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Published: July 11th 2009
Definitions: gol -mongolian for river, nuur -Mongolian for lake, aimag -a mongolian state or province, asalam aleykhem -Kazakh for peace be with you.
The Bohmoron Gol drains several lakes high in the boundary ranges which seperate Russia from Mongolia. It then flows through a large, wide (50 km +), rocky valley rimmed with 4000 m + peaks before dumping heavily turbid water into broad, shallow Achit Nuur. Along this course, the river devides Uvs aimag to the northeast from Bayan-Olgii aimag, the western most political division in the country. In dividing the two aimags, the mighty Bohmoron also divides two distinctly different cultures. On the Uvs side, the virtually plantless, rocky plains are occupied by a mostly Kalkh Mongol population, who ethnically make up roughly 90 percent of all Mongolian citizens. Two days drive over high, rough passes from the aimag center in Ulaangom, these particular people are some of the most isolated we encountered. Just across the river, trucks run several times daily to the aimag center in Olgii but the bridgeless Bohmoron gol puts a distinct scism between them and this link to civilization. On this (the western) side of the gol, the people are distinctly members
of the Mongolian Kazakh minority. Here the gers are taller, with curved rafters and steeper roofs, many people are lightly complected and they respond kindly to the words "asalam aleykhem". The Kazakhs are nominally Islamic and are descendants of Central Asian nomads who made their way here in the days before modernization drew borders on the land. In fact, nomadic Kazakhs in this region were allowed to cross the mountains (and therefore the national borders between Russia, China, Kazakhstan, and Mongolia), freely, untill the late 1940's.
For several days we heard stories of the raging Bohmoron gol and it's freezing, chest-deep waters. We did not write these warnings off but we took them, as we take much (often exagerated) local advice, with a grain of salt...maybe two grains. We knew that we would have to cross it somewhere or take a very long detour around Achit Nuur and through the town of Olgii. Additionally, we were privy to several people in the small village of Bohmoron who might be able to provide horses for the crossing. This was the backup plan at best as we have frequently found "help" rather unhelpful in such regions and did not care to
spend days trying to motivate assistants (who probably could not so much as swim themselves) to help us cross a river.
The approach to the river through the wide, rockstrewn valley was hellish to say the least and we managed to destroy yet another tire in the traverse of roads so covered with rocks that we were left with only two choices: push like turtles or ride like hell. We rode like hell; damned be the consequences. A reprieve from the roads was the beautiful scenery. All around us stood massive, glaciated peaks rising sharply out of the Marsian landscape. These were still covered with a substantial amount of seasonal snow which, along with the steady rains which fell every afternoon of our approach, told a forboding tale about the river crossing to come.
When at last we arrived at the banks of the Bohmoron we were quickly informed of its formadibility as an obstacle by the meter high standing waves which rose up out of the main channel where the seasonal road comes to an end. Several motorbike tracks ran upstream and we followed these to a more braided area where we could take stock of our
possibilities. Even at the most braided, shallow point the river was quite a swiftly moving torent. The chocolate brown color of the water, along with the several bank collapses which occured as we watched were evidence that this was a river at flood stage. Careless decisions regarding river crossings have taken many great adventurers from the ranks of the outdoor community. In remote areas the severity of the consequences goes up a notch and we knew that we needed to approach with direction and tact. After a review of the basics of river crossing/rescue techniques we devised a plan, a backup plan, and a backup to the backup plan, intimately aware of how fast things go wrong when they go wrong in a raging torent of water. First one of us made the crossing with a support and a dry bag filled with bedding and electronics. This was shakey but succesful and we refilled the drybag with other delicate items and strapped it to a bike. Initially we thoughgt we would make many crossings with gear, then take the bikes. Given the depth of the water in what would inevitably be the washout zone, we elected to keep all bags
attached as they are waterproof and would hopefuly act as floats when things got deep. We worked together on the upstream side of a heavily loaded touring bike. In the first few sections of the channel the weight of the bike sank it's wheels to the bottom and made it a reasonable support against a current of several thousand cubic feet per second. When we reached the last island of safety, we braced for a moments collection and watched a midsized tree roll by. We knew that we were going to take a swim and had readied a retaining leash in case we had to abandon bike, get to shore, and haul collectively. After advancing about ten meters into the final channel it was clear that we were going to get washed away into deeper waters. Rather than fight it, we let the bike float and began to swim like otters with the contraption on our bellies downstream from us. It floated better than we expected and soon we were able to kick to shore, find a depression in the bank, and "eddy out"! One of us climbed ashore and hoisted while the other pushed from the water and soon we were all on terra firma feeling elatedly satisfied with our success. The second bike came across in the same fashion, leaving us feeling triumphant and, as is often the case in such situations, completely humbled by the power of the physical world around us. A motorcycle had attempted a similar crossing and had drained it's waterlogged moter oil on the bank nearby. Near the oil stain were several hand rolled kretiks; waterlogged, disgarded, and redried in the midday sun. We happily smoked them with our lunch.
The days that followed brought big passes, rocky valleys, and nomads on the move to higher summer pastures. We felt empowered by our experiences and rode strong through our final Mongolian hours. After weeks of crossing physical barriers, at last the time came for us to cross a political one. We had heard the stories of endless regulations at the Russian Border and were not surprised when a young soldier behind a red gate informed us that we could not ride the first (24 km) stretch into the federation but would have to wait for a vehicle on which to ride to the official border post. The soldier was cordial and we were relieved to hear a foreign language that we could actually understand. Soon a jeep full of Kazakhs pulled up and offered us a ride for a small fee. We were overjoyed as many a cyclist has relayed tales of paying hundreds of dollars for this ride. Just as we shook hands with the driver (sealing the deal) another driver pulled up and informed us that it would cost one hundred dollars a person. When our friendly driver told him what we were paying he was distraught but could do nothing. The deal was sealed. We told him (satisfyingly in Russian) to stop trying to rip us off. Our driver was extremely helpful at the border post and helped us through many a hilarious beaurocratic process that even those who administrate them probably don't understand. A woman with purple and white hair took our temperatures with a food grade thermometer, a nervous, sweaty man whose typing skills did not bode well with his job of data entry pretended to look at our bags (full of metal objects and medical equiptment) on an x-ray screen, and into Russia we came. An hour later we were eating salads, chased by a half kilo of ice cream, chased by a cup of spiced vodka. Then we began our ride, on good pavement, back into the developing world. It was like a powder day. The next morning, in a clean little pension in Koch Agach, we took our first hot showers in nearly a month.
The week that followed brought us steadily down from the mountains of the lovely Altai to the massive plains of south-central Siberia. Along the way we enjoyed the pavement, the ice cream, the wild berries, the pavement, the good Russian food, the pavement, fresh spring water by the roadside, the pavement, the pavement, and the pavement! The weather has been hot and humid and we sleep every night in a pile of sweat and soggy down but we are tired enough to pass out none the less. Then we get up and ride another long, smooth day. Currently we are in Barnaul, which feels like New York, and we are staging up for our next leg which will give us another taste of a less developed world in Kazakhstan. We have found new tires here to replace our sorry, booted treads as well as cappuccinos to revive our soggy, sun-warped heads. The next stage promises to be a hammer fest as the land is flat, the pavement smooth and the shores of the Black Sea far. Fueled by Kabobs and excellent bread, we will sweat it out in the vast steppe of what is essentially Russian Kansas. If we are furtunate, it will rain often and the sky will be filled with clouds.
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susan
non-member comment
wow, you two are absolutely amazing!