The first day alone

Day: 341

Sunrise:
05:08

Sunset:
21:35

As the crow flies:
16,00

Daily kilometers:
21

Total kilometers:
1593

Soil condition:
Grass

Temperature – Day (maximum):
26°C

Temperature – day (minimum):
20°C

Temperature – Night:
8°C

Latitude:
50°33’678”

Longitude:
50°33’678”

Maximum height:
1655 m above sea level

Time of departure:
11:30

Arrival time:
16:30

Apart from a few deer that jumped across the meadow, scared and shy, nobody visited the camp. So a peaceful and pleasantly quiet night. We get up at 7:30 a.m. without having to wake our late risers. After Bor’s saddle sores got worse, we only load him with about 40 kg again today. The remaining 20 kg are divided between his companions Tenger and Sharga. Because Bumbayr’s backside was already sore on the first day, he swapped his saddle for Tenger’s. As a result, Tenger now also developed a pressure point due to the ill-fitting saddle. Tanja and I discuss how to distribute the saddle pads sensibly and come to the conclusion to give one of Sharga Tenger’s saddle pads.

The challenge now lies in loading two tied-up duffel bags, each weighing around 35 kg, onto the backs of Tenger and Sharga’s horses. Because Tenger is an extremely nervous horse, Tanja has to hold him by the lead rope and lift one of the duffel bags to chest height at the same time, while I heave the other bag over the horse’s back. For a delicate woman like Tanja, this is an immense feat of strength. A few days ago, when she was helping Khurgaa and me to unload, she permanently strained a shoulder muscle. As we are now traveling without a companion, this daily effort is one of our joint tasks. I also have to watch my back during this feat of strength to maneuver 60 to 70 kg over the horse, because everything Tanja can’t lift is automatically transferred to my side.

“Okay, now it’s time,” I say as we both stand in front of the large duffel bags. “Ready?” I ask. “Ready,” Tanja replies. “Hauruck!” we shout and lift the luggage up like weightlifters. Tenger prances nervously and jumps to the side just as we are about to drag the load over his back. “Wummms”, we hear as the duffel bags come out and slam onto the meadow. Breathing heavily, we stand there for a few minutes to recover from the exertion. Then another attempt. “Ready?” I ask. “Done,” Tanja replies as we lift the weight once again with our collective shout. Soon I’m staggering, dragging the heavy luggage at shoulder height over the saddle of our horse. His eyes widen as the 70 kg drape over him like an oversized V. “Relax, my good man. You’ve been through this hundreds of times. It’s nothing new. Calm down,” Tanja says to Tenger, who is pacing back and forth excitedly. Even at this moment we realize what a relief two more helping male hands are. But…the load is in place. “Yes, yes, yes,” I say proudly, clenching my fist and raising it to the sky. Because Sharga’s duffel bags are a little lighter, we successfully mastered the hardest part without Khurgaa and Bumbayr.

We are ready to set off at 11:30 am. “30 minutes earlier than usual,” says Tanja happily. “No wonder. Now there’s no one to spend ages cooking rancid soups,” I reply with a smile. “Let’s go!” I shout, full of zest for action.

After the horses have warmed up, we let them fall into an easy trot. As usual, Tanja rides ahead on Naraa and gives the geldings direction. I follow on my good Sar and drive Sharga, Tenger and Bor. Because our horses have been together for almost a year, they feel like a herd. They stick together and none of them try to run away. This gives us the immense advantage of not having to lead the pack horses on ropes.

We are making good progress. With every kilometer further towards Khatgal we meet more tourists. “Little Rimini,” says Tanja, thinking of the central Italian port city with its mass tourism because of the sudden accumulation of groups of people. Certainly an exaggeration, but in perhaps ten years’ time they would like to open the lake to mass tourism. The government’s plans are ambitious to say the least.

We ride past people playing volleyball and bawling loudly. Some of the tourists pull out their cameras to take pictures of our trotting horse-drawn train. Little Tuya in particular causes a stir and is the photo star. The peace and quiet is over here. People blast loud music at each other. Birdsong is more or less eradicated. There are even small stores where you can buy many things that Mongolian vacationers love. Nudism is also the order of the day. Some women present their breasts whether they are beautiful or not. The Mongols are not exactly among the shy races. But foreign tourists from all over the world are also represented here. Everything seems to be concentrated on the 15-kilometer-long strip of shoreline that has been sacrificed for tourism. Fat, expensive jeeps and even trucks thunder down the gravel road, kicking up gigantic fountains of dust. The track has developed into a real road here and suddenly leaves the lake to wind its way over a mountain towards the tourist village of Khatgal. We know about this possibility because we rode along the lake last year. It is a difficult, narrow path that sometimes moves only a few centimeters next to a 20 to 50 meter high, steep cliff edge that slopes down to the lake. Dangerous but feasible.

