Border Zone

Two weeks ago, we left the aimag capitol of Olgii, headed for Tavan Bogd. Excited, anxious, and relieved to be traveling into the mountains, it felt great to finally set out for skiing and climbing in the Altai. We were not to be disappointed- our time in the border zone delivered the full spectrum of experience and emotion. Challenge rewarded with exhilaration, mystique and magic countered by frustrations, our bodies and minds were taxed and tested by the many moods of the Altai.

First view of the mountains, nearing the end of the road

(photo CJ Carter)

The drive from Olgii to the entrance of Tavan Bogd took about six hours, covering 200km of relatively passable dirt roads interspersed with slow, rocky travel through the largest glacial moraines any of as had ever seen. We were luckily traveling in a Russian built Furgon van, a simple and burly vehicle perfect for this type of overland travel. The Furgon was a welcome change from the piddly Kia Frontiers we had rode in from Gov Altai to Olgii, as it could easily travel twice as fast over the rough terrain without the risk of breaking down.

Our trusty Furgon in the Valley of the Tsagaan Gol, Mongolia

(photo R. Minton)

Mosque en-route to Tavan Bogd, Bayan-Olgii, Mongolia

(photo R. Minton)

The final stretch into Tavan Bogd carries one through the valley of the Tsagaan Gol, or White River. It is a beautiful, fertile valley, with the river idyllically snaking its way eastward out of the mountains. The river’s name is apt, as finely ground glacial sediment has mixed with the water to give it a milky appearance. Even 40km from the glacial headwaters, the river carries the sediment, vividly contrasting the greening valley.

Valley of the Tsagaan Gol, Bayan-Olgii, Mongolia

(photo R. Minton)

Tuvan settlement, Tavan Bogd National Park, Mongolia

(photo CJ Carter)

Our first view of the mountains, atop a rocky rise, came very close to the end of the road. Through low, rolling clouds and a slight mist we glimpsed a couloir laden face through a gap in the canyon, choked with snow. We excitedly relished our arrival to the real mountains of Western Mongolia, arriving not long after at the end of the road and our staging zone for the trek to base camp the next day. The trailhead was occupied by a permanent settlement and a number of gers, home to a large Tuvan family. Tuvans are of Turkic descent, and their presence in Western Mongolia occupies a very small percentage of the total population. They commonly lead a life of goat and sheep herding, and practice a form of Shamanism, very much separated from the Muslim leanings of Bayaan-Olgii’s predominantly Kazakh population. The people were very kind to us, and were mostly curious of our belongings and, I’d imagine, our purpose for being in Tavan Bogd. We treated the children to some hard candies, and after a small meal turned in early for some much needed rest, anxious to leave for base camp in the morning.

When duty calls...

(photo CJ Carter)

Ger, tent, what's the difference?

(photo CJ Carter)

Tuvan camel man and son, kind and curious

(photo R. Minton)

The next day dawned blue and sunny, and the camel man (as he came to be known) arrived with his animals around 10 AM. We marveled at a single camel’s ability to carry excessive amounts of weight as the camel man and some local goat herders helped to load our bags onto a simple frame system structured around the camel’s humps. While the camels were being tended to, a weathered old man wearing camo pants and a threadbare jacket adorned with a number of official looking patches approached me. He produced a government ID, and motioned to view our border permits, and then requested payment for entrance to the park. The entrance fee to the park was T3,000 each, or about US$2.50. The whole interaction took roughly five minutes, at which point he thanked me and went about his business. A stark contrast to the management and cost of a national park in the United States, the structure and access to Tavan Bogd National Park was a good reminder that we were indeed far from home.

Loaded and ready to hit the trail

(photo CJ Carter)

We're not in Yellowstone anymore...

Altai Tavan Bogd National Park entrance

(photo R. Minton)

Keeping pace with the camels

(photo A. Rains)

This was not a place where one could come on a whim- without being part of a touristy, fully guided trip (most of which only spend a couple nights in the park), the advanced planning of a border permit and the logistics of getting a ride to the park entrance were the basic requirements, with self sufficiency (gear and food) and prior knowledge of the land also standing as prerequisites. There were absolutely zero amenities to speak of within the park, the entrance itself only delineated by a couple basic signs and a rusty old gate operating on a makeshift counterweight. Simply the process of being granted legal access to the park and getting oneself to its borders made Tavan Bogd seem more protected than any of our national parks in America.

