The first half of the ride

Sunday, June 4th: Before Day 1

It’s Sunday, June 4th, the official first day of the ride. I will ride 40 miles today on a Mongolian pony. I am so excited; this has been a long time in the making.

It’s early morning. I am sitting up in my tent to type. Last night’s camp was set up in a beautiful valley. We are in a flat grassy plain near a fairly big river called the Tuul. There are cottonwood trees near the river which were the sou​​rce of wood for last night’s celebratory bonfire. I can hear what sounds like ravens discussing our yellow tents, which might be temporarily polluting their hunting ground. I love how ravens seem to speak a different language in different areas; even the San Francisco ravens sound different from the Kneeland ravens. These Mongolian ravens are different, yet again.

Yesterday morning we left our hotels and hostels in Ulaanbataar. It happened to be the day of the UB marathon and much of the city was shut down to cars. Our luggage and expedition boxes had been picked up earlier, and we walked with our daypacks to meet the bus that would take us to the start of the ride and, it turns out, be one of two yellow buses to accompany us on our trek. We loaded onto a yellow bus decorated on the inside with purple tassels and fringes and curtains. Some seats had been removed and our expedition boxes were piled inside. Off we went!

We drove out of town. The stretches of green hills grew larger as the city faded away. Houses and gers grew further in between. We began to see horses and large flocks of sheep. We made a stop at a big grocery store for boxed wine and last minute snack supplies, and then a second stop at a ger factory. This is another fabulous project of Julie’s to raise money for the kindergarten (and to empower Mongolian women). Julie co-owns the business with Saara, the woman who manages the horses and support crew that are a part of the Gobi Gallop and other rides that Julie runs. The two women have assembled a team of craftsmen and painters (men and women) to build beautiful, high quality gers for export. Julie donates all of her 50% share of the profits to the kindergarten. We watched the pieces of wood that form the frame of a ger being cut and sanded, and we watched women painting the pieces with bright colors and beautiful designs, both of animals and of traditional Mongolian symbols. The work is stunningly beautiful. I should not fail to mention that Julie has also initiated reforestation work in the southeast of the country, from where the wood for the ger frames is harvested.

We arrived at the camp in Tov Province in the afternoon. The crew had already set up our yellow tents and had the horses tethered under the cottonwood trees. The Tuul River snaked through the cottonwoods. There was no undergrowth – the woods looked like parkland, but for the bleached skulls and long bones of horses and cows that dotted the grass. (I LOVE bones, and Mongolia is littered with them – they don’t disintegrate here, but rather just bleach to a snow white in the sun.) We were fed lunch (borscht), put on our riding gear, and were each presented with a deel – a long traditional coat worn by Mongolian herders. The herders literally dressed us in our deels to make sure we buttoned them correctly and tied the belt on just right – there are thousands of years worth of tradition and practice and perfecting behind the deel and the belt and it’s important to get it right. (And I later learned from Julie that it’s slutty to wear your deel with the side buttons unbuttoned. Don’t want to be slutty!) With each of us in our deel, we were paired with a horse and led off on a short ride, the purpose of which was to make sure our saddles and stirrups felt good and were adjusted properly. It was a moment I’d been waiting for a long time! I’m pleased to say that I did not fall off and that it was loads of fun – I was disappointed that it was so short.

After the ride it got fairly cold. We drank wine in our deels sitting in folding camp chairs, at first outside with a view of the horses, which had been put out to graze in somebody’s unused paddock, enclosed by a wooden fence. (This is something I’m seeing over and over – there is a lot of space in Mongolia and sometimes there are people there and sometimes there are not. If you need to get somewhere, you can just drive off over the hills. Random roads crisscross the landscape. Unused paddocks that might be somebody’s winter home are here and there.) When it got too cold, we moved our camp chairs into a ger, where we had a dinner of beef dumplings and egg salad. Then, the wonderful hot bonfire. Before going off to bed, we opened our deels to soak up the heat, wrapped them back up quickly, and headed off to our tents. I spread my deel over my sleeping back for extra warmth and slept very well. The deel was my second blanket  every night of the trip.

Now I’m off to find a cup of coffee before our first big day!

