Travel Mongolia
Autumn in Mongolia varies from cold to extremely cold. So I’m huddled in four layers of clothing, sitting next to a roaring fire. Adam, a good friend from college days, sits across the fire pit. Steps from our tent is the Eggin River.
“If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?” Adam asks. We’ve been subsisting on oatmeal, salami and pasta for five days straight, and talking about food makes us feel better and distracts us from the cold.
We are in the northern Mongolian province of Khovsgol chasing the taimen, a relative of the trout which can grow to over two meters long and is now found exclusively in Mongolia. But after five days of fishing, I’d only hooked into one of the elusive monsters.
I had started to lose myself in the repetition of casting across the current. SLAM. My fly goes down in a furious froth of aggression and hunger. I am stunned. Two strong tugs at the other end and I know I have found what I’ve come for. As I set myself for a long battle, the line suddenly goes slack and 40 feet downstream, where I had last seen the fish, the shredded remains of the line float to the surface. I resist the urge to drop my fly rod and walk away defeated in the face of what I imagine to be a small whale. I’m humbled, but the excitement of the strike convinces me that even if I don’t see another fish all week, I’ll be back for more.
Historically, the taimen ranged from China to Europe, but due to commercial fishing and pollution pressures, the population in Mongolia is all that remains. The rivers we fish-the Chuluut, Ider, Selenge, Delger and Eggin Rivers-are famous for them. The fish captivates sportsmen not only because of its sheer size, but also its finicky behavior and heart-stopping aggression when it takes a fly.
Many international companies operate guided fishing trips at considerable expense, but Adam and I skipped the commercial option and went independently, relying on whatever maps we could find and our previous fly fishing experience.
We arrived in Ulaan Baatar late on a Saturday night and flew to Moron the next afternoon. Baigal, the owner of the only guesthouse in town, met us at the airport. I was surprised to see her. After calling from Beijing, I was convinced that she hadn’t understood a single thing that I had said. “I understand English better than I speak it,” Baigal assured me with a smile. Ondaron, our driver for the week, is waiting with her. That night we look over the maps with Ondaron, Baigal and Baigal’s English-speaking sister. Ondaron speaks no English, so setting the basics before leaving is critical. Adam and I brought all of our own camping equipment as well as a seven day’s supply of food. We are determined to travel independently, free to go wherever the fish take us. Ondaron smiles confidently when we ask if he would be fine taking care of his own food and equipment.
We leave early the next morning under cloudless skies. Minutes outside of Moron, empty Mongolia steppe stretches away as far as the eye can see. Mongolia’s population is distributed throughout its vast countryside with striking consistency. We travel through countless valleys and meadows each with one or two gers (Mongolia felt tents) and a spattering of cows and sheep. It feels as though every patch of arable land has a family that at least spends part of the year there.
Since we are traveling by jeep with only a map and a driver for navigation, the local knowledge of these families is invaluable. It’s what the Lonely Planet calls GPS-Ger positioning system-and although it seems that stopping so often may be a waste of time, it dramatically decreases the number of wrong turns as we navigate the web of unmarked roads that wind throughout the Mongolian steppe.
Once in the countryside, we fall into routine, waking with the sun at 7:15 a.m., then huddling around the fire with a cup of coffee. Having brought all of our food from Beijing, meals consist of things that are dense in energy and easily packed. A lot of instant oatmeal for breakfast; salami, cheese, energy bars and pita for lunch; pasta and rice for dinner. Depending on the day’s plan, we either break camp and hit the road after breakfast or don fishing gear and wade into the river.
Every river that we fish is textbook trout water with a diverse mix of deep calm pools and shallow rapids. Taimen feed at the head of the deep, slow sections, just below the rapids, so that’s where we focus our efforts. Adam and I take turns working the best spots, breaking from time to time for a snack and the repetitive, but necessary conversation about how stunning the scenery is.
“Any luck?” Adam asks. “Nope, beautiful water though.” “Yes.” Adam says, almost to himself and then we relapse into silence, realizing that any adjective we could think of to describe our surroundings would be a disservice to the incredible beauty.
In the late afternoon we return to camp, collect firewood, dip into the whiskey supply and then have dinner before the sun sets. Immediately after sunset, temperatures plunge and we huddle around the fire delaying the inevitable move to the cold and cramped tent.
On travel days, we spread the map on the hood of the jeep. I point at a river crossing, look at Ondaron and say “Tom Zaagus?” which means big fish in Mongolian. He gives me a thumbs up, we look at potential routes and then we head in the general direction with frequent stops to ask directions. Our map has the major roads on it, but they are only the tip of the iceberg and we learn that in general, all valleys and passes have roads through them. The locals along the way tell us if the road ahead is passable. Ondaron is an incredibly capable driver, able to navigate sections of road that I wouldn’t touch even on a mountain bike.
On our seventh night, our last in the countryside, we sleep at a guesthouse in the town of Khatgal, at the foot of Lake Khovsgol, a massive alpine lake that is justifiably one of Mongolia’s most famous sites. After five nights of camping in sub zero weather, a roof and fireplace are heaven and we sit in front of the fire playing cribbage late into the night. Back in Ulaan Baatar, Adam and I go for a meal at the Silk Road Restaurant. We eagerly scan the menu, looking to satisfy our pent up cravings. Sure enough, they serve steak. We eat voraciously, and wash it down with glasses of imported red wine. As our stomachs fill talk turns to our lives back in Beijing-what we miss, what we wish were different and where our lives may take us next.
It’s clear that even though we did not catch any taimen, we’re refreshed. We walk away having gained a perspective not easily come by in China’s hectic and ever-changing Capital. Maybe this is what we were chasing after all.
Details:
Fishing season runs June 15 through early July and late August through the beginning of October. If you are not exactly the DIY type, Wader’s On is one of the world’s premier organizations for fishing expeditions. Ask about their new package which includes five days of fishing only a six hour drive from Ulaan Baatar. http://www.waderson.com
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