Across the Steppe, Part 6

Getting into it: earth, water, and sky

Photo by David Scraggs

The Chuluut River slices through central Mongolia like a carving tool, creating a gorge that brings to mind some of the great canyons of North America. The familiarity of the landscape somehow reassured me as we scurried down the precipitous path to a great horseshoe bend in the river.

David’s knee was still out of whack from the horseback riding catastrophe, which meant he was walking with the assistance of a cane, but he gingerly descended the treacherous trail and eventually made it to the bottom, the first real test of whether or not he was up for what Mongolia’s gnarly terrain was to demand from here on out. 

This dramatic turn in the Chuluut’s flow created a deep pool that was said to hold some sizable lenok trout and even the odd taimen. This would be our first chance to wet our lines, so Scott and I bulldozed our way down in anticipation of perhaps hooking into our first fatties of the trip.

While there had been a couple of evening thundershowers, the rain had largely slacked off over the past couple of days, raising our hopes that the water levels may have dipped low enough to actually have a shot finding some fish. 

While the Chuluut was in much better shape than the completely flooded Tuul from just a couple days back, it still ran fast and high and was full of mud and sediment. This meant that the only hope of hooking a fish to hit would be to get the fly or lure directly in front of its face, a feat of dumb luck, given the conditions.

Photo by Will Jackson

Still, we were stoked just to finally be out on the water. We had been in the country for well over a week and had yet to make a single cast. Scraggs and Will had already glassed loads of birds—especially black kites, who seemed to be everywhere—so the fishing half of the Fellowship of the Ger had some catching up to do. 

The spot was idyllic, a perfect location to throw a few flies and let the rhythms of the water take over. We had passed a couple of local fishermen hiking up the path right after we arrived, so the hole wasn’t exactly a secret, but we had rumbled for about forty-five minutes over an extremely rough track to get there, which, in my experience, was always a good sign. The more difficult the journey, the better potential for fishing, as it tended to weed out the lightweights. 

Our driver Munkhbat joined us, along with Abaka, our “guide,” the young dude who had occupied the passenger’s seat since setting out from Tsetserleg earlier in the day. Murray had been careful not to build him up as an actual fishing expert—but rather a local who was familiar with the lay of the land and would know of some primo spots.

He was cheerful enough and wore a bright red del (Mongolian robe), though as soon as he unpacked the fishing rod from the case (one of Munkhbat’s) it was clear that he had no idea what he was doing. He was so utterly inept that Scott had to rig him up, which included tying on his lure. 

Despite the fact that birding was their main passion, Will and Scraggs had also equipped themselves with rods and reels at the Black Market back in UB and were keen to try their hand at fishing. David had done a little bit of angling—including a trip with me to Idaho over ten years before—but Will was entirely new to the pastime, and from his first few attempts at casting, it was clear that it would be a steep learning curve.

I assembled my fly rod, tied on a long leader and some tippet, and attached my favorite—and most productive—fly: a black Wooly Bugger. I’d landed nice trout on this pattern in Idaho, Washington, Oregon, as well as the wild rivers of New Zealand, and knew that if a black Bugger couldn’t coax a trout into a bite, perhaps nothing would. In fact, I’d brought a dozen of them along, knowing that they’d surely be the most potent fly in the arsenal, and I was right. 

It took a while to get back in the groove, but after about thirty minutes my cast was smooth and fluid and I was getting a big drift from the Bugger. Still, the water rushed by like a spill of milky coffee, and I realized that no matter how pretty and well-placed my fly was, it was unlikely any fish would take interest. The river was just too blown out.

While the group concentrated on the big pool at the top of the bend, I decided to hoof it down the canyon. My instincts told me that if there were fish to be had, they would be hanging in spots that received the least pressure. Over the years I’ve learned that fly fishing is often just as much about hiking as it is pattern choice and presentation. You have to work the stream, which means walking and casting into every spot where you think the fish may be laying.

This active aspect of the pastime is one of the reasons I’m so drawn to it: I think a lot of non-anglers imagine fishing to be an exercise of just sitting around in one spot waiting for your prey to strike, but proper fly fishing is simply hunting on a river, and involves covering a lot of ground in pursuit of your goal.