Monday, June 5th: After Day 1, before start of Day 2

It’s 5:16 am on Day 2. I am sitting in a tent in a valley nestled between two hills that look like places archeologists would have fun exploring, with layers of rock that I imagine are full of dinosaur bones. As I lay in my sleeping back last night, before I put in my earplugs to block out the sounds of my fellow snoring riders, I could hear our ponies grazing just feet from the tent. They are hobbled but free to move around the camp. They are lovely, mostly browns ranging from light sandy color to almost black in our herd. They are unshod, with tough little feet that carry them just as well over rock-strewn meadows as up grassy slopes. The herdsmen don’t trim their hooves, which wear to perfection on the steppes. When you watch the hind feet of the horse in front of you trotting, you marvel at how quickly and steadily they step, like some kind of wind-up toy buzzing along.

Yesterday was wonderful, and hard. It turns out that I had missed a piece of planning at some point – Julie wisely planned a “short” ride for the first day; we rode 26 miles, not 40-45, as we will from here out. Almost all of it was ridden at a trot. My horse was willing and forward. We didn’t have a single argument. He was very smart, brilliantly avoiding marmot holes and vole mounds, navigating rock fields, staying the right distance from his herdmates (which is much closer than we would normally ride in the West, sometimes thigh to thigh). His trot was incredible. All I need to do is say a quiet “cho”, which means go faster, and he quickens his little steps. As most Americans and Europeans would, I started out in a posting trot. By the end of the day, I was copying the Mongolian herdsmen who were leading us and herding the lose horses (who we will ride today while yesterday’s horses are herded along riderless). The Mongolians often sit the trot, which is perfectly do-able on these horses. Their stride is so short it’s tough to post when the trot is fast, and the gait is smooth enough to sit comfortably without jarring your spine from sacrum to neck (on many but not all of the horses, I learned later). The Mongolians also ride with very short stirrups, their knees bent at about 100 degrees – I stuck with my long stirrups. Our youngest rider, the grandson of our head herdsman, is six. His grandfather leads his pony and they ride side by side, both with short stirrups and a sitting trot.

We rode from about 9:30 am to about 5:30 pm, with several breaks along the way including a long stop for a hot lunch, cooked by the crew carried ahead in our cute yellow buses. We rode over plains, up and down hills, through larch forests, and past Bronze Age ceremonial monuments, where clans met for formal gatherings when Ghengis Khan ruled the country. At one point we saw a pair of golden eagles mating mid-flight.

I loved it. I was blown away by the tough little ponies and by how comfortable it is to ride them. I loved riding along with our loose horses, something I’d never do in the US. Loose horses are usually a pain in the ass, but these were very well-behaved, except at the start of the ride when three naughty musketeers took off and had to be chased by the herders. The problem was resolved by tying the ringleader’s head side-by-side to the head of a well-behaved horse, who then oversaw his behavior for the rest of the day. Two herders ponied a few other horses, one with three horses alongside his mount, the other with four –  it was impressive. I struggled to pony just Dolly when Phoebe was learning to ride her.

It’s time for me to put on my riding gear, re-pack my expedition boxes, and head for breakfast. Hoping I can get my sore body to hang on for today’s 40 miles!

Tuesday, June 6th: After Day 2, start of Day 3

I am sitting in my tent on the very edge of a beautiful river, called the Kherlin (in which I had a freezing cold and very refreshing bath after we arrived in camp last night). I’ll be honest, most of my body hurts. Yesterday was very tough. Fun, but tough. It began with me getting tossed off my horse as we were saddling up. The herdsmen were helping us saddle up, check girths, adjust stirrups. While these horses are used to being ridden and know their job when they are under saddle, they are half wild. The Mongolians are very careful around them. They move slowly when they approach the horses and they don’t make sudden movements or load noises or flap things around. Something set the horse off as his girth was being adjusted, and he tossed me off. I hit the ground and rolled aside. The men were visibly appalled; I think they hadn’t anticipated this at all and felt really bad. They promptly unsaddled him and ran him up a hillside for a tete a tete. When I ended up back on him, he was a gentleman.

The good news is, I’m now a landowner in Mongolia: the herdsmen say that when you fall off, the piece of land where you fall becomes yours. Later in the day, Tanya’s horse stepped in a deep hole; the horse fell and Tanya came off. Last night the herdsmen shared their whiskey with the riders. Tanya and I learned the phrase about owning land and the men laughed very hard when we toasted over it.