Soaring among the high peaks of the Altai

(photo CJ Carter)

Plenty to explore, Tavan Bogd National Park, Mongolia

(photo A. Rains)

Almost there...

(photo CJ Carter)

Within an hour, the two camels were loaded up and we set off towards base camp, roughly 15km and 2500 vertical feet away. Our route followed the Tsagaan Gol for a few kilometers, passing some other goat herding settlements. We then veered north up a long, gradual hillside, following marshy, higher elevation grasslands to Tarmid Pass, where we caught full views of the Potanii Glacier and some of the high peaks. Lower down in the river valley, we had been granted glimpses of the mountains, but here at the pass, the views of the glaciers and mountains opened wide for the eye to see. Now late in the afternoon, the weather had deteriorated somewhat, especially up high, and a cover of turbulent, low clouds veiled the highest peaks. We reached base camp, situated at roughly 10,300 feet, and went about setting up shop in oncoming bad weather, turning in that evening with the wonderment of what we would see when the clouds parted.

Potanii Glacier base camp, no longer humping loads

(photo CJ Carter)

Mountain weather, Alexander Glacier, Mongolia

(photo R. Minton)

The Crossing

“No Olgii!” boomed our overweight, joker of a driver, pointing to four bald tires and an empty fuel tank. “No diesel, no Olgii!” he exclaimed again, confirming our worst fear. The raw reaches of the Gov Altai aimag stretched on in all directions, prisonlike in their expanse. Olgii, Mongolia’s westernmost hub and another 700 km to the west, may as well have been on another planet. My body and mind ached from the previous day’s 24-hour push across the northern edge of the Gobi desert in a Korean minibus crammed to the gills with luggage and passengers. I stared blankly onto the western Mongolian plain, nervously pondering what we were in for.

Steppe sunset

(CJ Carter photo)

A common stop, northern Gobi

(photo A. Rains)

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Brokedown and buzzed with some impromptu radiator maintenance

(photo CJ Carter)

Glancing across the dusty entryway to the western Gobi cantina, I caught the thousand-mile stare in Aaron’s eyes. Outside, our recently acquainted Kazakh drivers argued back and forth about a recently broken radiator on one of their three Kia Frontier mini trucks. We had by some fortune (or misfortune) been handed off to the Kazakhs at a local auto shop in Gov Altai, where through some indiscernible exchange I had witnessed our original driver hand one of them a sum of cash then motion at us to move our gear into the beds of their dusty vehicles. We had optimistically obliged- at that point, wheels turning to the west was the only thing needed. Now, four hours later and only 60km from Gov Altai, the reality of our situation was beginning to sink in. Since departing with our new ride, we had averaged only 20km/hr over dirt roads, broken down twice, and pulled two stuck vehicles out of the sand, one of which required the use of an avalanche shovel. The latest in the beginning of this saga was the broken radiator, resulting from one of the vodka-fueled drivers careening into a gravel embankment bordering the road. And so, sipping milk tea in a dirty cantina with a brewing sandstorm driving home the desperation of our uncontrollable and unpredictable escapade to the west, it was all too apparent- the road to Tavan Bogd would be hard won.

Making do with what we've got

(photo CJ Carter)

Night approaches the western Gobi

(photo R. Minton)

Tired eyes, through the night

(photo CJ Carter)

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We left Ulaanbaatar on Saturday evening, reaching Olgii by Wednesday morning. Our original plan to ride a Russian Furgon was amended when we discovered none of the burly vans were scheduled to head to Olgii- waiting for one could have taken days. Instead, we were set up with a driver heading west in his Korean minibus. He had agreed to drive us to Olgii, after dropping off ten other passengers in Gov Altai, roughly the halfway point of the journey. Our best option, we took him up on it, and squeezed into the van on Saturday with the illusion that we would reach our destination in the same vehicle with the same driver. What ensued was the most mind-bending roller coaster ride of a road trip any of us have ever endured. The nearly 100 hours of non stop travel over 1700km of raw Mongolian double track carried us from the flats of the Gobi desert to the mountains of the beautiful Khovd region, finally (and somewhat unbelievably) landing us in the stark western town of Olgii. Countless breakdowns, humorous and frustrating language barriers, bone jarring “highways,” sleepless pushes through the night, and more than our fair share of milk tea (with a dose of fermented camel’s milk) were all par for the course.

