Words, Photos and Captions: Mirte van Dijk 2018-01-04 16:16:46
We sit on the gravel roadside next to a couple Russian Furgon vans—boxy, off-road machines that resemble jacked-up loaves of bread. The flat tire didn’t come as a surprise given the sorry state of the roads. The transmission failure wasn’t wholly unexpected either. It’s common for vehicles to run into trouble this far from civilization.
A few men on horseback approach to check on their herd. They stop at our little convoy. Curious bright eyes peek out from under their leather hats. Once again, we are thankful we didn’t start this adventure in complete solitude. “Sain uu!” says Woogie, while taking off his brand-new polarized sunglasses. Under his traditional deel—a Mongolian robe similar to a European tunic—he shifts from city to country. I almost forget that Woogie, born as Battulga Gantulga, is the founder of the Mongolian Professional Snowboard Federation. He’s the reason we are en route to the highest mountain district of Mongolia, the Altai Tavan Bogd National Park.
Although Mongolia is the 18th largest country in the world, it is only home to a population of three million people. And we’re traveling to perhaps the most remote region of this landlocked territory. Traveling with me are Dutch riders and snowboard guides Stephan Verheij and Rens de Wild, along with French rider and filmer Sébastien Jam. Even for our four Mongolian friends, this is a journey to the unknown. Temperatures in the Tavan Bogd usually sit somewhere around zero degrees Fahrenheit, and snow-sliding is a rare occurrence in these parts. Considering it takes four days of travel to reach the region from Europe, not many of its peaks have ever seen a snowboard. But a few Mongolian snow enthusiasts are ensuring that the development of a little ski resort in Ulaanbaatar, the Sky Resort, is a viable endeavor.
Almost half the total population of Mongolia lives in Ulaanbaatar, and that number has grown since the most severe winter in recent history. The dzud of seven years ago—a summer drought followed by an unusually cold winter—froze the country and killed most of the livestock Mongolians depend upon for subsistence. It sent farmers to the city, which modernized Mongol culture to a certain extent. In Ulaanbaatar, something like snowboarding, a pastime that doesn’t require bold survival skills, is a welcome diversion. It has crept in from border countries China and Russia, and offers a new pursuit for those who are ready to widen their horizons.
With the help of the herders, our van is fixed just before nightfall. We set up camp in the massive empty fields. Millions of stars rise above our tents in the frozen skies of early June.
THE ROAD TO TAVAN BOGD
The thump of wild horse hooves digging into the frozen ground around our tents serves as a wakeup call. The smell of tsuivan—a carrot, onion and meat stew served over potatoes and noodles—comes through the nylon walls. We eat slowly, hopeful our van will make it to the Tavan Bogd today.
Departing in the crisp morning air, we hold our breath each time our driver, “Seku”—Sergjan Ashim—carefully navigates rocks and free-flowing water. The mountains rise from the far-flung horizon. During this time of the year, the people of the small foothill communities are preparing to leave their winter abodes—mud-bound, timber-framed shacks—for summer camps in yurts higher up in the mountains.
Seku stops at one of the houses. Young yaks stand in line to be nursed by their mother, while a dog keeps an eye on a lone horse. A fresh-cut camel head on the roof looks me in the eyes. An old woman, wearing beautiful pink and purple clothing and appearing to be well into her 80s, steps out of the house and walks slowly toward Seku. The flower-printed scarf around her head emphasizes the wrinkles in her face, proof of a life spent outdoors in harsh environs. Many of the people who live in this region are Kazakhs who fled to Mongolia when communist dictators took over their homeland.
As they begin to talk, I look to Mustafa—short for Munkhsaikhan Gundsambuu—who has been our translator thus far. “They speak in Kazakh,” he whispers. “Seku is from here.” By “here” Mustafa is referring to a region as big as Texas.
“You know, this is very unique,” Mustafa continues. “Even for us, it’s rare to see inhabitants of the lands engage with strangers from outside. Around here, there are not many people they haven’t met before, and the few outsiders that do pass by never stop.”
Seku waves at us. Shy but curious, we follow the tiny woman toward her home. I can hear children laughing. A small head with only a few smiling teeth pops out of the window. Another small one is revealed when his grandmother opens the door and invites us inside.
The interior of the house is surprisingly spacious. A few rugs on the floor provide seating and a mother of six serves us fresh yak yogurt. For a moment, everybody simply stares at each other. They observe our tall bodies, blond hair and beards. We observe their beautiful, happy eyes, traditional means of living and the big snot bubble popping out of the youngest’s nose.