Some highlights of yesterday’s 40+ mile ride…

At one point we crossed a busy highway. When the lead herdsman saw an opening, he urged us all on and drove the loose horses into the road. It was terrifying, but it turns out that traffic in Mongolia, even highway traffic, stops for horses. The other riders laughed when I said, “That’s not how I tell my kids to do it.” Later, over the course of the trip, I often saw huge flocks of sheep and goats crossing big roads.

At another point we crossed a livestock bridge that had a fair number of holes in it. It was all fine, just not the kind of riding I do back in Kansas. They horses adeptly picked their way around the cracks.

We rode past gorgeous herds of horses watering in a river. Our herdsmen have no trouble driving our loose horses past other herds, and our ponies know to stick with their herd.

At one point we passed many dead cows. Apparently last winter (which is really just ending) was very hard and many herders lost livestock.

For those of you who want landmarks (Papa), in the afternoon we passed the outskirts of a mining city called Baniguur.  

We rode through a meadow of tiny purple irises, past lone gers in the middle of vast plains, and by small settlements with many gers and even permanent houses. I’m told that the wildflowers we see are the unaltered unselected stock of all the flowers we see in the grocery store at home.

At lunchtime the good doctor who accompanies us in one of the gear vehicles tended to our aches and pains. Several of us partook in an antiinflammatory injection. I don’t think I would have finished the day without it – I have some chafe, a previously sprained ankle that is terribly sore, and swollen bruises on my thighs where some parts of the Russian military saddle do not agree with my anatomy. I plan to partake again today. Everyone says that Day 3 is the worst, and that things look up from here. Let’s hope!

Wednesday, June 7th: Start of Day 4, about Day 3

It’s 5:13 am. The wind is making a lot of noise in the tent flaps. I can hear the cooks getting up to start making breakfast and hot water for coffee. The other riders are still asleep – there is a cacaphony of snores, different pitches and rythms, arising from the tents. I think every single one of us snores. We’re so tired it doesn’t matter.

This morning I am very, very sore and sore in some new places. Yesterday I rode 70 km, about 44 miles, in a Mongolian saddle. Julie asks each rider to do 20 km in it as a part of appreciating the culture of the Mongolian herdsmen. I did it not for cultural appreciation, but rather out of desperation. The saddle I used on the first two days was pounding on the inside of my thighs, which had become bruised and swollen. I had tried various extra pads and sheepskins, to no avail. I figured that, however different or uncomfortable it might be, at least the Mongolian traditional saddle would hurt in different places and I could give my bruises a break.

It was an interesting experience with some enormously high points and some very low lows. I rode the whole day in it. I rode my Day 1 horse again, whom I’m now calling Odd Day Horse with the hope that I’ll continue to ride him on those days. (Day 2 Horse ended up having a very choppy trot that he was happy to do at breakneck speeds, avoiding the canter whenever he could. I could not sit his trot at all.) Odd (for short) has both lovely trots and canters.

We set off after breakfast. At first I could not sit in the Mongolian saddle at all; I spent the first few miles standing in the stirrups, which seemed terribly unsustainable. I gradually tried the various things the Mongolians do when they are riding, and which are so different from how we in the West are taught to ride. We are instructed to be symmetrical and quiet in the seat. Sit straight, distribute your weight equally, keep your hands and legs as quiet as you can. In contrast, the Mongolians believe that symmetry is bad for the horse, as it sitting unmoving in the saddle. They always set their stirrups at different lengths. They sit on one butt cheek or the other, leaning back a bit and with the weight as far back and up as your jeans pocket. They shift now and then from side to side. They stand the canter. They jiggle their legs and rest the majority of their weight on one stirrup or the other, depending on what butt cheek is in use. They move their hands around. The horses neck rein, so the reins are in one hand or the other, the other arm dangling loosely down like our cowboys.

