Fly Day

When I remember this day a few years from now, I hope that I remember the mountain meadows, wildflowers, fast running streams, and geese on the wing - but not the flys. So I'll just say that there are a lot of them and then drop the subject. July here is like springtime in the Rockies with green hillsides all around and it is wonderful. We are on the trail from 9 until 4, with about an hour for lunch, tea, and a siesta. For most of the day, we see no one. This day I feel good about the ride and am more comfortable in the saddle, which is a Russian cavalry style model, with wood boards, nuts and bolts, and a blue cushion tied on. At one point I get a thumbs up from Oteu, our lead wrangler as I canter up to where he is waiting. I tell myself this is high praise and I am proud. 

For the last hour before reaching our campsite, we watch rain and lightning over the next ridge. Reaching the site and meeting our support van, there is just enough time to set up tents before the storm hits with wind, thunder, and pelting rain. Dinner is a comical affair with the cook huddled under a poncho strung from the van roof, everyone eating under the van lift gate, Timor pouring vodka to share from his hip flask, but excellent spaghetti with pan fried fish follows. 

End of a Nice Day

The cottonwood trees around our camp are sending out white tufts into a light breeze. Zol is on the river bank fly fishing - soup tomorrow? The 'kids' have staked out the horses to graze and are in their tent playing cards. I thought we would be in more mountainous area, but we spent the afternoon trotting down another beautiful flat valley. Today we visited Tsetserleg, the provence capital, and saw yet another Naadam - this time in a bigger town and with better wrestlers. In town we picked our cook for the next three days. She had lived in France for a year so I can communicate in my broken French. 

Riding out of town, we were stuck in a traffic jam as cars left the horse race finish line. There is still a network signal at tonight's remote camp, but weak, so I won't try photos today. 

Guest Blogger

It's time for some on-the-spot reporting about Mongolian horses. So this is Lisa reporting live from a ger in the Ikh Tamir valley.  We met our horses yesterday.  They do not have names because they are rotated in and out of the herd.  As an American, I felt an immediate need to name my horse (very quietly).  He is Blackie and one ear has been half bitten off by another horse.  The saddle has two pieces of wood onto which is attached a padded seat.  The rein is a nylon rope which is held in one hand.  We've been told don't pet them, never approach from the right side, don't go near the back end.  I'm terrified to touch or speak to the poor guy.  The travel writer Tim Cahill described second gear on these horses as The Mongolian Death Trot.  Yes indeed.  After trotting for a while yesterday, today I was prepared with some dirty socks which I stuffed inside my pants in front.  It was a good idea except that when we trotted the socks moved up to the middle of my stomach,giving me quite an unhealthy appearance.  Our guide, Zol, has not allowed us to go into third gear yet.  I live in hopes that it is somewhat smoother. 
Today we crossed another hurdle in my list of Things to be Anxious About.  We stopped to visit a family in a small group of gers.  It was very beautiful inside the ger we visited, and we were served tea and a plate of snacks,many of which were cheese products.  Wise to the way of tourists, they thoughtfully did not put butter in the tea.

Another Naadam

The overnight rain lets up and after breakfast we go to meet our horses and the two 'wranglers' who will be with us the rest of the trip. I shouldn't be surprised, but they are young kids, maybe 11 and 13 years old. So, after a couple minutes of instructions from their boss (be careful), we head off to the local village's Naadam, with the kids keeping a practiced eye on our riding. Riding about 10 kilometers from our camp we are joining up with dozens of other horsemen on the way to the festivity site which is on a slope above this broad valley. 

 

The scene is like a county fair with people cooking, selling, and milling about. On foot, I have to keep my head on a swivel, watching out for horsemen galloping here and there. Before long, a cold rain starts up and I pitty the wrestlers who are bare chested, wearing bikini briefs. Those watching are cold and wet too, and the wrestling bouts are speeded up to get them done early. Two horse races come to the finish line while we are there. The riders are all young kids - most less than ten, to keep the weight at a minimum. The races are long - maybe 30 kilometers - and the crowd rushes forward on foot or horseback to see them approach. By evening we have gone through another cycle of weather, and right now the rain is gone and there is a beautiful sunset starting.