This page contains Forty Days Over Mongolia, A Paragliding Expedition to the Lands of Ghengis Khan, which was published in the summer of 2006 in Hang Gliding and Paragliding Magazine.
Forty Days Over Mongolia: A Paragliding Expedition to the Lands of Ghengis Khan
I stand alone on a barren windswept summit clipped to my paraglider. The view is the open vastness of Central Mongolia. Another gust pulls at my glider which twists and jerks like an animal struggling to free itself. Overhead, cumulous clouds expand into tall dark masses. Even at one in the afternoon the cycles have significant lulls, but the peaks are too strong to launch into.
It is a serious moment of reflection, a time to look deep within, to question my heart, my motivation. I ask if this type of adventure, this level of commitment is really what I want. Every launch is so significant, the step leaving the earth so grand.
I wait for a lull, then with no one to hear, call out "clear" and pull my glider above me. Immediately I'm plucked from the ground, untwisting in the air I fly away from the mountain. As I slide back into my harness my vario squawks out the lift. Soon over the rocky peak I begin circling up towards the clouds. Looking down past the tiny jeep parked at the bottom of the hill, a dozen horses gallop across the steppes. Wild and free, I feel a common connection with them, to their lives and feelings, as they kick dust into the sky.
Several thousand over now, my drift is southeast away from the small town of Karakoram. We already planned to drive south, to hot springs, waterfalls and hopefully more launch sites. I radio my wife Ursula that I'm away, following the river south. She is already driving, at the ford in the river below launch.
Unfortunately dark clouds have merged into an ominous sky. In the distance rain begins to fall in diagonal sheets. The thermals drift too far east and I leave long before reaching base. Under a threatening sky, flying down wind I'm out running Ursula and the retrieve jeep. After several climbs the wind picks up even more. It's time to land before the gust front hits. I stop turning in lift, then begin spiraling toward the rolling grassy hills below. I land with almost no forward speed. Several young boys run down from a nearby ger, or summer home, and watch as I struggle to pack up in the wind. They stand back, afraid of the foreigner and his strange flying machine. When I call to them to help they run still further away.
Once the gear is away, I walk down to the dirt road that runs along the river. Just beyond where I land I find one of the huge granite carved turtles that Ghangis Khan placed at the four corners of his capitol city nine hundred years before. Ursula and I have clear radio contact, but she's surprised at how far I flew so quickly. It was a grand day until it overdeveloped, and our trip across Western Mongolia has just begun.
As soon as we arrived in the land of Ghengis Khan, Ursula pointed out: "You will not suffer for a place to land." There are almost no trees, no power lines, and no fences. There are occasional streams, fewer roads and dotting the open countryside, small round gers.
It was a voyage of thousands of miles on rough dirt roads in stiff Russian jeeps. So many hills hiked up and flown off, after forty days it's a blur of dust and dirt. The whole experience was shaken and jostled by bumpy roads and the dramatic swerves as our drivers tried fruitlessly to avoid the rocks and holes.
I expected to discover a paragliding paradise, my hopes raised by an email I received from Louise Crandal just before we left: "Have a good trip. In my opinion you are going to the most fantastic region I've been to." I realize now that while there is huge potential, it's extremely hard to realize. Perhaps, because Louise is such a superb pilot, she can thermal to cloud-base from the smallest hills; I need more vertical, more time in the air to find lift, lose it and find it again. I felt more than once, if I'd turned the other direction, or more quickly, I might have caught it, the one chance I was given that day. Maybe I needed more motivation, to hike the bigger mountains we finally found in Western Mongolia.
I think it's fair to tell someone who's a pilot, if they are visiting Mongolia, definitely bring you glider. But I hesitate to suggest visiting Mongolia as a pilot trying to maximize airtime. The endless, moderately high, treeless hills are perfect for a novice pilot; and doing the site analysis, great for learning with an instructor.
I found myself fantasizing of flying here with a tow rig, day-dreaming of a sick Trans-Mongolia Red Bull style race where teams alternate towing each other and flying cross-country. Even with a tow rig, there are still the logistical challenges of slow bumpy roads and no services. To some the total lack of infrastructure is part of the lure of visiting Mongolia. Looking at it from the other side, the few towns, people, stores, restaurants, even gas stations makes ones decisions easier, by going completely self sufficient, it is easier to go anywhere that looks good. Often the roads are worse than driving across the steppes cross-country. Drivers pick the direct route across valleys, looking out for old tracks but not staying on a road that leads the wrong direction.