Over the morning, I tried these things and, between the saddle and the technique, gradually alleviated some of my major pains and sufferings. By resting my weight on one cheek and in one stirrup, I reduced the chafe on my butt and could give my right ankle a break. (I also taped up that ankle, which helped, too.) I figured out that I could sit in a perfectly acceptable lopsided Mongolian pose during the slower trots. When the trot sped up, I could stand. Same with canter. At first I needed to hold the front of the saddle for faster trots and canters – the balance in the saddle is totally different from an English or dressage or Western saddle and it took me a while to figure it out. But I eventually did, and for a while it was glorious. At one point – my zenith – we overtook two horsemen driving a massive flock of sheep and goats. In that moment, I was very happily cantering in a Mongolian saddle. The men did a visible double take. We’ve got to be a fairly strange sight.

At some point we passed into Henty Province, indicated by the first road signs I’ve seen since we left UB. Not that I could read them; they were in cyrylic.

Eventually the good doctor’s antiinflammatory shots and my learning curve were overtaken by soreness and exhaustion. It also happens that I’m allergic to Mongolia, the land of grasses, and I had a massive mounted allergy attack. The last ten kilometers were torture – my nadir. I was desperate to see the yellow crew buses up ahead and diasppointed when, hill after hill, no busses were over the crest. I seriously considered dismounting to lead my horse to camp. Most of us had slowed to a walk, decidedly not keeping up with our lead herder. We arrived at camp, where one of the cooks came up to me and threw her arms around me in a massive hug. I must have looked like I was half dead. They fed us an enormous dinner that was both delicious and the most bizzare combination of foods I have every seen side by side on a table: pizza; kim chee; kidney beans; a pork dish; a beef and broccoli dish; and a green salad. No complaints. We all ate a ton while we drank boxed wine and vodka. It got very cold and we retreated to the ger, where the men had made a fire in a camp stove that was brought along. I had taken a benadryl to combat the allergies. Forty plus miles and benadryl and vodka don’t make for consciousness; I couldn’t keep my head up and hit my tent, where I slept very well despite the snores of the riders and the partying of the herdsmen and cook staff, who like to drink vodka and chat late into the night. They are not sore.

On another note: The landscape is huge and wide and open. There are lots of hills, but the valleys between can be miles and miles across. Some of the hills are rocky and bare (those are the ones where I imagine dinosaur bones). Others are covered by larch forests, the trees spread thinly and with no underbrush. For miles and miles at a stretch it can seem like a desolate place that nobody else has ever visited. But then you look down at the ground – there isn’t a piece of the earth bigger than 3 x 3 feet that doesn’t have on it some combination of horse, cow, sheep, and goat poop. There’s also a fascinating distribution of vodka bottles and shoe soles. And every inch of grass has been grazed. People have definitely been there. This is what it looks like to be in a country of nomadic herders. It is not an untouched landscape, despite what we tend to think when we look ahead at a vast and empty landscape.

Off for breakfast and to decide if I might need some car time today to heal my poor body…

8:35 am. I’ve decided, with Julie’s recommendation and the doctor’s agreement, to take the morning off and see if I can get the swelling in my thighs to go down. Charlotte, the Irish woman, is also going to ride in the crew team bus with me. She is a fabulous rider, beautiful on the horse, but her Even Day Horse, like mine, didn’t agree with her and her back is very sore. Right now the crew is taking the camp down. Charlotte and I saw the riders off – they all groaned as they mounted up – and we are now taking refuge in ger, which hasn’t yet been disarticulated.

I plan to ride again in the afternoon and may be replaced in the bus by another rider. There are several possible contenders. Yesterday around mid-day one of the horses fell and his rider – Julia the linguist – came off, bashing her face and the knuckles of one hand, which are swollen and sore today. When her horse fell, the one next to it spooked and unseated Tanya, who landed hard on one hip; she is hurting today. (More landowners.) Also, Cele’s saddle broke mid-morning and was replaced by the thigh-pounding saddle I used for the first two days (as I was in the Mongolian saddle and it was available). It turns out it wasn’t just my anatomy that didn’t work with the saddle, and a few hours later Cele was in similar pain. At a water break, the herdsmen untacked Cele’s horse and sat on the ground to examine the saddle. Alas, it had a serious design flaw, with parts of the wooden tree unplaned that should have been planed. The sharp edges of the wood had been digging into our legs. I feel somewhat better about my injuries now that this has come to light, but am fighting injured pride about sitting the morning ride out.

