Fifty kilometres a day on horseback sounds feasible, doesn’t it? Fifty kilometres s day on horse back sounds achievable, simple, steady. Fifty kilometres a day on horseback is the perfect way to traverse a whole country, especially one of the world’s largest countries. When a distance seems improbable, impossible even, we just break it down, one leg at a time, one day at a time. The same way we climb a mountain, one step at a time, or eat an elephant, one bite at a time. And so, we crossed Mongolia, covering 3,600km, on horseback, one fifty-kilometre day at a time.
It is to date the biggest ‘thing’ I have done, the longest continuous journey, the most unlikely ambition although not the silliest stunt. I have travelled around, back-packed, worked, toured, visited, climbed, but to traverse an entire country on the back of a horse shows a level of commitment and consistency that my other adventures have lacked.
Fifty kilometres a day, every day, on horses that stayed with us for ten to fourteen days at a time, meant little opportunity for fun or frolics. The horses had to be nursed to last the distance, with no prospect of return or retreat, crossing difficult terrain, often with limited forage and access to water.
I had dreamed of three months’ exhilaration, cantering gleefully across the steppes of Mongolia. However the ground was mostly terrible. I had not imagined a land literally riddled with rodent burrows and holes. In the worst areas, as we were moving along, one of the horses was losing their footing every few minutes. At the beginning of the journey, most of the riders in the group fell off when their horses stumbled. By the end of the trip the horses were stumbling just as frequently but we riders had learned to sit up and sit back and were mostly staying on through the snow plough moments. The blunt reality is that we walked and trotted most of the vast distance while the rodents mocked at our hubris.
We got into a rhythm, a routine. Ride, eat, sleep, repeat. The typical day was split into four riding legs, punctuated by snack breaks or meals. Camp was moved every night, mostly set up for us by the ground crew; we riders grabbed our expedition boxes, made our beds, ate dinner, drank wine or vodka and slept (and snored) like the just.
If you want to lose yourself, in order to find yourself all over again, then doing a crazy trip in the company of perfect strangers is a great place to start. The wonderful thing about spending time with strangers is that they have no idea who you really are. And the interesting thing about tests of mental endurance is that, in the end, there is no way of hiding who you really are.
When we humans first meet as strangers there is often a lot of talk. The canny listen, while the brash talk. It takes a huge amount of self-confidence to set out on a big trip quietly, simply letting your being do the talking. None of the chat matters of course, it is your daily doing that will be remembered in the end. Did you step up every day, did you smile, did you laugh, did you help people, did you build them up, or did you pull them down?
It was a funny challenge, the Blue Wolf Totem. For me it wasn’t such a big deal physically. Riding a horse for six hours a day isn’t that physically hard, especially when you have ridden a lot of horses in your life. I was worried about boredom, about hating the horses, about feeling like a prisoner on a cruise ship, trapped with a load of people I would be unable to leave. I knew we would all have a love of horses in common but I was worried that there might not be much else. I was worried about being in forced company, a part of a social experiment that moved along every day, having to make small talk, not getting past tittle tattle, with stress magnifying potential teacup fights over politics and beliefs. I need not have worried; nearly every person there had already undergone part of their personal transformation to even step aboard the aeroplane. It takes a special sort of person to find the courage and wherewithal to step off the treadmill of their normal life for three months.
The hardest part of the trip for me was the lack of adventure. There was no danger, no uncertainty. The trip had been long planned, the logistics were immaculate, the organisation perpetually going on like erratic clockwork in the background. We riders were not privy to that side of the expedition. The trip was fully vehicle supported, with the doctor travelling in a four-wheel drive, not on horseback, so that apart from on a few special sections of the trip, we were rarely far from the main roads. The next hardest part was surrendering control. We didn’t know the route, the likely sights of the day, the distance to be covered, the location of the next camp. Compared to my previous adventures, this was a new and helpless feeling. My navigation isn’t the best, but I like to know exactly where I am, especially when I am on the verge of being lost and when it all makes sense again. I also like to find corners of the planet where very few other people have been.
The endless skies were ever changing and fascinating, the ferocious electrical storms were cleansing and the expanses of steppe were mind-opening.
I wanted to ride fabulous horses. It took me a long few weeks to accept that this was not going to be one of those trips. The horses were cool and self-sufficient and fine, but I have been fortunate and ridden many fabulous horses in my life and these were not they. These were jobbing Mongolian travelling horses. Nothing less but nothing more mystical than that. Only a couple of them will live on in my memory as individuals, joining the legends such as Aleta the ex-racer, Hota the ginger polo pony, or Cince the Criollo.
The challenges of the trip were small and mostly petty rather than the adrenaline pumping adventures I have had when climbing and diving. The expedition food wasn’t nutritious enough for a physical challenge and we all lost weight and condition. Three months away from home, from friends, family and animals, was sometimes difficult on the boring days. The group dynamic was occasionally stultifying.
A group of twenty is the perfect size, not small enough to act as a pressure cooker, not large enough to be un-manageable. One could have open hearted and deep conversations, or just regress to general chit chat. One could also ride in isolation on the fringes, silent and meditative. Relentless toxic positivity can be wearing but it can’t be fought with negativity, and the sad reality is that in a closed group situation, the truth cannot always be spoken safely.
A few new and precious friends will be part of my heart forever, the others are valued comrades in adventure. We did all have horses in common, but we also shared other fascinations. A love of travel, an enquiring mind, a touch of the renegade. Not many people can comfortably step out of their lives for three months to pursue a seemingly selfish adventure. It’s not about logistics, or stages of life, it is about a state of mind. One mother left behind her small child, I had left a cohort of pretty complex surgical patients. One accountant resigned a corporate post to come away, another professor was made to choose redundancy or renounce the trip. So many of my own consultant colleagues have said to me “I wish I could do something like that”.
If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride…but my answer is that wishes can be horses, if you choose them to be.
