The flight to Ulaan Baatar was fascinating.  We crossed over Lake Baikal—24miles across but seemingly endless when flying over in a prop plane.  Then we crossed over snow-covered mountains and barren high treeless mountain
terrain.  We could already begin to distinguish the distinctive white circles of occasional yurts tucked into high valleys or sitting isolated on the steppes. (Mongolians call these nomad homes “ger” and dislike the word yurt.)

When we landed in Ulaan Bataar, we thought we'd be done with traveling for the day, but we had a surprise in store.   This would be just the first of the two exhausting plane rides and six buses/vans we were ultimately to be transported in before finally reaching our ultimate destination—the ger camp
at 9:30 p.m. that bitter cold night.

Our local Mongolian tour guide named Rimaa met us at the airport in UB, as foreigners call the capitol of Mongolia.  About 30-years old, Rimaa was a steel-spectacled smiling Mongolian.  She got together without delay with
Cheer (our very cheerless Uniworld guide who was to accompany us on the entire trip).  Immediately, we should have guessed there would be trouble, but who were we to know the difficulties we would eventually encounter between these two women.

 At the airport, Rimaa informed us the plan had changed. The hotel in UB was filled to capacity, she said, and she proposed we change our plan and head out directly on a chartered plane for the Gobi Desert .  We would go a dayearly and complete all of our proposed itinerary on the Gobi before returning to UB later in the week, Rimaa explained.   Cheer wanted more details.  Rimaa was vague.  Cheer insisted that she had to know the plan.

Rimaa’s response to Cheer was, “Who are you?  Why are you here?  You don’t know Mongolia and you don’t speak Mongolian!”

This left the group a bit uneasy, to say the least, but we shrugged it off. However, we should have been forewarned--that was just the beginning of what
would break out several days later into full-scale warfare between our two guides.

But that’s getting ahead of the Gobi adventure.

We hopped the waiting bus to haul us from international to domestic airport—it was down one flight of stairs.

Eventually, with new tickets and carry-ons in hand, we hopped a van to haul us out to the new chartered flight.  The plane held about 50 people, and Rimaa advised us to sit in the back.  “It’s less noisy and you have first class seats,” she said.    (The only difference in the first class vs. economy seating was that we had rickety trays in our section—but they didn’t come down.  But that was OK. There was no food anyhow.)

We took off from a paved runway, which soon turned into  a dirt and grass runway.  Just as I was getting a little apprehensive that we’d never actually leave the ground, we took off for the 1 ½ hour flight to the Gobi.

We landed, and what followed was the second quarrel with Rimaa. She seemed a bit disconcerted at our little airport in the middle of the desert and informed us there had been a slight mix up.  The charter plane hadn’t landed where she thought it would, and it would take us at least two hours to get to our ger camp, since we had flown two hours rather than an hour’s flight and had landed at what she labeled “a military airport.”

When we landed, a van and driver were waiting for us (which was curious given she had said there was a mix up in the charter’s destination.)  By this time it was mid-afternoon, and we’d have to change our plans if we wanted to do all that was on the itinerary, Rimaa said.  She proposed we change our plan again and go directly to the Valley of the Vultures (Valley of the Eagles) and hike through it today, rather than the next day as planned.

But to reach it would take a two-hour bus ride across the Gobi (since we had landed at the unfortunately located “military” airport.)  Fine, the group agreed. If you notice I start emphasizing “military,” it’s with good reason! By nightfall, Rimaa had changed her tune and declared she had NEVER said it was a military airport.  This was a bit confusing since we had all heard her repeat this several times; we began to realize our Mongolian guide may not have even known where we were landing!

But on to our late afternoon ride to the Valley of the Vultures.   Crossing over the endless plain of the Gobi Desert on land for the first time after the Trans-Siberian Railroad experience, I was overcome with the vast empty spaces.  Snow-capped mountains faced us at far distances.  Colorless rocky pebbled dirt stretched to the horizon with an occasional camel or horse appearing suddenly in the distance to bring welcome change to the unending flat desert land.

Our van bumped and jiggled us along the double ruts in the dirt that constituted our two-lane “highway.” These twin tracks in the dirtcriss-crossed  occasionally by similar ruts led out into an endless desertwith only rocks, pebbles and scrubby plants changing the monotonous landscape.  There were no signs, no landmarks, no directional indications to
tell us where we were headed.  It was desolate as a moonscape!  But our driver maneuvered confidently along the ruts.  At one point, a jeep stopped us with the inhabitants waving out the window at us.  They were lost and wanted directions.  Under these conditions, I wondered idly how could they ever find their way to where they were going, even with directions.

It was getting colder and colder as the chill of the Siberian winds blew down from the north.  I began to worry silently about this proposed “hike”of four-five kilometers through the Valley of the Vultures since my knee continued to ache from the long day of travel, and the air was growing colder and colder.

Finally, after our two-hour ride, we approached the Valley of the Vultures, and the terrain changed.  A dry-creek bed with a rocky pebbled path led into the canyon.  High up on the peaks along the canyon ridge, vultures made their nests, Rimaa said.  But it might be too cold at this time of day to
see them.

