Fast horses run you into trouble faster

“Give me the fastest horse you have”. I walked down the line of horses tied to the fence, each saddled and ready to go for our two-day trek. I stopped at the reddish-brown horse in the middle, slightly bulkier and a few inches taller than the rest. Not that that was saying much – these horses were relatively small compared to the ones back home. I pointed at the sorrel gelding and looked back at Tamaa, our guide, and he nodded in agreement.

Mongolians don’t name their horses. Instead, they identify them by colors, markings, anything that can be used to tell them apart. With a few minutes to spare while Tamaa strapped up the pack horse, I decided to come up with a temporary moniker. I examined my horse, ran a hand over his chopped mane, his ruddy coat, then said the first thing that came to my mind: Rooster.

From left to right: Max, Drew, me, Jimmy, and Tamaa

There were four of us going on this horse trek, all volunteers who had escaped from the farm after being overworked and abandoned for a number of days. Max, from the United Kingdom, had been riding since he was four years old. Drew, from the US, described his horseback riding experience as ‘limited’. And then there was Jimmy, a 23-year-old from Taiwan, who I am not sure had ever seen a horse before.

I untied my horses from the fence and settled into the Russian-style saddle, a plump cushion strapped onto a wooden base. We began down a dirt road that would eventually lead us out of the jumble of camping resorts crowding Lake Khuvsgal.

Within seconds, Rooster started to dance. It was a jig that I was familiar with, the one that my horse used to do right before a race. I could tell that Rooster wanted to run. I tried to hold him back, wary of running through this pedestrian-heavy area, but the others took off down the road.

Rooster took off like a bullet.

He shot out from underneath me and rather than resist, I let him loose, one hand on the reins, one hand on the metal pommel. The wind whipped tears from my eyes and tore my hat off, sending it into the rooster tail of dust trailing behind us. Rooster wasn’t such a bad name, it seemed. For a moment, I was consumed by this explosive freedom, by adrenaline, by an indescribable feeling to be running wild with this Mongolian horse. But that feeling was short-lived.

I soon realized that I could not get Rooster to stop.

On the horses back home, all it took was a deep woah, a tug on the reins, and a heavy lean back in the saddle to bring a slower pace. None of the usual tricks worked on this headstrong Mongolian horse. In fact, I don’t think Rooster even registered that I was attached to him. Punctuated with a number of expletives, I said to myself ‘rule # 1: ask the guide how to stop the horse’.

I pulled back on the reins to no avail. Instead of lowering his head and slowing as I had hoped, Rooster simply raised his head higher, flipping it nearly upside down in a freakish contortion. Still running at full speed, I pulled hard on the reins to the left. No response. I pulled harder on the reins to the right and he gave in, barreling his right shoulder low towards the ground. The sudden switch in trajectory slowed him enough for me to collect myself. I made a mental note: ‘I need to treat this horse like a boat.’

At this point, the four of us had made our way to a clearing on the edge of town. While waiting for the guide to catch up, I attempted to make a left turn on Rooster. No luck. This horse would simply not turn to the left. I amended the note to myself: ‘I need to treat this horse like a boat that only makes right turns.’

As I continued to try and fail to make left turns, I heard shouting across the clearing. Jimmy’s horse, Honey, was trotting off into the forest sans Jimmy. He had been removed from his horse by another horse. Steering not quite his strong suit, it appeared as though Jimmy had gotten too close to another group of horses. He got so close that a not-so-friendly mare bit his reins and yanked so hard that it peeled Jimmy off like a banana. I watched him saunter off into the forest on foot, all the while Tamaa shouted ‘stop stop stop’ in a thick Mongolian accent. Judging by how hard a group of locals were howling in laughter, I knew the scene looked like a circus.

Once everyone had been collected, we continued into the forest, past herds of yaks and idyllic meadows. All the while, Jimmy and his horse took the path less traveled, which seemed to be more of Honey’s idea than Jimmy’s. We arrived at Tamaa’s house, a log cabin perched above a grassy valley.

Tamaa instructed us to tie our horses up to leather straps strung from the pine trees, yak hair still patchily covering their length. It may seem silly, but in these straps, I saw how impossibly different this way of life was from mine in the states. Certainly nothing that I had crafted had any practical use, aside from some asymmetrical plates that I made in ceramics class. But Tamaa had cut these straps from necessity, from this ancient symbiosis between Mongolians and their environment. I was grateful to see it, even for a short period of time.

For lunch, Tamaa’s wife poured us hot milk tea with a side of dried cheese and fried dough. We each tried the cheese, but one piece was enough. We all snacked on the fried dough, which tasted like plain donut holes.

Meanwhile, Tamaa swiftly moved our gear from the pack horse to Honey. Honey was a bit of a misnomer anyway, given his affinity for biting and kicking anything that came within a 10-foot radius. Best for Jimmy to switch, we agreed.

