On Late Nights and Helicopters: A Day (and Night) in the Grand Canyon

The first rays of the morning sun painted a gentle orange on intermittent walls and spires, while the rest of the landscape remained shadowed, still sleeping. I followed five dauntless women down the precipitous trail, steeped in beauty and giddy with the day’s planned adventure.

“This must be ladies’ day for the rim to rim to rim!” The hiker called out as I passed.

“Why, yes! It is!” I replied with enthusiasm.

Clearly springtime in the Grand Canyon sees many an ultrarunner make the double crossing. This was my first time to the park though, and only two miles in I was already blown away by my surroundings, falling off the back end of the group because I couldn’t put my camera away.

Jamie and I had been planning this trip for nearly a year. After two incredible experiences running in Zion, we decided it was time for a new canyon. In many ways, I think we did the progression right. While the red walls of Zion are quite dramatic, the Grand Canyon boasts much of that same drama, and the overall scale is just more, well … grand. A gash in the Earth’s crust so enormous, it’s difficult to comprehend.

We parked the van at the top of the Bright Angel Trailhead and hopped on the shuttle to the South Kaibab where we would begin our run. Betsy ran around the shuttle painting glitter on all our faces while Caren promised not to run too far ahead on the trail. Jenelle, the sandbagger of the group, confessed her fears that she might not make it. Clare, Jamie and I just laughed and wiped the glitter out of our eyes. It was the perfect group of women for a new adventure.

Our awesome group at the top of South Kaibab, minus Jenelle who took the photo.

We got a late start (6:20 A.M.) due to the need for the shuttle, but the weather was glorious. We negotiated the passing of two mule trains (The mule drivers were quite considerate and helpful in allowing us to pass.), and soon had the trail all to ourselves. I had to alternate between staring around, awestruck, and keeping an eye on my footing, as we plummeted through multi-colored layers of rock toward the Colorado River below.

I love the South Kaibab Trail! (Photo by Jenelle Potvin)

Of course we would never attempt that!

Still loving the South Kaibab (Photo by Jenelle Potvin)

Jenelle passes the mules.

 

By 8:00 we’d crossed the bridge and found our way to Phantom Ranch to refill water, taking a little time to use the bathrooms and stash extra gear for the return trip. Although our approach to the run was fairly relaxed, we also knew we couldn’t do too much dawdling. In spite of our 3:00 A.M. wake up call, we would probably be finishing in the dark.

Colorado River

The North Kaibab trail leaves Phantom Ranch along the Bright Angel Creek, bound for the North Rim of the canyon. The first several miles feature steep canyon walls, and a pitch that is quite runnable. The desert was just beginning to assert its warmth while we crisscrossed the creek on several footbridges. The canyon, as the day, lay before us filled with promise and adventure.

(Photo by Jenelle Potvin)

Shortly after 9:30, I’d caught up to most of the group when our promising day turned into a very challenging one. I looked up from the trail to see Betsy on the ground, clearly in pain. She’d fallen, and it only took us a few moments to realize that her run was over.

The first plan was for her to limp back to Phantom Ranch with Jenelle’s assistance to seek help at the Ranger Station. After a few attempted steps, it became immediately clear this would not work; she could put absolutely no weight on the leg, injured just below the knee.

We discussed our options: A) One person run back to get help, one person stay with Betsy, and the rest continue? No one felt good about continuing. B) Two people run to get help and everyone else stay? That seemed like the best option. Meanwhile though, Jenelle discovered she had cell service (Miracle! It was the only place in the entire canyon with service!) and was in touch with a ranger named Adam at Phantom Ranch.

Much to Betsy’s dismay, it was decided that a helicopter was probably the only option to get her out of the canyon. Adam needed to assess the situation before making the final call and would walk to our location. The waiting game ensued. Did you know that ultrarunners are not very good at sitting around waiting for help? We called back and offered to run to the ranger station and pick up a litter with which to carry Betsy out. There were five of us, after all, and we’re tough. Apparently that was not an option. (Adam later told us it was the first time he’d ever had such an offer.)

