with music by Karbai.

We return to camp and evaluate our horses.   Heather wants to change and is given one she calls Mondo.  Mondo immediately sinks into a deep depression, where he remains for the entire trip.  Heather thinks it’s because he had just been ridden by Dosjan, who was probably born on a saddle, and he hates being demoted.

Heather and Mondo

In mid afternoon riders come from all around to compete for the prize money Eddie has put up.  It’s also a social occasion and a fun event for the children.

Greeting.

Eddie with members of Karbai’s family.

The locals gather for the games.

Children ride almost as soon as they can walk.  The boy in white is riding bareback.

The games consist of a race, a tug of war and an attempt to pick an object off the ground while cantering past.

Racing five times around a long loop.

Fourth lap. The brown horse is the eventual winner.

Tug of war. Who will let go first? Photo from two years ago.

With the prizes awarded, the locals return to their gers and we enjoy a quiet evening, where the still water of the lake and the cloudless dome of the sky seem to merge into one vast expanse of blue.

Peace at day’s end.

A Horse Trek in the Altai Mountains of Mongolia 2013

 

GETTING THERE

Here I am, doing one of the things I hate most: flying.  Why?  Well, if I could get to Mongolia in a rowboat, I would.  Instead, on June 7, I fly from Edmonton to Vancouver, spend a highly overpriced night in the airport hotel, board Air Canada for ten sleepless hours, change to KAL in Seoul and arrive in Ulaan Baatar late in the evening of June 9.  Or so I think; the international dateline has my mind as well as my body confused.  I’m getting too old for this nonsense.

It’s all Eddie Frank’s fault.  He runs Tusker Trail.  I’m a big fan of Tusker Trail.  In 2009 I climbed Kilimanjaro with them and was so impressed with the company that I signed up for their Mongolia horse trek in 2011, even though I didn’t have a clue at the time how to ride a horse.  That trip was so exhilarating and inspiring that I knew I had to repeat it.  I have conveniently forgotten the discomfort associated with getting to the actual starting point of the trek.

Mongolia doesn’t have paved roads linking the capital to any major town, and the Altai Mountains lie in the westernmost part of the country.  It’s a big country.  So you can drive for days on dirt tracks or fly.  At 0330 on June 11, eight jet-lagged trekkers plus Amy Micks, Eddie Frank’s wife and co-leader, stagger from our beds and head to the airport for the flight to Ulgii.

Aero Mongolia seems to fly only if the weather is good, a policy that gives us lots of time to get to know each other as our flight is delayed for hours.  Eventually we board for the three-hour trip.  Mongolia teaches patience.

Ulgii

Ulgii is a decent sized town inhabited mostly by Kazakhs, who have their own language and traditions.  They are nominally Muslim, while most Mongolians are nominally Buddhist.  Religion of any kind was brutally suppressed by Stalin, so it seems to play a minor part in everyday life.

Dosjan, our local guide, meets us and we drive to a tourist ger (yurt) camp, which is only just being set up for the season.

Most tourist ger camps are well appointed, well staffed and comfortable. This one isn’t.

Located beside the Khovd River, the camp is picturesque, but the gers are still sparsely furnished, with little carpeting or decoration.  The caretaker is a squirrelly little man whose vocabulary seems to consist entirely of “Hooh!” and whose understanding of the needs of his guests approaches zero.  Still, we appreciate the beauty of the place.

Khovd River. The water is very high.

Iris growing beside the river.

We drop our gear, then go into town to visit the museum, do some shopping and dine at a no-alcohol Turkish restaurant, which serves good food and fresh salads (food safety is not generally a problem in Mongolian restaurants).  Bedtime is early, as tomorrow will be a long day.  At 2130 I am awakened from a sound sleep by two women who burst into the ger.  They chatter loudly and incomprehensibly in Kazakh, but finally convey that they are the cooks.   “Go find Amy!” I snarl.  The women descend on the men in the next ger and eventually find Amy, who deals with them and returns to bed.  A few minutes later the women throw open her door, cross the floor, turn on the lights, and depart as inexplicably as they arrived.

Our “cooks” manage to produce hot water for breakfast, along with stale bread and over-done fried eggs.

Getting to Ulgii is only part of the fun.  Now we take to Land Cruisers for the overland adventure called “driving to Khotan Nur” (nur = lake).  Six hours of shake, rattle and roll as the vehicles bounce from one crater to the next, plough through water, tilt alarmingly sideways, then race at full speed whenever the dirt track lacks major obstacles.

However rough, the drive gives us our first chance to appreciate the scenic beauty of the Altai.  It is a landscape of muted earth tones and pastoral images.

Sheep and goats graze peacefully against a backdrop of purple mountains.

A palette of greens, greys, browns…..

Picnic lunch beside the Khotan River, with yet another colour scheme.

We stop briefly in Tsengel, a village where the modern world mixes incongruously with the past.

Tsengel. Note the solar powered street lights and satellite dishes.

No thing of beauty!

Construction techniques

Each doorway leads to a shop, but there are no signs to tell you what is within.

A horse waits patiently beside a picture of horses, while its modern competition lurks to the right.

After long hours in the vehicles, we arrive like James Bond martinis: definitely “shaken, not stirred.”  But oh how beautiful the sight of the golden Tusker tents by the lake shore!  Eddie greets us with big hugs.  Alex, our Tanzanian cook, (Eddie brings him over from his Kilimanjaro operation) sets out hot water and beverages.  After days of travel we are here.  Let the trek begin!

Tusker camp at Khotan Nur