Once more unto the North, dear friends, once more.

Virginia Falls, Nahanni River

Enough Shakespeare! I won’t be fighting the French at Agincourt; I’ll be in the North fighting mosquitoes on the Nahanni and Firth rivers. It’s time for another trip to my second home (the Canadian Rockies are my primary retreat from urban life). Two weeks on each river will see me through half of our short Alberta summer. I won’t be home until the first of August, and since our northern wilderness is still blissfully free of cell phone and Internet coverage, there will be no more blog entries until then.

These will be “soft” trips, northern style: rafts to carry everything and everyone, guides to row them, do the cooking and generally look after us, and lots of wildlife, fortunately, not all of the six-legged kind. My aging joints like “soft” trips; there would be a palace revolt if I suggested climbing Denali again. (That’s a much younger me in the photo at the top of the page!)

Since rafting the Firth costs about the same as a luxury safari in Botswana, you have to be a little crazy to sign up for the privilege of putting up your own tent every night, let alone do so more than once (this will be my third time on the Firth, second on the Nahanni). Still, I would not trade my life of adventure for all the material objects I could have purchased over the years but didn’t.

Ciao!

AN AWESOME TRIP: Rafting Chilco Lake to Yale, BC Part Two

Shane

When I think back on our trip down the Fraser, one image stands out: Shane. With his long white hair and piercing gaze, he looks like a larger-than-life, stereotypical river guide. After we set off in the powered rafts the first morning, he talked non-stop for 30 minutes, and I wondered  if he was going to talk all the way to Yale. Later, when I mentioned this to Sue, owner of Fraser River Raft Expeditions, she laughed and said, “And he did, didn’t he?” Yes, Shane talked a lot, because he has an encyclopedic knowledge of the river and its history. It’s worth taking the trip just to learn from him, especially about the mining operations that seemingly transformed almost the entire river valley.

Our new rafts were loaded with an unbelievable amount of gear (loading them each morning was like trying to assemble a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle), but they still provided plenty of room to spread out in comfort and enjoy the view.

At ease in the sun. Shane at the helm.

Most of the time, we floated with the current, reserving the surprisingly quiet motor for rapids or when we needed to make up time. Some of the guides who were with us on the first part of the trip continued with us for a while, enjoying a break from rowing. Lisa was the working guide on the second raft; she’s at left below, eating an apple.

All play and no work? Lazy day on the river, or a river guide’s dream job.

The big rafts easily rode waves that would have tossed our smaller crafts about. Not that we didn’t get wet; the Fraser has big, big rapids in keeping with its size, and we soon got to experience them. Unfortunately for my blog, big, big rapids require hanging on to the raft with both hands, and since I couldn’t work my little Lumix with my teeth, I didn’t get any photos of them. There probably is a GoPro in my future.

Sailing through troubled waters.  NH

The Fraser does not disappoint in scenery, which is as majestic and beautiful as the river.

Wondrous rock formations. White lines show earlier water levels. Water was low when we went through.

 

Terraces, showing earlier river beds.

 

Sand, sage brush, rock and a bit of greenery.

 

Shane shows us some petroglyphs.  NH

 

Dwarfed.

 

Just resting my eyes. Well, this is supposed to be a holiday, isn’t it? NH

We always went ashore for lunch, and the Fraser offered no shortage of scenic, sandy beaches.

Coming ashore.  NH

Sue, Shane, and Lisa, as well as the guides who were on holiday, all saw to our comforts, even at the lunch stops. On some days, the sun was so hot that protective tarps and umbrellas had to be set up. From the lunch spot below, we could see hoodoos and the strangely flat ridge tops that revealed former river beds. Coming from the Rocky Mountains, I am more used to rounded hilltops like those in the background. Our rivers cut through rock and leave a different footprint on the landscape.

Lunch on a sandy beach.  NH

The haunting beauty of sand, water and rock remains one of my most precious memories of the trip.

Beautiful shoreline.

Most of our campsites were on sand, which was wonderfully comfortable when dry, miserable after it rained.

Torch light at supper? I never expected that. NH

On a clear night, the sky provided all the entertainment we could ask for.

Starlight and campfire. NH

We didn’t have time for a lot of hiking on this trip, but on one layover day, several people walked up to a place called the Cathedral, an impressive rock formation that also provided a fine view.

The Cathedral. NH

 

A fine view. NH

Have I mentioned the food? Locally supplied fruit and vegetables were better than anything one can buy in a supermarket. And Sue and Lisa should open a restaurant.

Sue (right) and Lisa and some of their handiwork.

 

Breakfast. Or why you should not expect to lose weight on this trip.

Most of the wildlife we saw was of the avian variety, but the occasional black bear put in an appearance and we also saw some sheep.

