While Mongolia’s land strikes you deep with its raw, unspoilt splendor, the mirrored sunset at Lake Khovsgol proved yet again that the sky was the star of the show. The heavens, however, could be equally impressive during the day: a mottled blue blanket pulled taught overhead with horizons so far that you swore you could make out the stretch of the atmospheric dome.
After one more day at the big lake, we now found ourselves back on the road, heading to our final stop: an upscale camp on the banks of the Selenge, one of the country’s mightiest flows. This was to be our last gasp of fishing and birding before rolling back into the grimy hustle of UB, and as Hishgay piloted our van down the narrow highway through yet more effortlessly gorgeous country, we rode along in sublime chill-mode.
While each of us was unshowered, wind-chafed, and sunburned, Mongolia had finally seeped into our bones to the point where we were unconcerned about our outward appearance. There is something about spending a lot of time in nature that forces you to let go of your own ego-driven vanity.
Like the open highways of the American west, Mongolia is perfect for multi-day, long-distance drives. The country rolled by gently as ballads from Hishgay’s stereo lulled us with their epic, mystical, and at times psychedelic melodies. The result was a kind of splendid hypnotism, a massaging of the nerves which—combined with days of sun, wind, clean air, icy waters, and physical exertion—had me the most relaxed I’d been in years.
I usually seek out kinetic travel, and this jaunt had been a journey of velocity. I was in near-constant movement, whether enduring a jostling eight-hour van over remote mountain passes, or days spent stalking trout on wild, winding rivers. This meant that I was so absorbed in the action that I scarcely had time to reflect on the big picture, save early-morning journal entries and the odd social media post. My time in Mongolia surrounded me and then passed by in a whirl, and as I sat there in the van, staring out at the vastness moving steppe, I realized that I would soon be on a plane with my compatriots back to Korea, lamely trying to digest it all.
We reached Airkhan Lake after pulling off the ragged highway and creaking down one of the worst roads yet. Murray—the trip’s architect—had suggested stopping off here as it was renowned for its concentration of migratory birds, and despite the fact that it attracts twitchers from far and wide, that day we had it to ourselves.
After getting out of the van and tromping through the waist-high grass toward the lakeshore, it was no wonder why we were alone. While Mongolia was wet and chilly when we’d arrived, summer had now come into full effect, with the late-afternoon sun sizzling the surroundings. The bugs were also relentless, thick clouds mosquitoes and gnats undeterred by the weak repellent we had sprayed over our completely covered forms. All four of us also wore hats outfitted with mosquito-nets that we had picked up for cheap back in UB’s Black Market, which—while keeping the skitters off of our faces—also made things unbearably stuffy and claustrophobic.
We heard the birds before we saw them, an unbelievable cacophony of squawks, honks, shrieks, caws, and quacks that blended together into a single aural organism. Clusters of different species swooped and fluttered by high overhead, and as we got closer to the shore, David motioned for us to crouch down in order to survey the colonies that currently occupied the lake.
Despite the fact that we were attempting to be covert, the birds closest to us immediately detected our presence and took wing. Great groups of herons, ruddy ducks, and others flurried into the sky while calling out in both annoyance and warning.
“You can’t get anywhere near them,” David sighed. “They saw us coming from miles away.”
Still, it was a big lake, so we elected to just walk up to the water’s edge and check out the creatures far enough away to tolerate our intrusion. Scraggs and Will both possessed quality field glasses, and shared them with the two fishermen on the team. Once I adjusted the binoculars, I began to appreciate the sight in front of us: Tens of thousands of birds of different colors, shapes, and sizes, bobbed and floated on the lake’s surface or hunkered down in uncountable numbers on the shoreline. What I had taken for rocks on the other side was instead a flock so colossal that it could have been mistaken for a human city in the distance. I had never seen so many avian creatures gathered in one spot, and despite the heat and the relentless assault of the bugs, I was temporarily awestruck.
Still, it wasn’t all glorious. Not only could we see and hear these vast quantities of winged animals, but we could also smell them. Birds produce a lot of waste, and this colony’s crap washed up on the shore, creating a foul, half-congealed layer of shit that must have ringed the whole of the lake in one gunky mass. It was a reminder that—even in the most untouched spots of nature—too many animals in one spot will pollute a place.
On the way back to the highway we were treated to even more birds, including a number of black kites perched on fence posts that allowed us to approach within feet of them; we then came across several pairs of demoiselle cranes sauntering and scratching in the grass—large, elegant waders with distinguished white tufts sprouting from the sides of their heads—which, along with the homely vulture, were among my favorite birds spied during the trip.
The Selenge is one of Mongolia’s biggest rivers, and our accommodation sat right on its banks. We had our first tire blowout right before hitting the bridge spanning the wide, heavy flow, and witnessed Hishghay’s expertise in action: he had the popped tire changed out in ten minutes flat—which included the deployment of two jacks. It clearly wasn’t his first rodeo.
This was our final stop on the itinerary Murray had plotted out for us before returning to UB, and it was to be the nicest place, overall. When we crested the hill and lay eyes on the mighty Selenge and the resort where we were to stay, the optimistic among us assumed we’d put up in the several-story hotel structure on the hill overlooking the more basic ger camp and river beneath. Soft beds! Private toilets! No insects! Hot showers!
This of course, was a delusion, and after a quick registration in the building’s spacious lobby, were herded back into the van and ferried down to the camp, which I found appropriate. Why break up our string of yurt stays now? We might as well end the jaunt across the steppe as we’d experienced it all along: from the farty confines of bug-infested, glorified tents.