Looking back on Mongolia I realize that the adventure of traveling and flying there was well worth the effort, though the lack of comforts and amenities, from paved roads, restaurants and hotels with showers, all make it a place that most pilots would not enjoy. At the same time, while so much of the world is "modernized" and overrun by pollution, industry and tourism, the heart of Mongolia will stay true, if rough, for years to come.
The Mongolian experience was much more than just a paragliding expedition. In our travels we met almost no English speakers, all communication with our drivers was in Mongolian. Our last driver even spent our final days teaching us Russian, in Mongolian, which we then translated into English. This was a deep emersion into the country, the culture and the people.
Buddhism, horrifically suppressed during the Soviet Era, is blossoming again. We took the opportunity to attend many prayer ceremonies in small monasteries, recently rebuilt around the country in the last fifteen years. Buddhism is reawakening for Mongolians who considered themselves Buddhist and practiced in secret throughout the Soviet Era. Tantric Buddhism came from Tibet in the distant past, before the times of Ghengis Khan, and the subtle influence in people's lives is seen and felt in a thousand different ways.
Everywhere are signs of peoples' reconnection with their historic beliefs, many of which extend to times before Buddhism's influence to ancient practices from the Bon religion. Every pass and highpoint has a sacred pile of stones, called an ovoo. Travelers passing by make three counter clockwise circumnavigations, adding a stone or two and asking the local god for blessings and safe passage. I gave thanks for so many magic flights above the open steppes. During the trip we strung countless scarves, left fluttering in the wind joining thousands of others streaming from the tops of the ovoos. Our drivers often lit incense that we obtained at monasteries, to create their own small shrine.
Vodka is also left as an offering at ovoos. Drinking vodka follows a solemn ceremony as well: before taking the first drink from a newly opened bottle, the first capful is thrown to the air, the second to the ground and then finally for oneself. A glass is passed, then refilled for the next person. With your first drink you first dip your ring finger into the vodka and flick first to the air, the ground and finally for yourself. Another vodka-drinking ritual is always pouring with the mouth of the bottle towards the door.
Needless to say, Mongolia sports serious vodka drinking. Small shops have hard candies, cookies, ramen noodles, beer, soda and vodka. Sometimes the vodka shelf takes as much room as all the other supplies combined. It was fortunate we trained in Mongolia for the heavy Vodka drinking the Russian pilots did in the Altai Republic the next month.
July 23 rd 2005. It is our twenty fifth day in Mongolia. Yesterday I had a great flight and easily got to cloud-base. Unfortunately, going on glide downwind led over the back, across the range. To chase meant a four-hour drive around the mountains for Ursula, without knowing the roads and no radio contact. I was conservative, flying out into the broad valley. I found lift, but each thermal topped out sooner than the last and the climbs tracked back toward the mountains. Flying into the wind challenged me the whole trip, but down wind would so often leave my retrieve crew stranded, or at least a half day away.
That was yesterday. Last night we camped below another perfect set of mountains, facing what had been the wind direction for days. We awoke with the wind switched one hundred eighty degrees. Frustrated, with one last look at the hills I couldn't fly, we drove over the range. The other side of the mountains was steep and rocky, the wind strong in the venturi of the pass. I wrote the day off to changing weather, then half an hour later we stopped the jeep and stood next to Tsetseg Nuur, a large aqua blue lake on the edge of the Gobi Desert. I kicked dust and looked up at the long line of mountains. Above us lay another brutally steep, hot hike, but the wind was perfect, and it was still early enough that I had to try. Once again, Ursula said: "Don't forget your radio, I love you and be careful".
Sharp shale rock slipped on each other and made footing difficult. Black outcrops radiated heat, but when I stopped mosquitoes and biting flies descended. I finally topped the ridge after noon, with just a hint of wind. Thousands of feet below, the tiny jeep was lost amongst the rocks. Surely there was a good chance of a big flight this time.
