Mongolia: Hunting With Golden Eagles
MANILA, Philippines — I never imagined I’ll hear mass and receive holy communion 10,000 feet up the Altai Nuur mountains.
But in “join” expeditions like this, solo travellers are grouped with strangers. Hence, I was randomly thrown in with two globe-trotting American priests.
My mother prayed hard for my safety when I flew to Bayan Ulgii. My Mongolian eagle-hunting trip was my most dangerous yet. But I never imagined her heavenly plea will produce such weird synchronicity.
“You mean I’m going with two Catholic priests?” Unbelieving, I echoed the words of the Boojum Expedition guide who met me on my arrival. I visualized men in cassocks under wolfskin great coats. I was relieved to see quite ordinary-looking, jet-lagged guys, one already stricken with altitude sickness.
Both priests laughed when I told them how mom asked God to escort me in the mountains. By then, we had our first mass near the summit, holding everything from the cross to the chalice so they won’t get blown away.
“Never underestimate your mom’s prayers,” Tom, the older of the two, quipped.
“But please don’t call us ‘Father’,” Steve rasped. “Not till this trip ends.”
“Here, we’re just plain Tom and Steve,” his buddy agreed.
For nearly 3 decades, they’ve known each other. Before they were ordained, Tom was a dentist. He went on safaris to Africa. Steve toured Europe and Australia. He was a licensed taxidermist who hunted deer, raced pigeons and trained falcons.
Recently, Tom inherited some money. Together with Steve, he flew to Easter islands, one of the remotest destinations in the planet. After Mongolia, they planned to explore Antarctica.
Henceforth, we agreed to avoid flying chalices and platens by celebrating subsequent masses in our host’s sheep enclosure. But from the peaks of the Altai, we spotted a frozen lake and decided to visit it next day.
It’s Lake Achit, one of the largest freshwater lakes in Mongolia, over two hours away by jeep, Zaya, our guide said. It’s not in our itinerary but the wranglers agreed to drive us there from our high camp via a zigzag road through a closed tungsten mine.
Lake Achit sat at 4,305 feet above sea level, hemmed in by a moonscape of steppes, marshes, swamps and mountains. We skidded over its frozen surface like school kids playing hooky while its black bottom bubbled under our feet. Around us, ice slabs broke off and reformed every second.
Shepherds hacked at the edge of the lake ice to gouge out water holes and their goats rushed in to drink. Kazakhs in camels galloped past. Tom and Steve decided to trek up a hill. I went another way to the highest butte and perched there, gazing at foraging wild geese and eagles courting in the skies.
On impulse, I trained my binoculars on some distant rock fins and caught the tiniest movement. Near the top, perfectly camouflaged, crouched a silver gray cat with black rosettes, furry feet as large as dinner plates. It’s a snow leopard.
Next second, with a flick of his plush tail, he vanished like a mirage.
Our wranglers spotted a snow leopard here last year. So, the ghost cat must be a resident. But I was still dumbfounded when our guide called me down for lunch. Zaya packed a picnic of fried Mongolian dumplings filled with minced mutton. We drank from a crack in the lake ice and was amazed how sweet the water tasted.
On the way back, the wranglers shot a rabbit for dinner and checked their fox trap — still unsprung though the fox ate part of the bait. I heaved a sigh of relief. Crafty vixen.
We have over three hours of light remaining when we reached Tekei’s lodge. Our host’s wife, Abijak, wanted yoghurt and fresh water. Gladly, we volunteered to get them for her.
Lugging six metal jugs to a frozen stream ten kilometers away, we met Kazakh nomads hacking ice and loading the chunks by the armful at the back of their jeep. We returned via the other side of the mountain to buy yoghurt from Tekei’s neighbour, a fellow Kazakh who herds sheep and mines tungsten.
On his yard, his sons are busy butchering animals for their winter cache. His wife apologized because they’ve run out of yoghurt. But she beckoned us inside their “ger” for milk tea. She served us fried bread, wafers, milk curds and Russian candy then went back spinning wool while we chatted with her husband.
