Following one month teaching English at the Khusvegi English & Nomadic Culture Camp, Colleen and I were ready for an adventure of our own. Having lived in Sagsai, Mongolia we had learned how to find transport with local drivers, and knew the gear we had brought, while not a full expedition package, was adequate for a five days backpack. We returned to the Altai National Park, but this time to the northwest corner at the borders of both China and Russia, at the base of Potanin Glacier, the longest in the country.
As with our trip to the south end of the Altai Tavan Bogd National Park, the drive from Sagsai to the higher mountains found my body rising off the seat and my head impacting the roof more than once. My hands ached from holding the internal frame of the vehicle. I kept trying to relax, but to no avail.
We arrived to the ranger station, starting point for most expeditions, midday Thursday, July 17. We immediately hit the trail, walking on a two-track road that split to a walking path on one side of a small creek, the road on the other. Ahead of us was 15 kilometers from station to base camp at the foot of the glacier. We had come to Mongolia primarily to each English, and to run rivers with our pack rafts. Backpacking was not something we had planned. Fortunately, we had a 3-season Big Agnes tent (that has survived massive snow storms, gale force winds, and a flash flood), sleeping bags, stove, pots, a healthy mix of home-made dehydrated foods, one Osprey expedition backpack and one day pack. Our footwear was light, but adequate for what lay ahead.
The hike in saw a Toyota Prius, by far the most popular vehicle in Mongolia, with a lift-kit (which is standard in this country) that enabled it, somehow, to crawl over boulders and cross streams as one might expect from a Subaru Forester or Toyota Land Cruiser. Clearly, Toyota is missing a tremendous marketing opportunity for what the rest of the world believes is little more than a street vehicle.
With the sun setting and temperature dropping, we stopped roughly two kilometers shy of base camp and set up our tent in the protection of a small dip in the grass-covered, ancient glacier moraine. Only two days later we learned that camping outside of base camp is not allowed, for good reason, to focus all disruption of the land in one location, which makes sense. That said, we left no trace of our having been there other than the footprint of our tent, which will recover quickly once the grass stands tall again.
Friday we filled our day pack with food, water, and rain shells and set out for base camp. As expected, an international contingency of climbers were gathered, each supported by formidable teams of horses and camels, tents, cooks, and guides. We met an American expedition lead by a man in his late 60s or early 70s who had a great deal of experience in mountaineering across the globe. They would the next morning head up to upper camp, half way across the lower glacier, and on the morning thereafter rise at 3AM to summit at roughly 4,200 meters. This effort was later described to me by a Czech cartographer as a relatively straight-forward walk up a glacial ramp.
We spent the better part of the day walking along the edge of the glacier. While Colleen and I have spent quite a bit of time in and around (and sometimes on) glaciers in Iceland and Alaska, this was a unique experience. Due to the way in which Potanin runs ’round a nearly 90 degree bend to join several other glaciers down valley, it’s edge is radically exposed. The massive moraine which we climbed up, over, and down again gives visceral evidence of the size and volume of what was a much larger ice foundation in the recent past.
While in awe of the beast that lay at our feet, we were simultaneously met with a deep sense of sadness for it was clear, even in that brief visit, that as with nearly all glaciers in the world today, this one is retreating at a pace that simply isn’t natural. The chill air that tumbled from its white, striped fleece felt like the last breath of a dying deity more than a source of energy and adventure. And as we stood just meters from a roaring creek that gained momentum with each twist and turn, I found that I was quickly sinking into a sand, stone, and water mixture that I had mistaken for being solid just seconds before. In my effort to break free I fell to one side, cutting my shin and elbow and scraping my hand. By no means a dangerous outcome, it was a reminder that this entire vessel is shifting, nothing static, as the summer melt produced waters that feed rivers and lakes and all who consume into the center of the high Mongolian pastures and towns.
Despite the complete lack of trees for thousands of square kilometers, we were unable to locate our campsite as it rested in a low spot, hidden from view from all but one direction. Tired, our food consumed, and feet exhausted from the effort to move across jumbled terrain, we were not lost but had in fact lost our camp. I realized then that I had failed to take readings with my compass prior to leaving camp. But then it occurred to me, we had photos of various features across the glacier to our west, taken from our camp that morning. We reviewed the photos, two and then three giving us an accurate understanding of our need to move higher or lower, north or south, east or west in order to place one peak just right in front of another, or a particular feature left or right of the horizon. Within minutes we had found our tent, nestled below the outline of the perpetual green that stretched from ridge to cinder cone to glacier.
The second night I suffered from acid reflux, something I had never dealt with before. A combination of high altitude, dehydration, and likely too much salt (and MSG) in a package of ramen. We took the next morning slow, returning to base camp in search of an antacid (which we failed to include in our med kit). We enjoyed a day of photography, writing, and simply taking it all in. That night a storm blew through that challenged our small, two-person tent. We were initially woken by a light rain that quickly grew to a strong downpour compounded by gusts of wind that forced the tent down to roughly 50% of its height. Fortunately, we had six guy-lines to keep the Big Agnes upright, and two of them were anchored to the same stake, resulting in more of a pivot than a strong tension against an usually more rigid assembly. This worked to keep the lines from tearing off of the rain shell. We sat upright for a good bit of the night, pressing our hands against the internal walls of the tent to reduce the pressure built with each blast of wind. At the same time, we were ready to stuff everything into our packs and hit the trail by headlamp if in fact the tent failed. Somehow, this thirteen year old vessel held, a testament to the design and quality of fabrication as well as our working knowledge of how to make the best of a such a situation. It is, in the end, another great story.
The next day we returned to base camp for the third time, and spent our forth night there, not wanting to further test the limits of our gear should the storm persist. The camp manager is a trained Mongolian engineer and meteorologist who both supports visiting teams as well as tracks the movement of the glacier and analyzes data from four local weather stations. He was kind enough to give us a North Face tent complete with insulated floor, at no charge. This kind of generosity was our standard experience of the Mongolian culture, from start to end of our journey. We also met a young lady who happens to be the daughter of mayor of Sagsai, himself a renowned mountaineer.
Our hike out was without issue. The ride back to Sagsai, as with the journey out, in a Russian van with leaf spring suspension, a tendency to stall when shifting, and the sweet smell of unspent fuel filling the cabin, from time to time.
