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Well I haven’t named him yet. I’m waiting to see how he injures me.

Jason

As far as me and horses go, the third time was the charm.

We awoke to find ourselves joined by a young new guide named Torgu. He was small even by Mongolian standards, but he had a huge smile that frequently cracked his broad, rosy-cheeked face. Though not a great singer, Tsorga felt that music should accompany pretty much every camp chore and he seemed to have a different hum or ballad for everything he did, from lighting the fire to saddling the horses.

Torgu had ridden in from his nearby camp on a large 12 year old charcoal brown gelding. With Pompadour acting a little off (electing at one point on the previous day’s ride to lie down and take a nap while I was still riding him), Gaaj arranged for Torgu to ride my horse in exchange for his own.

I mounted the new horse a little nervously. I had been contemplating walking today, just to have a day off from the seemingly constant troubles I’d had so far on the trip.

“What have you named him?” Val asked me, looking at our new companion as we left camp.

“Well I haven’t named him yet. I’m waiting to see how he injures me.” I was sincere.

But the big brown seemed relatively gentle and sane for our first few hours together. The good weather that had produced last night’s beautiful sunset had persisted. We rode out of the wooded river valley where we had camped. On the way, we passed several groups of gers and horse herds, my new horse whinnying socially at every one. Despite his good behaviour, I kept the reins tight, burying them and my gripping hand in his broad, boot-brush mane.

We rode over a shallow saddle at the end of the valley and the land opened before us again – broad and green, bordered by high hills on the right and a clear branch of the Tamir Gol river on the left. Over it all, the sky was a rich blue. The nice weather had brought out the horse flies in abundance and our mounts snorted loudly every few steps and shook their heads vigorously. The big brown had walked half sideways for most of the morning, looking constantly back over his right shoulder as if committing the way home to memory. But now, the insects gave him something else to think about and he tossed his head as impatiently as the other horses, itching to trot or gallop away from the clouds of bugs that harrassed his eyes and snout.

The new valley stretched on as only Mongolian valleys can, taking a couple of hours to traverse. Finally, we crested another saddle at its end, marked with a log ovoo cairn decked out in blue scarves. We circled the ovoo for good luck and then descended to yet another broad valley of the Tamir Gol river system, this time crossing the river and camping near the banks.

I dismounted my new horse gratefully but with a slight air of disbelief. It had been an incident-free day. No bolting, no load throwing, no kicking and no throwing. It had just been a pleasant ride.

I looked hard at the big brown as Torgu took his reins from my hands and started to remove his saddle. Could he be simply buttering me up? Lulling me into a false sense of confidence so that I’d be a more easy throw when he finally decided to head home? I searched his face for any sign of duplicity. The brown looked back at me with all the evil intent of your average jersey cow.

This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

***

Our guides quickly made a fire, over which they placed their sooty pot of rice. Gaaj didn’t wait to eat, riding instead back to a nearby settlemetn to buy some more food for the guides and to visit some family. While our chief guide was away, we were visited by some classic Mongolian drunks.

Vodka is drunk as casually around here as sodawatered-down vodka is offered to visitors at a ger as a matter of course, no matter the time of day. Visible drunkeness is not widespread. But every settlement seems to have one or two guys who go too far or can’t hold their liquor. They’re usually a harmless annoyance. But sometimes their antics are a serious pain. While Tenjin and Torgu stirred their boiling pot of water, already chatting with two harmless drunks who’d wandered in, another nuisance trotted his horse right into our camp and straight into the middle of the campfire, scattering wood, pot and guides everywhere in the wake of his clearly frightened mount. Torgu contained the damage by quickly leaping to his feat and grabbing the animal’s bridle, leading it away from the flames. At this, the inebriated rider immediately grew angry and began to shout down a torrent of abuse at our young guide, who stood his ground resolutely.

The confrontation didn’t last long. Within a few minutes the young man had dismounted from his horse and joined the campfire circle, laughing and joking like nothing had happened. Our guides were remarkably even tempered about the whole incident. Even Tenjin, who I could sense wanted to deliver a serious pummelling to the drunk, kept his cool, stalking off quietly to gather more wood. We had watched the whole thing from our dining tent and were amazed that no punches had been thrown.

With the drama seemingly over, we enjoyed the rest of our evening at yet another perfect campsite. In the twilight, young mongol boys galloped bareback across the valley, whooping and calling to each other as they chased sheep and cattle. Their ease on the running ponies was inspiring. I could see their brilliant white grins, fostered by years on a nearly exclusive dairy diet, from literally a mile away. The plains Indians no longer roamed the North American grasslands. Where else in the world could one hope to see young people ride so naturally, gracefully and freely?

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