We journeyed parallel to the lake, over dried riverbeds lined with larches. When the land opened before us, Max leaned over to me and said, ‘I’m feeling a gallop’. I felt it too. We took off at a blazing pace, blowing past a herd of horses that scattered as we neared. Rooster, not slowing over grassy speed bumps, managed to rocket launch my phone right out of my pocket. I pulled a sharp right turn, almost causing a collision as Max, Jimmy, and Drew piled up behind me. Fortunately, my phone emerged from under three sets of hooves unscathed.

Growing tired of the commotion, I tried to calm Rooster, but he was too excited by the other horses now charging ahead of us. Against my will, we took off again in a high-speed chase. I stood up in my stirrups, leaning into Rooster’s speed. But suddenly I felt myself losing balance. My right foot fell lower, lower, the stirrup no longer there to catch me. I heard a metal clang and grabbed onto Rooster’s chopped mane, fighting against the gravity now wrenching me toward the ground. I pulled hard right and assessed the damage. The old leather stirrup strap had snapped clean off.

I hopped off the horse and plodded back to the stirrup, tail between my legs as Tamaa walked towards me with a look of disapproval. I lowered my head and said ‘I’m sorry’ at least three times while he silently worked on the strap, rigging it back together. Whether he was annoyed at us reckless foreigners or he didn’t understand the words, I did not know.

The stirrup situation rectified, I slinked back into the saddle with frustration at how difficult this horse was to subdue. My fingers ached from gripping the thin reins, my legs were growing sore from the saddle, and parts of my hand had been rubbed raw. I silently begged Rooster to please please please just walk. For a bit, he seemed to listen.

We rejoined the group. Drew walked alongside me and sensing my exasperation, thought it would be amusing to taunt me: ‘are we having fun?’. In that moment, I felt slightly annoyed at myself for picking the most spirited horse, but slightly more annoyed at Drew for chirping at me while seated on his very mellow horse, Milano.

Soon enough, karma came.

Tamaa and I lingered back together, watching the three others thunder off ahead in another gallop. We watched in amazement as Milano threw a kick, his rear end elevating above his front. Drew toppled head over heels in a forward somersault, landing smack onto the ground. Milano trotted off and Drew hopelessly followed. Again, Tamaa shouted ‘stop stop stop’ and shot ahead to collect a riderless horse for the second time. Then I saw Drew, disheveled, covered in dirt with one overall strap falling off his shoulder, as he jogged back towards the site of the fall to collect his camera. And I cackled at the sight.

All feeling a little guilty for the chaos, the four of us put the gallops on pause for the time being. As we walked together, I caught a glimpse of Drew’s jacket that made it look like he had been run over by a truck. I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. Tamaa saw it too and began to laugh. Max, Jimmy, and Drew joined too. So there we were, the five of us, howling our laughter into the pine branches above.

Eventually, we reached a clearing by the lake where we decided to set up camp. Max and Jimmy began to set up their tent, only to realize that they were two poles short. The poles they did have were incompatible with their tent. We had assumed that the brand-new tents we bought from a camping shop in Darkhan would have been functional. I thought to myself, ‘rule # 2: always check your gear before you go’. After some speculation, we surmised that the Darkhan camping shop had collected factory rejects for various tent pieces and combined them in nonsensical ways. It was a crowded night.

The next morning, I woke up partially from sunlight reflecting off the lake, partially from a growing ache of sleeping in a tight fetal position on forest floor. We leisurely collected our things, strapped them onto the pack horse, then began our journey back to town on a lakeside path.

After ten minutes of riding, we came across another group of three French guys who were finishing their 15-day horse trek around the lake. They also happened to have the most social guide on the planet, Dalaat. We sat down at their campsite and Dalaat immediately handed me a cup full of vodka. It was smooth. So I wasn’t entirely surprised when I saw four empty bottles piled beside a stump. I was even less surprised to see one of the French guys face down in the dirt.

I felt the vodka warming my stomach as we stood by the campfire. Dalaat handed me a royal blue deel–a traditional Mongolian robe–and began buttoning it around my neck, fashioning the belt around my waist. Tamaa followed behind him and said, ‘no no no’, then retied Dalaat’s work.

We all mounted our horses and again began to walk along the lake. When we reached a clearing, the impulse to run took over. The others took off ahead and I, still wary of Rooster’s inability to be controlled, tried to quell his jig. Unsurprisingly, it was a fruitless exercise. I gave up and again let Rooster have his way. Despite our delay, we blew past the rest of the group, and I whooped and hollered as Rooster took on full speed. The forest unexpectedly turned to fence and I found myself in a resort, with tourists peeking out of their yurts to see the fuss.