We are in the bus and soon to take off. We’ll go ahead to the lunch spot, where the cooks will prep a hot meal and we’ll regroup with the riders. The last thing to be disassembled is the outhouse*. When I used it just now for a last minute pee, I was treated to a view of an golden eagle hunting, gliding a foot above the ground while he looked for a furry snack.

*The outhouse is a funny thing, really not particularly necessary. When you live in a ger with 15 others in a flat valley with no big trees or rocks, you simply look away when someone is changing clothes or going potty. In addition, the riders on this trip are the most easy going and toughest women I’ve ever met. On our water and lunch breaks, standard protocol is to walk 50 feet away and have a squat. Nobody cares. Also the deel is a perfect privacy tent if draped in the right fashion. Just one of its many uses – jacket, blanket, picnic blanket, shade, privacy screen.

Thursday, June 8th: Start of Day 5, about Day 4

Yesterday was a breakthrough day. As I wrote, I had decided to take the morning off and ride in the bus with Charlotte, who appears to have really hurt her back. The riders departed. I jokingly held Saigna’s horse as he mounted and pretended to help him up, as he has now done many times for me. (Saigna is one of the herders. He is the son of Bagi, the lead herder. He is in his 20s, ridiculously handsome, and speaks excellent English after having spent a good chunk of time in Canada with Canadian Julie and her family. We’ve decided he will be January in our calendar-to-be of Men of Mongolia.) We sat in camp as it was broken down and I typed away at this journal after the riders had departed. Charlotte wrote in her notebook. We saw five beautiful kites circling and hunting above the camp. After camp was disassembled, we loaded up into the bus carrying the expedition boxes and extra saddles and we took off across the plains, mostly following ruts left by other cars, no real roads. Charlotte and I chatted and she showed me some photos of the beautiful Irish draught horses that she and her husband breed. Eventually we passed the riders and drove on to what would be the lunch site. Charlotte was suffering terribly by then – I think it’s a serious muscle spasm – and I massaged the area and tried to help ease it.

The riders appeared and dismounted. Two were suffering badly – Tanya’s hip was hurting after yesterday’s fall and Sara was weak from the virus she’d been fighting and having trouble pushing her horse, who is not very forward, onward. I want to tell you about Sara. Sara is an Australian cattle rancher who identifies as Aboriginal. She is white, but she grew up on a cattle station in the Northern Territory where her father was initiated into an Aboriginal clan when she was a young child. He advocated for and protected the local native group, the Gerrwa, helping them to hide their half caste children in the hills when the government came to take them away to be assimilated in boarding schools in the city. Sara says that all the children she grew up near who were taken away are dead by now, but not so the children who her father protected. The local tribe was so dedicated to Sara’s father that when he and his family moved to Queensland the tribe went along and reestablished there. In addition to ranching cattle, Sara currently works to advocate for Aboriginal rights and is clearly as dedicated as her father was. She is heartbroken to see that clan life in the Aboriginal groups has largely disappeared and says that she has looked for similar things elsewhere and has finally found it in Mongolia. Sara is a very tough and straightforward woman; there was nothing syruppy about what she told us. Several of us were in tears last night in the ger as she told us these stories and showed us photos from her childhood. She is a kind lady with the downest under accent I have ever heard. She always likes to ride on the left side of the group and keep count of us to make sure nobody gets lost. Sara, too, has ridden part of the Mongol Derby. We all adore this woman and are concerned for her – she’s got a cough, has been running a fever, and has had an upset stomach for several days.

During the lunch break we sorted out that Charlotte would be driven the several hours back to Ulanbatar to have her back examined. The doctor tried to convince Tanya to come as well, but she was able to will th​e​ muscles in her back to stop spasming during a post-lunch nap and she declined. I felt great after my morning of rest and was ready to hop back onto a horse for the second half of the day and in a different saddle, neither the Mongolian one nor the thigh pounding one. Saigna and Julie had me climb onto a horse mounted with what has been dubbed “the princess saddle” for its shape and the thick fluffy white sheepskin covering it. Two riders had already rejected it. I loved it! The horse under it was new for me, too – thankfully not my Day 2 horse, with whom I wasn’t thrilled. This saddle was designed by a guy who rode from Mongolia to Germany a few years ago. It’s somewhere between a Mongolian saddle and a Western saddle, and, after my introduction the day before to Mongolian riding, I could do some combination of that and what I’m used to doing that really worked for me. Most importantly, there was nothing on this saddle that pounded on my thighs.

