Rock Magazine

Andrew Davison treks across the wild Mongolian landscape from Uyanga to Bat Olzy in central Mongolia

The weather plays an intrinsic role in our lives – particularly the life of a bushwalker. It can gnaw deep into the psyche, dampening moral or, just as easily, bring a gentle breeze refreshing our spirits. It is fundamental to the great rhythmic cycle of life, where seasons seamlessly merge: autumn breezes rattle and hiss among golden leaves; a winter storm deposits a white blanket across the earth; spring brings wild flowers to life; and summer’s parching rays burn the earth’s surface, sapping its freshness.
In Mongolia, these seasons could not be more pronounced. Nor a people so well adapted to this annual succession of ice, wind, rain and sun. Mongolia is a climate of extremes; temperatures soar to 40°C in the short summer and plummet to - 40°C or lower in January and February, the country’s coldest months. Spring brings hideous winds that whip up savage dust storms from overgrazed pastures and the Gobi desert, while autumn is a chaos of the four seasons in one day. And as each season merges, Mongolians adapt and life remains as it has for thousands of years.
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The swift, icy stream grasped at our ankles, sending a chilly pain to the depths of our bones. I winced in discomfort and glanced towards the northern sky, a distant V-formation of migrating birds coming into view, flying south. This sight, combined with the numbness of my feet, reminded me that autumn was coming to an end and more importantly, winter was beginning.

As we mounted the far bank under an endless sky, the broad valley spread before us. Like button mushrooms sprouting after summer rain, the white domes of gers (traditional nomadic homes made from a timber lattice and struts covered by felt and canvas, known as yurts in English) clustered on the riverbanks. Smoke billowed from each chimney, filling the icy air with the aromatic tang of cow and yak dung fires.

Out of a wide blue late-autumn sky drifted the melody of a lone bird as Antoine and I followed the Ongy River upstream, carefully keeping a good distance from each ger. Not that the Mongolians would have found it intrusive if we had of passed closely by their homes; a countryside herder would not be upset even if we opened the door and entered without invitation. On the contrary, we would most likely be offered a seat at the northern end of the ger, by a chest where the household valuables were kept, and served a steaming bowl of Suutei tsai, a traditional brew of poor quality tea boiled profusely in a weak milky broth and seasoned with a hint of salt. Such is Mongolian hospitality. In a land where the weather can be life-threatening, tradition holds that a traveller is never turned away – even an enemy must be sheltered and fed before being sent on their way. This hospitality enables a herder to ride his mount across the steppes with only the clothes on his back and is a custom that remains to this day. What kept us alert as we passed each ger with trepidation, were the ferocious dogs used for security. Mongolians breed their dogs strong and aggressive, and in the vast steppes leashes are unnecessary. On one occasion when we ventured too close, a huge beast confronted us with hunched shoulders and flattened ears. Baring its teeth, snarling and barking, it pursued us until we were three or four hundred metres from its territory.

Some kilometres further on, the valley began to close in and steepen. A stiff wind rose, funnelling up the valley and raising goose bumps on exposed skin, the sun’s harsh light bleaching a now colourless sky. Spying a cluster of scraggly bushes and a lone tree by the river in the otherwise treeless valley, we took advantage of the shelter. No sooner was the tent erected than a flurry of soft flakes swirled around our camp. The two of us stood staring at the violent sky, as the ice and snow whizzed in drifts around our scarf wrapped heads.

Antoine turned and said, ‘You know, they call Mongolia “The land of blue sky”…’ I could tell he was smiling beneath his scarf ‘…over 260 days of cloudless sky a year they say’.
‘It’s probably true,’ I said, ‘just that today is one of the other 105 days.’

Our tent was one of many that dotted the valley floor that evening. Unfortunately, ours wasn’t as cozy as a Mongolian ger. We spent the evening huddled in our sleeping bags trying to ward off -8°C temperatures.

The mobile homes of Mongolians have been designed with great architectural skill and refined over hundreds of years, coping comfortably with the distinct seasons that create the continental climate of the vast steppes. The squat, round design of the ger will withstand the most ferocious winter blizzards that Siberia can produce. With the addition of layers of felt covering the lattice walls and a simple firebox burning dried dung, the ger is a snug sanctuary from the biting cold. Throughout the summer months, the sides can be rolled up to allow the breeze to flow through, while the entire construction can be packed on to one camel for transportation to greener pastures.
Antoine and I weathered the bitter, moonless night. It brought a silent cover to the land, now white and shimmering in the low rays that pierced through layers of residual stratus cloud, filling the valley and lapping at the hillsides. A land transformed from the previous evening of our arrival.

