The secret of happiness is freedom

Day: 381-385

Sunrise:
05:59/06:05

Sunset:
20:49/20:42

Total kilometers:
2082

Soil condition:
Grass

Temperature – Day (maximum):
26°C

Temperature – day (minimum):
20 °C

Temperature – Night:
4 °C/9 °C

Latitude:
49°42’773”

Longitude:
100°11’497”

Maximum height:
1492 m above sea level

A pleasant, cloudless day welcomes us with open arms. If we didn’t still have 400 strenuous kilometers of riding ahead of us, we could have stayed in camp number 58 between the two yurts for a long time. Although we have now been living in this valley for almost six weeks, the daily tasks mean that we never get bored. Nevertheless, we have to keep going. Renjindorj is already talking about the approaching cold and the resulting urgency to hurry. It’s crazy. Winter is still with us and after a short, hot summer, it is already creeping up on us again. It is still hot during the day, but the mercury column will drop steadily in the coming weeks.

We would never have dreamed of staying here for so long. One night was planned, but a different departure time was on the divine itinerary. Only because we have learned during our expeditions and travels not to resist the unalterable and to accept our fate as it is revealed to us have we been able to enjoy this beautiful and most peaceful time. If we had rebelled against this and been upset about the daily postponement of our departure, this time would have turned into a mental nightmare. So we humans often have it in our own hands what we make of our day, week or life. Rebel against it and suffer or accept it and even create something positive out of one or the other predicament. Even shoveling away 70 kilograms of horse manure every day has become a pleasant routine for me in this camp. I always imagine that every single horse apple is a lump of gold and how infinitely rich we have become with the now two-ton piles of manure. As I said, it is all a matter of the state of mind, by which I mean, as I have mentioned several times on this journey, that happiness or unhappiness is produced in our brain.

Because Rejindorj and Ilchelaugsuren’s son are not going to Mörön by moped today, I decide to ride Sar. I can try out my newly built Russian saddle right away. “Take care,” Tanja says goodbye to me. Sar, whose bruise has almost completely healed after the long break, is also looking forward to a longer ride. I find it difficult to keep him at trotting speed for the first few kilometers. He would love to gallop across the prairie like an arrow. I’m enjoying being back in the saddle. Marmots sit up to see what’s coming. As we approach, they quickly seek refuge in their burrow. Eagles circle above a large flock of sheep and keep an eye out for prey. A herd of horses follows me for a few hundred meters. Having satisfied their curiosity, they scampered off. Herds of yaks and cows part as we trot between them, only to close the gap again moments later. It is a wonderful day to ride through one of the most beautiful landscapes on our Mother Earth. I feel at one with my faithful horse. Over the last 13 months, we have grown into a good team. To avoid following the meandering vehicle tracks through the lush grass, I steer Sar over a mountain slope to my right. My four feet carry me sure-footedly over fist-sized stones and rough tufts of grass. It’s one of those moments when I feel invulnerable. Securely anchored at the center of my life. My head seems to be empty. Life in the wilderness has brought the spiral of thought to a standstill. A wonderful moment of peace and inner calm. It is a moment that no amount of money in the world can buy, but that you have to work for day after day, week after week and month after month. “It was a good decision to spend a significant part of my limited lifetime in this country,” I think to myself as Sar suddenly shoots forward, almost throwing me backwards out of the saddle. A rush of adrenaline kicks through my veins. Muscles tense up in a fraction of a second. The right hand catapults forward as if of its own accord, closing with concentrated force around the iron knob of the Russian saddle and preventing the inevitable fall. “Brrrrrrr! Brrrrrrr! Brrrrrrr!”, I shout. In order to get Sar’s passage under control, I pull on the right rein and force him to walk in a tight circle. Snorting and reluctantly, he follows and falls back into step. “What’s going on?” I ask in amazement, panting heavily. Only now do I realize that my saddlebags are lying in the grass. Because of the new system, I hadn’t tied them to the saddle, so they must have slipped backwards over Sar’s back and fallen off. Because they were secured with a strap around the horse’s belly, the horse’s hind legs got caught in them until Sar’s kicks broke the strap. “Phew, lucky again,” I groan, fixing the strap and tying the bags to the saddle this time.

