Hello and welcome.

Currents is a science communication publication for students to share and reflect upon their research, experiences, and interests. This story is an attempt at broadening what’s considered to be within the canopy of both science and science communication. While this story isn’t “science” by most definitions, it does represent a multilayered reflection. We are inseparable from reflection, existing as the sum of our relations and experiences with people, history, our environments—everything we hold. Just as light bouncing off an object gives its shape, reflection is what gives meaning to both life and science.

Despite my best attempts, words remain insufficient representations of both my experience and my reflections on this adventure. In the words of activist and artist, Raymond “Boots” Riley, “art is just communication… it picks up where words do not suffice.” For these reasons, I have chosen to tell this story through a framework of photos punctuated by my written recollections. I hope that this visual essay allows you to slow down, consider each photograph, reflect on what they mean in the context of your own experiences, and with any luck, transport your mind to a place or feeling outside of your typical day. 

Thank you for being here,

Thor

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Flies and pine nuts. Everything here either wants to bite you or suck the blood from the aforementioned bite. We live for the delayed gratification of a soggy pine nut fished from between the wet folds of our inadequate rain jackets. To be clear, no jacket is adequate beyond several days of wet bushwacking, this is undoubtedly the hardest thing any of us has ever done. Why are we here? Who’s idea was this? 

As the person whose idea this was, it might be my responsibility to answer the why. In short, I was young and naïve. I had never really “traveled,” in an existential sense or otherwise. In my smalltown-I-only-had-six-kids-in-my-8th-grade-class, history-textbook-heavy brain, I thought the best place to start would be as far away from anything I had ever known as possible—Mongolia. 

Map-less in Mongolia, June 8, 2017. Unable to source any type of detailed topography map for the region, we traveled halfway across the globe with virtually no advance route planning. The only real plan: buy horses, head north, experience what we think of as “wilderness”, and eventually, hopefully, make it to Russia (not by walking over the border, we DID know better than this).

I wanted to find commonalities between seemingly different landscapes and people. I wanted to follow history on foot and experience what overland travel might have felt like in an era where Mongols on horseback reigned supreme from Europe to Asia. This trip braided all of this together into one story for me as two friends and I navigated over mountain ranges, through bogs, and up and down valleys. Life was stripped back to its necessities and I had much to learn.

We arrived in Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia in early June of 2017. All around us were signs of rapidly developing tourism, industry, and consumerism. Though never a Soviet Republic, the fall of the USSR made space for Mongolia’s peaceful transition to a democracy in the early 1990s.

Fresh Sawdust, June 2, 2017. A group makes short work of a stack of pallets, turning them into benches for a new restaurant. Mongolia is a country of contradictions. Its remoteness both protects and isolates it. Its riders once united the largest empire in the world. There is a strong case to be made that Mongolians ushered in the modern era of globalization, their conquests paving the way for the Silk Road and one of the origins of global trade. I lost track of the times the people I met told me that they were the great Khan. In modern contexts, Mongolia is sandwiched between Russia and China, its borders not reflective of its people. People here are pushed and pulled by external forces, their land often relegated to that of a buffer despite its historical significance.

Our first week was spent adjusting to a very different environment. We got over a 16-hour time difference while Couchsurfing with a nice Australian woman who worked for the United Nations. She liked Mongonia but it seemed she was growing tired of eating meat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. At first, we judged her slightly for this but in time we began to agree with her determination. 

Nearly adjusted, the time came for us to leave our familiar host before she grew tired of us too. Few options for housing existed outside of a few large fancy hotels but upon discovering a small nondescript ad on a hostel booking website, we set forth to find the hidden gem. Similar to the roads we wandered to get there, no signs existed for the hostel and we spent hours trying to find the address while simultaneously questioning every life decision we had made to that date. Finally—and for us, seemingly very randomly—a couple stopped us in their car. They were our age and somehow looked both amused and concerned at the same time.

The Highrise Ger, June 8, 2017. The steppe merges with the city in the outskirts of Ulaanbaatar. The city’s population has nearly doubled since the mid-2000s as herders have traded in their nomadic lives for promises of security and financial prosperity. Climate-change-driven drought and resulting shifts in the region’s ecology have made it increasingly difficult for the roughly 40% of the population that still lives a nomadic life.

I now know that Baggi had been told by his many neighbors to go find the lost foreigners wandering their streets. Baggi and his wife Uyanga had just started The Garage Hostel, on the outskirts of the city. We were his second guests since opening a few weeks prior and we bonded over a shared but different newness of experiences.