I watched their daughter heaving sacks of animal dung and laying them out to dry. Dung bricks are the main source of fuel and heat for winter. How much dung bricks a woman can pile up is her measure as a good nomad’s wife.
It’s a hard life, indeed. Kazakh women work from dawn to midnight. The men drive their herds to pasture, guard them as they graze, then drive them back to their stone enclosures at dusk. Summer is nonstop work preparing for winter. Women milk the horses every two hours to make “airag” (milk wine).
“It tastes like beer. Good for the kidneys and liver,” Zaya explained. “Airag cleanses the toxins we get from eating meat all winter. We eat according to season — dairy in summer then mutton, goat and horse flesh all winter to keep us warm.”
Winter is the best time for Kazakhs too. The men only work in the mornings, herding and slaughtering livestock for their larders. Snow enables them to track animals, so they can hunt luxuriantly furred foxes and wolves with their eagles. In the evenings, they’re free to relax, sing and tell stories.
Spring is harshest because all winter-weakened livestock perish. In 2010, they experienced “dzud” — the worst winter in 30 years, bringing extreme cold after a too dry summer which left little grass for grazing. At least twelve million of their animals starved to death.
Next day, the neighbour repaid us with a visit, going out to hunt with our host on horseback. When they returned, Tekei forged a shoe for the neighbor’s steed, a favour he repaid by giving Tekei a haircut.
Time flew fast in the Altai. Before I knew it, we were sitting together over our last dinner. Abijak served us “cenei”- lamb cooked in its own fat, with steamed dumplings, a dish reserved for honoured guests.
Tekei carved the meat and handed out choice portions to all three of us. He heaped slices of the animal’s cheek and tongue on my plate. But the women of his family dined on the side.
When it was time for goodbyes, I pressed my gift of a Swiss knife on Tekei’s palm. For Abijak, I chose a bracelet studded with sodalite gems as blue as the heavens over the steppes.
“I’ll miss this family. I’ll miss this place,” I confessed to our guide. “I hate to leave.”
When she translated my words, Tekei fixed his blue gaze on me. As he replied, he gesticulated first to his lodge then to the endless expanse of golden mountains before us.
“He says you can live here for as long as you want,” Zaya translated back for me. “He can arrange for you to marry a nice ‘berkutchi’.”
It took me awhile to realize the offer was serious.
I smiled. I’ve seen enough Kazakhs. They’re handsome in their own way - Eurasian features, with stocky bodies from generations of climbing the Altai, enduring life on the saddle.
Earlier, a curious Tekei had probed why the two Americans and I are still single.
“Tom and Steve are like Buddhist monks. They married God,” our guide explained. “Emmie is a career woman. She chose not to marry.” He stared at me and shook his head, perplexed.
Living in the Altai appealed to me. I’ve never had a sense of roots. I’m a true nomad at heart. And here, I can catch my own golden eagle, train her to ride with me on a half-wild Mongol horse with a star on his forehead. I can be the first woman “berkutchi”.
My eagle can hunt for rabbits and wild sheep. I won’t teach her to kill wolves. But perhaps I can hand-raise a blue wolf cub and tame him to guard my hearth. I might even entice snow leopards to visit my lodge. To my dying days, I can roam the vastness of this beautiful, savage land.
Then my eyes wandered over the Kazakh women’s calloused hands. They work from dawn to midnight. Every day, my host’s wife was first to rise and last to bed. Here, a woman’s life revolves around tending the fire, cleaning, cooking, sewing, collecting dung for fuel, milking, kneading dough, making dumplings and serving her man nonstop.
Yes, here, I can have an eyrie of my own with a fair-skinned, blue-eyed mate, a sturdy and strong “berkutchi”.
But like Tekei’s majestic eagle, I’ll be bound to a hunter. I will never be free.
