A Cold Night in the Mountains

We needed to get to Olgii, the next province to the north, and our available information said “8-12 hours, depending on the number of breakdowns, in a Russian Jeep packed with a dozen people.  Although this is one of the more scenic drives in the country, the Jeeps typically leave at sunset.”

But halfway from Khovd to Olgii is  Tsambagarav Uul National Park, with the namesake mountain being the 3^rd tallest in the country and crowned by a set of glaciers.  So we sat with Taku that evening, opened up the map, and started pointing.  He shapes his hands into a tent and looks at us.  “No tent” I say.  “No Problem!”  he responds.  He wraps himself in an invisible sleeping bag.  Umm, no.  “No Problem!”  He mimes sleeping, points to his watch, takes out his phone and types “11.”

So we have a departure time, a destination, no gear, and “No Problem.”

Leaving our beloved Khovd, for the last time

Taku, who was now “our” driver, came by at 11.  It was never really clear, and never would be on this trip, what would happen next, or how we should prepare, or what we needed to have.  Much of this was due to the fact that our common language was whatever we could find in our phrasebook, which seems to have been written more as the Cliffs Notes for a Mongolian language class than as a useful travel tool.  We knew we’d spend one night somewhere between here and Olgii, and that we would be seeing the Mountain, and that we would be ill equipped no matter what.  Of course, it’s hardly an adventure if you know what’s going to happen next.

We picked up ingredients for gorp (“Good ‘Ol Raisins and Peanuts” — the “& M&Ms” is silent) and few cans of random fish and potted meat (selected because they had pull-top lids and didn’t need a can opener rather than because of what they contained) and headed out on the dusty road leaving town.  And stopped, as always, at Taku’s mother’s house/ger on the edge of town for an all too familiar hour of milk tea, dried cheese curds, hard cheese, and fried bread while his nephew toddled around looking for mischief and the family cow munched and moo’d outside.

The ubiquitous Mongolian hospitality spread: fresh clotted cream, dried cheese, fried bread, local berry preserves, cultured butter, and fresh cheese. Any may be from horse or camel, and usually there is a bowl of dried milk curds as well. Everything goes in the milk tea to soften.

Although Taku’s normal gig is driving from Khovd to Olgii, the trip to the mountain is off the main route, so navigation was by the Mongolian version of GPS: Ger Positioning System.  You drive in what you hope is the right direction, and when you see a hill, drive to the top (remember, there are no roads; all driving is cross-country).  Odds are you’ll see a Ger.  You drive down to it, yell “hold the dog!” in Mongolian as you get out of the car, and ask whoever comes out how to get where you are going.  (Every Ger has a dog, and each is either vicious or asleep.  Midnight bathroom runs are ill advised.)  There will be a lot of pointing, most of which has more to do with where you can cross the rivers than where you are actually trying to go, and then it’s off to the next Ger.  It is neither direct or efficient, but in a country where the roads are as nomadic as the people it’s the only way to navigate in unfamiliar terrain.

The infamous Mongol Rally, headed right for us. It’s a hare-brained event: drive from London to Ulaan Baatar in any vehicle with a less than 1 liter engine over the course of the summer, with no idea where you are going or what you are doing. GPS prohibited.  The official slogan? “If nothing goes wrong, everything has gone wrong.” We saw dozens of these guys working their way across the desert and steppe during our 6 weeks in Mongolia.  Ahhh, maybe next year.

In the meantime, I sat with topo map and compass on my lap, doing my best to track where we were going and predict the next (U-) turn.  As we drove, the scenery increased in drama, with broad, barren valleys separating colorful jagged mountains beyond which we could catch periodic glimpses of permanently snow covered peaks (this was the end of summer, and in a few days we’d get fresh snow in anticipation of winter).

More western scenery

As we turned eastward and made our way up a broad valley toward the mountain, the rounded, snow-capped peak emerged on the other side of a deep river gorge.  At the pass we turned again toward the mountain itself, slowing down as the track we were following faded into the grass and the lumps and bumps became larger and closer together.  When car and driver had had enough we jumped out to take stock, relieved to be done with the bouncing and thrilled to have reached some sort of goal.

The bumpy “road” of half-submerged moss-covered rocks. We’ll walk from here, thanks.

Directly in front of us was a winding canyon between two mountains: Tsambargarav Uul at nearly 14,000 feet to the left, and Yamaatin Uul at 12,825 to the right.  Between them was a raging glacial river carving its way through a massive jumble of grey rocks, fed by a network of mountain streams.  Green scrub covered our parking area and the lower slopes, giving way to talus boulder fields interrupted by perpetual landslides.

Aaron, high above the glacial river

At our 9,500 foot high parking spot, the wind was picking up along with our urgency, as there were now only a few hours before sunset to make the most of this excursion.  Taku set up his “tent,” which turned out to be little more than a beach sun shade, and then set about collecting dried cow pies from the surrounding area.

Our tent. Perfectly sufficient for the icy wind blowing down from the glacier above.

We grabbed our shells (windbreakers) and headed up the enticing canyon, with a brief pause to translate Taku’s animated warnings of impending landslides (or perhaps avalanches?  By morning the fear would morph into snow leopards).  My goal was to reach the saddle point between the two mountains, with a secret hope of getting to actually stand on snow in August.  (To which Aaron responded: “Why?? I already did that once, last August in Colorado.”)

Hiking up the valley as the sun heads for the horizon

The hike involved alternating climbs up above and back down to the river, picking our way through boulders and trying to keep our feet (and the rest of us) dry.  As we made our way higher and deeper between the mountains more side canyons revealed themselves, each with its own stream contributing to the river below, and the snow cap resolved into individual glaciers.

