Difficult pass crossing

Day: 54

Sunrise:
06:51

Sunset:
19:27

As the crow flies:
12,73

Daily kilometers:
15

Total kilometers:
665

Soil condition:
Meadow

Temperature – Day (maximum):
20°C

Temperature – day (minimum):
17°C

Temperature – Night:
minus 5°

Latitude:
49°05’096”

Longitude:
101°28’144”

Maximum height:
1372 m above sea level

Time of departure:
13:00

Arrival time:
18:00

“What I said last night wasn’t a joke,” says Tanja in the morning. “What? What wasn’t a joke?” “Well, I think it’s nonsense to ride all the way to Lake Chövsgöl under these conditions. We didn’t survive a plane crash and have to make our way out here for better or worse. It’s far too cold. We should come up with an alternative. Maybe it would be better to ride only as far as Mörön. That would give us enough time to prepare for wintering with the Zaatan.” “Maybe you’re right. Let’s decide at a later date. Who knows how the weather will develop. If it stays this cold or gets even colder, we’ll be forced to change our plans. We’ll see,” I ponder.

As we leave the tent, we see our two men descending from a nearby hill. “We got a canister of water from the people who cut hay up there for the winter,” Ulzii explains with a laugh. It’s amazing how the two of them manage situations time and time again. We had enough water for breakfast, but it might not have been enough to get to the next spring or stream. Apart from that, we can’t do much with our current water reserves. Every drop of it is frozen hard.

Tanja and I have planned a quick breakfast to take advantage of today’s sunny and soon warm day to cover some kilometers. But once again the Mongolian mentality throws a spanner in the works. Bilgee puts wood on the fire, places his large pan on top and starts preparing gamber. We let it happen. There will be a point to it. During previous expeditions, I would have prevailed and ordered an early departure because of the rapidly approaching winter. But I want to take a different approach on this trip. Tanja and I are sure that we will achieve our goal this way too. Nevertheless, it is clear to me that I have to find the middle way. A mixture of the Mongolian and German mentality is certainly appropriate. Apart from that, it is important to a certain extent not to let the expedition leader completely out of your hands. A rudderless steamer will always run aground.

During the gamber roast we talk to Bilgee about the further course of the expedition and where we should keep our horses in winter. According to Ulzii’s translation, which is slowly improving, we understand that Bilgee is basically ready to bring the horses back from Mörön to Erdenet. He can take them to relatives of his who are nomads and have their own herds. In this case, we would need two kilograms of rice per day for our animals. That would be around 2,160 kilograms of rice for six months plus hay, transportation and care costs. “How long do you think it will take you to get the horses from Mörön to Erdenet?” I want to know. “10 days,” answers Bilgee. “But we could also use you to set up our winter camp with the Zaatan,” I consider. “I’ll be happy to help you with that too. But we need time for that. It may be important for you to have two horses there. Then you’ll be mobile if the worst comes to the worst. In this case, we would have to build a shelter for the horses. This means that we will ride into the highlands of the reindeer nomads without a horse and cart. That will take a few weeks and will be very hard because of the winter,” he says. “And how will you get back? And what about the horses? In that case, it’s too cold to ride the horses to Erdenet.” “We should discuss that in Mörön,” he says thoughtfully.

Today’s departure is again at 13:00. As soon as the first 500 meters are behind us, it becomes too steep for Bor. He breathes heavily and stops. Bilgee, a true idea machine, attaches a rope to each drawbar of the cart and gives one of them to me and one to Ulzii. Now he leads Bor, while Ulzii and I also ride beside him and pull the wagon by the ropes. This method is a great relief for boron. Together and with combined forces, we bring the small cart to the top of the mountain. At the top, we are greeted by an ovol (place of sacrifice), as always on a mountain. Ovols are wooden trunks piled up like Indian tents, usually with blue pieces of cloth and flags hanging from them. The traveler who passes by here hangs such a cloth in the copse and wishes himself and his companions a safe journey. If, like us, you don’t have any such pieces of fabric, you can also take a stone from the surrounding area and pile it on top of the Ovol with the other stones. You must then circle the sacrificial site three times. According to Mongolian belief, this guarantees a safe journey. Of course, we also circle this unconventional structure three times according to the old custom. Then our journey continues. But only for a few meters. The gradient on this side of the pass is extreme. It is not possible for Bor to brake the car. He would simply pull him down into the depths. Our idea machine is not long in coming up with a new idea. He takes the long cloth belt of his del (Mongolian traditional summer or winter coat) and wraps it around the left and right wheel suspension of the horse-drawn cart. Then he looks for a piece of tree trunk about ten centimetres thick in the forest and pushes it over the tire through an eyelet in his cloth belt. “If the car gets too fast, all you have to do now is push the trunk down onto the tire. That gives us a brake,” he explains with gestures and sign language that he speaks perfectly. We are just about to bring the car down into the valley when a moped rider rattles up the path. Without further ado, he places his companion on the stand and helps us with the task that was impossible for me just a few minutes ago.

