The last village before the mountain region, Bayan Ulgii, was four hours flight away from the Mongolian capital Ulan Batoor. South West, the arid Blue River Valley and Altaï summits were stretching up to the Mongolian, Chinese, Kazakh, and Russian border. Here I sat, in a vintage post-war VW bus, which burst into flames when I plugged my phone in for some music. Following the shores of the Blue River would lead us with a nine-hour drive on to the dry grass paths with tranquil dignity, to the outmost edges of the Earth. One could see the colourful shamanic ribbons whirling in the wind from afar, having the virtue to frighten the wolves.

The next day, after an eleven-hour ride on our ponies, we set up camp at sunset. « I Know » (Ino) our Kazakh cook, served us the bubbling Fortnum and Mason “confit duck”, floating in a green liquid and on a powdery pink plastic plate. It looked like the Ganges River on a bad day. A sip of yak vodka to dilate the vessels, excellent at altitude, cleans our insides like polished barrels.

The night was cold, -30°, and it was getting late. Our position was N 49°01’ E 88°10’ 12567ft. The glacier was a few meters away with its interrupted profound, mysterious and deep sound filling the mournful stillness of the night, where no other sound broke the silence. My plastic bottle of hot water was leaking, making my sleeping bag wet.

Don Quentin, my faithful travelling companion, had a nightmare that night: the camels, which were just right behind the tents, were peeing on the slope of the mountain, which caused it to pour down into our tents.

After a sleepless night and sunken cheeks, it was finally dawn. With the gentle golden light of an eternal blue sky, our brave horses were showing us the way to the highest Mongolian peak. I sometime had to dismount to face the sharpness of the slope, leading my pony, whose hooves were sinking into a sea of stones.

The beginning of the day in such a perfect light created a calming picture of the glacier. It made such a sight that I shall hold tightly as a framed and valued memory. The caravan of camels, carrying the tent materials and food, was following us half an hour away. To prevent my body from dehydration I had concocted what I used to always do for my African pupils, one lire of pre-boiled water, one spoon of sugar or honey, with one spoon of salt. Concerning water, never trust anyone—prepare it yourself—2 H, 1 O!!! The sun was now at the horizon. The following hours brought us laboriously to the exact border between China, Kazakhstan, Russia and Mongolia. Quentin made a memorable comment: “Please tell my wife I left for a salt mine,” and he then walked onto the Russian soil. After that episode of laughter, here we were, silently enjoying the profound serenity of the view and the snow-covered peaks.

Some days later, at the centre of the Earth, where literally no human being could be seen, we would, to our great surprise, cross paths with a Kazakh woman with a lunar face and parched skin, who kindly greeted us with a bowl of fermented yak milk. It refreshed and sparkled softly on my tongue and had a slightly sour taste. Sipping from Quentin’s flask of vodka soon became part our morale booster.

Our gang was composed of several characters: Quentin, the Lord Portsmouth--one of the old school; Agii, Kazakh guide and bigamist; Bottei, Ger owner and colourful family chief; I Know, sensitive girl with a flat face; and four brave ponies and an equal number of camels, amongst which was a white one to honour Quentin’s presence.

A few weeks after the Altaï expedition and one much needed fancy shower (shower for the essentials,-25°,in the river) later, our journey then took us to the East, staying with Bottei’s family. The eagle hunt was about to begin. Our ponies and two eagles, we were lost like miniature spots in the grand infinity of nature. Days and days riding out with the wind, between the bends of the river, the Mongolian peaks and the vast steppe, would define the rest of the adventure.

On this particular warm and bright day, I caught a fox. Back at the camp, I hung the poor little beast on a branch, removed the pelt with my father’s Purdey knife, and let it dry for three days. He accompanied me all the way back through Ulan Batoor, Kirghizistan, Istanbul, and Geneva, immersed in juniper—the herb they burn in Buddhist temples, and which puts you in a contemplative mood.

Whatever your riding experience is, this is not for the faint of heart. At one moment, you might have to go outside the tent in the dead of the night, and the wolf’s song will remind you that you should head back to the safety of sleep.

May you all wander, and wonder, in peace.

Nalotuesha