So, we waited.

We dipped our shirts in the creek to keep cool. We wondered about the rest of the day. We worried about Betsy. We spent a good amount of conversation discussing the potential hotness of our impending rescuer. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say our maturity levels regressed several decades. Hysterical giggles are good therapy for sun-drenched brains and worried hearts.

Eventually, finally, after possibly forever, Adam arrived. And guess what?

He was totally hot.

He was also extremely kind, very professional, and made us all feel much better about the eventual outcome of Betsy’s day. He confirmed the need for a helicopter, and reassured us that she would be in safe hands.

Betsy and Hot Adam

It was a strange and difficult thing leaving our friend on the trail at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, (even though she was with probably the hottest ranger in a 1,000 mile radius). We did not yet know the extent of her injury (fractures at the top of the tibia and fibula, it turns out), but we knew she had a rough road ahead.

After losing four hours to the rescue efforts, it seemed that our double crossing was not going to happen. It was 2:00 P.M. and we had only gone 12 miles. We decided to continue up the North Kaibab Trail a few miles to visit Ribbon Falls before turning around to head back to the South Rim.We were just glad Betsy was safe.

We bid farewell to Betsy and Adam, and continued up the trail with heavy hearts. Our day of promise had turned out to be challenging in ways I hadn’t expected. I felt horrible about Betsy, and I also felt disappointed that we wouldn’t complete our goal of the full double crossing. Betsy had tried to get at least some of us to keep running and not wait for Adam, but we just couldn’t do it. I understood how she felt, but we were a team, and it didn’t seem right.

In the weeks since this trip, the rest of us have given much thought and discussion to our running practices - all the times we run alone in the wilderness. There were a few hikers on the trail that day, so had Betsy been alone, she could have still gotten help, but it would have been much more difficult. Not to mention scary. I can't say I'm contemplating giving up running solo in the wilderness, but I've certainly become better already about making sure others know my plans.

Up the North Kaibab, the day was incredible and we had the trail mostly to ourselves. We came quickly to the junction for Ribbon Falls and made the short side trip. I love seeing lushness in the desert, and Ribbon Falls provided just that. Water cascaded over red sandstone landing on a large rock below.  The rock was slick with green moss, surrounded by a pool flanked with trees and shrubs and grass. The day’s heat made splashing in the water the perfect antidote for our stress.

Ribbon Falls

Cooling off with Jamie at Ribbon Falls. (Photo by Jenelle Potvin)

Back on the trail, and my brain began to churn. Why can’t we do the full crossing? What time might we finish if we just keep going? We’re almost all 100-mile veterans; we know what it’s like to run in the dark. We have headlamps. As we ran up the trail, I quietly voiced these thoughts to Clare to gauge her reaction, and she gave me an encouraging smile and nod of the head. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one thinking these things?

While we’d been waiting for Adam, Jamie and I had promised each other we would return to complete the rim to rim to rim in the fall. There would be other days, we’d said. But now, other thoughts spoke in my head. I took two days off work to be here. We drove 13 hours, and will have to do it again to get home. Just getting here had been a challenge, and the idea of running a few hours in the dark was starting to seem like less of a big deal the more thought I gave it.

Still, I wanted to be sure we were making smart decisions. My husband works in search and rescue, and I am well aware that the two thoughts I’d just had (time taken off work, and time to get to the destination) were often factors in justifying stupid decisions. I did not want to be one of the stupid people, so I thought carefully about how things might play out if we continued all the way to the top of the North Rim.

When we finally discussed it as a group, there actually wasn’t a whole lot of discussion. We were a little uncertain that we had as many calories with us as we would like, but that was the only major concern. We all wanted more miles, and we all had experience with running in the dark. We would absolutely stick together, and that was that. We were going for it!