(photo CJ Carter)

(photo A. Rains)

Simple and stark, the beauty of Mongolia

(photo A. Rains)

When we weren’t attempting minor recoveries from the travel conditions (read: cramped, sitting bitch in between two Kazakhs, knees cocked to one side so the driver can reach the shifter while his friend sleeps on your shoulder, all the while bouncing down the biggest washboards we’d ever seen) we took great amazement and amusement in the Kazakhs ability to repeatedly jury-rig their vehicles, oftentimes in the most primitive of ways. It was all too common for the whole junkshow of a caravan to come to a screeching halt, everyone exiting the vehicles, at which point all the Kazakhs would to stand around while one crawled under the truck to wail on the underside of the ill-equipped Kia with a random piece of metal. These sessions would typically last about twenty minutes, culminating in the mechanic emerging with a smile, proclaiming “Go go go!” Other times, they would finish their repairs then disappear into a random outpost, leaving us to wonder when we were to leave, only to discover them sleeping an hour later, unable to be risen. We had absolutely no say in the matter, no doubt having been forcibly switched to Kazakh time.

A welcome reprieve from the confines of the Kia

(photo R. Minton)

Fueling up in the Khovd region

(photo CJ Carter)

By and by, we gained a decent rapport with our newfound travel mates. Through use of a Mongolian-English dictionary and phrasebook, as well as the Kazakhs extremely limited English, we developed a simple vein of communication, providing some relief from the painstakingly slow journey. The pace, however, granted us plenty of time to gaze onto the beauty of the Mongolian landscape, either epic and beautiful or mind numbingly desolate, but always new and exciting as we gained ground to the west and the mountains. The night before arriving in Olgii, we crested a large pass at sunset, greeted on the other side by the lush city of Khovd, the Altai Mountains stretching beyond. Leaving the desert behind, we descended into town, watching the sunset on the final night of our westward highway travels. The next morning, the Kazakhs dumped us at the Olgii city limits and disappeared, leaving us with dust-laden bags and tired eyes.

First view of snowy mountains, Zereg, Mongolia

(photo R. Minton)

A sight for sore eyes- descending into beautiful Khovd after the desert crossing

(photo A. Rains)

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Olgii, Mongolia

(photo R. Minton)

We have been in Olgii for two days now, resting and recovering in a comfortable ger camp. Olgii is a nice change from the urban setting, a peaceful small town nestled in a valley on the edge of the mountains. We’ve enjoyed good food and the hospitality of Khada, our local affiliate, as he aided in helping us acquire fuel, make our final food purchases, and finalize plans- tomorrow we depart for Tavan Bogd, hoping to reach base camp by Saturday evening. The road conquered, bags packed, mountains on our minds, and bodies recharged, the time has come to get western. We’re just hoping we remember how to ski.

Onward...

(photo R. Minton)

Terelj

Unclimbed, untapped- typical Terelj

(photo R. Minton)

I’d never have guessed that our third night in Ulaanbaatar would find us sitting at a fine Mongolian restaurant with an airline CEO and the only Mongolian to climb Mt. Everest (twice, mind you), but sure enough, there we were, dining and drinking with the likes of two entertaining local characters. We had met Munkhsukh, a successful investment banker and CEO of an up and coming Mongolian airline, earlier in the day at his health club (that is to say, a health club he owns) where we spent a few hours stretching our urban weary muscles in a newly constructed bouldering gym. He welcomed us in with his flawless English (a product of studying in the United States), and invited us to set some new routes, then took off to tend to more important matters.

Ger life

(photo CJ Carter)

So, as it were, he invited us to dinner following the bouldering session, and arriving at the restaurant we were introduced to his friend Usukhuu, a successful Mongolian mountaineer well on his way to conquering each continent’s highest summit. We enjoyed delicious traditional Mongolian food while inquiring into each other’s lives, and before too long, the talk turned to climbing. Soon after, and completely out of the blue, Munkhsukh propositioned us to leave that evening and drive north to the valley of Terelj, where we would climb granite cracks and faces the following day. With a resounding yes (duh!), he cleared his schedule and we were off, all five of us packed into his luxurious Land Cruiser, speeding towards Terelj in the warm night under a full moon. An hour later, we arrived in the idyllic little valley littered with beautiful, undeveloped granite slabs, cracks, and faces. We checked into a local ger camp, enjoyed some hot tea, and turned in for the night.

