Cranky's daughter and son-in-law are currently residing in Mongolia. Here is a recent communication from the son-in-law.
To some, hunting is a part of life. To others, it is life. For me, I enjoy taking a week off from work or school every fall for a little jaunt in the woods and mountains. The usual excursion is for Mule Deer in central Idaho where the temperature at that time of year rarely falls below 20º Fahrenheit at night and is about 40º during the day. Every year in early October my hunting buddies and I pack two or three trailers with tents, ATVs, and weapons and head up the mountains to an elevation of about 6700 feet. Our back-up heating system is rum.
So when I joined my wife, who is Cranky’s daughter, in Mongolia last month, I brought along a hobby. One of my priorities was to find a way to participate in that hobby almost six thousand miles from Idaho. And in less than a month I found me a hunting partner. He is a local surgeon whose wife works with my wife. He is Mongolian and an avid hunter. You know he has to be alright when his favorite hunting store is Cabela’s. It did not take long for me to convince him that I was a Great American Hunter. He invited me to go along with him and a few other buddies on a day-long Mongolian wolf hunt.
We set out at 0800 hours on the first Saturday in December. It was my host, me, and two of his buddies. I made sure I had everything I would need in my day pack. Dehydrated bananas and pineapple that my mother-in-law had sent, my shooting sticks, which unfold to stick in the ground and make a bipod to shoot from, binoculars, camera, GPS, hand warmers, water, and most important, a roll of extra soft toilet paper. The thermometer stood at -7º Fahrenheit outside. I was hoping my thick wool socks, 800-gram insulated hunting boots, long johns, hunting pants, under shirt, long johns top, long sleeved shirt with turtle neck, grey hooded sweatshirt, insulated vest, big insulated hunting coat, gloves, stocking cap, and fleece face mask would keep me warm in the sub zero temperatures. If nothing else, I sweated just getting dressed.
On our way out of Ulaanbaatar in my host’s Toyota Land Cruiser, we stopped at a local market for the essentials. We got water, bread, gum, cookies, and vodka, and resumed the journey. We made another short stop to rendezvous with other members of the group. Getting out of UB required a meandering course through a maze of gers, the local dwellings. I was truly confused by the time we got to the open road.
With the temps rising, but not past 15º degrees, and sunny I figured I would be okay warmth-wise. We started up the surrounding mountains and stopped at the top of one, at a pile of rocks with blue fabric tied to sticks jammed in the rocks. This was a prayer spot. All hunters piled out of the vehicles, and I was able to get a count. There were fourteen men: ten Mongolians, three Chinese, and one Idahoan. The first bottle of vodka came out. I was expecting us to pass the bottle around and finish it off before continuing on. But the man with the bottle got a cup and filled it about a fourth full. He passed the cup to one of the others, who dipped in his ring finger, pulled it out, and flicked drops of vodka to his right and left. He then took just a sip and passed the cup back to the gentleman who was pouring. The cup was refilled a fourth of the way and passed to the next hunter, who performed the same ritual. And so it went for all those present, including me. My host talked me through taking a sip and passing the cup back. The purpose of the ceremony was to bring good luck and safety to the hunt.
The prayer meeting over, we drove until we came to the ger of the leader of the Mongolian nomads in a valley. He had arranged with one of the hunters for the group to thin out the wolves that had been killing about one hundred sheep and cows a week.
After collecting a few of the local nomads (calling them local because they were in the valley at this time), we had the complete hunting party. A shot of vodka all around, and we were ready to start. The fourteen hunters were spread out in a line in the open along the base of a mountain. My host’s brother loaded up the five locals and took them to the other side of the mountain. We were all armed. I had one of my host’s rifles, a Czech made .308. Others had Russian made AKs and SKSs. The locals had 12-gauge single shot shotguns, and sticks. Their job was to walk up the far side of the mountain and down our side to flush out the wolves.
I had thus far stayed warm. But an hour and a half of sitting in the snow changed that. I could feel the moisture penetrating my clothes as I waited. I froze my posterior. Then, excitement! As the locals made their way down our side I spotted the first wolf. It came out into the open and bolted. My adrenaline shot up but drastically dropped when I saw I didn’t have a shot because a couple of gers were behind the wild dog. Later, a second wolf ran across the same spot. That was the final wolf of the day. With no shot and me with a wet frozen rear end, we made our way back to meet up with the group and exchanged stories. A total of seven wolves had been seen. Three shots had been fired but all were misses. I felt a little better about not getting a shot off.
We had time for one more chance at a different location. After the required vodka shot, we set out. The hunters set up, the locals flushed. The second spot where I waited was on a hillside opposite where the locals were flushing. I shared the hillside with a number of cows and goats. But no wolves. We soon got the signal to end the hunt.
Now came the part that distinguished this hunt from my Idaho experiences. We met at the ger of the local leader, who provided hot drinks and a huge feast. I had trouble with the milk tea, only downing about a fourth of it. Huge pots of boiled meat appeared. I could tell by looking in the pots that no part of the animal had been wasted. My host informed me that the menu was horse, which was sometimes eaten in the cold months because of its fat content. Although my grandpa had been a butcher and way back when had prepared a few horses for human consumption, I don’t believe I had ever had the pleasure. Even in Idaho, horse is not commonly found on the dinner table.
Knives were set out for us to take turns cutting bite-size pieces to eat. I was cutting off pieces small enough to swallow whole. Now, I am one to try just about anything once, but when I hear in my head “A horse is a horse of course of course…” (Theme song from Mr. Ed) I have problems. My host sensed that I was being bashful and cut a huge chunk of Mongolian sausage. A thing to understand is that the nomads do not process meat as is done in, say, Idaho. In other words, even an exotic weenie party in the States might not be exotic enough to include true Mongolian sausage. But in four bites I did a job on the intestine filled with horse meat, only to have my host give me an even chewier part to try. I was having trouble stomaching the stomach. But I did handle the final rounds of vodka with no difficulty.
I learned three things on my first Mongolian hunt:
1. It takes about 1 hour and 20 minutes to go 20.3 miles from UB (according to my GPS).
2. Mongolia is cold.
3. A horse is a horse of course…unless boiled then a horse is a meal.