I can’t explain how incredible I felt after that decision was made. We’d lost the canyon through circumstances no one could control, but now we had it back. Our vanished goal again became attainable. Just knowing that filled me with such energy; I knew we would make it.

The final miles to the top of the North Rim get steeper and more spectacular as you climb. Now that we were on a tight time schedule, I knew we couldn’t mess around too much. I also knew I wanted to breathe in every moment of this run, every view, every hill, every rock formation. Now that we were here, that we’d committed ourselves, I wanted to make sure it was all worth it. 

Jamie and Clare nearing the top of the North Rim.

We made it! Jenelle celebrates the snowy North Rim.

Clare and Jamie: "Uh, we're only halfway?"

We took a few minutes at the top to eat food and let the reality sink in that we were only halfway. It was 4:00 P.M., and time to turn around. We knew it was going to be a long, long day.

Clare, heading back down the North Kaibab Trail.

Clare and Jenelle pause on the descent.

The run back down to Phantom seemed to go by in a flash. The downhill felt easy, and we all tried to make as many miles as possible before darkness set in. We turned on headlamps just a couple miles before the river crossing.

Timing was perfect to grab a few snacks at the Phantom Ranch, as the store re-opened at 8:00 P.M. – exactly when we arrived. Snickers bars and lemonade put everyone in positive spirits as we headed out for the final climb up the Bright Angel Trail.

We’d taken a shuttle in the morning so we could return via this trail, rather than the South Kaibab which we’d taken down. We’d been hoping for different scenery, which made us laugh now. Still, I reveled in the darkness. This was our adventure. This was where we were. At the bottom of the Grand Canyon in the pitch darkness, surrounded by unseen walls, and stars peeking in overhead. I was thrilled!

At the back of the group, which is apparently my comfort zone for some reason, I turned my light off in the middle of the bridge. The river rushed past beneath me, and even though I couldn’t see the canyon walls, I could feel them there. The absence of stars spoke their outlines with the half moon about to rise over the rim. I knew it was going to be a slog up Bright Angel. We’d been awake for 18 hours, I was already exhausted, and we hadn’t even begun climbing. I knew all this, and I simply didn’t care. I still felt triumphant that we’d completed our entire journey. Every tired, sleep-deprived step, was now merely part of the experience.

The climb in darkness was more magical than I could have imagined, although perhaps it was simply part of that same late-night exhaustion that eventually induces hallucinations. 

We saw wildlife everywhere. Frogs sang in these incredible, deep choruses. When we finally spotted our baritone culprits at a creek crossing, they were far too tiny to be making such noise, surely! We saw docile deer, miniature scorpions, furry tarantulas, and one curious ringtail. I kept seeing spiders with glittery eyes, but every time I pointed one out to Jamie or Jenelle, they thought I was joking. I swear they had glitter in their eyes!  (I’m certain daytime hikers all miss the glittery spiders.)

Near midnight, the final miles were completed in a steady power hike. Although I was overwhelmingly happy, I was also far more tired than expected for a 45 mile run.

“I keep thinking,” I confessed to Jamie as I walked behind her, “that if this were Hardrock, I wouldn’t even be halfway.” The desperation in my voice conveyed the thoughts behind that statement: I can’t even imagine running another 55 miles right now, and this isn’t nearly the elevation gain or loss experienced at Hardrock, nor the altitude.  

“I know,” she said. “I’m starting to wonder if I’m cut out for some of the tings on my agenda this year.”

I knew exactly what agenda items she meant, and the glow from my headlamp simply rose and fell in solidarity behind her.

“I love how we have no false words of comfort for each other,” I laughed a moment later.

“There’s really no way to sugar-coat it,” she agreed.

We do have big adventures ahead in our year, but I think the Grand Canyon set the tone. It was training in adversity, as well as perspective. It was tragedy and triumph. It was glorious in so many ways, and an experience with dear friends that I’ll never forget.

And I can hope, in another three months, that 45 miles won’t seem nearly as long.