We spent three weeks with Baggi and Uyanga, exploring the city, getting provisions and supplies, and more generally trying to convince them that we were not crazy. When we could no longer make any more excuses we packed into their little 4×4 and headed off to the entrance of Gorkhi Terelj (Горхи-Тэрэлж) National Park. There we spent the afternoon driving from ger to ger asking if anyone had a couple of extra horses we could buy.

Batsaikhan “Baggi” Demberelsaikhan, July 12, 2017. Seen here on a horse for “the first time in years.” I snapped this photo as I was recovering from being convinced to ride the same horse by a group of laughing Mongolians at Naadam, the country’s biggest festival. Its traditional wooden saddle provided little padding and required the rider to continuously shift around while maneuvering. The horses here knew we didn’t belong. They liked to test us. This particular horse decided to take off in a full gallop as soon as my weight began to settle onto its back, leaving me to the mercy of the hard saddle as I struggled to get my other foot into the stirrup. Baggi had no such troubles.

To my surprise, this wasn’t nearly as easy as I had originally expected. Horses seemed to be everywhere. Why didn’t people want our hard-earned tögrög or tugrik? We had anticipated that not everyone would want to sell their horses to foreigners but we knew little about why this might be. In a naïve attempt at good intentions, we thought we were coming to people with an opportunity. Who doesn’t want money? Money is good, right? 

I now know we couldn’t possibly understand what horses meant to the people we met. Their connection was far beyond our “vacation”. Without Baggi’s support and endorsement that we were good people, none of what followed would have been possible. We had much to learn.

Packed for Adventure, June 12, 2017. In the early days of the trip we enjoyed sunny weather as we followed streams, rivers, and Soviet-era topo maps into the mountains. Our two pack horses, affectionately nicknamed Oldman and Youngman, tolerated us. I grew up around horses but my two friends did not share this comfort.

Hold the Vote, June 16, 2017. Nearly a week in and 60 km from any signs of civilization, we rounded a bend to find three families of dentists partying out of their 4x4s, out in the wild to escape the third round of presidential elections. Mongolia requires that a candidate win over 50% of the popular vote to take office. If this fails to occur, run-off elections are held until it does. In an effort to increase voter turnout, all alcohol sales are banned in the days surrounding the election. Unhappy with both candidates, these families choose to stock up on meat and alcohol and avoid the whole situation.

Braided Channels, June 17, 2017. Seven days into the backcountry, the haze of wildfire smoke led to some serious conversations. Feeling extra vulnerable in this new environment we climbed a nearby mountain looking for the source. Seeing no obvious fires and having come this far, we decided to continue our journey up the river’s braided meanderings. In the lower right, the tiny red dot of our tent calls out.

Camp Repairs, June 18, 2017. Long days and wildfire smoke lead to utter exhaustion around the campfire. A diet of dehydrated horse meat—beat between two rocks to tease out the fibers—rice, dried fruit, and oatmeal sustains us. A small pour of Chinggis Gold Vodka lifts our spirits after an extra hard day.

Night Terrors, June 19, 2017. As we navigated north, we climbed higher. At this elevation, thunderstorms rage for hours in the night. Choosing a campsite in these conditions takes on an extra significance. Too high off the valley floor and we risk becoming our own version of a Mongolian barbeque, too low and flash floods become a concern. One evening I will never forget; we huddled in a tent for hours, unable to sleep, the ground literally shook around us from a near-satanic onslaught of lightning–the air tight–our hair stood on end. The next morning we were all quiet.

Still Mornings, June 20, 2017. In the mornings after thunderstorms, we walk up the valley. Little columns of smoke rise in the high hills around us. Now, accustomed to the smoke and small fires, we continue up the meager suggestion of a path cut by the river and the occasional bold 4×4. Here the subarctic pine forest or Taiga is a fire-adapted ecosystem relying on many small fires to keep the big burns to a minimum. 

Our experience with wildfires was quite different. We were used to horror stories from smokejumper friends on the West Coast, and were rightfully terrified of a California-style inferno. Gradually we settled into a restless ease with the fires. Sometimes their remnants made travel easier, burning away the undergrowth for smooth relatively open travel. Sometimes they turned the forest into a maze of downed trees with many dead ends.

Camp Made, June 22, 2017. The vestiges of a pine nut camp from last fall’s harvest remind us that no matter how remote we think we are in this country, others have been there first. Borrowing the campsite, the horses roam on a rope run, gorging on fresh grass, a true treat after a long hard Mongolian winter. The process of setting up camp is seemingly simple: One, unpack the horses while attempting to not be kicked. Two, brush and tie up horses while attempting to not be kicked. And three, deal with yourself.