After our second breakfast, we wave a grateful thank you and return to the road. We are now close enough to the glaciated high peaks that our faces are glued to the van’s dusty windows. This is where we, team Europe, blend in with team Mongolia and mix cultures, knowledge and history through the greater good of snowboarding. They have been so motivated to show us their version of standing sideways that we can’t wait to show them ours.
THE NASCENT ROOTS OF MONGOLIAN SNOWBOARDING
It all started in 2009, when Woogie founded the Mongolian Professional Snowboard Federation and partnered up with Mustafa. Now with 60-plus members, the MPSF has built a respectable snowboard community in Ulaanbaatar. Including the MPSF, there are around 300 riders in the country. Together with the Sky Ski Resort, Woogie and Mustafa’s mission is to make snowboarding more accessible. They’ve done so by creating a rental service for those who are not able to import boards from Japan or the United States themselves, which is weirdly cheaper than getting boards from China.
“We have two snowboard teachers at the moment,” Woogie explains with a humble smile. “It’s the only place where people can learn how to ride. No Mongolian goes into the countryside and climbs a mountain with their skis or snowboard on their back. The only reason they would go there is to find their horses. This trip will be very inspiring to every snowboarder over here. And I hope every snowboarder over there will be inspired by us.”
Woogie traveled all the way to Austria to receive his instructor’s certificate so he could spread the love back home. He is currently the only certified snowboard teacher in Mongolia. There’s no doubt he will start Mongolia’s first snowboard school. For now, he is looking to expand his knowledge of big mountain exploration.
SETTING THE SCALE
After four days of travel, we finally reach Altai Tavan Bogd National Park. Bright green grass is just beginning to emerge from the snowmelt. We wait another day before starting the five-hour hike to the confluence of the Alexander and Potanin glaciers. The delay had something to do with the camels, which will carry our gear, running off into the wild, along with the Mongolian border patrol needing to double-check our permits. But we make it to base camp in due time and under clear skies. From there, we have a panoramic view of the biggest mountain range in Mongolia. Tavan Bogd means “Five Saints,” which refers to the five highest peaks that top out with 14,350-foot Khuïten Peak. Home to 34 glaciers, the range’s steep faces are caked with spring snow atop year-round blue ice. It’s intimidating and spectacular.
On our first day in the mountains, we realize we have completely miscalculated their scale. It takes a two-hour descent through a steep moraine just to reach the glacier, then three hours to cross its cracked and partially melted ice. Another three hours of skinning takes us to a final two-hour boot-pack to the top of our line. A single 30-second descent requires 12 hours of hiking, climbing and splitting. But it is a justified effort. We are in a region of the Altai that has never seen a snowboard. Every turn we make is gold.
AN ALTAI RHYTHM
Soaring eagles that filled us with awe during our first few days in camp are like pets now, more than a week into our stay. Same goes for the camels that pass by our tents randomly, and the little marmots that hop around between drying snowboard boots. We have found a rhythm and are getting used to the intense, long days—washing in a glacier-fed stream, eating mutton-fat-fried dumplings (khuusuur) and meaty tsuivan for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Our cooking tent has become a meeting place not only for the eight of us, but also for the few locals around here. Agvaan Danzan, a mountain guide waiting for clients, becomes a regular visitor, as do a few members of the border patrol who keep checking up on us. One night, Woogie admits that our permits to the National Park were actually denied. “The army found out that we came all this way for snowboarding, and look what he gave us,” Woogie says, displaying a 10.000 Tugrik bill (worth roughly $4 USD). “Instead of paying the obligated fee, the head of the border patrol offered this to us. He wrote ‘good luck’ in the name of their colonel on it.”
We are speechless—intrigued, honored and surprised by the warm welcome. Regular visits from the patrol begin to feel like friendly nights out. We play guitar, sing and laugh at jokes told in a variety of languages that only three people in the group understand. Then, one evening, I arrive back at camp to six new military men in camouflage uniforms staring at me. Our riding companion and cook Galbadrakh Baigal sees the scared look in my eyes.
“This is the colonel of the division,” she whispers. “He wants food.”
That doesn’t sound comforting to me, but I guess it’s better than handing over my passport. I’m happy when the others arrive at the tent. Mustafa takes the conversational lead then explains our guests are part of the military alpine division. “It’s their first trip to the mountains and they need to educate themselves,” he says. “Now, we drink.”