Ethan heading up the moraine

With one eye on the sun and the other on my watch, we reached our turn-around time just about the same time we reached an enormous scree slope: a thousand foot high slide of fist-sized gravel chips stretching down to the river, eroded from the mountain above.  Not necessarily impenetrable, but not a place to take kids (especially when there was now no chance of reaching the admittedly arbitrary goal).  So I left Suzie and the kids to take a break and eat Mars bars while I traversed the slope, just to see what was around the next bend.

The scree slope, looking back toward camp

The answer was the sunset.  So we turned back, happy to have gotten so far up the canyon surrounded by the glaciers, and not disappointed in the slightest by not actually getting to touch the snow.  We reached the car as darkness fell, finding a relieved Taku who was sure we’d been buried, eaten, or washed out to sea.

Three boys racing the sun back to camp

With darkness came cold to accompany the continuous wind coming across the glaciers, down through the canyon, and into our campsite.   Taku set about getting the fire started, using wool left from sheep grazing in the scrub that surrounded us.  Either the wool was too damp or the breeze too strong to get the cow-chip “firewood” started, so it was time for plan B.  He cut the bottom off of a water bottle, grabbed his tools from the trunk, and crawled under the landcruiser.  A few ratchet turns later and he crawled back out with a cup of gasoline and hands freezing from the wind and burning from being doused in fuel.

In the meantime the rest of us were digging through our clothes bag, putting on every single thing we had.  (Starting with the thermal underwear, which of course meant we first had to expose our bare selves to the wind).

With the liquid encouragement the fire was not exactly roaring, but was at least giving us a steady warmth against the cooling night.  We broke out the canned goods, learned that (some) Mongolians can’t stand the thought of eating fish, and had a fantastic dinner of gorp washed down with a bottle of terrible Russian port (which Taku opened with some sort of Mongolian improvisational magic, as we seem to have found the only bottle in the country that wasn’t a twist-top).  It was a completely satisfying experience, in no small part due to Taku’s easy-going, “no problem!” attitude, immune to troubles and discomforts, coupled with the fact that whatever we would experience was due to our choices.  The fire died, Taku and the kids sought refuge in the Landcruiser for the night, and Suzie and I admired the incredible clarity of the stars – miles from even the nearest flashlight – for a little while before bed.

Flaming cow chips and port. I’m not sure which would have tasted better, and which we should have been burning.

Ah, bed: No sleeping bag.  No ground mat.  Flimsy tent.  A strong breeze, temperature in the low 20’s, nearly 10,000 feet of altitude, and not even a proper coat – just a fleece top and thin shell.  But we had each other for warmth, a confidence that we would survive, and the knowledge that we getting just what we signed up for.  It was hardly a full night’s rest, but I could hardly have been more satisfied.

The cold night sky, hundreds of miles from anywhere

The frozen ponds around camp in the morning confirmed my estimate of the temperature overnight.  The kids and Taku were toasty in the car (though Ethan had a tough night with a bad stomach ache), and with the return of the sun everything thawed.

As we milled about, eating more gorp for breakfast, I kept looking up at our backyard mountains.  They were calling.  Quietly… at first.

I wasn’t about to make a second attempt at our previous day’s hike up the canyon between the mountains, but there was a low ridge just above our camp on the side of the smaller peak, Yamaatin Uul.  At nearly 13,000 feet it was 3,500 feet above us, so I certainly had no intention of going to the top.  But it looked like there would be a nice view for a short steep walk up, and there was a second ridge a bit further up that might be even better.  Seeing everyone moving slowly in the morning, I told Suzie I was going for a little walk and started up, still wearing most of what I had on from the overnight, and without any water or other supplies.

As I reached the first ridge, a single Ger came in to view, separated by a hill from our makeshift campsite.  The Mongolian pop music must have been blasting, since it was loud and clear where I was standing a thousand feet away.  The now-familiar songs kept me company as I plotted my path up to the higher ridge, eager to see what else I could discover from the higher vantage point.

And what I discovered, of course, was another ridge, not *that* far above.  That climb turned out to be much steeper than the first two, but after that it was level for a while.  The music from the ger below faded as it, and our camp, were blocked from sight as I continued.  Eventually I got a glimpse of snow, not *that* far above me.  At which point the Sirens at the top of the mountain took over: though I continued to deny it to myself, I was headed for the top.  The grass and scrub ended, as I marched up a series of barren slopes of alternating between talus (boulders) and sand.  Once I reached the base of the glacier – and well above the last of the cow and sheep droppings – I finally got a needed drink from the tiny meltwater stream bubbling through the rocks.  And on the snow, tracks: small ones, from some kind of large rodent, and a second set from a large cat, presumably in pursuit.  I’m not sure that Taku needed to worry about us getting eaten, but at least the snow leopards seem to actually exist.

The top was not so much of a peak as an expanse of snow, so gently crowned that I was actually 30 feet down the back side of the mountain before I turned back and saw that I had passed the top.  I had a magnificent 360 degree view of the plains and snow capped mountains far into the distance,  blocked only by the adjacent and more dramatic peaks of Tsambagarav and Tsast Uul 300 meters above me.

On the descent I tracked too far to the east; instead of my carefully chosen steep but manageable path up, I was crossing a series of rockslides and half-skidding down the grassy slopes in between, alternating directions to balance the pain in my knees.  Closer to the bottom I saw part of the reason for my mis-routing: the ger with the music – my navigational beacon – was gone!    The nights were getting unquestionably cold, and all the nomadic families were packing up and moving down to warmer pastures (or towns) for the winter.  I returned to a predictably worried and frustrated family and driver, and we headed back to the “road” to finish the bouncy ride to Bayan-Ulgii.