The Edge of Days, June 22, 2017. Sunrise and sunset are strange islands of peace amidst the difficulties of the day. Warm morning light fills the body with optimism yet our brains can’t help but fear the collective hardship of tending the horses, fighting the flies, and bushwalking without end. In the evenings, a quiet beauty takes hold of the landscape.

Gone are the thousands of flies that attack both you and the horses,

Hands black and sticky with their crushed bodies,

Mixed with dirt and horse,

Our bodies cry for a rest.  

We drew nearer to the final pass, where we’d cross over this mountain range and drop down out of the highlands and out of Gorkhi Terelj National Park, out of the brush and away from the flies—back to the promise of a road.

Navigating Highs and Lows, June 23, 2017. After a long day of bushwhacking, it can be incredibly tempting to try and cut across seemingly flat, clear areas. Hard-earned experience reminds us, if it’s flat, it’s most likely a bog at this elevation (2200 meters).

We learned—often the hard way—from the landscape. Certain plants began to take on extra meaning. Dry ground, rock, and mud are all explained by the flora and fauna of different ecological communities. We followed bands of similar-looking plants—subtle textures and colors leading into the distance—hugging the contours of the terrain, avoiding low spots, and trying our best to keep the horses happy . We learned something we thought we already knew—that efficient travel has little to do with distance and much more to do with terrain.

Mountain Passes, June 23, 2017. Asralt Khairkhan (Асралт хайрхан) rises to 2799 meters, making it the highest peak in the Khentii Mountain range. The range is widely regarded as the birthplace of Genghis Khan. Like most mountains in Mongolia, its summit is regarded as a holy place for all Mongolians to share. After finding our way through hours of bogs we gazed up at its silhouette, sharing a moment of peace. 

Somewhere a couple hundred meters of elevation below, the flies had changed. Instead of battling 8–10 species ranging in size from a grain of rice to a small mouse, now we only enjoyed the presence of 2–3 species, their onslaught nearly tolerable. This night marked a high point in the trip, both in a literal elevation sense as well as in a more figurative, general feeling that things would be getting easier from here on out. The next day this feeling quickly faded.

As we descended from the prior evening’s fantasies we lost sight of any indicators of human presence. Traversing and descending, we navigated through a combination of our senses and a near obsession with the contours outlined on our topo maps. The flies returned and we spent nearly an entire day caught in a labyrinth of charred, downed trees that eventually gave way to a stream nestled at the bottom of a narrow valley. Again, we congratulated ourselves. We had descended nearly 1000 meters in a single day, despite near-constant doubt that we could find a way through with the horses. We watched as a particularly vicious lightning storm rolled in over the mountain peaks we had just left. Again, our celebration was premature.

For the next four days it rained with an intermittent fury. The steep terrain and narrow river floodplain meant finding a flat place to camp was near impossible. Our days were spent stumbling through underbrush following animal trails and carefully rationing the pine nuts we had scavenged from higher elevations. Cracking each nut between our teeth provided an opportunity to briefly focus on something other than the water squishing in your saturated boots. These were the most difficult days of the trip not just physically, but also mentally as we walked into the unknown fearing the known. What if the next 150 km was just like this? We had little options for a rescue and only the faded orange contours on a map to tell us what to expect next.

Few photos exist of this period. My only reminder, a brief, blurry recording of what it looked like to walk through the overhead brush. The “trails” we followed were narrow suggestions, inadvertently cut through the brush by moose, bears, and other creatures. Here we were constantly on edge, fearing each blind corner and the potential of walking headlong into some creature bigger than ourselves. Like most decisions on this trip, following these trails provided an exchange of discomforts. We either traversed the steep sides of the valley, one leg perpetually a few inches higher than the other, or we gave in to gravity, joining the wet, flat, yet uneven lowlands surrounding the stream. It was in this variation of discomfort that we found an uneasy relief.

Road to Nowhere, June 30, 2017. This photo shows the exit to the valley we stumbled down. As we threaded our way forward, the weight of the last few days was felt by horse and person alike. Coming to the river, we couldn’t see the road on the other side. All hope deflated in an instant. The collective loss was crushing. We couldn’t go back. We didn’t want to go back. 

Feeling fully responsible for the pain felt by my friends, I waded in to investigate. It wasn’t as deep as it looked. The water was warm against my legs. Finding a road beyond the brush on the other side remains, to this day, one of the single greatest feelings of elation I have ever felt.

That night we set up camp and basked in our success. We started a small fire in the rain in a vain attempt to dry out our clothes and boots. We drank the last of our Chinggis Gold. We enjoyed yet another moment of blissful ignorance. In the morning we would have visitors.

