Mike Novacek and Mark A. Norell : First Camp:

We rose before 6:oo AM from our camp among the yaks and the sheep heads, and continued on the pock marked paved road toward the industrial town of Aarvaheer. Our Mongolian comrades stopped in town to pick up some fresh mutton and other food items. We had the eerie experience of filling up at the local gas station, complete with diesel fuel as well as 76 and 93 octane gasoline. A couple of year ago, it was nearly impossible to get enough gasoline to fill our tanker (in Mongolian, aptly called a "Benzina Machina"), let alone enjoy the conveniences of any gas depot outside the capital city of Ulaan Baatar.

We were glad for the opportunity but a little wistful about the way that Mongolia, like the rest of the world was modernizing at the edges of its frontiers.

But the days drive beyond Aarvaheer proved to be full of its own surprises. The pavement ended a few miles southwest of town and we hit the multi-lane dirt track road toward our next goal the southern mountain town of Bayanhongor. After many twists and turns through a field choked with volcanic outcrops, we stopped for snacks. A thick front of dark clouds and rain licked at our heels, and we headed through a difficult mountain pass. Unfortunately, one of our big Russian military trucks busted a clutch . We thought, "That's it, a long drive and a tow back to Arrvaheer and a lot of laborious repacking before we might struggle on. The original plan was that we would stay the night. Diverting ourselves, some kicked a soccer ball, some searched for wood for our dinner, some inspected the 10th century Kirghiz graves surrounding the adjacent karst. Dashzeveg explained that these graves are uncommon in Mongolia, especially ones that are marked by large slabs of uplifted stones. But little Temur (Mongolian nickname Tolga, meaning rabbit) was undaunted. In forty five minutes he had torn the clutch apart, replaced an innocuous looking rubber seal, put it back together and fitted it into the disemboweled underside of the truck. We were on our way!

Next problem: our nine car caravan had a direct bearing toward a massive black cloud that sparked with horizontal lightening. A gray cauliflower cloud forming looked for all the world like a tornado funnel. "Are there tornadoes in Mongolia?" We ask Dash. "No, he says, well maybe until now." We drive furiously to beat the storm but it hits us with the force of a fusillade. Up a steep hill we see a curious thing: a large sheet of white with tendrils rushing downhill toward us. Now the sun catches the light on this apparition and it proves to be a raging flash flood coming in on us with a wall of brown water foam, and the white of hail on its surface. We pull to the right-bank of the flood -- it's like watching a cascade in the Rocky Mountains. We came around the rise and saw what looked like a Himalayan dream º-mountains covered with a deep coating of hail.

One of the oddest, and most beautiful sights we have ever seen, was not to be enjoyed except in retrospect. The storm was moving out as fast as it came upon us. If the sun hits that frozen hail there will be a meltdown that will wash nine vehicles and their paleontologists down the mountain. We stopped in what was left of the road to discuss emergency procedures, but as we conversed we could feel the cars slipping as the flash flood removed a few cubic yards of rocky substrate. For a critical moment all that mattered was to get everyone safely down the mountain pass amidst raging chaos. The oncoming puddles looked like parts of Antarctica. Will we drive through it? NO! We need to walk through it, in sandals to examine depth and bottom quality. Vehicles are more fragile than people, yet here our success and existence exist on this. We can not risk sinking one of our vehicles to catastrophe in a torrent of slushy mud. So we wade in tenuously, like walking into a huge brown maragarita. Feet are cold --nearly purple-- but the hail and waterfalls make this look more like the Karakorams than the foothills of the Trans Altai. We moved on; we could see vehicles tipping dangerously down gullies, and between pools of hail choked water that looked like arctic lakes. This is not summer in Mongolia. Is this El Niño? As the chaos cleared we could see the caravan assembled like a regiment on flat dry ground. Dashzeveg gave us a serious stare and said, "Since coming to Gobi, I have never seen this." The voice of 30 years experience.

The sun warmed the terrain; the cars warmed our bodies. We drove down a canyon to a welcome hillside where we dined on mushroom tortellini with a chicken, tomato and oregano sauce, and slept under a miraculous star-studded sky. Awakening to a cloudless sky the next morning, we are looking forward to pushing on.

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