Tenger has survived his colic

Day: 401

Sunrise:
06:21

Sunset:
20:04

As the crow flies:
27,98

Daily kilometers:
40

Total kilometers:
2338

Soil condition:
Grass/stone

Temperature – Day (maximum):
25 °C

Temperature – day (minimum):
18 °C

Temperature – Night:
minus 8 °C

Latitude:
48°58’216”

Longitude:
102°26’703”

Maximum height:
1690 m above sea level

Time of departure:
12:00

Arrival time:
18:00

As the sun sends its virginal light over the mountain ridges, any unpleasant feeling that awoke in us in the strange darkness has disappeared without a trace. Every morning I ask myself why nights in the wilderness can cause such fear and anxiety. “I wonder if this is from prehistoric times when people were still threatened by sabre-toothed tigers,” I think to myself. As soon as I crawl out of my sleeping bag, I run to Tenger. Green mucus is still dripping from his nostrils. “Will we be able to leave today?” asks Tanja. “Maybe if Tenger starts drinking in the next few hours. We’ll have to wait and see,” I reply.

We are drinking tea and eating some of the usual Mongolian cookies when Tenger actually lowers his head and begins to gently nip at the grass. “Look at that. He’s eating!” says Tanja happily. “Wonderful. If he also drinks from the spring, he’s out of the woods,” I say euphorically. At 10:00 a.m. our patient eats and drinks as if nothing had ever happened. Shortly before we want to hoist the equipment onto the horses’ backs, we receive another visit. It’s the motorcyclist from last night. This time traveling with his daughter and sober. He greets us as if he has changed and is extremely friendly. There is nothing threatening in his mine. He immediately helps me to lift the duffel bags onto the horses. “Have a good trip,” he wishes us with a laugh as we leave the spring at the former Buddhist monastery.

We cross the Hanu River in the valley. We take the opportunity to water the horses again. Tenger pumps so much water into his belly that he is more like a balloon than a horse. Then we pass through a stone labyrinth to the place where last year we were forced by a shepherd to pay 37,000 tugrik (€22.50) for a sheep allegedly injured by Mogi. This year, however, the evil shepherd has set up his yurt in a different place, which is why the wide valley is completely deserted. We cross another 1,700-metre-high pass and ride around the Ovol three times to wish good luck and health for the rest of the journey. “Choo! Choo! Choo-choo!”, I herd the packhorses. Tanja’s naraa is getting slower and slower. “I can’t do it anymore. I don’t have the strength to drive Naraa. Shall we swap horses?” asks Tanja. “Okay, but then you have to do it.” “I’ll be happy to,” she replies. In fact, Naraa is quite lame and extremely difficult to ride. I have a lot of trouble keeping her going and understanding why Tanja is exhausted. “Is it still a long way to the stream?” asks Tanja. “Just a few more kilometers,” I reply. When we reach the small watercourse, it is dry. “Maybe the water has seeped away here? We have to go further uphill,” I say and drive Naraa along the stream. We are relieved when the sunlight peeking through the rain clouds is reflected by a small body of water. “Water!” shouts Tanja. After 40 kilometers of riding, we set up camp behind an invisible hill. Always hoping to remain undetected.

“Oh no. Naraa’s back is open again,” says Tanja in horror as she lifts off the Russian saddle. “It’s just an abrasion,” I reassure her. “But where did that come from again?” “The saddle girth probably wasn’t tightened properly, which is why the saddle cover could slip back and forth,” I think. “And how do we get to grips with this again?” “I’ll think of something,” I reassure her.

A boy of about twelve comes riding out of the forest, driving a herd of sheep and goats in front of him. Curious and surprised to meet two strange creatures, he reined in his horse on the other side of the stream and watched us erect the large tent. “We come from Germany and are riding through your beautiful country,” Tanja explains, to which the boy smiles shyly and rides off, driving his sheep and goats into the mountains.

We don’t get any visitors that night. Only the neighing of a herd of horses, the mooing of a few cows and the hot cry of a bird from the nearby mountain forest reach our ears.

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