Across the Steppe: Part 7
Staggering drunks, monster pike, and slaughtered goats at the White Lake
While the people we encountered in Mongolia were usually warm and easygoing, aggro drunks were also a recurring theme. During a stop for supplies in the town of Khorgo, Scott was nearly assaulted by a besotted old dude in a shop. Lost in a vodka haze, the inebriated grandpa staggered into the store and locked onto Scott, getting up in his personal space and slurring, “You are in Mongolia!” before switching to his native tongue and raising his fist, which Scott bumped in an attempt to defuse tension.
Sensing trouble, the shop owner—likely well acquainted with the old man’s antics—grabbed him from behind and ejected out the door with the force and efficiency of a nightclub bouncer. This was the second time a Mongolian had to physically intervene to prevent an angry alkie from harassing one of us, and it was a sad testament to the ravages of hard alcohol on the population—particularly older men.
Despite the rough greeting, we were stoked to have finally arrived at Terkhiin Tsagaan Nuur—known in English as the “White Lake.” This 61 km2 (24 sq mi) body of water sits surrounded by central Mongolia’s Khangai Mountains and—despite the existence of a number of ger camps on the lake’s eastern and southern shore—is still very unsettled. It’s also home to the extinct Khorgo volcano whose presence lends a wild, otherworldliness to the windswept surroundings.
Our accommodations for the leg of the journey would prove to be the most bare-bones of the trip. All four of us were crammed into a single ger, which often resulted in competing nocturnal gas attacks. Four middle-aged men on a steady diet of beer and meat meant some serious flatulence, and gers—as cozy as they are—aren’t constructed with ventilation in mind. The result was fart bombs so intense and sickening that they periodically caused all but the culprit to flee the befouled yurt.
The camp also lacked any kind of showers, and the bathroom was just a pit toilet so malodorous that I was forced to cover my face with my bandana every time I entered the privy. Still, compared to some of the God-awful bogs I’ve squatted in in China and Southeast Asia, this Mongolian outhouse was luxurious and pristine. It was also early enough in the season to where the poo vat was relatively—and mercifully—unfilled.
Much of our first day at Terkhiin Tsagaan was actually spent away from the lake, as our driver Munkhbat decided to take us on a side quest. His best buddy was camping with his family nearby, so after stopping for a quick coffee, his friend loaded up his fishing rod, took over the front passenger seat, and soon we were off over the muddy calamity of a dirt track back to the main two-lane highway.
Abaka, the local “guide,” squeezed in the back of the van. It was clear now that Munkhbat had just brought him along as a lackey, as he frequently ordered him around like his personal factotum. Soon we were cruising along the lake’s southern shore until leaving Terkhiin Tsagaan completely. After about an hour we pulled off onto the crudest of tracks, eventually stopping near the banks of a nice-looking river meandering through the open pastureland.
This stream looked extremely fishy, and for a moment my heart soared in anticipation of finally hooking into some chunky lenok trout. However, the weather had been taking a turn for the nasty all day, and as soon as we got out of the van and began to assemble our rods, the wind picked up and skies unleashed a miserable, frigid drizzle that surely would affect fishing as well.
Despite the fact that it was July, we were up over 2000 meters in elevation, and Mongolia is very much a northern place. This meant that even with my rain jacket and hat I got cold very fast, and took to moving as much as possible to keep my blood pumping in an effort to stay warm.
Everybody—drivers, guides, friends, and travelers—hit the water that afternoon, though Scraggs and Will soon surrendered to the elements and instead focused their efforts on spying and photographing birds, which again, proved to be much more successful than our fruitless fishing efforts.
Our luck, however, was to change the next day. The bone-chilling rainstorm had passed, and we were instead greeted with a warm, overcast day—perfect conditions for hauling in fish. We also decided to focus on the White Lake itself, and were soon out on the end of a long sand spit that hooked out into the Terkhiin Tsagaan’s placid waters.