Finding our way across a half-frozen stream, we moved rapidly in an attempt to warm our feet and defrost our frozen boots. The valley continued its steady climb into the mountains. The river was now white and slushy, gers dotting its banks. On distant slopes herders on horseback rounded up their livestock, while women collected animal dung, building huge stacks to last the coming winter. Others passed on their motorbikes, a modern affectation that now often replaces the horse. However, everyone was still dressed in their traditional outfit, the del, which has not yet found a modern replacement. Like the ger, the del is perfectly adapted to the herders’ lifestyle and the climate. A simple long overcoat padded and lined with lamb’s wool, with lengthy flaps at the end of each sleeve cuff to keep the icy winds off the hands while grasping the reins of a horse or the handles of a motorbike.

Under hurrying clouds we made our way deeper into the mountains. Beyond a distant pass was our objective, a series of eight lakes, locally known as ‘Naiman Nuur’ (literally translating to ‘eight lakes’). It is a prosaic name for a place of such beauty, but that is how Mongolians relate to their surroundings; with the daily struggle for survival against the environment, creating complexities would seem counter-productive.

It was a life I could easily understand and relate to. No doubt many other bushwalkers would agree: when we don our packs, simplicity is the essence. For a while we become nomads in the bush. All the rules are the same as for nomadic herders. Moving with our home in tow, continuously searching for our own greener pastures, whether it is a mountain peak or the emptiness of a desert and an endless night sky. All aspects of a nomad’s life are paralleled when we take to the wilderness. We find a way of making one item function for two, a way to conserve energy and a way of keeping our food to the simple essentials. My admiration for the Mongolians who maintain this existence for a lifetime is immense.

The cloud remained with us for the two days it took to reach the pass. However, the offerings we had placed on the ovoos (shamanic piles of stones) we passed on route must have paid off; the gods looked upon us favorably. Across the pass the sky was bright and clear. From our vantage point a grand vista spread before us. In an ancient volcanic crater an ink-black lake contrasted with the white surrounds, snow-covered native pine forest stretched down to its shores and the surrounding mountains rising to heights of over 3000 metres. An icy wind swept up from the lake, screaming through the pass. We could only take our gloves off our hands for a minute to take photographs, before the pain penetrated to the bones of our fingers.

We sheltered for lunch in the lee of a large ovoo. Standing two metres high, four metres in diametre and adorned with khadags (blue ceremonial scarves), it was the largest ovoo we had seen. We had nothing significant to offer the ovoo, so encircling it three times in a clockwise direction, we placed a stone upon it, reciting: ‘more profit is mine and a bigger ovoo is yours.’ The circling is traditional and demonstrates respect for the spirits, while adding the pebble gives ‘wind to your horse’ and luck for your journey. We simply hoped for the good weather to hold for the rest of the walk.

Through the numerous layers of our fleeces, the bitterly cold wind ripped the heat from our bodies as we descended toward the lakes. Braced against these ferocious forces on the southern end of the lake were two gers. It was easy to imagine what a paradise this location must be in the summer months, but now it appeared arctic and inhospitable. The lake’s surface was awash with white caps as blizzards of wind-swept snow brushed over its surface. Within a month it would fall silent and still under an ice sheet thick enough to drive a semi-trailer over.

The sun moved low in the western sky, casting gentle rays through the forest and across the snow. On the hillsides the snow billowed in small tornados, glistening in the late light, but on the valley floor amongst the forest, only the heaviest gusts were felt. Quickly the temperature dropped to -11°C. The heat from the camp stove melting ice for water rose only to refreeze in the clear night sky.

The next day in the flooding brightness of morning we packed slowly, our hands barely able to function in the cold. I thought of the million herders lighting dung fires with painful fingers just like mine, barely able to strike a match. Was this something you could get used to?

Back on the track, we passed one of these hardy herders on horseback, dressed in his traditional del. His relaxed posture answered my question, it could have been a balmy summer’s morning. But the expression on his face suggested he had a question of his own: ‘What are you two fools doing out here in this weather without a horse?’ My Mongolian was too poor to explain, and after a short exchange we continued.

By late afternoon we began our descent from Naiman Nuur towards the northern valley of the Okhon River, skirting a 20 kilometre stretch of rock scree – an ancient lava flow from the time when the volcano that formed the lakes had erupted. We had not found surface water since the lake and as we descended all the streams we came across remained frozen. How did the herders obtain their water supply? We were melting ice, however, as our fuel supply began to run low we contemplated burning dung.