No one really felt inclined to pose for a group photo in the dark at the end, but this kind of captures how we felt, minus the sheer exhaustion.

Epic Adventures Part III: In Search of the Gobi Bear

Whenever I wonder where I get my affinity for adventure, I remind myself, with a knowing, inner smile, of one of my closest family members: my father. Adventurousness could be a genetic trait, but in my case, it could also be that I was taught to love all this craziness. It wasn’t explicitly taught of course, as both my parents will tell you that I’m often prone to follow the opposite of any actual instructions. It was taught, as most things are in this world, by example.

Slideshows of my father’s journeys from my younger years still remain vivid in my mind – scuba diving trips mostly, to places like the Galapagos Islands, the Red Sea, and the Great Barrier Reef. Photos of brightly colored birds, coral reefs teeming with life, and all manner of undersea creatures still seem like the stuff of magical lands to me. Our planet still seems like an exciting place to explore.

To the casual observer, my father and I might appear to be opposites. It’s true, we have some differences. I like to characterize them by saying that he gets his news from the Wall Street Journal, and I get mine from National Public Radio. But the truth is, he still turns on NPR in the mornings (even if just to gripe about their liberal bias), and I’ve recently enjoyed the benefits of following @WSJ on Twitter. My Christmas gifts to him are nearly always non-fiction books, hopefully on topics that inspire good conversations between us. I shoot for books where we have common interests – endurance sports, adventure, sometimes history. Family visits usually find an opportunity for us to go on a long bike ride or a short run together, (except he would probably characterize them as a short bike ride and a long run).

So when, in the winter of 1999, my father suggested he and I take a big trip together, it made perfect sense to me. He’d just finished riding his mountain bike across Siberia the previous summer, and was eager to return to the remote areas of the Asian continent. One of us, I can’t recall which, had recently read about the Gobi Bear – a sub-species of the Brown Bear and the world’s only desert bear. Located in the vast desert of southern Mongolia, this rarely seen bear was on the verge of extinction. When discussing the idea of an expedition to view it in the wild, both of our eyes widened in excitement. We had to try!

The idea that a 50-something doctor from Orange County would be setting off to explore the outer reaches of the Gobi desert with his 25-year-old, nature-girl, feminist daughter may sound odd at first. As it turns out though, we were the only two in our family who could see that traveling by jeep and camel across a desert of the most sparsely populated country in the world in search of a rarely seen bear had the makings of a dream vacation.

The month of May was set aside for the adventure, and soon we were off, with quick stops to Tokyo and Beijing, before arriving in Mongolia’s capital, Ulaanbaatar. I had already spent several years working as a wilderness guide at that point in my life, but the challenges of world travel were largely unknown to me, so I considered it quite an adventure just getting to Mongolia.

Beijing's Forbidden City

A soldier at the Forbidden City

We had a contact in Ulaanbaatar named Timur who helped us arrange the logistics of transportation, food and a guide who would know where to look for the bear. While in the city, we visited a museum and a Buddhist Temple, and Timur explained some of the recent changes in Mongolia since the fall of Communism in the early 90’s. The country had become a parliamentary democracy with a free-market economy, which had increased the prosperity of the people and resulted in a baby-boom of sorts. It also gave way to a resurgence of the country’s majority religion, Tibetan Buddhism, which had been suppressed under the Communists. There was interest from foreign businesses in mining exploration, and their tiny tourism industry was expanding. It was a hopeful time in Mongolia.

Buddhist Temple in Ulaanbaatar

Our plane at the airstrip in Gov-Altay

A short flight in a propeller plane brought us to Gov-Altay, on the edge of the Gobi Desert. We still had several days of driving to reach the tiny desert outpost of Bayan Tooroi where we would pick up our guide and finally set out in search of the bear. We piled into an ancient-looking Russian-made jeep with a driver who, unbeknownst to us, was completely unfamiliar with this half of the country, and headed south.

