logo

All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.

- JRR Tolkien


image

Athletes

Apr 09, 2018

Snow, Mud, Sweat and Tears: An Actif Epica First

It’s the middle of peak winter in Manitoba and tears are rolling down my face in pain and despair.

WRITTEN BY

Gaurav Madan

I collapse onto a half-frozen pile of mud in the middle of nowhere, some place in South of Winnipeg in the freezing cold midnight. I’m not even sure where I am. All I know is that I have little over 6 hours to finish this race, Actif Epica – the ultramarathon that I’ve been training for months to do.

© Kevin B Desaulniers

Actif Epica is a 120 km long self-supported race in peak winter of Manitoba. Unlike other races, there is no support available of any kind, you carry all your needs like water, food, survival gear and clothes in a backpack from the start to finish. Temperatures are generally 30 degrees below freezing with winds at 50 kilometers an hour. This is among the toughest races Canada has to test your will and endurance. And on top of all of that, race officials confirmed the conditions this year were the worst they’d seen.

Read the news report about Gaurav’s epic accomplishment of becoming the first Indian-born runner to complete the Actif Epica.

There are 5 checkpoints where I must report to within the 25 hour time limit – St. Pierre-Jolys (28 km), Crystal Springs (43 km), Niverville (63 km), St. Adolphe (75 km) and University of Manitoba (104 km). Sounds straightforward, but the problem is the route is not marked. I have to follow hand scribbled directions and use my GPS to find my way in a landscape I’d never been to before.

© Dan Lockery

My GPS is dead so I look at the hard copy of the race directions. They suggest a left turn about a kilometer from the trailhead, and I’ve been walking for more than an hour with no left turn in sight. I’m exhausted, getting cold, and have bad blisters that are bleeding. For the past 19 hours, I’ve battered through a rough frozen lake, miles of Manitoba mud, soft deep snow and endless stretches of vast-frozen prairies – all this with a bad stomach. I’m throwing up every 10 minutes if I eat. My body has surrendered to my life’s biggest race, and I still have 40 km to run. I think my battle is over. I’m lost.

© Dallas Sigurdur

As I lay in the mud, I can hear sounds of coyotes and see an array of flickering lights at a far distance. While still trying to muster some energy to continue, I think maybe the lights could be the flood bank, the one all racers must cross to get to the Highway 200 to finish. If it is the flood bank, I think I can follow and still finish. But, if I am on the wrong trail, this is the end.

As I push my glasses up and try to focus my weak eyes on the lights, I am reminded of what got me here in the first place. Like a movie looped in fast forward, under the fading glare of those flickering lights, I can see myself sitting in front of the television, lonely in my room as a 12-year-old in New Delhi India, watching a BBC documentary on Iditarod – The Last Great Race on the planet. It’s a 1000 mile long dog sled race in dead of winter in Alaska from Anchorage to Nome in far West.

I dreamed of racing that trail one day. But how? I was short, weak and not as strong as my friends. Nevertheless, I still wanted to do it. I saw Iditarod as the greatest accomplishment a human could possibly make against nature. I thought Iditarod could be a way to prove that I was not weak. I was much more than this fragile body. But even with the will, I lived in New Delhi, so I knew I could never be a musher. Over time, I bargained with myself and said: “What if I walk that trail?” That changed everything. I no longer want to be dragged by the dogs. I want to be the dog!

And I love Canada, but compared to New Delhi, the weather is otherworldly. February was expected to be crazy cold. But, in race week, Winnipeg suddenly had a severe heat wave. I’m not making this up, I saw people walking in shorts and t-shirts when I landed. At 2 degrees, the snow was melting, roads were icy and trails were a puddle.

Landing in Winnipeg was a shocker. That was the first time that I had seen such vast flatlands. In Delhi, houses are cramped. I had never seen sideways beyond 20ft. In contrast, Manitoba stretched on beyond my imagination. During the race, I felt like I walked for hours upon hours – reaching nowhere. I particularly remember this one tree halfway through the race. I must have been walking towards it for hours. How long had I come? How long did I have to go? That tree is still standing there, teasing from far, seemingly unreachable.

“I burst into tears. I’m on the right trail after all and I have just 28 more kilometers to go.”

Already cold and wet due to relentless walking through soft wet snow that was beyond my knees deep, that’s when I started crying, laughing, feeling blessed to be here and cursing myself – all at the same time. Thinking, were those inner thoughts right all along? Am I fragile? Our truth is nothing but belief – the voice inside our head that recites the same thing over and over.