Sheep. NH

Ferries, abandoned mining buildings, roads and railroads tell a story of human imprint on the land, an imprint that is missing from the northern rivers I have travelled. I find no beauty in them, but Shane made them fascinating.

Remnants of gold mining. The rocks on the bottom were purposely washed down the canyon in the search for gold.

 

Ferry. The lands on both sides of the river are sparsely populated, so a ferry makes more sense than a bridge.

In places, the roads had to be buttressed by retaining walls of stone. I can only marvel at the intense labour involved.

Support structure.

The river became ever more impressive and the rapids fiercer. At one point, we had to walk while the guides took the rafts through a dangerous passage.

With waves towering over his head, Shane holds to his course.

The final days were quite different. We enjoyed a community dinner put on by the First Nations people of one town, took a group of elders down the river, slept in teepees our final night, joined a very scholarly group on the last day, and (at last!) rafted through Hell’s Gate.

The vacationing guides had left us, and a group of elders filled the second raft.

 

Teepee lodging. Slept on the grass. By now, I was tired of my tent.

 

Last day on the river. Joined by a group taking a very educational tour. When there’s no baggage, the rafts hold quite a few people.

Hell’s Gate wasn’t the most exciting rapid we experienced, as it lasted only a few seconds, but it was certainly the most famous. With a bridge, cable car and restaurant above the rapid, we were sure to have an audience, and we circled around in quiet water for a few minutes, hoping that someone would notice. A few people came onto the bridge, probably thinking that we were crazy.

Shane preparing to run a rapid.

 

Without a GoPro or similar camera, this is about all you can photograph at Hell’s Gate. You can see the bridge and the cable car, and the narrow passage that gives the rapid its name.

To quote from the FRRE brochure, “The grand finale is the roller-coaster action of Sailors Bar rapids, a chain of huge standing waves that we rerun several times.” I think it was in these rapids that I almost went flying out of the raft. We ran them three times, and I doubt that I could have held on for a fourth. But they were indeed, a grand finale.

My heartfelt thanks to Neil, Tyler and Sue for making this trip possible. For someone who is addicted to Canada’s north, it was an eye-opening experience and one of the best trips I taken in the course of a long life.

End of the line. Do Neil and Ester look happy?

A Life of Adventure Revised (slightly)

For most of my life, I have gone wherever and whenever wilderness and adventure called. No part of the globe was too remote, no means of access too difficult. Material possessions mean nothing to me; I spend my available time and money on that which gives me joy: experiences and memories. These don’t wear out, don’t need replacing or updating, and since they take up only enough room in my little apartment to hold my outdoor equipment, there’s always room for more.

Since my husband passed away ten years ago, I’ve been to Patagonia, the Galapagos, Kilimanjaro, Botswana and Mongolia, to name only a few destinations. I’ve earned enough Aeroplan miles to be treated with extra courtesy in Business Class. And I have finally had to admit that I HATE FLYING! I hate it enough to stop crossing oceans and wandering around airports in the middle of the night waiting for a connecting flight. The forty-five hours it took to travel from a lodge in Namibia to my apartment in Edmonton last July was the last straw (the entire time was spent on planes and in airports).

Am I giving up on adventure? Not at all. The Canadian wilderness, especially the Arctic and the Rocky Mountains, offers all that I need. I’ve sort of been neglecting these places for the last few years, but no longer. In June I will do a two-week rafting trip on one of my favourite rivers, the Firth, that flows into the Beaufort Sea. This summer, there will be some serious backpacking in the Rockies. In September, I’m booked for a trip to the Pantanal in Brazil (have to use those Aeroplan miles), but that will be the final long flight. I’m considering cancelling and instead donating the miles to MSF.

Am I slowing down? Definitely. Last summer’s bungee jump at Victoria Falls notwithstanding, my 78 years are weighing on my joints. They would appreciate a little moderation.

So what do you do when there isn’t enough time for all the places you would like to visit, or do all the things you still want to do? When there are far more kilometres under your boots than lie ahead?

Two years ago, I sat down to write about an encounter I once had with a grizzly bear in Jasper National Park. But instead of using first person, I inserted a fictional character in the scene. And when I finished, I asked, “Where does she go from here?”

And thus an obsession was born. I have become a writer of fiction, riding on the wings of characters who are not bound by my limitations. My first novel, Frozen in Death, is about to come out. It is set in the place I know best: the Canadian Rockies. More about that in a later post.

And now for something completely different…

I still have a lot more animal photos to share from my trip to Botswana. But one can’t be serious all the time. The place:  Livingstone, Zambia. The time: last month. The occasion: Another crazy escapade in a long life that’s been full of them.

Victoria Falls

Victoria Falls and the bridge between Zambia and Zimbabwe

The Bridge over the mighty Zambezi River

Now you get the idea.