Mongolian stem chimney on Turtle Rock

(photo CJ Carter)

The next morning brought sunshine and warmth, and we sipped coffee outside the ger as Munkhsukh pointed out all the potential in the rock surrounding the camp. Terelj is a beautiful, classic Mongolian locale, reminiscent of Vedauwoo or Joshua Tree but more lush, with horses, yaks and sheep running and grazing below the expanses of rock. We began our day on a crack Aaron and I retrospectively dubbed “Terror of Terelj.” At only 5.8, the route looked innocent enough, but Aaron found out otherwise in the first twenty feet as he battled gravelly pods, unforgivingly sharp rock, and extremely physical climbing. We topped out on the pitch with an understanding of what Terelj was all about- what you see is not what you get.

Balance and nubbins near the summit of Turtle Rock

(photo CJ Carter)

We ended our day on the aptly named Turtle Rock, climbing a route up its backside that had been developed by a German party back in 1996. Since then, the route (the only line to the formation’s summit) has seen minimal traffic- only five entries (two of which are Munkhsukh’s) occupy the summit journal. It was exciting climbing, with good movement on balancey nubbins. The climbing reminded me very much of my old stomping grounds in the Black Hills of South Dakota as I tried to not lose my footing on the runout exit moves. We enjoyed the beautiful warm evening on the summit before descending to the car and back to the madness of UB.

Turtle Rock

(photo CJ Carter)

Classic Mongolia

(photo R. Minton)

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Claiming their zone in Terelj

(photo R. Minton)

We returned to Terelj two days later with members of the Mongolian Sport Climbing Team, a division of the Central Mongolian Altai Mountain Club. The evening before venturing back to the valley, we climbed with members of the team (a mix of boys and girls aged 18 to 21) in their local university gym, built back in 2000 with support from the Alex Lowe Charitable Foundation. Their strength, excitement, and energy level were impressive, but of greatest interest to us were their priorities in climbing. Well-rounded technique and common safety practice took a backseat to speed- that is to say, climbing their 40 foot indoor wall as fast as they possibly could. An interesting belay tactic involving multiple pullies and a human counterweight (with absolutely no belay devices to speak of) accommodated this style of climbing, and it was truly mind blowing to watch some of the team’s strongest members scale the wall in a matter of mere seconds.

The ALCF university climbing wall in Ulaanbaatar

(photo A. Rains)

Newfound skills on the belay

(photo A. Rains)

With more funding and support from the ALCF and a run of brand new climbing shoes courtesy of Evolv, we offered to take the team to Terelj for the next two days to introduce them to outdoor climbing techniques such as leading, belaying, rappelling, and climbing on traditional gear. Incredibly, few members of the team had ever been to Terelj, only an hour’s drive north of Ulaanbaatar. As such, they excitedly agreed to go, and the two days spent in Terelj yielded one of the more powerful experiences the three of us have ever had.

Teaching and learning the finer points of gear placement

(photo A. Rains)

Strong and confident first lead on real rock

(photo CJ Carter)

Chaadrabaal, President of the Central Mongolian Altai Mountain Club, observes his students' progression in Terelj

(photo CJ Carter)

With Aldraa as our translator, we introduced a variety of techniques, and the team members latched on to every bit of our basic instruction, eager beyond words to learn as much as they could. As we progressed, the language barrier began to fade, intonation and gesturing became viable forms of communication, and the team’s ability level soared exponentially. By the end of our time in Terelj, they had led for the first time, learned to place cams, build anchors, understood the technique of climbing on real rock, and, above all, gained the key to a world that had all along yet unknowingly existed at their fingertips. We parted ways back in the city, and returned to our guesthouse humbled and inspired, overjoyed at the power of teaching and learning.

Belay duty

(photo CJ Carter)

2011 Mongolian Climbing School students and instructors

(photo CJ Carter)

Usukhuu or Buddha? Happy and satisfied...

