We're heading west, zigzagging through rocky peaks en route to the Khongoryn Els, a vast tract of sand dunes, their shapes and colors endlessly shifting under the influence of the wind and the sun. It is here that the lighter, nimbler Freelander steps out of the shadows of its burlier brethren and shines. We make camp at the foot of the Els, reduce the Freelanders' tire pressures, and dive into the dunes, surfing over towering ridges and carving slopes in the orange glow of a sinking sun. When Freelanders daydream, they daydream about this.
From the Khongoryn Els we push northward, our motorcade a tiny GPS blip on an otherwise blank nav-system display. We're advancing back through the mountains and across a vast dust bowl that once formed the bottom of a great inland sea. The crusty terrain is impermeable, so we frequently discover deep gouges in the route from flash floods spurred by summertime storms. It's difficult to imagine animal life thriving here, but thrive it does. Thousands of Mongolian gerbils and Daurian pikas dart about amid brambly desert shrubs called zag, and wild horses known as Takhi graze near loping herds of two-humped Bactrian camels. Golden eagles, yak, and ibex are not uncommon sights, and even the rare Gobi bear still lurks in remote corners of the desert, along with the equally scarce snow leopard and Asiatic wild ass.
We pass a ger now and then, stovepipe smoking, and a solitary herder tending to a flock of goats and sheep or herds of camels and horses. Humans are only infrequently encountered out here. (Mongolia, although almost four times the size of California, has barely the population of Chicago - and more than a third of them live in Ulaanbaatar.) But the folks we have met along the way - men, women, and children - have greeted us with unexpected warmth and unfailing hospitality, waving frantically as we pass, running out to greet us, and grinning for photographs.
One evening, a young husband and wife and their two children, all of them clinging to a single motorcycle, blat up the hill toward our campsite. We fear trouble but instead find ourselves presented with gifts: goat cheese and a bottle of fermented mare's milk called ayrag (a local specialty that is, to say the least, an acquired taste). How humbling - we, with our logo-embroidered fleeces and Teva sandals and bottled water, accepting presents from people who survive on so much less. ...next page >>