Still, this resort did possess luxuries that elevated our stay. The first was hot showers with water pressure that could have stripped the paint off of a school bus, and the other a restaurant that not only had a full western menu (burgers, pasta, steaks), but also served-up mugs of ice-cold draft beer, which at this point in the trip was like liquid gold.
The kicker to the whole complex was the restaurant’s deck, which extended all the way to the river’s sandy shore. This wooden platform had tables and sofas and chairs and even hosted a small stage—complete with lights and PA—where a pair of long-haired Mongol musicians set up and got their rock on.
As the sun began to slink behind the purple mountains across the river, these two old rockers plugged in their axes and jammed classics from The Beatles to The Eagles, with plenty of Mongolian standards sprinkled in between. They strummed and shredded and nailed their harmonies, and the four of us from the Fellowship of the Ger soaked up every note, along with the comparatively well-heeled customers who had surely come from the nicer side of the tracks back in the capital.
We got gloriously drunk on acres lager that night and could scarcely believe that this place—which seemed like it had been plucked straight out of Montana or New Zealand—was actually smack dab in one of the wildest spots of one of the wildest countries on earth.
As I staggered and danced and swayed and attempted to harmonize with a pretty damned good version of “Hotel California,” it occurred to me that Mongolia—for all her rough edges—kept surprising me. While the mountains, stones, and vast grasslands were a constant, the modern world had made more than a toehold in this ancient land and kept revealing itself in unexpected ways. These contemporary currents have certainly led to upheavals in a society based on nomadic herding, but as a creature of the 21st century, I couldn’t help but enjoy them.
Still, despite the fact that I was downing one of the most refreshing beers of my life surrounded by pampered perfection, I knew this wasn’t really the Mongolia that I craved or even came for. But who was I to dictate? The Mongolia of the future will (hopefully) be the one the people create, a country of both the traditional comforts of warm gers, strong horses, and heart-lifting sunsets, along with fast Wi-Fi, sealed roads, health care, beer on tap, and yes—even live, amplified music ringing out out in a gorgeous river valley at 10pm on a summer night.
After all, with so few people, so much land, and so many resources, there was surely more than enough room and possibility for both the old and new here. This was a nation of unimaginable riches, so Monglians could have it all if they wanted.
Couldn’t they?
The ruins came out of nowhere, unmarked and without signs, just a wall of eroding stone on the side of yet another dirt track. Hishgay pulled the dusty black van off into the grass, and gestured for us to get out and explore. His only explanation was a sentence translated into English on his phone: “The ruins of an illegitimate king.”
It was only later that we’d learn the site’s actual name: Baibalik’s ruins. The walled city was thought to be built by the Uyghurs during their imperial expansion in 758 CE. It was both a trading post and an important cultural Central Asian cultural center before being destroyed by Kyrgyz nomadic tribes in 840, who—in their fanatical ignorance—burned all of the books and Buddhist sutras.
Of course none of us knew these details as we wandered the grounds. I scrambled up to the top of the wall and could make out the perimeter of the fortress, which made it clear that in its heyday this place was a sizable settlement. I gazed across the site, taking in the trees that lined the bank of the Selenge at the feet of the mountains in the distance, while the Mongolian breeze whistled through the grass and kicked up puffs of dust at the base of the wall’s crumbling stones.
Hishgay stood next to the van and smoked as we took in this bit of history. While ignorant of any details, we somehow understood its importance implicitly. Like so much in this country, Baibalik’s Ruins seemed to just exist in its pure state, without any fussing, entry fees, or fencing. While whittled down by wind and time, the remains of the wall still stood defiant and seemed just as natural a part of the surroundings as a pine tree, the crown of a mountain, or a gurgling stream.
While there were no other humans there that morning, we were joined by hundreds of goats, who bleated and leapt and scurried up the broken rocks to reach the rich green grass growing in the center of the former compound. They were fat and happy and moved around us in fluid streams, unafraid and utterly at ease. They reminded me that Mongolia, for all of its history and beauty, was also, at its core, a place of pure utility where all of the streams flow concurrently. In this sense it is the most unpretentious place on the planet: what you see is what you get… but man, there is so much to see.
And we did. We saw so much. In three weeks we took a massive bite, but as we rolled along rough roads back to the capital, we still felt like it was only a nibble. Despite the rawness and danger and elements and insects and gut-punishing meat-blast meals, I got the sense that none of us were in a hurry to get on the plane and resume our utterly urbanized lives back in the electric hustle and flow of Busan. We all would have willingly stayed for weeks more in warm gers on the shores of icy lakes.
Mongolia is a place that gets under your skin and stays there, and I often find myself drifting off while standing on an escalator, sitting in a crowded subway car, or scurrying along a noisy, hectic sidewalk. Suddenly I’m back on the steppe, with clouds slipping by and the wind whipping through my hair. For a moment I’m transported into the middle of a river that rushes around me, or drifting off into an inky sleep while a fire crackles and snaps inside an iron stove. I smell the dirt and animals, tromp through the mud, feel the heat of the sun on my arm, taste the chewy, gamey meat, and—at least for a moment—remember that I am a human being.
When I come to, surrounded and crushed by countless other human beings, I’m pushed to the brink of vertigo. And then I remind myself that not only is Mongolia still there, but it’s only a three and half hour flight away. This somehow manages to make all of the manic urban madness that is my daily life a bit more bearable, until only one question remains: When am I going back?
(This is the final installment of my Mongolia travelogue. Thanks everyone for reading! If you’re interested in a print chapbook copy, please message me directly. Cheers!)