I remind myself that I flew all the way to Manitoba because I am strong enough to do this. I wrap my numb feet in a layer of plastic bag, stand up, pull on my jacket and start crawling towards those flickering lights. 15 minutes later, the trail turns left, I swim through the snow and climb up the floodbank. I see two headlamps flashing on the other side…volunteers! They shout “Gaurav, you are doing amazing. You’re almost there.” This is exactly what I was longing to hear. I burst into tears. I’m on the right trail after all and I have just 28 more kilometers to go.

Slipping my way on frozen roads with bleeding feet, I reach the final stretch of the race – The frozen Red River – which is melting. It is the final hour and I am a little over 8 kilometers from the finish. I’m running, slipping, falling on the river, getting up, running again and then again falling. I don’t know how far I’ve come. Now, only 10 minutes are remaining in my time limit and I don’t know how far I still have to go. I can see my dream collapsing right in front of my eyes. Suddenly, from under the bridge I see a young woman waving and running towards me. I think she’s a volunteer. I quickly run towards her – she thought I was her husband. Delirious from the pain, for a moment, even I thought I was.

© Michael Milner

I run harder than I had in the past 25 hours. My legs are crying in pain, my lungs bursting, my feet are numb as I crash through the door, collapsing on the ground and shouting “52”, my race bib number. I’m on the ground for half an hour, my body in complete collapse, but I’m telling myself “you made it 8 minutes before the end of the race.” I feel dead yet immortal. I was born weak. I wasn’t ‘fully baked’, or so doctors feared.

During childhood, voices in my head told me that my body was fragile. But over time and through training, I built the belief that I can do things that seem impossible. I control those voices within my head now. I accomplished my dream. I became the first person from India and South Asia to finish the Actif Epica. I stand with confidence.

Feature Image © Gaurav Madan.

Continue Reading

image

Focus

Oct 01, 2018

The Forbidden Zone: Mongols, to Your Horses

The rolling green hills, rocky passes, flower-laden meadows and clear streams of Gorkhi Terelj National Park in northern Mongolia is the birthplace of the Mongols. The Outdoor Journal spent a week on horseback with Stone Horse Expeditions in the heart of this country’s vast wilderness.

image

WRITTEN BY

Apoorva Prasad

Tdrihe Khan Khentii mountains stretched before us, from one end of the azure sky to the other. Tegri, the Great Sky God, watched us with his infinite panorama. From here, I could see miles and miles into the distance. This was the “Forbidden Zone”, that unknown wilderness where Genghis Khan was born. As a child and then again much later on, he hunted here, his true home, on a horse, sheltered in a ger or under the blue sky. When he was a boy, exiled with his family into the cold and harsh wilderness of the northern Mongolian hills, his only friends were what these lands contained. After he built an empire and died, it became a sacred and taboo zone, left to the deer and wolves. For decades the area had been closed off. The Soviets enforced it as a Highly Restricted Area to allow them to do what they wished with it – from logging and military exercises, to also countering any potential rise of Mongolian nationalism around the great Khan. Despite those years, the Area remained wild.

No wonder the Mongols worshipped it.

A day before, we had crossed fresh bear tracks. There were no signs of human presence apart from our train of horses and riders. And now, this vista lay in front of us, green and yellow grassy hills, long valleys, meadows of flowers stretching to higher mountains all the way to Siberia, some still snow-dusted despite the summer sun. Burkhan Khaldun stood further behind higher peaks. And that incredible sky. No wonder the Mongols worshipped it. We all lived once under this blue infinity. As we’d ridden northwards away from Ulan Bator, the city’s pollution had faded away long ago, the gray curse had lifted and my eyes had once again accustomed themselves to what they had evolved to do – see long distances, look for hares, deer, bears, navigate passes and ford streams, climb rocks, and watch falcons circle on thermals above. And over the last few days, we had done all these things.

_mg_6537
The weary horseriders arrive in the ger to refresh themselves.

