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Playing through the pain (more photos)

Janine? Can we please play some friggin’ badminton?

Jason

Mongolian horses don’t wear shoes. I’m intensely grateful for that.

The mixed weather of our rest day turned full on terrible the next day. A leaden sky greated us outside the tent. Shortly after breakfast, a sullen rain began to fall and we hurriedly finished packing just before it turned to a driving sleet.

Until now, the chestnut pack horse that I’d led had been the most docile of our bunch. So I didn’t pay much attention to him or his hindquarters as  I loaded his white colleague with Tenjin that morning. Little did I know that on the list of “things that generally piss off Mongolian horses”, sleet featured prominently.  Before I could say, “hey, why’s the brown turning his back legs toward me so quickly?”, the brown turned his legs towards me quickly and delivered a swift kick that landed with a dull thwack just above my knee cap.

The best thing to do in these situations is to hop up and down and dig out every curse combo you’ve ever heard on HBO. It really helps with the searing pain and quick-rising hematoma. Still I was lucky – a little lower and my world trip would have ended courtesy of a leg cast. A little higher and it would have put a real and literal dent in my sex life.

Did I mention that today was my birthday?

This little incident both arned the chestnut brown the name “Kicky” earned him what we’d come to call a “Mongolian Nose Job.” This involved Tenjin grabbing a big handful of Kicky’s snout, pulling it out from upper lip and then wrapping a rawhide cord around it’s base, much like one would wrap the stems of a big bunch of flowers. The wrap was knotted with a hand sized loop that was designed to grab while loading the suddenly rambunctious gelding.

It looked painful and cruel.

But Kicky was all of a sudden a much better-behaved horse.

We were all shivering and cold when we finally proceeded. But Kicky having been subdued, Throwy decided it was his turn to be something of a jerk. With no warning, he bolted, sending most of the horses, including mine into a bounding stride across the river valley that took too many heart pounding moments to halt. When all control was regained Tenjin and Gaaj backtracked a couple of miles to recapture Throwy, who had come to a pounding halt at a ger camp.

This was enough for me. The first throw, the lost horses, the kicking, the bolting.

We were having pony issues.

Striving to regain our composure, we walked to the nearest ger camp on our route. There, I called Sarah back in Tsetserleg on our satellite phone and used her as a translator to talk frankly with Gaaj about what seemed like a pretty unruly bunch of horses. According to Gaaj, the problem was Kicky and that he didn’t like me leading him on Pompadour. Gaaj suggested a third guide as the best way to solve the problem.

I found it hard to believe that Throwy wasn’t the main source of trouble. He’d instigated most of the bolts so far and seemed bound and determined to raise hell whenever possible. Even Gaaj seemed to have trouble controlling him and I was continually surprised that he’d started me out on a horse that really didn’t seem suited to tourists. If I’d been in charge, he’d have been traded for anything alternate on four legs that was still breathing; dogs, goats and marmots included. But Gaaj seemed to have a proud attachment to the surly white and was obviously intent on keeping him in the group.   So, since our group wanted to press on, if a third guide is what it took to do that, so friggin’ be it.

In addition to settling upon a new strategy for dealing with our troublesome mounts, the stop at the ger was useful for re-engergizing us for the ride to our evening camp. While Gaaj and I talked to Sarah on the satellite phone, cup after cup of hot, salted Mongolian milk tea was handed around to our group by the inhabitants of the ger. In true Mongolian style, they’d taken us into their home without question and with the utmost hospitality, stoking their woodstove and feeding us on copious amounts of dairy products while the weathered camp elders stared and laughed at us curiously. Whenever we left the ger to talk in private or answer the call of nature (it was a lot of tea), the matriarch of the clan sent a little boy with us to watch over the dogs that prowled and guarded the camp.

Finally, we left the ger and headed out on the trail again. Two young men from the host family accompanied us for two hours, until we reached a green field surrounded by sweeping birch and willow trees near a clear branch of the river by which we’d camped the day before. As we set up camp, the grey skies cleared  and the sun turned the remaining clouds mind bending shades of purple and indigo as it set behind the valley’s western ridge.

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Uneasy skies on day 5 of our journey

Dave, Val and Janine were feeling positive with the turn in weather and the news that more guide help was on the way. After reaching the camp, they even took their horses out for a brief gallop before unsaddling them for the evening. But I was down. So far in Mongolia, I’d been kicked, thrown and infected by the horses I’d so looked forward to riding. This wasn’t at all like the Louis L’Amour books had promised.

I was feeling a little sorry for myself. And so I turned to the one thing I knew might pick me up a bit on what had been, and I’m sorry about this Mr. Beautiful Sunset, a pretty shitty day.

“Janine? Can we please play some friggin’ badminton?” I asked in my best, sad birthday boy voice.

Janine agreed.

Gaaj had galloped off to find us a third guide, leaving Tenjin to sing and tend a small campfire in the dying light of the evening. While he cooked his and his brother’s standard pot of noodles and beef, he watched Janine and I bat the feathered birdie back and forth, laughing a little more as the minutes went on. Finally, Dave got in on the fun and if Tenjin wouldn’t join us, at least we coaxed a little grin from his normally stoic face.

Probably because he thought we were idiots. But that’s okay.

For some strange reason, I really did feel better after badminton. And I stayed on a roll after we finished; enjoying our dinner around the campfire and then retiring to our tent to call my mom on the sat phone and hear her annual rendition of the story of my incredibly painful birth.  Finally, I called my sister and brother-in-law. I wanted to end the day with their birthday wishes and I also wanted the opinion of my sister (who is also our expedition doctor) on the weird eye bugs I’d caught from the horses a few days before.

Melanie was extremely helpful, drawing on years of medical school and practice to form an instant diagnosis of my infestation. “Oh Jay!” she said as she audibly recoiled on the other end of the phone, thousands of miles away. “I’ve never heard of that before! That’s really gross!”

Then, silence. Then, I heard her conferring with my brother-in-law for a minute. Then, she returned to the phone and delivered some further assistance.

“Al says if you’d stop having sex with horses this wouldn’t happen,”  she suggested, unsuccessfully suppressing a snigger.

Grateful for the support, intellect and obvious love of my family members, I hung up the phone and went to sleep. My leg hurt again.

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