(Next week: Planning for the Ultimate Adventure in the Remotest Places)
(For questions, comments, suggestions, etc. please contact the author atemmieabadilla@yahoo.com.)
But in “join” expeditions like this, solo travellers are grouped with strangers. Hence, I was randomly thrown in with two globe-trotting American priests.
My mother prayed hard for my safety when I flew to Bayan Ulgii. My Mongolian eagle-hunting trip was my most dangerous yet. But I never imagined her heavenly plea will produce such weird synchronicity.
“You mean I’m going with two Catholic priests?” Unbelieving, I echoed the words of the Boojum Expedition guide who met me on my arrival. I visualized men in cassocks under wolfskin great coats. I was relieved to see quite ordinary-looking, jet-lagged guys, one already stricken with altitude sickness.
Both priests laughed when I told them how mom asked God to escort me in the mountains. By then, we had our first mass near the summit, holding everything from the cross to the chalice so they won’t get blown away.
“Never underestimate your mom’s prayers,” Tom, the older of the two, quipped.
“But please don’t call us ‘Father’,” Steve rasped. “Not till this trip ends.”
“Here, we’re just plain Tom and Steve,” his buddy agreed.
For nearly 3 decades, they’ve known each other. Before they were ordained, Tom was a dentist. He went on safaris to Africa. Steve toured Europe and Australia. He was a licensed taxidermist who hunted deer, raced pigeons and trained falcons.
Recently, Tom inherited some money. Together with Steve, he flew to Easter islands, one of the remotest destinations in the planet. After Mongolia, they planned to explore Antarctica.
Henceforth, we agreed to avoid flying chalices and platens by celebrating subsequent masses in our host’s sheep enclosure. But from the peaks of the Altai, we spotted a frozen lake and decided to visit it next day.
It’s Lake Achit, one of the largest freshwater lakes in Mongolia, over two hours away by jeep, Zaya, our guide said. It’s not in our itinerary but the wranglers agreed to drive us there from our high camp via a zigzag road through a closed tungsten mine.
Lake Achit sat at 4,305 feet above sea level, hemmed in by a moonscape of steppes, marshes, swamps and mountains. We skidded over its frozen surface like school kids playing hooky while its black bottom bubbled under our feet. Around us, ice slabs broke off and reformed every second.
Shepherds hacked at the edge of the lake ice to gouge out water holes and their goats rushed in to drink. Kazakhs in camels galloped past. Tom and Steve decided to trek up a hill. I went another way to the highest butte and perched there, gazing at foraging wild geese and eagles courting in the skies.
On impulse, I trained my binoculars on some distant rock fins and caught the tiniest movement. Near the top, perfectly camouflaged, crouched a silver gray cat with black rosettes, furry feet as large as dinner plates. It’s a snow leopard.
Next second, with a flick of his plush tail, he vanished like a mirage.
Our wranglers spotted a snow leopard here last year. So, the ghost cat must be a resident. But I was still dumbfounded when our guide called me down for lunch. Zaya packed a picnic of fried Mongolian dumplings filled with minced mutton. We drank from a crack in the lake ice and was amazed how sweet the water tasted.
On the way back, the wranglers shot a rabbit for dinner and checked their fox trap — still unsprung though the fox ate part of the bait. I heaved a sigh of relief. Crafty vixen.
We have over three hours of light remaining when we reached Tekei’s lodge. Our host’s wife, Abijak, wanted yoghurt and fresh water. Gladly, we volunteered to get them for her.
Lugging six metal jugs to a frozen stream ten kilometers away, we met Kazakh nomads hacking ice and loading the chunks by the armful at the back of their jeep. We returned via the other side of the mountain to buy yoghurt from Tekei’s neighbour, a fellow Kazakh who herds sheep and mines tungsten.
On his yard, his sons are busy butchering animals for their winter cache. His wife apologized because they’ve run out of yoghurt. But she beckoned us inside their “ger” for milk tea. She served us fried bread, wafers, milk curds and Russian candy then went back spinning wool while we chatted with her husband.