We had arrived in the late afternoon, so the sun was already beginning to lower in the sky. The day was partly cloudy and warm, and soon the shadows of the canyon wall cast themselves across the water, which tends to make the fish less wary. As I trudged over the rocks and sand next to the surging stream I noticed a couple of black kites swooping and circling overhead, and I felt the whole of my body—completely primed and conditioned in urban rhythms—finally begin to relax and slow down. Even though Gorky Terelj National Park had been a remarkable piece of nature, we were now really out in it. If you were to throw a pin on a map, it would look like the middle of nowhere, because it was. 

I stopped at a smaller bend about a half a mile down from my compatriots, working the pool furiously with my Wooly Bugger, along with a larger, more colorful streamer purchased back in the capital during our several days of gearing up. While I didn’t get any hits, for just a few moments I lost myself among the constant gurgle of flowing water. My mind emptied as my body took over, casting, retrieving, and doing it again.

And again. 

It had taken seven years, but I was finally back on the river.

Our camp sat in a vast meadow right above the Chuluut Gorge, with low hills on either side. It was utterly bucolic—with tufts of tall grass and herbal plants whose soothing aromas often drifted on the breeze and hit you with an almost narcotic effect. After a standard dinner of stewed mystery meat (mutton? goat?) with carrots and potatoes, rice, and the milky Mongolian salt tea known as suutei tsai, we were then treated to the main attraction: the sunset.

As I emerged from the meal tent, I took in the edges of a brooding thunderhead reaching out over the adjacent hills, casting a dark blanket over much of the sky. The sinking sun blasted its dying rays through the gaps, resulting in a dazzling, explosive contrast. At one point the cloud moved past the little mountain, which, for a few minutes, was lit up by a wash of intense, deep golden light that burned with an atomic incandescence. 

It was, of course, pure magic, only to be outdone by a double rainbow (What does it mean???) created by the mists of a rain shower perhaps a mile away. This was the mother of all sunsets, a 360-degree kaleidoscopic panorama of otherworldly awesomeness.

All of the Mongolian families enjoying their Naadam holiday poured out of their gers and picnic shelters and gawked at the sky with the same disbelief and wonder that gripped the four foreigners in their midst. Most of them were from the city and likely unaccustomed to such spectacle. They gasped and laughed and spun around in pure joy, soaking up the scene before it rapidly dissolved into the unremarkable dark. 

Packs of children sprinted about and shrieked as many of us impotently brandished our phones, overcome with the impulse to record a moment that deep-down we knew had to be experienced firsthand to be believed. The heavenly light show ended almost as quickly as it began, with the days’ glow receding to the far edges of the sky, and soon everyone in camp was back to doing what they were before everything suddenly lit up: eating, drinking, and dancing. 

A large family had set up in a picnic shelter near the meal tent. Mongolian pop music blared from their stereo, and several of them moved to the throbbing beat. As I walked by, a guy about my age stepped out and greeted me. 

“Want a beer, bro?”

“Uh, sure… thanks.” 

He handed me a cold Heinenken tall boy, which I cracked open and tapped in a toast with the big green can in his hand. We both drank and took in the scene before he spoke again.

“This is beautiful, yeah?” 

His English had only a trace of an accent, because he’d actually spent much of his life in California. His name was Jason, and he was in Mongolia visiting family for Nadaam. He asked me where I was from, and like most any immigrant to the USA I’ve encountered abroad, reacted to the fact that I actually chose to live in Asia with eye-squinting incredulity. 

“You LEFT America? Why?”

We all have our promised lands, I suppose. That said, as I described our coming itinerary in Mongolia, his face lit up

“Ah man. You’re gonna love it, bro. This place is amazing.” 

I couldn’t disagree, and as he turned away and rejoined his family’s thumping party, I made my way across the dark field back to the ger I shared with Will. The stodgy food, beer, and exertion of the day made bed suddenly seem like a very good idea, and soon I crashed out, sinking into a blissful sleep just fast as the setting sun.