Yes, that’s me.

Forgive the quality. These are stills from a point and shoot video.

Still flying

It’s a long way down.

But eventually you reach the end of the rope.

And when you get back up, it’s high fives all around.

 

Was it scary, exciting, lots of fun, unpleasant?

None of the above. I had sometimes wondered what it would be like to do a bungee jump, and I decided that there would never be a better place to find out than at Victoria Falls. Having satisfied my curiosity, I see no purpose in repeating the experience.

Of course, people ask me, “What if the rope breaks?” When you’re 77, I think the only reasonable answer is, “So?”

The older I get, the more I want to try new things.

A Horse Trek in Mongolia 2013: Conclusion

RETREAT

CAMP FIVE:  June 18

Cloudy skies, cool wind and occasional light rain were perfect for retracing our steps down the valley, as  hot sun would have exhausted us.  The descent over the rocky hills was long, steep and occasionally difficult.  We came to one especially daunting drop, and Tom, who was riding today, stopped, unsure how to proceed.  At Amy’s urging I kicked Breeze forward, planning to take a rock ramp to my right.  Breeze decided to take the direct route and jumped straight down to a sloping ledge, landing sure footed as always but giving me quite a fright.  Tom’s horse showed more sense and took the ramp.

As we neared camp, two teenagers from our kitchen staff galloped up behind Karyn and gave a loud shout, a trick they often play on each other.  Karyn, of course, wasn’t prepared, and her horse bolted, throwing her off.  She came away with bruises and a sore ankle, which probably were less severe than the lambasting the boys could look forward to from Dosjan.  They seemed so stricken the next day that Karyn went out of her way to reassure them that she wasn’t angry.

Looking down on our camp

We haven’t returned to Cheben Hill but rather have a lovely site in a meadow by a stream, with snow-capped mountains as a backrop.  I climb a hill behind camp for the view and find red-stemmed saxifrage and telesonix in bloom.  Later, Alex brings out popcorn, and those who haven’t collapsed in their tents munch and natter until vodka time.

Happy to be here after a long day. Eddie, Alex, Amy and Dosjan.

CAMP SIX – UPPER KHOTAN NUR:  June 19

Storms threaten all day, but our ride is easy over grassy hills, across bridges and streams, past herds of sheep and goats.  We lunch by a bridge and get to watch our camels and crew come across.

Here come the camels.

Alex is with them, tall astride his little horse, the ever-present wide grin on his face.

This is a little easier than being a cook on Kilimanjaro.

The river is the local car wash.

A soldier gives TLC to his vehicle.

We enjoy some late-day sun in camp.  Sheep and goats from a near-by ger wander in, their gentle voices a reminder of all that I will miss once I return to Canada.

Eddie brings out his martini bar.

Eddie’s martini bar

And a group photo is required.

Dosjan, Eric, Karyn, Laura, Amy, Tom, Heather, Lisa, Viktor and Eddie

Eric and the wranglers produce a roaring bonfire after dinner, and we sit around it, saying little, thinking. Tomorrow will be our last day on horse.

We all share the fire.

LOWER KHOTAN NUR:  June 20

Soft grey light on dark water.  Mist on the hills.  A gentle rain.  Plaintive cries of sheep and goats.  Warblers among the larches.  The dull clip-clop of horse hooves on wet grass.  For a few hours we are enveloped in beauty, and I give myself over to the poetry and magic of the place.  Can this really be the last time that I will come here?  There are moments when I wish I could reach out and stop the hands of time.

We come to a river that is deep and fast, raging from snowmelt and rain.  “Put just the toes of your boots in the stirrups, so you can get off if the horse falls over.”  It takes a lot to frighten me, but I am full of trepidation as I search downstream for something to grab on to in case I am swept away from Breeze.  The horses struggle in the strong current, and for a lifetime it seems that we are all being pushed sideways, making no forward progress.  There’s no way to completely banish the rushing water from the field of vision, and I fight vertigo.  Then Breeze finds firm footing, masters the current, and we lunge up the river bank.

Now the rain falls heavy and steady.  We decide to delay lunch until we arrive at Karbai’s ger, not far now.  As I start up the final hill, two locals on horseback come down through trees on my right.  Breeze shies and I calm him.  The riders pass behind, and I assume they will continue on down the slope.  Instead they turn, gallop up behind me and shout, just as the young boys did to Karyn.  Breeze jumps and bolts, and only blind luck keeps me in the saddle.  I’m furious, but Eddie just says that this is what the locals do, and you have to be prepared.  He’s right, of course.

FAREWELLS

Next morning we bid good bye to our wranglers and crew with many hugs and a few tears, then board the Land Cruisers for the return to Ulgii.  Dosjan leads us on a spectacular shortcut through the mountains and over a pass, giving us a final chance to appreciate the haunting beauty of this country.