We rode over rocky slopes, through huge grassy plains, and past a small town. We rode past a lone ger with a satellite dish and a solar panel mounted outside. We rode past enormous mixed flocks of sheep and goats. We rode past a herd of horses guarded by a vigilant and gorgeous grey stallion. We were accompanied for a short while by a young chestnut male clearly looking for a herd of his own. The herdsman shooed him off and sent him home. All of these horses belong to someone; they are not for the taking. (I clarified with the men that horse theft bears a prison sentence of three years, but that if you are identified as a horse thief, the police are likely to pin ALL of the local horse thefts on you and you will be sent to the worse prison – the one for murderers – for a longer time.) We crossed another highway, again ordered by one of the men to plunge across it. There was not much traffic on this one so it was a bit less stressful than our last crossing.

In the evening we arrived in our camp, which had been laid out next to a small river in a grassy plain. I washed my hair and did a splash bath in the river. Dinner was something between a beef stir fry and porkolt; I can’t get over the hybrid Euro-Asian meals; they are bizarre and delicious. We sat in the ger because the wind was cold, and we drank wine and vodka. That’s when Sara told us her stories. My pain during all this was so much less than it had been, I felt almost normal for the first time in days. It was a fun evening and the moon was huge and beautiful over the small river.

I can hear the other riders starting to wake up. Now I’ll pack up my sleeping back and expedition boxes, get dressed in my riding gear, and head to the ger for breakfast.

Friday, June 9th: Start of Day 6, about Day 5

Arrrrggg. Yesterday was both the most amazing day and the worst day. There is definately a repeated theme of very high highs and very low lows. Many of us are suffering. Sara Beck rode the whole day in the truck, weak from the virus she can’t shake. Charlotte still hasn’t returned from UB, where she was taken to have her back examined and is having physiotherapy. Tanya’s back muscles are spasming, but she seems to be made of steel and rode through it. Julie has a UTI, which is no fun to ride with. Betsy is dehydrated. The doctor has been busy dispensing IVs, antibiotics, and antiinflammatories.

I had the most incredible first part of the day. While my princess saddle was sadly revoked as it had caused my Day 4 horse a sore back, I was put in a Russian military one with the fluffy white sheepskin from the princess saddle and that worked for me. I was again on Odd Day horse and learned the word for odd: irgh. Now I’m calling him Irgh. He was, again, fabulous. All morning we traveled across an enormous flat plain dotted with burrows. We proceeded at a slow jig and I discovered that Irgh has an autopilot setting. He likes to travel right behind the lead horse, following his every step around the dangerous borrows. We did that for hours. I had relatively little pain, a good tape job on my ankle eliminating that soreness and the saddle well fit for my thighs, and I almost fell asleep. I was told by Saigna that was very Mongolian of me. I felt superb. I also realized during this time that there are 600 ways to sit in a saddle, and that when you ride dozens of miles each day, you’ll need to use them all. I am so looking forward to riding my own horses again and trying out all my new techniques and positions – what an epiphany that there isn’t just one right way to ride.

We had a few rest stops and then gradually entered some green hills, absolutely lovely. Then, another zenith: we rode the last few miles to the lunch stop at a tremendous gallop in a strong wind. Irgh was amazing. He is kind and sensitive and willing and he always has one more speed. It was an incredible run. We then stopped for lunch near a ger that is the summer home of Khlauga, the herder who had led us all day. His wife greeted us with a ceremonial bowl of milk that she brought to each of us for a sip. We ate, and then every single rider laid down on her ger and went to sleep on the ground. We are exhausted.