We had left our last camp around mid-morning, some hours ago. One half of the party broke away to ride into another valley out west, while Keith and I wanted to ride up and to the pass in the range of hills that separated the Gorkhi Terelj from the Khan Khentii. We skirted the granite mounds which punctuated the ends of this valley, forded a marshy grassland below the campsite, fought off the bloodsucking horseflies that made our horses’ lives miserable for a little while, eventually entering a tall forest of larch and birch. The ground began to rise as we entered a narrow rocky trail that started to wind uphill. Jerry, my sturdy, stubborn little Mongolian horse plodded on. This easy gait was infinitely more comfortable than the long trots of our previous days in the saddle. Keith Swenson, a taciturn, the 64 year-old owner of Stone Horse Expeditions along with his wife Sabine Schmidt, showed none of the wear I felt – my skin of my thighs were quite literally raw after 50 kilometers of riding and trotting in the wilderness. After a few days Keith opened up with wisecracks. “People ask what do you do, and I say I’m a rider”, says Keith, punning on his American accent. “They think I mean ‘writer’, “and they ask, what have you written?” “So I say, Blackie, Brownie, Ol Dirty Face…”, naming his horses.

These lands, however remote, are important.

Halfway up the trail was a shaman’s totem, poles placed on the ground to make a conical structure, wrapped with bits of fabric and ribbons. But at the base, and near a tree, we also found broken shards of glass, vodka bottles drunk and thrown by unknown travelers who no longer respected their old ways. We’d been riding for an hour or so and we stopped for a short break in the little opening in the forest. It was quite warm in the strong sun, perhaps 30C like every day of the summer, but cold at nights, often dipping below freezing.

_mg_7103
These Mongolian horses play a huge role in making a trip across the steppe easy and fun for riders. Each horse has a unique personality. Big Dirty Face pictured here loves coffee and will drink it straight from your cup if you let him.

The Mongols invented the modern world*

The old ways are important. These lands, however remote, are important. The Mongols invented the modern world*. When, at the age of 55, Genghis Khan rode out into Asia and Europe, he created the largest empire known to humanity, as well as its first international postal system, and the largest free-flowing network of ideas, trade and culture. But today, Mongolia feels relatively isolated and far away, landlocked in the Eurasian continent. And getting there turned out to be a greater adventure than we’d expected. Instead of flying, we took the famous Trans-Mongolian from Beijing to Ulan Bator. At 11pm, the train pulled into the last station on the China-Mongolia border to change the undercarriage (the railway gauge is different in Mongolia). Three hours later we got back on the train and waited patiently for the Chinese guards to hand us all our passports back. Our intern’s passport was returned ripped from its cover. Before anyone could make a move, the train entered Mongolia… where the Mongolian border guard insisted that the 18-year old girl get off the train because she wasn’t allowed to enter on an invalid passport. Twenty minutes of arguing later, at nearly three am, we got off and watched the train leave without us.

_mg_6297
Mongolian cuisine is typically meat and dairy products. Vegans beware.

Fifteen hours later, after many phone calls and emails to various embassies and important officials, she was finally allowed to enter the country. The Trans-Mongolian having long gone, we finagled an eight-hour taxi ride across the great steppes (on a second-hand car coming off a goods train) for $45. Welcome to Mongolia.

REAL MEN TROT

I did not have much riding experience, but I usually don’t let a little thing like that deter me from a trip. Keith, once also a climber, agreed that anyone up for adventure would be perfectly fine on a Mongolian horse. They were sturdy and forgiving. We all gathered at their staging camp an hour’s drive from Ulan Bator – a Singaporean couple on their second trip with Stone Horse, their friend from Hong Kong, a French diplomat from Swaziland, our team of three, Keith, Sabine and their crew – Nyamaa, Buyana and Jackson, the American intern. Soon, our team of 16 horses and Stinky the Mongolian Dog, a most genuine companion if there ever was one, were off towards the north. Day one went reasonably well, with a short four hour ride to our first campsite inside the Gorkhi Terelj National Park. The other experienced riders asked me various questions about how I felt and whether my horse had cantered or galloped, and I said I didn’t know, but the horse seemed to know what it was doing. Apparently, they have many gaits.

img_1668
Nomads Yadmaa and Tavaasurn inside their summer ger, just outside Gorkhi Terelj.

I learned what that meant the next day.

The morning begins easily and we move along a gentle valley. At a stream, the horses bend to drink. They’re herd animals, comfortable only in their own numbers. Suddenly, there’s a commotion as one of the pack horses spooks and bolts. We’re unprepared, and good old Jerry decides to follow the bolting horse too, suddenly turning 180 degrees and galloping wildly. I have to pull firmly on the reins to stop him, while the teamsters have to get the other fella back. He’s bucking around wildly, his unshod feet stamping, his grass-eating brain telling him that that bee sting he felt on his hind was a wolf’s nip. Stinky ignores the commotion, running ahead happily back in his favorite hunting grounds, chasing ground squirrels to their holes. We continue, entering a forest and then riding uphill to a pass. On the other side, a wide open valley, and our first real gallop. Now I feel the sensation, riding with the animal as one, gently cycling my feet in the stirrups and gripping with my knees, all of it coming naturally to me and I urge Jerry on, on, on. Chhoo, Jerry, Chhoo! We stop at a babbling brook in the valley below where we wash our faces. Are we in paradise?