I waited for the start of a cycle after a long quiet lull; with a clean inflation, pulled my trusted Gradient Aspen above me and ran off the sharp rocky launch. After several passes I was above launch. When I lost the lift, I tried further down the ridge, but found nothing. I flew to the edge of the first canyon west. Just as I turned to head back, well below launch, I found a thermal. It wasn't strong but I could stay in it as I turned and soon was above the ridge again.
The drift was back into the canyon, and rather than commit I stayed out front and lost the thermal. Back over launch and still no lift. Again I headed west and again low at the first gap I found my house thermal. This time I kept with it, accepting the drift and letting go of the ridge I launched from. After gaining a thousand feet I radioed Ursula to start driving.
I made my way down range with an eye on the jeep, now just a dot with a plume of dust rising behind it. After several small climbs I found a thermal stronger than four hundred feet per minute and took this to ten thousand feet. I could see the top of the range and snowy peaks at both ends. Below, the road ran further from the mountains, the jeep only a speck in the distance.
With smooth slow climbs I wasn't taking any collapses. The air felt bumpy only when I found or lost thermals. My camelback tube slid into my harness and though I twisted and turned, I couldn't quit reach it, and my glider pitched and rolled from my contortions until I finally gave up trying.
Though I anticipated the big air and cross-country flight, there was an underlying tension to the day. Perhaps finally getting high, cold and going big after so many tries, or the jeep so far from the range, or the long hike and lack of water, but for some reason I didn't relax into it the way I usually do.
My vario's clock showed a little after three pm. It seemed wrong, since it felt like I'd been flying for hours. Dark clouds began to fall out further west, but my progress up the range was slow. Several times I found myself low, then headed out in the direction of the now indiscernible road, with slow headway into the wind. Over the flats I'd find another thermal, track it back over the mountains and make my best gains. At thirteen thousand feet I approached the darker rain clouds. A last climb took me to fourteen thousand. While I crossed a big canyon, Ursula radioed that she thought she saw my glider. Rather than fly into the rain clouds, I flew out, away for the mountains, looking for flatland thermals to keep going, but soon stood on the ground. I felt swallowed by the flat, enormous valley, which stretched out around me. The mountain range ran towards Sutai Uul, a beautiful snowy peak off in the distance at the head of the valley.
I was relieved to still have radio contact, but Ursula sounded frustrated on the radio. My description of where I landed "Below the mountains out on the flats." was very vague. I stared into the distance and hoped to see the jeep. Finally it seemed a tiny dot in the distance was moving.
"Yeah, Ursula, I see you. I think you're headed right for me, just keep going." I felt her relief come over the small handheld radio.
After I packed up my glider, I turned again to look for the jeep- only to realize the little dot was still there, in the same place.
"U.C. copy J.C." I tried. Her radio transmission was broken, "Copy J.C. I still don't see you." "Yeah, what I thought was you hasn't moved... Sorry." I scanned the horizon as the heat shimmered up from the floor of the Gobi Desert. Then off further west, a speck with a tiny dust cloud behind!
"Yes, I see you. And I really think it's you this time. You're way west of me." They turned off the rough track they were following. Through dry creek beds and boulder fields they drove cross-country. After half an hour they saw me, standing alone amidst the emptiness. Not a tree in sight, nothing to distinguish the lonely place I'd landed.
We gathered around, took photos and laughed. I guzzled water and told our driver I'd gone 30 km. He was impressed, but Ursula couldn't believe it was such a short flight. At two and a half hours it felt three times that long, to Ursula as well. Compared to all the long distance flying and retrieves we've done all over the world, this seemed much longer. We compared it to a quick 70 km in Argentina; to many long flights in India; to the easy flying along the Columbia River in British Columbia, Canada; flights in the Owens Valley in California; Arizona, New Mexico and many at home in Colorado. For some reason it all seemed harder, longer, further here than it really was. "Do you think the GPS and vario are right?" she asked. "Yeah it's right. I guess maybe just we aren't, or Mongolia isn't..."
To say visiting Mongolia is brutal is overstatement. To say it's very rough is accurate. Most Mongolians are nomadic herders, living in gers, known in English by the Russian word yurt. They move the round felt houses seasonally, as they have for generations. The local diet has changed little as well. People eat few vegetables, relying on meat and dairy. The language exemplifies this: in Mongolian there is no specific word for vegetable as they use the same word for grass. Ursula's favorite meal is Khorkhog, in which hot-rocks are added to mutton, potato, onion and carrots, in a large pot suspended over a fire. My favorite food is the Mongolian version on Central Asian steamed dumplings, locally called buuz.