The ride after lunch was phenomenal. We rode up up up over a large mountain. The view was stunning. The landscape is less grazed down than anything we’ve seen so far. No car tracks cut across the terrain. There were no vodka bottles or shoe soles. The rocky mountains surrounded us. Khlauga continued to lead us and I had a sense that he was proud of his home. He pointed out his winter place with its solid wooden and packed manure sheep pen to buffer the bitter wind and snow. A herd of horses we passed belongs to his brother. He rode us into a little dead end valley, green and dotted with some kind of wild cherry flowering with white blossoms. Wild rhubarb and scallions poked out from the grass. We had a long break there and Julie translated while I told Khlauga that I would like to move my family there and have my daughter help him with his goats and sheep. I showed him pictures of Phoebe’s dwarf goats and he wanted to know how much milk they make. I think I might have overestimated because he was very impressed.

This first part of the afternoon ride was truly incredible, and it was the most spectacular thing we’ve seen so far. Unfortunately the chafe on my backside was getting worse during all of this. Then, because so many of the riders are so sore and cramped right now, the second part of the afternoon consisted entirely of walking – this was the absolute worst for me, as it meant constant grinding on my sore spots (as opposed to trotting or cantering, which can be stood more easily). It was excruciating.

We ended up circling the tall mountains we had crossed and heading back in the direction we had come in a valley on the other side of them. We learned that the plan was to camp back at the beautiful lunch site after visiting a special spot nearby. During the Soviet invasion, sometime around the 20s or 30s, the Russians killed lots of Mongolian monks. One took refuge in a cave in this valley. He lived there for many years, over a decade, at one point surviving on one bowl of rice for 180 days, story tells. The spot is now a shrine, which we rode to. We got off the horses and entered the cave. Julie and Saigna translated while Khlauga told us the meaning of the colored pieces of cloth on the shrine: blue for sky, red for fire, yellow for monks, green for grass, white for teaching. Again, he was clearly proud of this place and it was special to see it. I was happy for the afternoon excursion to the beautiful spot with the cherry trees, and happy to see the shrine, but my ass was in so much pain that I asked Saigna to lead my horse back to camp and I walked the ten minutes there from the cave.

Honestly, the evening was sort of miserable. We arrived late – it must have been close to 8pm – and dinner was very late, and it was more or less a gigantic platter of mutton. It hurt me to sit. No surprise that the hashtag for this ride is Chafe for Charity. I was about to head to bed, but some of the men called us into Khlauga’s family ger for what turned out to be a party. Things then got fun for a while. One of the men filled a small ceremonial bowl with vodka over and over and passed it to one of us, around the circle. It had to go back to him each time in between drinkers, some kind of traditional ceremony. (Nevermind my blistered sunburnt lips, Tanya’s cough, and Sara’ virus.) We made toasts and Julie translated in both directions. My toast had Julie in tears with laughter and the men chuckling – I thanked Khlauga for sharing his beautiful home and land with us and told him that I would be back with my family to move into his ger with his family. His wife said that was wonderful and that I could help milk her 11 cows. I again offered Phoebe’s help with milking goats. At this, Julie ran into a bit of a translation disaster, as goat and monk are very similar words in Mongolian. After a brief moment of surprise, the misunderstanding was resolved and it was no longer understood that I was offering my adolescent daughter to milk the monks. Khlauga pointed to a traditional Buddhist painting on a cabinet behind him. The translation wasn’t totally clear,  but he was using the elephant and bluebird and monkey sitting on top of each other to illustrate how our families would serve each other. Although I didn’t totally understand it, it was kind and sweet. I seriously would love for Tristan and Phoebe to come spend time with these folks, and I would happily host their children or grandchildren for an immersive American experience. The riders have agreed that Khlauga, too, should occupy a high status place in the Men of Mongolia calendar.

The vodka and laughter alleviated my pain for a while, but I had a miserable night. In pain, exhausted, and stressed about deciding what to do today, I slept terribly. There might have been too much vodka in the mix, too.
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This morning I resolved to take today as a recovery day. Tomorrow will be a rest day anyway and I am hoping that two days out of the saddle will give my bum time to heal. Sara Beck is riding again today and there is room for me to ride along with the crew. I’m not happy about it, but Julie and the veteran riders have reassured me that it’s very common to need to pull out for a day or two to recover. Plus I’m eating a package of Twizzlers my friend Kelly gave me for just this kind of moment, so I’m pretty happy. After a breakfast of french toast and salad (they are strange sometimes, these meals), the riders departed and, after camp was disassembled, I took off in the bus. Onward we bounce across the Mongolian plains!