In researching our trip, we’d had difficulty finding a good map of Mongolia. The one my father finally did acquire was rife with mistakes, but still helpful since our driver had no maps. We quickly learned that no one navigates by map in Mongolia, largely because once you’re 100 miles out of Ulaanbaatar, there aren’t any roads. (Also, there aren’t any maps.)

   

Here’s how navigation works:

1)      Find a jeep track that heads in the general direction you want to go.

2)      When you see a shepherd across the steppe with his flock, drive up and ask him directions. (It helps if your driver speaks Mongolian, not just Russian. We learned this the hard way.)

3)      Follow the direction indicated until you see another shepherd.

4)      Repeat process.

After a day of this, we spotted a line of power poles heading south into the desert and followed them, reasoning that our destination was the only inhabited area with power, so that must be were the electricity was going. Navigation by power lines!

Fixing the jeep. The russian made jeeps popular in Mongolia were fairly simple, which was good since on-the-go repairs were frequently necessary.

As we bounced slowly down the rough track, I had to put my hand on the ceiling of the jeep in order to prevent my head from cracking into it. These jeep tracks couldn’t be any better than simply driving cross country, I reasoned. But when we inadvertently veered onto a track heading away from the power lines, I was proved quite wrong in this notion.

Once the error was discovered, we turned off the track to cut cross-country directly back to the power line guide posts, and I learned the true meaning of jeep-crawling. The vehicle became a giant washing machine and we the dirty laundry tossing about inside. After ten hours of already rough driving, this wasn’t the ride my stomach had been looking for, and I couldn’t imagine how the driver was keeping his foot on the gas pedal with the jeep lurching about so much. Perhaps that was a contributing factor in the lurching.

Our driver and his jeep. He was obsessed with keeping the dust off and would wipe it down at every opportunity, which seemed like a fruitless effort to me. 

We rejoined the power line track right at dusk, and by comparison the ride suddenly felt incredibly smooth. Finally, I saw the tiny lights of Bayan Tooroi! It had been a long day of driving – not really my favorite activity. We were probably 30 minutes from our destination when the headlights went out on the jeep, and it turns out that there is not much darker than the Mongolian desert at night. My heart sank; there was no way we could drive without lights. But one thing you learn when the conveniences of civilization are always a far off thought: improvisation. Our driver turned on the emergency flashers and we found our way across the desert with the aid of a red strobe. Brilliant!

The next day I had a chance to explore the small village on my own. This turned out to be one of the most memorable experiences of the trip for me. I was wandering among the gers (yurts) admiring how each identical home distinguished itself with a decorated door. Gers are the traditional dwelling of the nomadic people of Mongolia, and they still house the vast majority of the population. Round in shape, they are composed simply of a lightweight wooden frame covered in hand-felted wool. They are quite structurally sound to keep out the harsh Mongolian weather, yet easy to disassemble, transport, and reassemble, allowing nomads to follow the herds of animals.

Bayan Tooroi 

Russian made motor bikes were also a very popular form of transportation. Also frequently in need of repair.

As I photographed the doors, I attracted a growing flock of children and turned my attention toward them. It should be noted that tall, fair-skinned women were an anomaly in the Gobi desert, and they were clearly as curious about me as I was about them. I held up my camera, and they gamely posed for pictures. Sharing no language, we communicated surprisingly well through gestures and smiles.

Children of Bayan Tooroi

Eventually someone’s mother showed up and invited me, with an ushering smile, into her ger. I followed, along with my dozen giggling companions. Her ger had rugs for flooring, and we sat in a group on them as she handed me something I thought of as tea. It tasted bitter, and actually rather nauseating, but I was completely thrilled to be there and smiled graciously as I sipped. I felt so honored to be welcomed into their home, and the fact that we couldn’t actually speak to each other seemed insignificant. Even though we came from incredibly different lifestyles and backgrounds, it was a moment that made me feel that as human beings, we are all so much more alike than we are different.