Unsatisfactory Ends, June 30, 2017. This is the last time we saw Oldman and Youngman. Just as our passports disappeared into the hands of gun-carrying men, leaving us with little choice but to follow, the horses faded into the Mongolian landscape despite promises of their return. In the wrong place at the wrong time, and without a guide, we paid a steep tourist tax to a group of firefighters. It turns out roads can have dangers too.

Clad in camo and yelling at us, initially, we shared no common language. After a few days of playing cards, fishing, and camping together, we learned to share food, experiences, and even a few jokes. They were firefighters from Mongolia’s newly formed National Emergency Management Agency or NEMA. We never did learn why their agency holds an English name in a world otherwise devoid of the Latin alphabet. The man in charge told us that to get our passports back we need to pack up and move. We called him the Ranger.

The Ranger and His Many Trucks, July 2, 2017. We bounced around in the old Russian 6×6 pictured here, for the better part of a day as we rode the 120 km out of the mountains. On occasion, a particularly vicious bump would reduce us all to a sweaty pile of arms and legs on the transport floor. The three of us and 20 firefighters bonded over the bumps, bruises, general discomfort, and a few rounds of dice despite the language barrier and rough road. Deposited on the edge of the park, a flurry of hazy communication left us realizing how far we still were from getting our passports back. We were told to wait. The Ranger turned around and drove back into the mountains.

Left at the Creek, July 6, 2017. A thunderstorm rages outside; inside, salty, sticky bodies that never expected to have to wait this long in a tent. After nearly a full week, punctuated only by a full day hitchhiking beer run and an impromptu celebration on July 4th, we are summoned by a barrage of honking just as the sun sets. Throwing our tents and belongings into wet bags with the reckless abandon of “we really need our passports back,” we run up from our creek camping spot to the Ranger’s waiting van. At this point we have had a week to worry about his plans for us, our minds have explored too many possibilities.

We bounced down the thin dirt track illuminated in the growing dusk by the faint, disjointed circles of the Ranger’s little Russian 4×4 van. Like most of our rides together we had no idea where we were going. Our bodies were squished together amidst tools and firefighting equipment. We crested a ridge and got a scrap of service on one of our phones. Sending hurried texts first to Baggi and next to the US Embassy in Ulaanbaatar we held our breath as the phone strained to connect. Hours later we arrived at the Ranger’s house and were ushered into a nearly finished wooden building built in the shape of a yurt. We could tell the Ranger was proud of it. Exhausted and finally at ease after hearing from Baggi, we collapsed into sleep.

The next day we were given the finest kefir I have ever tasted. The day was looking up. There were no flies. Baggi arrived by noon with canned plums and other sweets as gifts for the Ranger and his family, well received but quickly forgotten as he pulled a couple bottles of Mongolian vodka from his bag. The party had started. Negotiations took all day and involved many cigarettes, another gift. During this, the Ranger attempted to blame all the fires in the hills on us. With the threat of jail now looming, things intensified. By presenting our log and charted route we somehow (it was all Baggi) avoided jail. All that was left was the “formal paperwork,” otherwise known as a bribe, and we were free to go. Growing bold, we asked about our horses. We were told they won’t arrive for a week and that we can come back for them then. They never arrived.

Changing Horizons, July 10, 2017. Back in Ulaanbaatar, our passports in hand, I am both heartbroken and possibly even grateful to leave the fires and flies behind. Baggi and Uyanga decided to lift our spirits one barbequed piece of meat at a time as we spent the next month exploring together. One morning we hiked a small portable grill and all the fixings to the top of Mongolia’s only lift-accessible ski resort for a breakfast barbeque with a view of the city.

Nearly another month passed before we headed north again. This time by train. Our horses inadvertently returned to the landscape we unconsciously borrowed them from. I used to think of this trip as a test—some dichotomous challenge of self. It was me versus myself and initially, I thought I had failed. 

I thought I could take the overland travel knowledge I had and apply it in a new space. I thought I knew what I was doing. During this trip I was reminded daily that I did not. Similarly, I was so focused on finding commonalities between myself and those who I met that I sometimes forgot to give space for our differences. These realizations haunted me for years.

This trip and my reflections upon it have profoundly shaped who I am today. They are a part of me. I feel incredibly lucky to have had the opportunity to learn these lessons on such a grand romp. Despite this, I have never written about the trip, nor do I mention it much. While there is no simple reason for this, a large part of it relates to the base realization that this story, like most, is much bigger than its author.