Munkhat’s buddy was there with his son and daughter—a gawky, bored-looking teenager who spoke almost perfect American-accented English (The day before she had nonchalantly offered her services for our river excursion: “So, do you want me to come translate for you or what?”). The boy’s rod suddenly bent; at first I was so absorbed with my own casting and retrieval I didn’t notice, but after a bit of a fight he dragged a massive northern pike out of the water and up onto the sand.
This was the first time I had seen a pike up close, as they’re not native to the waters I grew up fishing. It was a sizable fish—at least eight pounds—and you could see the power in its spotted, torpedo-like body and huge mouth full of long, sharp teeth. This thing was a top underwater predator and I understood at once why they’re such a sought after sport fish.
The bite was apparently on, as soon after Scott hooked into a pike of his own. He had seen it following his lure the cast before and got it on the next, but as Will grabbed the net to help secure the catch, the beast got off the hook and shot back into the deep.
The fact that we now not only knew there were big, aggressive fish in this lake—but that were also biting—did wonders for our angling morale. That afternoon we relocated to a more secluded spot a few kilometers up the lakeshore, and Scott hooked in again. This time he was determined not to let the fish get off, and expertly fought the pike, getting it close enough for me to wade out and scoop up with the net.
It was a monster that weighed in at ten or twelve pounds, and after a couple of intense minutes of Scott extricating his huge treble-hook lure out of the fish’s maw, he returned the pike to the lake, where, a little worse for wear, it slipped away into the dark waters.
I was next. I’d already lost a fly to a big strike, and was hoping to coax the fish—or one of its buddies—into hitting again. Of course I wasn’t geared up to land gargantuan northern pike. While the others were using relatively hardy spinning rods and reels, I just had a light, five-weight fly rod designed for catching much smaller trout. However, any doubts that I had about my setup were soon put to the test, when a lunker pike hit my fly like an underwater freight train.
Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I felt the full weight and power on my bowing fly rod. The fish ran straight out toward the center of the lake, taking meters of line with it. My reel spun and whizzed as the beast made a break for it and, at least for a moment, I was powerless to stop it. This was easily the biggest fish I’d ever had on a fly line, which confirmed everything I already knew about the appeal of the pastime: fighting a fat fish with this kind of setup was a straight blast to the dopamine center. It was a rush as intense as any drug I’d done, and I’ve done a few.
At this point I was nearly out of line and looking at the possibility of having it all snap, so I gingerly began to bring the fish back in, careful not to pull with too much vigor, lest I break my leader. Fighting a massive fish on light gear is an exercise in restraint: you have to let your prey run and fight as much as possible, because your only hope for success is tiring the creature out. You’re certainly not going to outmuscle the thing.
I managed to get the fish within a couple meters before it rolled and splashed, showing its true size. This thing was a pig, and as Scott waded in with the net, it shot back out again, nearly pulling the rod from my hand. My wrist began to ache from the tension and I had to remind myself to breathe. Every ounce of my attention was concentrated on this mammoth pike. The world melted away and time oozed to a near standstill as I pursued the single objective of landing the fish.
Will and Scraggs looked on from the shore at the spectacle; Munkhbat recorded it on his phone and Scott offered calming words of encouragement. It now felt like a team effort, and after once again nearly running all the line from my reel, I started to pull and crank, bringinging the fish back in, until it bolted one more time.
This went on for a good ten minutes; the fact that I hadn’t lost the fish in the opening salvos meant that I had hooked it well, so I was gaining confidence that I might actually get this monster to the shore. My arm was hurting badly at this point and I could feel the pike start slow down. Its exhaustion was beginning to show and I stupidly thought that now was my best chance to get it into the net. Scott stood next to me, ready to scoop, so I cranked hard on the reel and pulled on the rod, leaning into it with my weight.