“What do you think? Should we follow the road or take the path through the forest?” asks Tanja. I think about it for a while and look at the wide gravel road. My decision is made when a super expensive jeep belonging to a rich Mongolian starts hurtling down the mountain at crazy speed. “We take the path through the mountain forest. It can’t be as dangerous as those crazy drivers.” Shortly before we turn left into the dense forest, which is avoided by people, we ask a Mongolian woman whether the mountain path towards Khatgal is really still passable. “You can forget the path with your bulky luggage. It’s far too narrow and dangerous for the packhorses,” she says, unsettling us. “So what does your gut tell you?” asks Tanja again. “We mastered the route last year at the start of winter, so we’ll master it all the more in summer. Apart from that, there shouldn’t be any thieves in the forest. The solitude promises too little prey,” I decide to Tanja’s satisfaction, who also doesn’t want to follow the road under any circumstances.

We pass a luxury yurt camp. Europeans sit in front of the Mongolian tents at tables set with delicious food. They talk animatedly and don’t even look at us. We look over at them a little longingly. “They even have beer and wine,” Tanja enthuses. “Maybe they’ll invite us?” I reply rather jokingly. None of the people sitting there know where we come from. That we had been living in isolation for eight months and hadn’t been able to shower or bathe since then. No one can be aware of what it means to live for such a long time without any of the luxuries of civilization. With people who belong to a completely different culture. “Oh man, I’d give a lot for a beer like that, the delicious cheese and a few fat olives,” I say, feeling my mouth watering. “Can you recognize cheese and olives from this distance?” wonders Tanja. “No, but I’m sure they’ll eat it,” I laugh.

As soon as we are swallowed up by the trees of the dense forest, we stop, unload our horses and sit down on the luggage to rest a little. “I wonder if we’ll find our way back,” I think aloud. “Definitely,” Tanja says confidently and pours me a mug of hot tea from the thermos flask. “Would you like some boortsog?” she asks. “Sure, I’m ravenous,” I reply, stuffing the dry dough balls deep-fried in cow fat down my throat.

After an hour, we recovered a little from the exertions of the ride. I re-tie the luggage and with the same effort as in the morning we heave it back onto the packsaddles. Just a few hundred meters further on, we discover the narrow path that winds through the dense forest not far from the lakeshore. Only isolated traces bear witness to the use of the trail. No wonder, as a convenient road leads through the forest just a few kilometers from here, on the other side of the mountain range.

After perhaps two kilometers, a small clearing opens up in front of us with an almost dreamlike lush meadow. “Our fairytale camp,” I enthuse, leading the horses towards it. “Beautiful,” Tanja says almost reverently. In the best of moods, having managed the first day without a companion and without any incidents, we unload the animals and set up the tent. It’s a relief when no one puts in their two cents about the campsite. Nobody says we should ride a few kilometers further because the grass is certainly better there. Nobody is dissatisfied with the choice of fireplace or claims that the iron stakes are muu etc. It is pleasant to enjoy this peaceful silence in a way that is soon unimagined. No cell phone or MP4 player will destroy the sounds of nature. The birds are chirping, the sound of small waves breaking from the lake reaches us in the forest. The horses munch on the lush grass with relish. Our tent is about 50 meters above sea level, which gives us a view of the lake spreading out in front of us. Behind the tent, the path climbs steeply up a mountain covered in dense forest. It smells like brown bears and other game here. However, we are sure that none of the shaggy forest dwellers have been seen here for a long time. And yet the wild forest, from which strange noises emanate, could give you the creeps.

Tanja cooks a soup without rancor at her campfire. Thank God. I sit in the awning, watching them, typing the day’s short recordings into the laptop and labeling and archiving the pictures. We are in our small, ideal world. A world full of adventure and purist life. When I’ve finished my work, I walk down to the lakeshore and watch the slowly fading daylight. The bare tree stumps crouching in the shallow water stretch their thin branches long-fingered into the delicate pink, the graceful yellow and cobalt blue of the barely noticeable fading sky colors. Like silhouettes, their blackness is drawn into the soon unreal, beautiful picture painted by Mother Earth. As if they were ghost creatures, the tree stumps stand motionless in the water and are reflected in the now smooth surface of the lake. A large bird glides through the nature painting. His hotter cry falls down on me from the sky, hits the water and is swallowed up into silence. Pebbles lying on the ground, covered in greenish algae, shimmer upwards into the fading last light of a sun that has long since sunk behind the mountains on the other side of Khuvgul. I crouch on a cool stone, spellbound. My senses are heightened, I can hear the slightest breeze, the faintest buzzing of the mosquitoes whirring from the nearby forest. The transition between day and night is soon complete. It is an act of the finest gradations, shades and shimmering. An act that is incomparable to anything else and whose uniqueness is based on its wealth of nuances.

Captivated by this moment, I hear Tanja’s call. “Dinner’s ready!” I rise slowly and climb up to our small clearing surrounded by the dark forest.

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