The ride continues as if nothing had happened. I don’t even think about the consequences of such a fall on the fist-sized stones. Especially if you are traveling alone. Tanja would realize tonight at the latest after my absence that something was wrong. I shake my head. “Life is a gift and moments like this are part of it,” I mumble into my beard. “Apart from that, I feel happy at this moment and the secret of happiness is freedom. The secret of freedom is courage. Courage is not wanting to strangle a wild lion with your bare hands. That would be stupidity. Courage is overcoming your reservations and fear. Long before this expedition trip, I had such concerns and also the fear of being attacked like on our last Mongolia expedition 16 years ago. This time we want to bring home different experiences. Having come to this conclusion, Tanja and I have shown courage to expose ourselves to such a perilous journey again,” it goes through my mind.

The first houses of Mörön appear. I pull out my cell phone because I assume that I’ll be in the wireless network area from now on. “Hello Denis!” Sara’s voice announces. “Hello Saraa. Sorry, I’m a little later than agreed. I had a little challenge,” I explain. “No problem. I’ll wait.” “Okay. See you in half an hour then,” I end the call.

As I ride between the log cabins on the dusty slopes of Mörön, I feel like the western hero John Wayne. A fountain of dust dances across the road and disappears behind the huts. Children pull an old handcart with bent steel wheels on which two yellow plastic canisters are packed. They come back from fetching water and wave cheerfully to me. The women and men smile friendly. Sar knows where Saraa’s hut is, trots into an alley to the left without my help and stops in front of the rotten gate. I lead him into the dusty courtyard where we had lived in a yurt for a few weeks about ten months ago in preparation for our journey into the taiga. Saraa gives me a friendly welcome. How was the ride?” she asks. “Fine,” I reply without going into detail about the near miss. After the usual preliminary talk, we get down to business. “And did it work out with the visa?” I ask. “Yes,” she replies and talks about the difficulties in a two-hour conversation. “I’ll never get a visa like that again in my life. I would prefer to emigrate. Our politicians are a disaster. Everything you build up here is destroyed again by the authorities. If you have no contacts, you are worth nothing in this country. I would prefer Canada,” she says. “I think many politicians in other countries are also corrupt. Your country wants to save itself from the massive immigration from China. That’s why they make the visa conditions so difficult,” I reply. Saraa hands me the two Mongolian ID cards that are issued in our names and have been extended for another year. “One year?” I say, looking at the check-card-sized plastic cards in amazement. “They’re issued for one year. Yes, that’s right.” “Well, we won’t be staying that long. I think we’ll start our journey home in October.” “You still have to go to the registration office in Mörön. They have to enter you in their books. If the official doesn’t give you the stamp, they’re invalid,” she suddenly startles me. “What? Oh no. Will it never end? We’d better go there together. Otherwise I’ll say the wrong thing and mess things up.” “I have a friend there at the office. Maybe she’ll give us the stamp through official channels, if you know what I mean?” “Minor official channels? Okay.” “I’ll invite her to dinner in return. That will work out. But since today is Friday, that means you’ll have to come back on Monday.” “What the hell. We’ve already waited so long. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a few days or not. So I’ll ride to Mörön again on Monday,” I say, confident that I’ll get the apparently important stamp.

I use the afternoon to buy ropes, a spare halter and other little things at the market. Then I get back into the saddle and ride back to our quiet camp at the foot of the mountain range.

We spend the weekend making the final preparations. This includes washing, trying on all the saddles and repainting the horses’ buttocks. Because of the rain and the horses rolling around in the dust, the painted suns only last a maximum of two weeks.

On Monday I ride back to Mörön. We have covered almost 400 kilometers between our camp and the city in this way over the last few weeks. This time we receive our stamp without any further challenges. Nothing now stands in the way of the rest of the journey to Erdenet. Thank God.

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