The colonel pours a clear liquid into a small cup with a horse stenciled on it. He passes the cup to every person in the tent in appreciation of our rendezvous. With their left hand under their right elbow, everybody receives the cup respectfully. When it’s my turn, I discover a strong-tasting vodka.
The evening is long and the night is short—we finish every bottle in the compound, singing and playing improvised instruments. The mountains feel like they’re ours, and the friendships made feel strong enough to last a lifetime.
THE DAY AFTER, THE DAY BEFORE
The lines we have ridden so far have been on just two of the Five Saints. With headaches from the night before and each of us holding a big cup of suutei tsai—fresh yak milk tea—we gaze quietly upon the massive glacier in front of us. Today, we prepare for an overnight tour. When planning the trip, nobody thought about riding the queen of the Tavan Bogd: Khuïten Peak, the top of Mongolia. Steep, glaciated and imposing, she looks beautifully scary. But beyond a rappel on blue ice to gain access, her east face seems a reasonable challenge, which some of us are willing to take. It’s been visible since we first made camp. Our maps—homemade printouts of Russian military origin found deep inside the internet—can only guide us in the right direction. The weather forecast is reasonable. We’ll have to trust our own judgment when it comes to time constraints and safety.
We awaken to sunshine. As long as the sky stays clear, we’ll have a good chance at crossing the Potanin Glacier on time. Without good contrast, we will get lost between deep crevasses that lead to nowhere. With heavy packs, team Europe waves goodbye to team Mongolia and we depart camp.
Clouds rise from the valley as we maneuver through the glacier. The ridge where we plan to pitch high camp looks close, yet we are still hours away. Rens and Stephan, both experienced glacier travelers, take turns leading through the maze of crevasses. Soon, clouds will close in. You can’t be tired during moments like these. You can’t lose focus, or your mind, for that matter. And right now, that means walking through this dangerous landscape with few questions asked.
After six hours, we reach the bivouac. The whole valley is encased in clouds, but here at the foot of the Khuïten, we sit in the sun. It’s our first time with a clear view of the east face. Wrapped in sleeping bags, we take it in.
“We are going for the long run,” Stephan says.
SLEEP WALKERS
Still wrapped in my sleeping bag, I walk toward the edge of the ridge and see three dots slowly ascending. It’s 4:30 a.m. The rising sun begins to warm the mountain and alpenglow adds peace to it. My companions appear to be dancing on the snow. Soon they will disappear to the other side of the ridge toward China. Then I will lose all contact with them. Our two-way radios are of no use so close to the militarized borders with Russia, China and Kazakhstan. With a sketchy, satellite-phone weather forecast, no maps and two days from civilization, they will be truly on their own.
It takes them four hours to reach the top of the mountain. Not long after that, a figure descends on a rope. It’s Stephan. The rappel is necessary. The first 150 feet are upon 60-degree ice. The rope is only 90 feet long, so Stephan unclips with just a single edge and a pair of ice axes securing him to the mountain. He slides carefully toward a long traverse to take him past massive seracs. His first turn is not one meant to be seen by any mother’s eyes, but he rides with strength and precision to the bottom of the ramp. Then he lays down on the flats because his legs can’t carry him any longer and basks in satisfaction.
TICK TACK
After Stephan rides the Khuïten, Rens rappels into the line, then changes his mind. It takes a lot of courage to not start the big traverse after already clipping out of the rope, but climbing back up to the summit is the right call for him. As soon as Rens is out of harm’s way, Sébastien takes his turn and engages in a half-hour battle with Khuïten before reaching safe ground at the bottom.
Knowing the finish line does not lay at the bottom of the east face, we quickly but carefully make our way back from the bivouac, across the glacier and past crevasses torn wide open with meltwater. We expend the last of our energy reserves climbing the moraine that separates the glacier from the hills behind it. Fourteen hours after waking, we crawl back to base camp, our bodies destroyed. Within five minutes of collapsing in our tents, a storm that had been chasing us hits with fury. Good timing is of the essence, and we’ve made it back not a moment too soon.
Slowly, we pack up camp and head back to civilization. More than one splitboard has been broken, an ice axe has disappeared, and our backpacks are trashed. We’ve lost a smart phone, wrecked a pair of poles, and a few sets of boots are beyond repair. Mongolia is a tough country. Nature knows no mercy in such a wild place.
Eventually we arrive in Ulaanbaatar. We’re in no rush after a month spent on Mongolian time. There, we begin to unload and prepare for the journey home. Seku hands me my dusty board bag. It smells faintly of camels. I pull it aside and lie down on it, at peace.
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