And so it is that I find myself for the third time in four days going to the airport at an hour before daylight. Possibly the same genius who was responsible for putting the sports arena and airport along the same road had decided to schedule the departure of a full third of the day's flights between the hours of 6 and 7 a.m. The airport is a strange place, the feeling small, somewhat dark and confined. We all huddle like refugees around a handful of cramped tables, drinking our coffees and keeping one ear perked for the announcements in a language we don't understand.
The waiting area at our gate is filled with miners ready to board their flight to the contentious Oyu Tolgoi mine in the south. Oddly enough, about ten minutes after they boarded they are back, and return to their seats, sitting slumped, sullenly, sleepily. Then it is our turn to board, and not long afterward, the twin props begin to spin, and we're aloft.
The earth below is a monocolor tone, a bit like my native New Mexico, but without the punctuation of mountains that in their dramatic contrast give the word 'flat' its definition. Tracks crisscross nearly everywhere. In some cases, a half-dozen parallel tracks race each other across the plain, then homogenize into a single strand, which from the air resembles an immense rake.
The city of Dalanzadgad eventually rises up. Its minute downtown area is a just handful of six- or seven-story buildings, reminding me of the Albuquerque I knew when I first moved there in 1981, a similarity made easy due to the backdrop of purple mountains behind which in their own way resemble the Sandias. But its the smell that really brings it home, the smell of sage, in the near-autumn air.
At Gurvan Saikan Airport, I could be standing in front of my mother's house, with the Manzanos defining one horizon, stretching out toward Mountainair further south. It is a very short drive to our ger camp. The tents are all identical, their interiors differing little in each of the half dozen camps in which we'll stay over the following weeks. There are a pair of beds (though a double here); a few quaint pieces of furniture that always seem to match the door in being twee and ornately painted. The trelliswork within defines the ger's circular walls, and can easily be retracted for a nomadic people's seasonal move. (Tucking in sleeves or pantlegs between the wood and the canvas also makes for a good place to air out clothing on a trip devoid of washing facilities.) The canvas outside the trellis can be 'untucked' to create air-conditioning, especially when the wooden, ever south-facing door is tied open. The apex of the roof has a section that can be peeled back for the same cooling effect, or for viewing stars from the comfort of one's bed.
After a short rest we regroup for lunch in the main ger, an immense space that could seat a hundred or so. It would prove the biggest of the trip. Then we pile into our Land Rovers for the drive out into the Gobi. The size of our group allows for just a pair of them, driven by a couple of friendly fellows who we grow to know well during our near-two weeks together. One of them, Bilgee, has all the craggy resemblance to a middle-aged Charles Bronson, though he has a penchant for smiling much more often. He has a theme song of sorts, which will roar out of his vehicle each time we are expected to embark, and even louder when we roll out of the steppe and into a ger camp.
We head into the Yol Valley, named for the massive bearded vultures that seemed nearly ever overhead. We begin with a quick stop at a small nature center, which contains a number of lifeless taxidermied animals (by which I mean the taxidermy itself looked lifeless). We soon leave this behind to drive the short ways out to the start of our walk. There are a depressing number of vehicles out at the car park, amny being those attractive vans right out of the Soviet '50s. I'm told they are sturdy little beasts, but devoid of air-con, and break down easily (though easily repaired). These belong to the Korean tourists who will prove to be the largest tourist demographic in Mongolia. I've always thought that the Korean language sounds somewhat Japanese, but spoken alongside Mongolian, I hear an even closer relation there. (Mongolian spoken in a vacuum sounds almost Russian to me.)
We follow a broad valley, passing herds of cows and horses happily grazing. A few of the latter must be on their lunch break, for most of their brethren are laden down with Koreans, who look as if they are mustering courage to take one hand off the reins to take a selfie. Eventually the valley narrows into a canyon of steep walls, where we find more people, many scrambling atop craggy rock formations and contorting themselves into an array of photogenic poses. (This will lead to catchphrase of sorts, as anytime we'd gather for a group photo, we'd attempt a new "Korean pose.") There are few locals too, the older horsemen in traditional clothes, and a handful of young boys busy with horseplay of their own, wrestling and just being boys.
We lose the crowd not long after, as we wend our way through the narrow walls, repeatedly jumping the stream that ever runs through. One section has a sudden drop, which is slippery and tough going with the wet soles of shoes. Eventually the canyon opens into another broad valley of softly sloping hills and wildflowers. We stop often, looking at plants and flowers and animals, the most amusing being the pika scrambling everywhere, and the grouse trying to look dignified as they amble up some remarkably steep ascents. Juniper bushes prove even better climbers, reaching remarkable heights. And along the way, the sacred ovoo mark the more oddly shaped rocks, looking very sacred indeed.
The landscape dazzles, in color, in shape, in scale. But the true vastness will be measured later. After dark, the sky shows all she is capable of, and the stars she paints herself with are of a number beyond imagination.
On the turntable: Love and Rockets, "Hot Trip to Heaven"
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