Misty mountains

An ovoo at the pass

We stop briefly in Sagsai to see a hunting eagle.  Hunting with eagles is still widely practiced in winter, and even though we hated to see this noble bird confined, we wanted to interact with it.

The eagle master and his golden eagle

Getting so powerful a bird on your arm can be unnerving.

Karyn has a moment of joy.

After tea and treats with the master’s family, we drive to our dismal camp in Ulgii. The gers have been properly furnished and decorated by now, but the caretaker is as clueless as ever, and breakfast is still stale bread and over-cooked eggs.

At 0430 our ger door flies open and we awaken to “Hooh!”  By 0730 we have checked in at the airport.  Ominously, all the locals who checked in have gone home.  We sit until 1530 on hard chairs, eating Mongolian dumplings, greasy fritters and western junk food until the plane finally arrives.

Did we really buy tickets on Aero Mongolia again?

The farewell dinner in UB, that was scheduled for tonight, gets put off to tomorrow.  I finally reach my room at the Bayangol at 2100, grab a Heinekin from the mini bar, order a superburger and fries from room service, and reflect on how glorious trips sometimes end in a whimper.

REFLECTIONS

What do I take from this second venture in Mongolia?  I feel as much at home here as in the far north of Canada.  Indeed, Canadians and Australians are perhaps the people best able to relate to these vast, empty lands, for such lands comprise and define each of our countries.  Much of what I love about Mongolia I can find in Canada: vistas that seem to go on forever, wind that blows unhindered by any tree, the great blue dome of sky, silence, solitude.  But only here have I found a people of such unequaled hospitality, quick to smile, eager to help and share.  Add to them the courageous little horses, so willing and sure footed; the herds grazing peacefully, tended on horseback by nomads as they have been for centuries; the gers, those marvels of engineering, where doors are never locked and strangers never turned away; the quiet rhythm of a life centred around livestock and the home, where pleasures are simple and tradition still means something.

I know that Mongolia is changing.  Perhaps this snapshot that I take away will soon be as outdated as last year’s computer.  I have devoted much of my life to travel and adventure.  Always I learn and always I am enriched, but only rarely does the experience touch my innermost being.  Mongolia, as I see it today, will always be a part of me.

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

SUN, WINE AND WATER: KAYAKING PORTUGAL’S DOURO RIVER Part One

This trip is not for the weak of stomach or liver.  When we were not on the river we were usually eating or drinking or eating AND drinking.  We stayed in quintas (historic vineyard estates), dined on lovingly prepared traditional dishes, learned how port is made, and sampled as many wines as our generous hosts could put before us.  Small wonder that this tour is affectionately dubbed “Float and Bloat”.

I arrived in Oporto two days before the trip was to start, partly to recover from jet lag but mainly to have a chance to visit this stately old city at the mouth of the Douro River. Armed with a map and walking shoes, I wandered freely, pursuing whatever view seemed most interesting.  The central area of the city is very small and is easily covered on foot in a day and a half.  Graceful buildings and green parks follow the narrow streets that spill down the precipitous slopes leading to the historic riverfront district.  I’m not one for tour buses and the like, but ten Euros were well spent on a boat tour of six bridges across the Douro.  One night I also enjoyed my first taste of fine Portuguese cuisine in a restaurant recommended by my hotel (mussel soup with saffron and puff pastry – exquisite!).

View of Oporto from the Se Cathedral

Two of the graceful bridges over the Douro

View of the steep relief of the city

The beautiful and historic riverfront district of Oporto

Our group met on the afternoon of September 11 and promptly got down to the business of the trip: wine.  Graham’s port winery is one of many across the river, and we were treated to a tour of their facilities.  The port is actually made at vineyards up river, held there for six months, then trucked to Grahams to be mixed, evaluated, aged and bottled.

Barrels for aging at Graham’s winery

Having always drunk ruby port, I thought that this was basically what port was.  What a surprise to learn that ruby is the lowest quality they make.  There are tawny ports that are aged for various numbers of years, and then vintage ports that come from an especially good harvest.  Some of the latter are over 100 years old.

Ruby, two tawnies and two vintage ports presented for tasting.

After tasting five different ports and realizing the variance in quality, I was quite ready to spend whatever it took to get one of the vintage bottles, planning to serve it on special occasions to special friends.  Alas!  We were told that the vintage ports must be consumed within a day of opening.  There is, I decided, a limit to friendship.

Already stoked with five glasses of port at Graham’s and more at a group meeting in our hotel, we somehow navigated to a waterfront restaurant for more wine and a dinner which I remember was excellent; unfortunately the specifics have been lost in the sea of gastronomic indulgence that followed over the next few days.

Yes, this was a kayaking trip, and I will actually get to the kayaking in the next post.