Rooster was not happy with the change in scenery. He began to snort and prance, growing anxious with the unfamiliar sights. I also grew anxious when I realized that the rest of the group was nowhere in sight. The deel was peeling off me and spooking Rooster further as it billowed and flapped. I tried to redirect us to the trail, but it required a left turn. He would not do it. So we veered in a large circle to the right, around yurts, around kayaks, around confused guests, back to the trail. I spotted Drew’s jacket on the ground and thought oh boy, what a mess.

Max and Jimmy were nowhere to be found. Milano had knocked Drew off by galloping him directly into a low-hanging branch. I found Tamaa and he immediately began yelling at me. The fickle finger of fate seemed to be flipping me off. With limited English, he repeated, ‘no fast, no fast, no no no’. He then mimed a beard on his face, which was his way of asking ‘where is Max?’ I did not have the answer.

Tamaa began to walk up the trail, not taking a break from scolding me. As he walked, he shouted a command at me. The problem was that with his accent, I could not discern whether he was saying ‘no’ or ‘go’. And let me tell you, that is a really important thing to distinguish in this sort of situation. So I met in the middle by taking a few steps then stopping, taking a few steps then stopping. All the while, I tried to hide the impossibly flashy deel from Rooster, who was convinced that it was a high priority threat.

Tamaa continued to yell at me, and I felt helpless since I did not know where Max had gone. I had no phone signal to call Max. Even worse, I could not explain that I had no cell service to Tamaa. I stood there, frozen with a sheepish shrug.

When I saw Max walking up the road, I could have jumped for joy, would it not have incited Rooster. So could have Tamaa, it seemed, because he began to hug me and say ‘I’m sorry’ over and over and over. I remembered my apology about the stirrups and thought, so he did know what ‘I’m sorry’ meant. He hugged me two more times and gestured to his heart beating fast, and I knew that it had worried him to lose a horse. But Max was back and all was forgiven.

Again, we continued on our way to town. We came across a circle of booths lined around a reindeer petting zoo. We had milk tea and khuushuur for lunch, a type of fried dumpling stuffed with mutton. My stomach cramped with the excess oil. Afterward, we perused the booths, examining the ticky-tacky magnets, carved reindeer antlers, and painted seashells, the latter seeming a bit peculiar given Mongolia’s landlocked geography.

Tamaa gestured for us to sneak between the booths, following an older lady who smacked her lips in disinterest. He handed her 16,000 Tugriks ($4) and she dug through a number of plastic bags until she pulled out a party-sized Coke bottle full of a yellow-tinged clear liquid. We were confused but went along with Tamaa’s plan.

We took a seat on the grass near our horses. Tamaa opened the bottle of mystery liquid and poured a cup. Not a shot, but a full cup. We glanced around at each other, trying to detect if anyone had any information when Tamaa pointed at one of the yaks grazing nearby. Fermented yak’s milk vodka. I took one sip and almost gagged. The rest of the group jokingly warned me to not be rude, I had to finish it. I threw the cup back, trying to plug my nose hands-free as I finished the contents. My gag reflex was triggered, my stomach began to revolt.

This yak milk vodka was not going to stay down.

I had to walk away from the sight of the bottle and the yaks, fighting to keep the drink down. The taste hung on my tongue: soured milk, watered down, a hint of bile. And incredibly, it tasted like the smell of yak. The 2-litre jug made its way around the group three times. Except for Jimmy. We excused him from drinking since we figured he did not need any extra impairment while riding his horse. 

Eventually, we continued on our way in the heat of the afternoon. My mouth became dry with dehydration from drinking various vodkas and no water. When we reached Tamaa’s house, we again sat at the picnic table for milk tea and snacks. Tamaa set a bottle of water on the table and I, desperate, poured myself a cup. Max commented "watch out for the sediment bits floating in there". Maybe I was delusional, maybe I was too desperate for water, but the comment didn’t register. I gulped down two more cups.

The next morning, I sat up in bed with a wave of nausea and grappled with the fact that in my ripe old age of 27, I had lost all ability to handle liquor. I walked as fast as I could (very slowly) to the drop toilet across the yard. If you have never vomited into a drop toilet, count your lucky stars. I retreated to my yurt, demoralized, exhausted. Things devolved throughout the day and it became apparent that I had been plagued with my first case of poisoning after just two weeks of traveling.

The culprit, we determined, was the water.

The rest of the group was in good health, so we crossed fried mutton and fermented yak milk vodka off the list. The only remaining vector was the water at Tamaa’s house. Unbeknownst to me, the bottle was not the clean water that we had packed. It was actually water from an unknown source – and I had chugged three cups of it. Max’s comment about the floaters finally clicked. During dinner that night, I was staring down a plate of plain white rice when he recalled, “I was thinking, ‘hats off to you for just going for it.’” Yep, hats off to me.

I think there are a few lessons in this story. Always check your gear before you go. Always know how to stop your horse. And maybe say no to the mystery dairy derivatives.