In several weeks of travel and discovery we visited and flew sites near Ulaan Baatar, Karakoram, Tstserleg, Uliastai and Altai, on the edge of the Gobi Desert. My GPS filled with waypoints, my journal with sketched maps to launches no one will ever visit again. Exploring mountain ranges along the edge of the Gobi Desert, we went five days without seeing another person.
Towards the end of the trip we arrived in the more populated western aimags of Khovd and Bayon-Olgii. Here we discovered high glaciated peaks and green valleys filled with gers. We also found rainy weather or clear days with howling wind. Still I flew several sites, often with spectacular mountain backdrops or camels in the landing field. One rainy afternoon we found a family that keeps eagles for hunting. Dressed in the traditional hunting outfit, we held the huge birds and posed for photos.
As everywhere in Central Asia, eagles joined me almost every flight. Even on the shortest sled ride an eagle launched beside me, accompanied me to my landing, then circled above me as I packed, as though asking why I flew down so quickly.
During the trip we dressed in traditional coats, called dels. Knee length, wrap around, they fasten with buttons and a brightly colored sash. My del was earth brown and heavy wool, while Ursula's was lighter and a beautiful deep blue with embossed dragons in the material. The sashes were yellow and bright orange. They seemed odd to me at first, but to the locals we fit right in.
There are no road signs and often not even a real road to follow. We stopped at hundreds of gers to ask directions. With famous nomadic hospitality, families welcomed us into their homes. Seated on carpets in the back of a ger, we were offered an array of dairy products and drinks such as dried milk curds (aaruul), deep fried cheese, and yogurt. Next came airag (fermented mares milk) and then white airag or clear spirits, then vodka. Happy, with hands full of chunks of aaruul, we would step outside only to be invited into the neighbor's ger to do it all over again.
I grew to love the aaruul, which the lonely planet guide describes as "Hard as rock and about as tasty." I also drank airag by the liter by the end of the trip, though Ursula never acquired a taste for it.
The jeep veered right then left, and then slowed as we hit a deep hole. Almost none of the roads are paved in Mongolia, and those few are in worse condition than the dirt tracks that run beside them. The most common vehicle in the country is a rugged but simple four-wheel drive, commonly known as a Russian Jeep or by its model number, a sixty-nine. For Ursula and I, our two-month trip across the vast open space of Outer Mongolia revolved around this rough means of travel. Many visitors to Mongolia go for horse trips, and after almost two months of bouncing, weaving and jostling, this makes sense.
In the evenings our driver and his wife gathered dung to cook over. We cooked on a gas stove for ourselves. Often as we sat in our tent we first felt, than heard the distant pound of hoof beats. In the gathering dusk, horses galloped, sometimes with riders, sometimes for what seemed just the joy of it, dust kicked up and blown into the wind.
Our last weeks in the Bayan-Olgii region, I flew a couple times in windy conditions. Though we saw beautiful mountains with great flying potential, my motivation for long hikes was waning. Gers here are bigger, Kazakh style, like the ones we saw later in the trip in the Kazakh and Kyrgyz Republics. We visited Altai Tavanbogd National Park, below magnificent snowy peaks on the border with China, but alas, it was too windy to fly.
Our plan to hitch hike through a seldom-used border crossing into the Altai Republic, in the far south of the former Soviet Union, took several days to pull off. We felt relieved to successfully cross the border, which only opened the fall before to foreigners, for the first time in several hundred years. We heard rumors it was closed just two weeks before we arrived. So fulfilled, with nostalgia and anticipation we finished one adventure and began another. Once in Russia we were only a couple hours from the small village of Kurai, where the International Russian Open Paragliding Championships were about to be held... Ah but that's another story.
Go to Dateline Kurai, Altay Republic: The Russian Paragliding Championships.
Go to A The Celelstial Tien Shan of Kyrgyzstan: Between Mountains and Sky.
Go to Paragliding In The Callejon De Huaylas.
Go to Paragliding Huaraz Peru.
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