Emerging from our tent to the sound of cuckoos after a great night's sleep, we took stock of our condition before beginning our third day in the Khan Khentii mountains.
Mongolia is much drier than Thailand, a function of both latitude and altitude. We had been steadily climbing for most of the previous day and were now more than 1,700 meters (5,500 feet) above sea level. We'd also been in the sun and wind for two full days. Our faces were chapped and the backs of our hands were sunburnt, down to the middle knuckles of our fingers, creating an interesting two-tone effect.
Nomads Tours had provided us with Australian stock saddles instead of traditional Mongolian wooden saddles. While they provided a secure seat, they also had all sorts of seemingly extraneous stitching and detailing that was now etched in bruises along our legs. Our backs were sore and our ankles were tired, but what really hurt were our knees.
Tim Severin, in his book In Search of Genghis Khan: An Exhilarating Journey on Horseback across the Steppes of Mongolia, describes the gait of the Mongolian horse as "flat, jarring, and ruthlessly hammering." Tim Cahill, in a fascinating article for Outside magazine, explained it this way:
Our horses settled into a short, hammering trot, which is the gait favored by Mongol riders who want to make time. Mongol herdsmen churn butter by strapping a jug of milk to the saddle and trotting for ten minutes. This is the truth. I had a bottle of aspirin in my saddle kit, and it had long ago been reduced to powder. Every night, as I tried to massage whatever it was that was sore and measured out my dose of powdered aspirin, I thought about this: Mongols have a reputation as the best horsemen on earth, while their horses have what must be the world's most punishing gait. It was, I concluded, the nature of the land itself -- swampy, studded with grassy hummocks and pocked with marmot holes -- that produced this jackhammer trot. The horses knew the land, and they made their way over it in a jouncing, weaving sort of way. The short punishing gait -- I wasn't the only American who called it the Mongolian Death Trot -- fit the terrain perfectly. A horse that extended, that stretched out his trot or gallop, was a horse that was going to break a leg, which is to say it was a dead horse. Mongolia is a harsh land, and only the fittest survive.
While much of our riding was done at a walk, we'd spent a lot of time at the Mongolian Death Trot over the previous two days. Jennifer, in particular, was becoming a master, because Caramel didn't like to canter. While the rest of us picked up an easy lope, he would just trot faster. The Mongolian equivalent of "giddyup" is "tchoo," so while Patrick was far ahead of the rest of the herd, he could often hear Jennifer faintly behind him, sounding like the Little Engine That Could:
"Tchoo! Tchoo! Tchoo, dammit!"
Since we didn't have to move camp, we could take the horses out to explore the area. Batsaihan stayed behind to look after the camp and work on lunch. Ariuntsetseg, Altanhoyeg, and Dolgoon rode with us, past the tourist camp and into a wide valley. Over the next couple of hours the terrain changed constantly -- from fir and birch forest to rolling grassland and rocky hills, from marshland threaded with streams to dry scrubland spotted with bushes.
As we soon found out, Dolgoon was not an experienced rider. Jennifer kept him company for much of the ride. At one point, Dolgoon said, "Jennifer? What does it mean -- 'butterflies in stomach?'"
"Well," said Jennifer, "you know when you are a little bit frightened or nervous and your stomach feels a little bit sick?"
"Yes."
"That's butterflies in your stomach," Jennifer said. "Or sometimes you might say this when you are in love."
"Oh."
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
Dolgoon snickered. "Many."
Meanwhile, Altanhoyeg and Patrick raced again. This time, when Patrick heard Altanhoyeg pick up the canter, he was determined to get an early lead and keep it. He stayed ahead of Altanhoyeg for a while ... until Altanhoyeg's horse found that extra gear again and beat Rusty by four lengths.
We ended our ride in a forested glade next to a ruined monastery. The Ginhjin Sum, or Princess Temple, was built by a Mongol ruler in 1740 in honor of his wife. She had been the daughter of a Manchu king, who had hoped his daughter would spy for him on the Mongols. To her credit, she was faithful to her husband and her adopted country. Her father ordered her death, and she was poisoned by Manchu soldiers.
The monastery was active until the Communist purges of the 1930s, when it was partially demolished. Even though it is now abandoned, locals still come to offer prayer scarves and other offerings at the temple.
Ariuntsetseg told us that some people had discovered gold and jewels on the site, but as soon as they touched the treasure, it turned to dust. A lesson more rooted in Buddhism than physics, perhaps, but useful nonetheless.
Our ride back was plagued with flies. Everyone was annoyed by the horseflies, which bit horse and human alike. Towards the end of the ride our group took up a fast canter to the tourist camp, and this time even Caramel joined in the fun.
It was Jennifer's favorite ride of the whole trip -- beautiful and varied scenery, good conversation, and a horse that finally decided to run! We were back at our campsite by noon, just in time for lunch.
While eating, Patrick tried to get an insight into Mongol riding techniques from Altanhoyeg. "Every time we race, you always win," he said. "If I try to catch you, you go faster. If I try to stay ahead, you pass me. No matter what I do, I can't beat you. How do you win?"
Altanhoyeg shrugged. "Crazy horse."
That afternoon we hiked around the area and saw more travelers arrive (by SUV) at the tourist camp. A staff member carried two lambs toward one of the staff gers. "Dinner," Patrick joked.
Ariuntsetseg told us that we could pay $5 per person to use the showers and sauna at the tourist camp. We scoffed at first -- we were living the Mongolian nomadic life, what need had we of such effete comforts? -- but then we realized that the truly Mongol attitude was to take what you could from the soft city-dwellers and leave the rest to the vultures ... or something like that. So we bundled up our cleanest clothes and trekked over for our first shower in three long, dirty days.