(photo A. Rains)

Ulaanbaatar

A young graduate has a moment with the Chinggis Khan Memorial, Sukhbaatar Square, downtown Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

(photo R. Minton)

The Sprinter van barreled and bounced down the dark, pothole laden two-lane highway, the only stimulus capable of keeping me awake after 24 hours of non-stop airline travel. Outside the window, I caught glimpses of rundown brick structures and the occasional ger. Numerous billboards and street signs in Cyrillic caught my attention, both confusing my Roman orientations and piquing my curiosities as to what exactly they indicated. We checked into our guesthouse in the wee hours of the morning and fought off our excitement as we drifted into deep sleep.

"Young Monk" enjoying a sunny afternoon at the Zaisan Memorial

(photo CJ Carter)

The Zaisan Memorial, paying tribute to Russian soldiers at the end of the Soviet Era

(photo CJ Carter)

Our arrival in Ulaanbaatar late Thursday night brought us into a chaotic and stimulating urban universe. Originally founded in 1639 as a nomadic Buddhist monastic center, modern day UB has a feel similar to that of urban Europe, yet hosts its own, unique brand of madness in the ongoing development of the country’s newfound riches. It is a very exciting time to be in Ulaanbaatar, as the Mongolian economy is quickly gaining strength from the profitable industry of natural resource extraction, predominantly sourced by the barren stretches of the Gobi region. With very apparent throwbacks to the Soviet era, it is civilized yet rugged, but bustling with the hope of a prosperous future for Mongolia and her people.

Young Ulaanbaatarites hittin' the jump shot at the community courts near the Selbe River

(photo CJ Carter)

The boom is chaos, though; with limited zoning ordinances and even fewer building restrictions, Ulaanbaatar is taking on a life of its own. More cranes than buildings dot the skyline of this north central Mongolian hub, and I can’t help but liken it to a first time lottery winner, ecstatic with newfound winnings but fraught with misdirection. But the city, although chaotic, is also beautiful, littered with gorgeous monuments and stunning architecture. Deservedly, the Mongolian people are proud of where they live and where they have come from, and it is no surprise that the descendants of Genghis Khan would be anything but resourceful and industrial in this time of economic growth.

Traditional handmade leather boots, Ulaanbaatar Black Market

(photo CJ Carter)

The traditional Horsehead Fiddle

(photo R. Minton)

The day after arriving, we met with our translator and in-country affiliate, Aldraa. An ex-special forces paratrooper turned Mongolian adventure racer, Aldraa has got the good life in Mongolia dialed. He helped us outline our plan for traveling to the mountains of Bayaan-Olgii (Mongolia’s westernmost province), then set us loose on what would turn into one of the most entertaining and perspective challenging urban experiences I have had to date. Delicious meals (Tsuivan, buuz, and khuushur among the favorites), meandering walk-abouts, black market excursions, and welcome conversation with UB locals have accentuated the spice that is the capitol of Mongolia. Only five days into our travels, we feel very fortunate to have already experienced various threads of life in this beautiful country. Our sights now turn towards the countryside and, soon after, the mountains. Stay tuned…

Planning for the adventures to come...

(photo R. Minton)

Hard Realities

With the standard ski season wrapping up, the last few weeks have been a whirlwind tour of details and packing. Ski touring and expedition mode have replaced chairlift rides and ski patrolling. The daily routine and anticipation of the upcoming departure are quickly becoming one and the same, as life distills to wanderlust. But even as that flight over the pond is imminent, we won’t ever truly depart from all things stateside. An expedition displaces the body, but with its all-consuming nature, never allows us to escape from the hard realities of our lives. Those, we carry with us.

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Brandon Smith's Teton Metal Project, a work in progress paying tribute to Walker Kuhl and Greg Seftick.

(photo B. Smith)

Light clouds rolled in and out, and the sun shone down, offering a welcome change from the typical gray, blustery cold of Lone Peak. Riding the chair, I got a call from a friend in town, the sort of call no one ever wants to receive. His voice was urgent, anxious, and for good reason. Greg was missing, overdue two days from a trip into the Tetons’ Garnet Canyon. A good friend and strong ski partner, it didn’t make sense. They’re ok, I told myself. They’re out there somewhere. But when I found out his partner, Walker, was supposed to be at work the day before, I became nervous.