My father showed up to join the party, and he had brought his Polaroid camera. We took pictures of each kid to give to them. They were excited about the Polaroids, and we enjoyed having something to share.

Dad snaps Polaroids of the kids.

Bayan Tooroi was also where we were to meet our guide, Choijin. A small man, seemingly far along in years, he was a naturalist paid by the government to study the bears and other wildlife, and he was the person with by far the most knowledge on where to spot animals in this vast, sparse landscape.

(In fact, years later I was watching the BBC documentary, Planet Earth, and I was thrilled to see Choijin leading the BBC team through the Gobi on a quest for wild camels. I love this YouTube clip from Planet Earth because it shows exactly the same Mongolia we experienced.)

Preparing for the desert meant obtaining food, among other things, and food in Mongolia is mutton. With the help of our guide we negotiated the purchase of a sheep from a local herdsman and I watched, fascinated, as they slaughtered and prepared the meat for us. Our small group wouldn’t be able to eat all of it before it would rot in the desert heat, so we gave some of it away as gifts.

Selecting dinner (and breakfast and lunch) from the flock.

I was first handed the reigns of this camel with zero instruction. Not how to  make it stand up or how to steer it. Not even how to get on. Because what idiot doesn't know how to ride a camel?

My camel was totally punk rock.

After we had gathered and organized the necessary supplies, we set off for a two week exploration of the desert. On our very first morning, around dawn, we had our first sighting of the Gobi bear. Wow! I thought our guide was amazing! It turns out that in a desert there are very few food and water sources. Ah, yes. The locations where it is likely to see a large animal such as a bear are actually fairly limited, and thus somewhat predictable. Still, I was impressed with our early success, and excited for the rest of the trip.

We returned to the same site that evening and lay quietly in wait for the bear to return. When he did, we had our best views yet. Completely lacking in wildlife photography experience, I didn’t have the right camera equipment for such low light conditions. All my bear pictures could be summed-up as “fuzzy brown dots.” It really didn’t matter though. From our perch up on a rocky outcropping, we watched with giddy enthusiasm as he poked around the small valley until it was too dark to see.

The Gobi bear is quite small compared with brown bears of North America. This is a result of living in the harsh desert environment. Although I have a great deal of respect for all bears as wild animals, I couldn’t help thinking of our bear as “cute.” He just was.

The remainder of our desert explorations were unsuccessful for bear sightings. I learned a lot about hunting, even though we shot with cameras and not guns. I learned that there is a lot of sitting and waiting which is, not surprisingly, something that neither my father nor I am very good at. We did see gazelles, wild camels, and Argali sheep. The sheep especially were beautiful. The rams have the largest horns in the world which, sadly, makes them a target for trophy hunters.

This is the most awesomest picture of my dad ever!

With our early success at spotting the bear, my expectations had been raised, and it was tough to spend the rest of our days with no other sightings. We had known from the outset though, that we could potentially come all that way and not see a bear at all, so in truth, we had been quite lucky.

These soldiers were living in a cave guarding the Mongolia/China border. It kind of freaked me out to see men with machine guns in the middle of nowhere.

Choijin and me.

Before departing the desert region, we made a trek to several sites near Bayan Tooroi. One of these was an area of sacred pools among some fascinating rock formations. I imagined that when the water was flowing it was even more beautiful, and it wasn’t difficult to understand why such a site would be considered sacred in that endless, arid land.

Rock Formations

Relaxing among the sacred pools.

The journey back from the outer reaches of the desert, to the relative civilization of Ulaanbaatar, turned out to be the biggest adventure of the trip. We made it to Gov-Altay with relative ease, but a storm had moved in which caused some issues with our flight. The tiny airport did not have appropriate communications, and the plane was not rated for instrument flight. Or perhaps it was the pilot that wasn’t rated, but regardless, the plane was grounded until visibility improved.

We spent a day in wait, and this allowed us to do a bit of exploration around Gov-Altay. Eventually though, we realized such things as:

A) If we wanted to make our flight from Ulaanbaatar, we might have to drive, and

B) If we were going to drive we had to get on our way. It would be a three day trek via jeep.

