Storm fronts and wet conditions

Day: 334

Sunrise:
05:05

Sunset:
21:40

As the crow flies:
3,50

Daily kilometers:
5

Total kilometers:
1478

Soil condition:
Grass

Temperature – Day (maximum):
20 °C

Temperature – day (minimum):
12 °C

Temperature – Night:
7 °C

Latitude:
51°08’077”

Longitude:
099°46’275”

Maximum height:
1730 m above sea level

It has been raining again without interruption since yesterday evening. Everything in our tent is clammy. Tired, I get up to check on the horses that we have staked outside our tent overnight. “So, everything okay?” asks Tanja in a sleepy voice. “All right. They’re eating. But the sky looks terrible. One violent storm front after another is rolling across the country,” I say and, as if in confirmation, deep thunder rumbles in the nearby mountains. I quickly zipper up our tent again and slip into my warm sleeping bag. “If it keeps raining like this, we won’t be able to set off today,” I say. “Maybe it will clear up in the afternoon. It’s enough if we leave at 14:00 or 15:00. It’s light until 22:00. The main thing is that we’re on the road again,” answers Tanja.

At 10:00 a.m. we eat our fresh grain porridge. “I can understand that the Mongolians find this chicken dinner terrible. It’s slowly coming out of my ears too. We’ve been eating it almost every morning for almost a year,” says Tanja. “Well, I’m not really in the mood for fresh goat’s stomach either,” I reply. “But on a soft-boiled egg or scrambled eggs, fresh coffee, grain bread with cheese, fresh fruit and yogurt. I would really enjoy that now,” Tanja enthuses. “Hm, or nice hot toast with fresh butter on it, or fresh rolls from the bakery around the corner, delicious real cheese, a milkshake and cappuccino. Oh man, that would be really delicious,” I say, devouring the cooked grains spoon by spoon. “It’s good to be able to enrich the fresh grain porridge with almonds, sunflower seeds and walnuts. Otherwise our breakfast would be really bleak,” I continue. “Our nut supply will run out in a few days,” Tanja scares me. “That’s really tragic,” I reply, deeply shocked.

At 12.00 noon we have Ozgondalai translate again what we expect from Khurgaa and Bumbayr on the trip. “You have to look after the horses, light fires, fetch water, help with loading and take turns with us on guard shifts at night in critical regions,” we list, so as not to be disappointed again along the way. “No problem,” Khurgaa replies with a friendly smile. “Good, if the sky clears and it stops raining we’ll start today. I think we’ll start loading at 13:30. We should be ready to set off at 14:00,” I explain. “Asuudal bisch”, (No problem) says Khurgaa. Then he gets on his moped and rides off. “Where is he going now?” I wonder. “He wants to get some new boots in Ringinlhumbe,” explains his sister. “He’s known about our trip since the day before yesterday and just before we set off he remembers?” replies Tanja, to which Ozgondalai just shrugs his shoulders and smiles sheepishly.

Shortly after Khurgaa has sped off, it actually clears up. Tanja and I immediately start dismantling the tent and packing up. At 13:30 there is no sign of Khurgaa or Bumbayr. At 14:00, Bumbayr turns up but there is still no sign of his uncle. “The bike is broken. But he’ll be here soon,” Khurgaa’s sister explains. Because of the experiences and shenanigans of the last 11 months, we don’t believe a word of why the family gets nervous and constantly tries to reach Khurgaa by cell phone. As Tanja fetches the horses for loading, Khurgaa suddenly appears. A friend brought it on another moped. Obviously his buck has actually broken down. “I couldn’t start it again,” he apologizes.

As he runs past Mogi and tries to kick him, I shout out indignantly. “Your dog is bad,” says Khurgaa irritably. “My dog is good,” I reply. “Your dog is bad,” he replies. “It’s a good dog,” I don’t give in. “A bad dog,” he says again, which makes me wonder whether I shouldn’t fire this man on the spot. Then I control my rising anger. Khurgaa suddenly tampers with our luggage and unties my painstakingly knotted ropes. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Muu”, (bad) he says. “No, this charging technology is perfect. It holds. When we tie the duffel bags lengthwise onto the horses’ backs, they start to slide,” I explain. “Muu”, is his provocative answer. Without taking the slightest notice of me, he continues to undo the already knotted ropes. I’ve had enough. “That’s the way it is,” I say in a sharp tone, really about to dismiss this young man immediately before we’ve even hired him. He looks at me, senses the seriousness of the situation and stops opening the ropes. I stand there for seconds and think about my next move. Rash decisions are usually wrong, I think. “If you absolutely think your loading technique works, we’ll load one horse as you wish and the other two as usual. If your load slips, we’ll do it as before,” I decide, which he agrees to. As it stands, loading horses is an important part of a horseman’s life. Apparently this has something to do with the macho side of a man.

We leave our hosts’ hut at 5:30 pm. Khurgaa declares to comply. He has something urgent to do. But young Bumbayr rides with us. It doesn’t take long for the Baishin to disappear behind lush, green bushes and trees. I turn around again and look out over the wide valley in which the village of Ringinlhumbe with its log cabins spreads out. The high mountain ranges with their snow-covered peaks, which border the sleepy little town to the north, are now also hidden by trees. We ride at walking pace into the high valley which winds its way through two ridges of the Khoridol-Saridag mountain range. It starts to rain again, so we stop and put on our waterproof pants and jackets. Bumbayr is soaked to the skin because of his poor clothing. Due to the lack of sun and the strong wind pushing through the mountains, it is cold. The wet ground smacks under the hooves of our animals. It doesn’t take long for the duffel bags tied up by Khurgaa to tip forward. I keep a close eye on the luggage, because if it continues to slide down Sharga’s back, it could hurt him or cause pressure sores. The heavily forested mountain slopes to our left and right get closer and closer, literally squeezing the once wide valley. Rivulets and streams cross the barely discernible path. The forest is dripping. The land is constantly soaked with moisture. As the load tilts forward more and more, Sharga’s packsaddle begins to rock. “Looks bad,” I say to Tanja, who rides next to me for a moment. “Stop!” I shout to tell Bumbayr not to ride on. I get out of the saddle, hand Tanja my horse’s lead rope and try to move the duffel bags back into position on Sharga’s back. However, without success. As Bumbayr doesn’t have enough strength to help me and we would now have to completely reload the horse, I decide to leave it alone for today. “We’ll set up camp here,” I say. “Here?” asks Bumbayr incredulously. “But yes. We can’t ride any further with this load. Besides, it will soon be dark. We’ll use the remaining daylight to pitch our tents.”

Our animals are quickly unloaded. Because of the swampy ground, I spend some time looking for a suitable place for our large tent when Khurgaa appears. Bumbayr explains to him why we are already setting up camp here. Without saying a word, the young man helps us. A warming fire is quickly lit. Our two companions are shivering because of the wet clothes. Khurgaa decides to ride back to get some dry clothes. “A good idea,” says Tanja. He returns before sunset. I’m sitting in the tent, typing my short notes into the laptop. My GPS tells me that I have only covered just under five kilometers today. “It doesn’t matter. The main thing is that we’ve made it,” says Tanja again. “That’s right. If our new companions remain sociable and friendly, it will be a nice trip,” I say.

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