A large-scale search and rescue effort by multiple agencies in the Jackson Hole vicinity consumed the days to follow. Aerial surveys revealed devastating avalanche debris piles in the canyon, likely where the two had been planning to camp. Six days into the search, they were uncovered, deep within debris from an avalanche on Nez Perce. Shock and sadness ran on high. The questions- whys and hows- poured out along with our tears. Foundations rattled, hearts wrenching, we stood in disbelief, our fallen friends weighing heavy on our minds.

The day they found Greg and Walker was sunny and beautiful, and I gazed south to the Tetons as I rode the last tram of the day to the summit of Lone Peak. On top, the wind was light and the air warm, a beautiful spring afternoon. It was also empty, devoid of the kindred souls taken by the mountains. I paused for a moment on top, then paradoxically enjoyed smooth turns down the south face.

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Greg Seftick nearing the top of Jackson Peak, May 2009

(photo R. Minton)

Greg Seftick, aka Wildcat, was a smart, motivated and strong ski partner. He was a great friend and brother, and a caring doctor. He balanced successes in all facets of existence, and was always excited for a good time in the mountains or at the bar. He put me at ease, with his zero bullshit demeanor and solid friendship. In the weeks leading up to his death, I had spoken on the phone with him a couple times, excitedly tossing around ski ideas for post-season, before heading overseas. The sun shines and the sky is blue today, leaving me to wonder where we would be making turns.

There is much we will leave in Bozeman in one week. The memory of Greg will come with us, though. And in the mountains of the Altai, we will celebrate the spirit of an outstanding individual, never forgotten through our travels in high places, pondering constantly- “What would Wildcat do?”

We’re partying for you, Greg.

"Wildcat" by Allison McGree

(photo R. Minton)

Contact Allison to purchase this limited run tribute to Greg, and visit Allison McGree Fine Art for more of her beautiful paintings.

Dreaming & Scheming

Plane tickets, ski gear, border permits, a translator, and…camels? So goes the course of planning a western Mongolian ski odyssey. Sitting in a cozy Bozeman coffee shop with the snow melting outside, it’s surreal to consider the impending reality of our travels, slated to begin in four weeks. One month ago today, our present plan was a mere concept. But now, with tickets purchased, funding acquired, and the necessary equipment stacking up, we come closer and closer to writing our own chapter in the book of international ski exploration.

I was afforded a good dose of humor recently during one of many perusals of the Lonely Planet guide to Mongolia. Skimming over the section on recreation and activities, I read: “Despite the cold temperatures and rugged terrain, there are virtually no opportunities for downhill skiing in Mongolia.” I laughed out loud, recalling my first peek at photos of the stunning Altai Mountains and the immediate desire to carve turns down their sharp, snowcapped crests and broad faces. I bemused the statement once more, chalking it up as a testament to the adventure component in travels like this.

The adventure begins long before the mountains are reached, though. One of the most interesting and exciting parts of the planning is the different people encountered along the way, and how they singlehandedly contribute to the experience for the better. Even with the planning in its infancy, we have already encountered some of these unique individuals in our seemingly never-ending logistical plotting.

One such character is Kent Madin, owner and founder of Bozeman based Boojum Expeditions and Honorary Consul to Mongolia for the Northern Rockies. Kent has, by my estimation, traveled the world over and back again and seen some wild places along the way, all the while carrying with him the requisite lightheartedness and positive, what-will-be-will-be attitude necessary for world travel. His excitement and support for our far-flung plans to ski Outer Mongolia maintain our optimism and stoke for the upcoming trip, especially when logistics threaten to overwhelm. From arranging Skype meetings with locals in Ulaanbaatar to offering practical and informed advice on Mongolian travel, his input over the last couple months has proven invaluable. He concluded our last meeting in his downtown Bozeman office by handing over a single, typed sheet with basic yet useful English-Mongolian language translations. I read them over, and reaching the bottom noticed a translation for the phrase “My feet are wet, my butt is sore, I can’t find my gloves and I wish I were in Cancun.” Reading it aloud, I chuckled, looking up from the sheet to see Kent reclining, his baritone laugh filling the confines of the lofted office. Somehow, I felt like he wasn’t joking.