While Tanja films and takes photos of this not entirely safe undertaking, Bilgee Bor leads the pass down. Ulzii and I have the job of the brakeman. The moped rider hangs onto the back of the car with all his strength to brake it as well. So, with great effort, we descend meter by meter. The deep ruts cause the car to sway from left to right. Once to such an extent that I think he might tip over onto me. If I were to leave my place as brakeman, I would put Ulzii and especially Bilgee, who is leading Bor in front of the wagon, in danger. So I don’t jump to the side and am relieved. The horse-drawn carriage catches itself again before the tipping point and continues to rattle and slide over the uneven ground until we have it in another beautiful high valley. “The Ovol has done its job,” I say later to Tanja, to whom I report the delicate situation.

Panting, we lie down on the grass to rest. Then Ulzii, the moped rider and I walk back up the hill. “Over there, where the blue fabric hangs in the tree, there were a few deaths not long ago,” explains the friendly Mongolian. “How did that happen?” I ask. This is the main transport link between Mörön and Ulan Bator. Minibuses full of people travel here every day and also at night. In one of the deep ruts, a bus tipped to one side and fell a few meters down the hillside,” he explains.

In the meantime, Tanja waited for us at the top with the horses. Because another moped rider was coming up the mountain, Bilgee sent her back up so that she could look after the equipment. “It was good to go back. When I arrived here, the foreign cyclist had already taken a look at the horses and equipment. It was really noticeable,” says Tanja. Well then it made sense to stop filming”, I think. “Absolutely,” Tanja replies with conviction.

Shortly before the village of Rashaant, two drunks come towards us on their mopeds. First they drive past. But then they notice the foreigners. The driver makes a swaying arc across the steppe and reaches us again. Bilgee asks the two of them for water and good grass for the horses. An eternal palaver is the answer. Then the passenger gets off the rattling thing, grabs the reins of Bilgee’s horse, swings himself into the saddle and shouts: “Follow me. I’ll show you the way to good grazing grounds!” Ulzii, who always leads Bilgee’s horse when Bilgee pulls the cart on foot, lets the drunkard have his way. We now turn our wagon around and ride in the opposite direction. The drunken moped rider speeds off, not hearing the loud shouts of his friend. As soon as we have ridden a few meters after the stranger, he gallops off with Tenger. Because Tanja and I have dropped back a little due to the unpleasant appearance of the drunk, we can only see from a distance how Ulzii takes up the chase. “Can’t be true. We go to great lengths to protect our horses from thieves every night and then a drunk steals a horse from us in broad daylight,” I shout. Tanja and I gallop excitedly to Bilgee and the horse-drawn carts. When we reach Bilgee we ask out of breath what’s going on? Bilgee waves his hand in a relaxed manner. Apparently, at least that’s how we understand Bilgee, the drunk just rode quickly to his yurt and Ulzii went after him to get Tenger. So no horse theft. It doesn’t take long before Ulzii is back with us and doesn’t say a word about the incident. A little later, at the foot of a hill, we actually reach a fantastically beautiful spot with lush grass and a small stream meandering through the wide valley. The horses are quickly unsaddled, the wagon unloaded and the tents erected as the two drunks are already speeding off again on their rattling machines. The rider is so drunk that he falls out of the saddle of his two-wheeler and lies giggling on the ground. Just 10 minutes later, the two of them are laughing their way up the mountain again. The machine drives in such serpentine lines that it needs a lot of space to avoid simply falling down the other side of the hill. We have just put a pot of stream water on the fire when this time the drunken passenger gallops up on his horse. He hobbles his horse and joins us at the fireplace. As custom demands, Tanja offers him a cup of tea, which he gladly takes. By now we are a cheerful group gathered around the warming fire. Ulzii called his friend on his cell phone. He lives in the nearby village of Rashaant and is the only policeman in the village. He didn’t miss the opportunity to visit our camp on his moped. It’s dusk when our guest, the drunk moped driver who is now here with his horse, unpacks a bottle of vodka and offers me a half-filled cup. I take the container and take a big sip for a change. Not without first dipping my ring finger into the drink and flicking the precious liquid in all directions. When the Mongols realize that I know their custom of sacrificing a few noble drops to the nature spirits before drinking, they laugh cheerfully. Then I give the cup back. It is immediately refilled and passed on to Tanja. She also dips her ring finger into the vodka and flicks it in all directions. Then she takes a sip and hands the container back. The jar makes the rounds until the bottle is empty. “Denis, my friend Baskaa brought this for you,” says Ulzii and gives each of us a can of beer. Although we are dog-tired from the exhausting day, especially because of the pass crossing, we don’t refuse and also drink the beer. Tanja unpacks another tin of peanuts which she places on the now cold and damp grass. The saying “Festivals must be celebrated as they fall” applies here. In Mongolia, many things simply happen spontaneously. Without a plan. It just happens and it’s best to join in. Resisting this means swimming against the current and that is far too exhausting in the long run. In the course of the evening we learn that Ulzii’s friend Baskaar will be transferred to Tsaagan Nuur in the coming week. “If you have any problems, I can certainly help you there,” the policeman offers us his help. As we urgently need contacts in this remote region, his offer comes in very handy. “Is it all right for you if I stay with Baskaar in Rashaant tonight? Bilgee will take my watch shift and I’ll come back in the morning?” asks Ulzii. Tanja and I look at each other and agree. “No problem. Have a nice evening,” I reply, happy to be able to do him a favor.

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