Long after the final embers of the previous night's fire had crackled and died, the shrill sound of my alarm clock cut through the still, pre-dawn air. I fumbled around for my head torch and checked my watch - 5.30AM. I hastily wrapped myself in layer upon layer of clothing, grabbed my camera, threw open the door of the Yurt and stumbled out into the wilderness.
The previous evening we had come across a solitary tree which stood guard over the rolling terrain of the Great Mongolian Grasslands, which we wagered would be the perfect place from which to watch the first rays of light creep over the horizon. As we retraced our steps, the frosty shards of grass crunched underfoot and our breath appeared dragon-like as it steamed under the beam of our head torches.
As I tentatively traipsed through the dark, I questioned what exactly I was doing out here in this inhospitable place that felt, at that moment, a million miles from home. Soon enough, I had my answer. We had timed our approach perfectly and as the tree grew larger on the horizon, the first light of day flickered through the threadbare foliage. No photo could pay service to the majesty of such a sight, but we certainly gave it our best shot.
After an hour or so, as quickly as our feet had frozen upon first stepping outside, the frost began to thaw. We headed back through to the farmstead which we had chosen to call home for the week. It is amazing how light can transform a landscape and as we strode into camp and straight into the large communal Yurt, the lashings of milk tea and doughy bread which were served with a smile warmed our hearts as much as our hands.
So how did we end up in this most unlikely of locations you might find yourself wondering?
During the annual October holiday in China, people shut up shop, skip work and head to see the many marvellous sights of the 3rd largest country on earth. But this annual mass migration of people - easily the largest on earth - is anything but relaxing, which is how we found ourselves on a little local bus on a due course North from Beijing to one of the most remote places in China.
Arriving at the bus station promptly confirmed that we had in seeking solitude, made the right decision. We watched with horror as swarms of people squeezed into the crowded hall. Eventually, after 2 hours of pushing, shoving and cursing we found ourselves sat on a bus with tatty curtains and frayed suits that creaked with the weariness of a beast that had been subjected to 40 years of rough service.
As we crawled through the outskirts of Beijing, the skyscrapers soon gave way to mountains. I traced the line of the Great Wall through the window as it disappeared off into the distance. It was on the winding roads North of the wall that the sense of adventure truly kicked in. A local spluttered vomit all over my partner's seat and I think it's safe to say that a collective sigh of relief was exhaled by all the passengers of the bus when the Mountains gave way to the high Mongolian Plateau and its vast expanses of nothingness.
As day turned to night, we found ourselves stood shivering on the side of the road in a nondescript town. A minivan pulled up and out hopped a broad-shouldered Mongolian man with a smile as wide as his windscreen. We figured that this must be the husband of our host Karla. As we sped off into the night we grew increasingly relaxed as we bumped and swayed along the country roads.
Our feelings of tranquility came to an end with a rapid deceleration and the thud of a cow wandering into the path of our vehicle. Luckily for the cow, the minivan bore the brunt of the damage and after a few tense seconds and Mongolian swear words muttered under his breath our driver kicked the car back into gear and restarted the journey. Upon arriving at the summer camp of our host family, they showed us to our Yurt which was nice and toasty thanks to the roaring fire which was waiting for us and rested up for the days ahead.
And what "days" they were. After the obligatory daily sunrise mission, we would typically tuck into a hearty breakfast before heading out to explore the vast open spaces that surrounded the farm.
Every day we walked in a different direction and discovered the delights that this varied landscape had to offer. On the first day we walked towards the local watering hole and bumped into wild horses, camels and flocks of migratory birds that were heading South in a bid to escape the Siberian Winter. The following day we headed in the opposite direction and came across a huge expanse of water which filled the horizon, with not a soul in sight apart from the occasional farmer who had not yet headed South to the Winter pastures. As I have previously discovered in places such as Patagonia and the Salt Flats of Bolivia, nature is at its most beautiful when it is stripped back to its bare bones.
Perhaps my favourite excursion out of camp was the bumpy 4x4 ride to the foot of the dunes that lay to the South. What from a distance appeared to be mountainous peaks were in fact on closer inspection great walls of sand. We hiked, with little elegance, until we crested the sheer slope. As I twirled around and lapped up the 360-degree views of the surrounding landscape it was easy to forget that I was still, technically speaking at least, in China.
The afternoon sun that swept across the plains, casting shadows over all manner of migratory animals made me cast to my mind to the place that stands proudly at the top of my bucket list, the wilderness of Eastern Africa.
Anyway, back in reality, I was reminded of that most helpful of hiking mantras: "What goes up must go down." And, in this case, down meant throwing yourself headfirst down the dune with just a thin sheet of plastic between your face and the not all that smooth sand. Our chef went first and careered down the mountainside in a blaze of bravado, for the first few seconds at least. Halfway down he hit a divot and tomahawked several times through the air before coming to a rest in a crumpled heap at the foot of the slope. I am well known for my clumsiness and the events I had just witnessed did not exactly fill me with confidence. Nevertheless, with wobbly knees and sweaty palms, I clambered to the edge and threw caution to the wind. As I blazed down the mountainside I was mostly concerned with simply making it to the bottom and as I came to a stop in the flat runoff section the relief quickly turned to elation as I realised that I had made it down in one piece!
Whilst I am no stranger to adventure, one of my favourite ways to truly experience and learn more about a new place is through sound and taste. Thankfully Mongolian music is rich in sound and the food richer still. The home-cooked meals served by our hosts were hearty affairs, cooked over a roaring fire and washed down with fiery local liquor - just what you need after a hard day of hiking. After dinner we would typically sit around the central Yurt and listen to the oddly therapeutic sound of the locals brushing up their throat singing skills, or huddle round a fire gazing up at the milky way as it stretched across the sky like a twinkly ribbon floating high above. On nights like these there is no place I would rather be than outside, marvelling at the wonder that is the natural world.
The reason I recount experiences such as this one through the mediums of film or writing, is not to gloat, but rather to inspire others to step outside of their comfort zone and explore the wonders that this vast sphere of fire and ice that we call home has to offer.
If you enjoyed this then check out my video about our stay in Inner Mongolia….
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