For a moment it seemed to be working. The tiring fish came closer, almost into range, but the sight of the net must have spooked it, because the pike immediately woke up and shot away with all of its remaining strength. This proved to be too much for my line, which snapped under the sudden tension.
The fish was gone.
All four of us let out a collective gasp. I just stared out at the mirrored surface of the lake, which reflected warped images of the afternoon clouds, as well as the nude forms of the surrounding mountains. Scott put a hand on my shoulder and said, “You almost had him. Pretty impressive fight for a five-weight fly rod.”
Back on shore, I cracked a can of beer and bummed a smoke from Will, still trembling from the battle. While I was disappointed that I didn’t land the pike, I was more than satisfied with the day, and had to pinch myself that I was actually here—in the middle of fucking Mongolia—casting lines for fish so hefty that they would always have the upper hand. That, to me, was real angling.
“You were incredibly focused,” Will said. “It was interesting to see.”
“It was unbelievable,” Scraggs added. “For the first time this whole trip, you didn’t say a single word!”
As a traditional nomadic culture, Mongolia is a wonderland of herd animals, and unlike in the West, where they’re penned up behind barbed wire or live out miserable lives in pavilions and barns, Mongolia’s livestock roam freely throughout the land. You see the flocks and herds everywhere: sheep, goats, yaks, cows, camels, and horses.
These animals often cluster by the hundreds, and any drive outside of the country’s handful of cities is punctuated by crossings. Drivers in Mongolia are used to dealing with livestock on the roadways and react by slowing their cars to a crawl and tooting the horn. This most often does the trick; the herd invariably parts like Moses’ Red Sea, allowing the vehicle to slowly pass through.
Mongolia’s population is just 3.4 million people, while its herd animals number over 70 million, and my three weeks traveling around the country convinced me that if I’m ever reincarnated as a stock beast, Mongolia is where I’d want to live. While I’m sure the winters are harsh, the animals that I saw appeared to be happy and healthy, free from the industrialized horrors of factory farming and big ag.
That said, these creatures are most definitely on the menu, which makes the country a nightmare for vegans. Most any Mongolian dish includes a lot of meat, and while the cuisine has a reputation for being a bit dire, I found that after a long day of trekking through mountains or working a river, that the grease and stodge offered up usually hit the spot. Mongolian fare perfectly reflects its surroundings, and while it will likely never take the world by storm, the cuisine is simple and satisfying and incredibly honest in that you know exactly where the ingredients come from.
This was certainly the case at our ghetto White Lake ger camp, where both nights we were served very basic, very meaty dishes, washed down with the ubiquitous salt milk tea. The dining area was just a cramped room in a wooden hut, with slabs of bloody, freshly butchered cuts of animal flesh sitting on a table by the door. You were greeted by your ingredients.
The first night we were joined by a slurring dude in a traditional gel catastrophically hammered on vodka. He plonked down at our table and brayed loudly in Mongolian, peppering us with questions we couldn’t hope to answer. He got stroppy later at the little shop next door when Will refused to buy him a beer.
Of course the ger camp had livestock wandering through here and there, and the second night, as we approached the dinner hut, a couple of the local boys had two goats pinned to the ground—just a few feet from the entrance. These otherwise happy animals bleated in existential protest at their unfortunate fate, but the death stroke was quick. The guy wielding the knife made a small incision in the goat’s breast and then reached in with his hand, where he appeared to grab the animal’s heart and twist it. This brought an immediate and relatively humane end, and also resulted in very little spilled blood.
Witnessing a slaughter is never a pleasant experience, but if you’re going to eat meat it’s fair to know exactly which animal was sacrificed in the name of your meal. There is also something reassuring about personally connecting with the creature that you will later eat; witnessing its death could be viewed as an act of respect. There is an undeniable honesty there, and despite the fact that I’ll admit to wincing when the man killed that goat, I walked right into the little restaurant and dug into my simple, meaty meal with zero qualms.
I'm curious what your gear list looked like for this trip