On the open steppes between the folds of small mounds, in the depression of a stream, the land fell away into a 20-metre cavity, creating a sheltered single-drop waterfall. The gorge that led away was forested with pines. Although not spectacular, it was a pretty spot and a landmark in an otherwise featureless steppe. Only the most resilient snow remained in hidden crevices among rocks, but the temperature still struggled to rise above 0°C, causing water to tumble lazily from the falls and freeze on to rocks. The bright sky of late afternoon did not hold a cloud, and in the distance a call rang from the entrance of a ger. It was an invitation for a meal and shelter for the night. Antoine and I agreed; the past six nights of frozen fingers and aching toes were reason enough to take up the herder’s offer.
Looking down the broad valley, seemingly endless grass plains dissolved into the distant curve of the earth. From the decorative orange door of the circular home, our host Mockbaatar and I stood and watched the silhouette of distant roaming horses before a crimson radiance of light. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said to Mockbaatar. He turned with eyes full of curiosity, drawing a breath as if to begin speaking, but then he refrained. His expression said enough; the land was not beautiful, it was a land that kept them poor, a land disabled by snow, ice and extreme cold in winter, plagued by dust storms and heat waves in summer. I was an ignorant bushwalker and it shamed me. I could only see its visual beauty.

Mockbaatar’s two sons, Sukbaatar and Batzorit, arrived on horseback, they were clad in homemade dels akin to that worn by Genghis Khan 800 years before. Little has changed in the past 1000 or so years; the Mongols knew there was little chance of changing the land, so adaptation was the key. Mockbaatars sons herded the last of the goats into their dilapidated circular yard.

Inside the cosy confines of their ger, Mockbaatar muttered to his wife Bayantuya, ‘winter is on its way’. With a wordless sigh, Bayantuya poured a steaming bowl of suutei tsai. I found the musty odour that pervaded the interior of their ger, fermenting milk and smoldering dung, settling. Slurping my tea, I sat on a grotty rug covering a dirt floor, the lattice walls that surrounded me were ornamented with random objects: homemade saddles, leather whips, slabs of dried meat, Colgate toothbrushes, pots and ladles – all tools of practicality; their small home and nomadic way of life had no space for unnecessary knick-knacks. The comfortable interior was lit by the soft light from a small flap folded open at the apex of the dome. The warmth of the fire and the delicate filtered light created an ambience of tranquil ease.

On leaving the cozy confines of Mockbaatar’s home the next morning, Antoine and I set out across the steppes. In the wake of an icy breeze, we followed the broad valley toward Bat Olzy, the nearest town. The clusters of gers increased in density with each kilometre, as did the number of vehicles. The monotonous landscape made time drag and as a warm hotel room beckoned, we began to move at an uncharacteristic pace, determined to have the 30 kilometres to civilisation behind us.
From over a small rise an elderly man appeared, his car had fallen through the ice of a shallow river crossing and become stuck. With the water only shin-deep, Antoine and I assisted his two sons in pushing the car out of the river. In return we secured a lift to Bat Olzy. As one of the sons guided the vehicle between potholes and over the rocks and bumps of the dirt track, the old man sat chattering in the backseat of the car. He began with the onerous Mongolian greetings, and then proceeded into expressions of goodwill. With these ritual respects out of the way, conversation could then be initiated. The approaching winter was the main subject: the coming of the long, bleak sub-arctic months, when the days are short and the nights long and cold, feed for animals limited and much effort must be spent keeping warm. It is a time when the encumbering snow and cruel temperatures drive even the resilient Mongolians almost to the point of despair.

Autumn had delivered its usual furious mix of weather: blizzards of blustery snow, clear sun-filled days, dust-strewn winds and sub zero temperatures. We had endured only a week, braving the elements amongst the wilderness in our small tent; each turn of the weather etching itself on our psyche. Over half of Mongolia’s population reside in tents and live out their lives in this beautiful but challenging environment. It is an admirable strength that has helped shape the culture and character of its people. As a short-term nomad on this walk I found my greener pastures; it wasn’t a mountain peak or a flower studded field by a bubbling brook, but an insight and an understanding of a life we strive for every time we head into the bush.

Andrew Davison takes pleasure in the simplicity of being in the bush. He currently resides in Mongolia and thinks himself fortunate to reside in a nation with an abundance of untouched walking destinations.