I watched their daughter heaving sacks of animal dung and laying them out to dry. Dung bricks are the main source of fuel and heat for winter. How much dung bricks a woman can pile up is her measure as a good nomad’s wife.
It’s a hard life, indeed. Kazakh women work from dawn to midnight. The men drive their herds to pasture, guard them as they graze, then drive them back to their stone enclosures at dusk. Summer is nonstop work preparing for winter. Women milk the horses every two hours to make “airag” (milk wine).
“It tastes like beer. Good for the kidneys and liver,” Zaya explained. “Airag cleanses the toxins we get from eating meat all winter. We eat according to season — dairy in summer then mutton, goat and horse flesh all winter to keep us warm.”
Winter is the best time for Kazakhs too. The men only work in the mornings, herding and slaughtering livestock for their larders. Snow enables them to track animals, so they can hunt luxuriantly furred foxes and wolves with their eagles. In the evenings, they’re free to relax, sing and tell stories.
Spring is harshest because all winter-weakened livestock perish. In 2010, they experienced “dzud” — the worst winter in 30 years, bringing extreme cold after a too dry summer which left little grass for grazing. At least twelve million of their animals starved to death.
Next day, the neighbour repaid us with a visit, going out to hunt with our host on horseback. When they returned, Tekei forged a shoe for the neighbor’s steed, a favour he repaid by giving Tekei a haircut.
Time flew fast in the Altai. Before I knew it, we were sitting together over our last dinner. Abijak served us “cenei”- lamb cooked in its own fat, with steamed dumplings, a dish reserved for honoured guests.
Tekei carved the meat and handed out choice portions to all three of us. He heaped slices of the animal’s cheek and tongue on my plate. But the women of his family dined on the side.
When it was time for goodbyes, I pressed my gift of a Swiss knife on Tekei’s palm. For Abijak, I chose a bracelet studded with sodalite gems as blue as the heavens over the steppes.
“I’ll miss this family. I’ll miss this place,” I confessed to our guide. “I hate to leave.”
When she translated my words, Tekei fixed his blue gaze on me. As he replied, he gesticulated first to his lodge then to the endless expanse of golden mountains before us.
“He says you can live here for as long as you want,” Zaya translated back for me. “He can arrange for you to marry a nice ‘berkutchi’.”
It took me awhile to realize the offer was serious.
I smiled. I’ve seen enough Kazakhs. They’re handsome in their own way - Eurasian features, with stocky bodies from generations of climbing the Altai, enduring life on the saddle.
Earlier, a curious Tekei had probed why the two Americans and I are still single.
“Tom and Steve are like Buddhist monks. They married God,” our guide explained. “Emmie is a career woman. She chose not to marry.” He stared at me and shook his head, perplexed.
Living in the Altai appealed to me. I’ve never had a sense of roots. I’m a true nomad at heart. And here, I can catch my own golden eagle, train her to ride with me on a half-wild Mongol horse with a star on his forehead. I can be the first woman “berkutchi”.
My eagle can hunt for rabbits and wild sheep. I won’t teach her to kill wolves. But perhaps I can hand-raise a blue wolf cub and tame him to guard my hearth. I might even entice snow leopards to visit my lodge. To my dying days, I can roam the vastness of this beautiful, savage land.
Then my eyes wandered over the Kazakh women’s calloused hands. They work from dawn to midnight. Every day, my host’s wife was first to rise and last to bed. Here, a woman’s life revolves around tending the fire, cleaning, cooking, sewing, collecting dung for fuel, milking, kneading dough, making dumplings and serving her man nonstop.
Yes, here, I can have an eyrie of my own with a fair-skinned, blue-eyed mate, a sturdy and strong “berkutchi”.
But like Tekei’s majestic eagle, I’ll be bound to a hunter. I will never be free.
(Next week: Planning for the Ultimate Adventure in the Remotest Places)
(For questions, comments, suggestions, etc. please contact the author atemmieabadilla@yahoo.com.)
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