(We did refrain, however, from seizing their livestock and burning their camp to the ground.)
That evening Batsaihan had our dinner ready early, because the tourist camp had no cook on site that night. He had agreed to help them out and make dinner for the new arrivals. The menu? Lamb.
We discussed politics and tourism with Ariuntsetseg, Dolgoon and Altanhoyeg. Ariuntsetseg told us that her favorite tourists are Americans (who are "easy to understand," that is, not complicated), Brits and Germans. The Mongols were suspicious of the Chinese -- but of course, they don't have the best history as neighbors.
After dinner, we took a walk around to get away from the maddening flies and enjoy the peace and quiet of the Mongolian heartland.
Rain moved in overnight. Warm rice pudding helped ease us into a cold, wet, miserable morning. The rain varied from a steady downpour to a creeping, insidious mist that seeped into everything.
We packed up camp in the rain, mounted our sopping horses, and prepared to move out. Just as we started to ride, the rain let up. We encountered a group of riders from the nearby tourist camp, timidly walking their horses along the dirt road. We trotted casually past, but as soon as we were clear our horses were ready to move -- all, even Caramel, broke into a canter and left our neighbors far behind.
The fresh air after the rain, coupled with the previous afternoon's rest, had everyone feeling frisky. Altanhoyeg showed his hands, black with mud, and mimed wiping a runny nose to leave behind a mud mustache. Patrick told Altanhoyeg that he could spread the mud all over his face to have the beard he wanted.
"Then water and sunshine, and it will grow." Patrick said. "Then come the flowers."
All the horses were moving well and we made excellent time. Sun and clouds alternated above us and a steady breeze kept us cool. We stopped for a picnic lunch by a small stream, and Batsaihan surprised us all with khuushuur, a fried pie that is the typical food for the Naadam festival. Everyone was in great spirits.
We'd been riding for about two-and-a-half hours at this point and still had about three hours' riding to do. We were surrounded by incredibly beautiful landscapes, with chipmunks scurrying underfoot and cranes flying overhead. Later in the afternoon we encountered a stupa and rode around it clockwise, thanking whoever might be listening for such a wonderful journey. Caramel couldn't see the point of going around it three full times and simply stopped, but Ariuntsetseg assured Jennifer that once was enough.
Altanhoyeg and Patrick had one final race -- with Batsaihan joining them this time -- tearing across the steppe in a wild gallop. This time, Patrick just gave Rusty his head, allowing him to choose his own path through the marmot holes and ditches.
Rusty stretched out into the fastest gait Patrick has ever tried to ride. Altanhoyeg and Batsaihan cut loose with a couple of yelping Mongol shouts, and Patrick added his own "Yeee-haaa!" as they charged along. It was terrifying, exhilarating, and exactly what Patrick had been dreaming of doing since he started riding some 20 years ago.
(By the way, Patrick lost. Again. But by only two lengths this time.)
We made it to our final campsite in the late afternoon. We were in a relatively more crowded part of the valley; we'd passed several herds of horses, sheep, goats and cows, with gers dotting in the landscape.
We pitched our tent by what turned out to be the local watering spot, so we were visited by all sorts of livestock. Yaks invaded our campsite at dusk.
This boy -- who couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old -- was herding his family's goats when he came to water his horse.
Altanhoyeg and Batsaihan took off after dinner, so we taught Dolgoon and Ariuntsetseg how to play hearts. We had a fantastic time -- everyone had the giggles. Jennifer was the big winner of the night, and her prize was fresh tarak, or yak yogurt, that a local herdsman had promised to bring by in the morning.
The next day we had a leisurely breakfast, complete with the yak yogurt, which was a little like thin cottage cheese. Then we mounted up for one last ride. Altanhoyeg agreed to take one of our cameras to get some pictures. We passed an elaborate complex of ovoos and altars used by local shamans.
We then rode up a nearby hill -- straight up. It didn't seem that steep or high from a distance, but by the time we got to the top, we could see almost the entire valley stretched out before us.
Just before the end of what we knew would be our last ride in the heartland of the Mongols, we did yet one more thing we had never done before: we herded goats from horseback. Two local kids were trying to separate their family's herd from another's family's, and move them to a new pasture. The boy called out to Altanhoyeg for some help.
We followed him and quickly realized that we were in the middle of a round-up. Eventually we got them all where they were supposed to be -- it was a lot of fun.
Our time in the mountains was rapidly coming to a close. The UAZ arrived, so we started packing up, while local herdsmen came by to discuss the news and preparations for the Naadam festival.
We said our goodbyes to the horses with some sadness and a determination to go horse trekking again if we ever get the chance. Patrick was able to live out his cowboy fantasies (and he didn't even need a six-shooter!), while Jennifer realized she could relax and enjoy a good ride through the countryside (just as long as there aren't too many steep hills to climb).
We had time for one last group picture of the crew before Altanhoyeg mounted his horse, gathered the other four with one hand, and took off.
Then it was back to Ulaanbaatar. On our way out, we encountered a car that had tried to cross a stream and had flooded its engine. The mighty UAZ had no difficulty in pulling it out and across another river, even when water began to spill into our vehicle and lap around our feet.
A little more than two hours later, we were back in cool, rainy Ulaanbaatar. We bid farewell to Dolgoon and Batsaihan, made arrangements to meet Ariuntsetseg in the morning, and checked back into the Hotel Bayangol to start the next part of our journey: the great festival of Naadam.
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