And then the long trot begins. For a horse, it’s the most comfortable way to move. But it’s bouncy. I try to “post” like all the real riders. Watching me grimace in agony, Keith smiled and said, “real men trot,” as he rode along comfortably with that rolling ankle movement to compensate for the horse’s bumpy ride. “Trotting is how the Mongols moved such vast distances. If you make him gallop, you won’t get very far, you’ll kill the horse”.

a melting pot of humanity and ethnicities

But Mongolia changed the course of human history since long before the great Khan and his riders, the ultimate, self-sufficient soldiers. Apart from the Mongols, it is also the original homeland of the Huns and the Turks. It is a melting pot of humanity and ethnicities, where thousands of years ago two language families met and separated – the Indo-Europeans and the Altaics – and possibly where the wild horse was first tamed, thereby changing the course of history. When men on horses first raced out of Central Asia, first ancient Mesopotamia, then Egypt fell. Europe’s original ‘mother culture’ and India’s Harappan civilization disappeared. Humans, moving incredible distances on horses, spread across Asia, from the western end of Europe to Korea, all the way down to Arabia and India, creating nearly all the cultures we know today. Some of the languages they spoke evolved today into English, and others evolved into Japanese, but some of their words have become so intermingled that it’s hard to distinguish which came from which. Hindi is an Indo-European language, but today the common Hindi word for “home” is “ghar” (from the Sanskrit “grhá”) which is nearly identical to the Altaic Mongolian’s word for home, ger.

When the Hunnu (“Huns”) fought the Chinese Hans, the clans that lost fled towards Europe, creating Hungary, as well as leading to the downfall of the Western Roman Empire. Centuries later, the Turkics originally from the Mongolian steppes came hurtling into Constantinople, wiping out the Eastern Roman Empire.

We ride through rocky hills and rock formations, up and down defiles, over passes and across shallow streams, through meadows of flowers and knee-high grass. We ride all day, and every evening set up our traveling camp like the Mongols of old. We sleep in modern-day lightweight tents, under trees or under the stars, breathing cold clear air, drinking from fresh rain-fed streams, eating atop rocks while falcons circle above and the horses graze.

_mg_6562
The Stone Horse team from left to right – Jackson, Keith, Buyana, Nyamaa and Sabine.

The world has continued to change, but horses and men will forever ride together.

One day we stretched out the ride to reach a farther campsite, a Hunnu gravesite. We set up our tents atop 2000-year old graves, low mounds of stones marking the places where men, women, children and horses were laid to rest. “I believe that these people would have loved us to be here, living like they did,” said Keith. When they hear our horses, they’ll feel alive”. The next morning, I pulled my horse off to a side and to a vantage point to shoot the group riding further down the valley. Jerry stomped and neighed angrily as the herd passed him by, but I held him back. When the group disappeared into the distance, I quickly packed my camera gear back into the saddlebags. Then jumping back on, I let the horse fly as he wished, back to his herd. Jerry, the funny but tough little horse, galloped madly a mile north over the gently rising slope. Our hooves rang out in the valley, as two large round mounds, Hun graves, emerged in front on the mountainside. Neither Jerry nor I needed to veer, and we galloped directly over the centre of the mounds, the sound of our hoofbeats gladdening passed Hunnu souls. Their ancestors, our ancestors, had once tamed wild horses, and together changed the world. The world has continued to change, but horses and men will forever ride together.

Images by Madhuri chowdhury.

­­­­­

loadContinue readingLess Reading

Recent Articles



Surfing the Dream in Taiwan

In a small coastal village of Taiwan, something special is emerging between the jungle and the ocean.

The Aboriginal “Wild”: Tackling Conservation in Tasmania’s Takayna

In the battle for takayna, the Aboriginal name for the forests, is rooted a cry of cultural and social endangerment that calls into question our basic ideas about conservation and wilderness.

Outdoor Moms: Hilaree Nelson – Mother of Two, Mountaineering Hero to All

2018 National Geographic Adventurer of the Year, ski descent of the Lhotse Couloir, ski descent of Papsura, first woman to summit two 8,000m peaks in 24 hours… mother of two.

Privacy Preference Center

Necessary

Advertising

Analytics

Other