Bundled up with coats and warm hats, we started hiking.  It was 6 p.m.  Iwas increasingly anxious about this hike even though I had had the foresightto put on my knee brace, silk long johns and warmest thermal pants, alongwith three layers of tee shirts and sweaters topped by my REI jacket.

 From the first moments of the hike, I was uncomfortable.   It got colder and then bitter cold, with patches of snow piled along the trail.  The wind howled down from the north making breathing almost unbearable for me.  As the sun dropped beneath the top of the canyon walls high above, the
temperature fell and the wind grew even more piercing.

At this point I realized this hike was more than just a mistake for me. Slowing down and limping along the rocky trail, I fell to the rear of theg roup.  Diane, one of the others in our group, was also having some apparent difficulty.  At about three kilometers into the canyon, Rimaa pointed out that around the bend we’d have to start criss-crossing slippery
rocks in the creek and would probably get our shoes wet.  But it would be worth the effort for the waterfall we’d see at the end of the hike. (It turned out the “waterfall” was a two-foot drop of trickling waters, the group later said.)

By this time my knee had almost completely given out.  I was limping badly and having increasing trouble inhaling the freezing air. Finally, I gave up. I decided I’d have to turn back even though it was getting darker by the minute and I didn’t exactly relish the thought of hiking back alone—which I know is a “no-no” in wilderness conditions.

Luckily, Diane seemed relieved. She said she wanted to turn back too.

Heads ducked down against the cold, together we headed back through the canyon picking our way along the path slowly in oncoming darkness.  I kept thinking about the group of Mongolian horsemen we had seen early in the hike. I was contemplating whether I could figure out a way of paying one to take me back on a horse through the canyon—while realizing how useless that attempt might be without knowing how to speak to them—and I was worrying about safety too.

Suddenly, as we turned the bend of the rocky trail, the two of us found ourselves surrounded  by four burly young men.  One of them I immediately labeled “the giant”-- he was at least 6’6’’ tall.  They stopped us on the trail.  I was caught totally by surprise by the sudden encounter since I had
been keeping my eyes glued to the trail in order to avoid stumbling because my bad knee.

The giant spoke first.  “Hello, you have an REI jacket,” he said.

He spoke English with an accent.  (Immediately, my thoughts went to, OK, he’s going to take your jacket, and all your money and your passport, and you will then freeze here in the middle of this godforsaken canyon in the middle of the Gobi Desert, and the vultures will pick your bones.)

I was taken with surprise at his unexpected REI comment, but made the most of it.  “Yes, I love REI, don't you?” I blabbed in nervousness.    “It’s my favorite store.  The best one is in Denver, and I go all the way to Denver just to go to REI.”  I must have sounded like an idiot!

The second guy pointed to the decal on his own jacket.  “I like North Face better,” he said.

 By this time, I felt somewhat relieved about this unexpected encounter. The four didn’t seem eager to attack us, steal our jackets—and worst of all, find the money belts and passports hidden beneath our several layers of clothes.

“Where are you from? I asked the friendly one, the giant.

“I’m from Stanford University,” he replied.

“Oh, my god.” I said. “I graduated from Berkeley.”  Can’t I ever get away from Stanford, I wondered? (Two of the 10 in our group were Stanford grads.)

The four, all Israelis, it turned out, had been born in the U.S.—one of them in Washington DC.  How bizarre to meet them in the middle of one of the most desolate regions in the world, I thought.

We told them about the creek and the waterfall and that they’d better hurry if they wanted to make it and get out before total darkness.

By now it was almost nightfall, and we resumed our hike.  Soon we encountered the Mongolian horsemen.  What we saw was an unforgettable sight. The group of about a dozen men in traditional Mongolian garb were all mounted on their horses. They were galloping back and forth past each other,
playing a game of pelting each other with snowballs made as they reached down and scooped up snow while riding. They galloped across the trail and up the other side of the incline, whooping and hollering and laughing as they streaked by, pelting each other.  It was a glorious game of fun, we could
see—and there was no way I had of asking if one could get me back to the van.

Painfully hobbling, sweaty and freezing beneath my REI jacket by now, I made my way slowly back to the van.

Eventually, the group returned, exhausted.  They told us there was little to see at the end of the hike, but nevertheless enjoyed the exercise after the long day’s journey from Siberia into the Gobi Desert.

The day, however, was not yet over.  It ended almost two hours later.

It took that long to bump our way back over the rutted path and drive across the desert to the ger camp.

Finally, our two-night stay in a ger began---in freezing 10 degree cold with an almost full moon shining over the desert in the cold winter sky.

Jean and I moved into the two-man ger and collapsed just after returning from the late-night dinner.  We were told to keep the four-foot-high ger door unlocked during the night so that at 3 a.m. someone could come in with a flashlight and dump coal and wood into the stove to get the fire going.  I
lay awake part of the night waiting and hoping they would come.

Thank god they did!  We were freezing.

But, never mind these slight inconveniences.  The ger camp provided for us a view into the life of the nomads that few people can experience—or even want to, as my many friends tell me.