It was during this epically long drive that my father finally admitted I’d given him appropriate advice on what to pack for the trip. He’d laughed that I had him bring a fleece jacket and pants, as well as rain gear, to a desert. As we drove through the mountainous region of the country, the temperature dropped and the same storm that had stranded our plane now coated the landscape with snow. We were both wearing everything we had with us.

Hearty camels in Mongolian weather.

Along with an immense, unending barrage of bouncing around the inside of the jeep, a few memories stand out vividly from this crazy drive:

• We encountered another jeep headed in roughly the same direction and our two drivers decided to stick together for safety. This scared me because only then did I realize that our driver thought the journey was dangerous.

• We saw a wolf in the middle of the night, and the other jeep pulled over to shoot at it, prompting me to scream, “NO! Don’t shoot the wolf!” Talk about a culture-clash of perspectives. My father and I still laugh over this one. I felt relieved that their shots missed, but at the same time a little guilty about my relief. The wolf probably would have meant a lot to them.

• We reached a river crossing which was so deep I was positive we should not attempt it. It was dark and snowing and we were in the middle of Mongolia and our driver wanted to go for it. I was fairly certain the water would rush in the doors and we might die. But what could we do? I remember turning to my father and saying, “Mom would NOT like it if she knew what we were doing right now!” We both erupted in laughter.

• At the top of a snowy mountain pass in the dark we got out of the jeep in front of a large pile of rocks adorned with prayer flags marking the summit. We joined the people from the other jeep in a local ritual of circling the giant summit cairn three times, adding our own rock to the pile, and asking the gods to bless our journey and keep us safe. I enjoyed participating in a local custom, but again, it made me nervous that even the locals thought this trip was dangerous.

• The driver had one tape in the car. It was traditional Mongolian music performed by a popular artist. I would conservatively estimate that we listened to it no fewer than 47 times. Eventually, I began to sing along. In Mongolian. The driver loved this and pretty soon we were all singing together.

Stopping at the pass to ensure our safe travel.

Eventually, we made it back to Ulaanbaatar quite exhausted, but in time for our flight home. My experience in Mongolia wasn’t all about seeing the Gobi bear, although that was certainly an exciting bonus. A lot of it was simply about foreign travel and experiencing the kindness and hospitality of people on the other side of the planet. I saw a country living very much the way it had for thousands of years, yet with a western influence that made me more than a little uncomfortable. Gov-Altay, for example, was a big enough town to receive a lot of imported products – disposable things with disposable packaging. Yet, they had no real garbage system, so people were in the habit of merely throwing things out the window, into the wind. This made my heart crumple, as I could only see western influence destroying their beautiful country with its garbage. In Ulaanbaatar this was evidenced by garbage blowing around the streets, trapped up against chain link fences that prevented it from escaping into the broad landscape. My dad thought a bigger problem was their expanding population and lack of infrastructure. Even in Gov-Altay most people lived in gers which had no running water and only pit toilets. I wondered deeply what the future would bring for the people of Mongolia.

Gobi Sunset 

Ultimately, for me, this trip was an adventure that influenced my thinking about my own life. I saw a rare, near-extinct bear, countless friendly smiles, and a country in a place of hope yet tempered with uncertainty. I spent an unforgettable month connecting with a new culture, facing unexpected challenges, and sharing it all with my dad.

He and I have continued searching out new adventures.  He still rides his bike, whether it’s a double century or simply to work and back. I seem to run farther and crazier with each passing year. But we still manage to get together for adventures of the less epic type – day hikes in Yosemite or mountain biking around Tahoe. The older I get, the more I see myself in him. Or perhaps it’s that I see him in me? Regardless,  I know I’m lucky that I have a dad who gave me the gift of adventurousness and wanted to share it with me so many years ago in Mongolia, where we found much more than just the Gobi bear.