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Well rested from my tourist camp stay, I cycled down to the base of the tallest dunes. Climbing to the top of the dunes was a two steps forward, one step back process, if not three steps forward, two steps back. And forget about pausing to rest--you simply remove the forward steps from the process and end up sliding back down. From the top I saw a variety of landscapes--mountain ranges to the North and South, dunes to the East and West and just below, the contrasting blues and greens of a spring-fed stream and grasslands. I tried to slide down the dunes on my ground cloth but failed to achieve considerable speed. Instead, I did something far more enjoyable. I ran straight down, letting the sand cushion the impact of each stride. For someone with a bad leg who has been unable to run on any surface for some years, let alone run recklessly down a steep hillside, this was significant. For a few minutes I regained that lost feeling.
The high dunes marked the end of my westward travels in the Gobi. I turned around and backtracked to where I’d crossed the mountains. In contrast to the other side, navigation on the north side was straightforward--just keep the mountains on the left, the dunes on the right. I had to cross back over the mountains but this too was straightforward. From Bayandalay numerous tracks lead north but a wide shoulder in the mountains identifies the passage for all. That night was my last night in the Gobi. By then I realized that the highlight of the night was not the actual setting of the sun but what occurred afterwards, when an explosion of colors appeared on the horizon.
The last major tourist attraction before Dalanzadgad was Yolyn Am, an ice-filled gorge in the middle of the desert. But like many attractions it is a good distance from the main track. The guidebook says the turn-off is signed. Unlikely, I thought. I’d grown tired of this game. When I didn’t find the ‘signed’ track I didn’t make any effort to locate the correct track. It was getting hot and Dalanzadgad was already visible in the distance. I just kept coasting down the mountainside. When the grade slackened strong tailwinds took over. About fifteen miles outside of town I encountered another cyclist. He was coming from the opposite direction and, due to the strong headwinds, was walking his bicycle. In contrast to me he was dressed in shorts and sandals and rode an old Chinese bike with a knapsack and some water jugs attached. He was Mongolian, a teacher, and obviously on a ger to ger tour.
I didn’t have the time, nor perhaps the desire, to cycle back to UB from Dalanzadgad. Instead, I threw my bike on the top of a mini-bus and experienced overland travel as most people in Mongolia do. While waiting for the bus to leave I joined the other waiting passengers in an airag(fermented mare’s milk) drinking session. This was my first experience with the lightly alcoholic dairy beverage and I was not saddened that it would be my last. There is no fixed departure time for these vehicles. They leave when they are packed. So we spent a further two hours driving around town filling the bus’ nine seats with thirteen passengers. It was a grueling sixteen hour journey to UB. After dark, heads began nodding and by midnight the interior of the bus was a dog pile, with bodies assuming some very odd positions. For people who grew up in a home where several generations sleep in a single room this is natural. But I was unable to get any sleep. The woman across from me kept putting her foot in my crotch. She was traveling with her husband so she wasn’t trying to get fresh with me. It just happened to be the most comfortable position for her leg.
I wasn’t due in UB for a few more days so after a night’s rest I set out for the Terelj, a nearby national park. I exited in a deluge so in addition to avoiding aggressive drivers I had to carefully navigate the minefield of potholes hidden by the flooded streets. Due to its proximity to UB the Terelj is highly developed. At the lower elevations the road is lined with tourist camps, many with--I’m afraid to say--fences! Prospects for camping did not appear to be good. But as I gained elevation the terrain became steeper and the trees more plentiful. I turned on my wild campsite radar and soon I was dragging my bike up a steep hillside to a piece of secluded, level ground. However, as in the countryside no piece of land is truly secluded. A horseman, retrieving some cows whose curiosity had drawn them near my camp, visited me at dusk. He didn’t seem too pleased to see me, probably thinking tourists belong in tourist camps, not on his grazing grounds.
The following day I explored a bit more of the area by bike before checking in to a tourist camp. I wanted to do some hiking and didn’t feel comfortable leaving my gear in any campsite, regardless of how secluded it might seem. I also needed to give my back a break from the limited body positions a wild campsite affords, i.e. standing, sitting cross-legged, laying down. I’d received another healthy dosage of wash boarded, jarring roads/tracks in the Gobi. My bicycle does not have any suspension and for this trip I was foolish enough to use a leather saddle with no padding or springs. As a result, my back has absorbed an enormous amount of punishment over the past two months. At least it was still in one piece. The same could soon not be said about the seat post on my bike. The cook at the tourist camp asked to take my bike for a test ride. I granted permission but within a few minutes he had a very surprised look on his face. I looked down and noticed the seat post had sheared off at the point of entry into the frame. I chuckled, not so much at the cook, but at the timing. If this had occurred a week earlier navigation would have been the least of my worries. I extracted the bottom portion of the post and jammed what was left of the seat post back into the frame. I’d be low-riding back to UB.
The ride back to UB was, thankfully, mostly downhill. Due to my riding position ascending even the slightest incline left my legs burning. The rains returned in force. Just a few blocks from the hostel my pothole avoidance luck ran out as a huge, submerged pothole swallowed my front wheel and sent me into the drink. I ended the trip with the mixed emotions that usually accompany the termination of such endeavors. I had to be happy with what I’d accomplished but at the same time I was a bit sad that it had to end. My final few days in UB were uneventful. I passed the time chatting with guests and staff at the hostel, packing and attending a few traditional music performances. I’ve enjoyed listening to Mongolian traditional music for many years, mainly because it made me imagine the landscapes and nomadic way of life that inspire it. After experiencing these landscapes and way of life for the past two months I no longer have to imagine. Although I was only a few days removed from the countryside, I already felt a bit of nostalgia at those performances. The sound of the Morinhuur(horse-head fiddle) instantly brought me back to the countryside. I hope it will have the same effect for some time to come.
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| Distance | Elevation Gain | Flat Tires |
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| Leg | 223 mi/358 km | 11502 ft/3773 m | |
| Trip | 1897 mi/3052 km | 17 mi/28 km | |
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