Mike Novacek, Mark A. Norell

We have what we call our ten worst days in the field. These bring back vivid memories. In July 1984, we all came down with dysentery while trying to cross the broiling Vizcaino desert in Baja California. In January 1986 (supposedly the Austral summer) we evacuated a high camp in the Andes on horseback during a snowstorm. That was a bad day. In January 1987, we evacuated a high camp in the Andes on horseback in a rainstorm and nearly drowned with our mounts in the swollen, raging Rio Baker. That was a bad day. That was a very bad day.

July 12, 1998, Gobi Desert Mongolia. That was a bad day. Let us share the statistics with you. In a period of seventeen hours we traveled meager 24 kilometers (14.4 miles). Why so leisurely? Well we gave up on finding our favorite fossil bearing red beds in the western part of the Gobi and decided to go back East to our favorite spots including the incredible Ukhaa Tolgod. Only trouble was no road, sand the consistency of powdered sugar, a heavy, recalcitrant Gas Tanker, and blazing heat. The Mercedes thwarted the tortuous terrain with ease, but the gas tanker, and heavy supply truck, expectedly, got mired in the sand with outrageous frequency. July 12 set a record for such problems -- 21 tows. We can remember a singular moment of misery in a sandy wash, digging with shovels in sand so hot it singed the toes in our Tevas. Just lying under a tanker laden with 6000 liters of gasoline was a respite. It was shade and lying out on unprotected ground would require an asbestos suit. The thermometer in the car read 45�C (113° F). There was dark talk. We knew we could not go back but here was no clear way forward. Out of desperation we changed course and headed up the edge of a long, impenetrable wash. More tows got us to an inhospitable place over 40 miles from our days' goal.

Camp was set, fire started, dinner cooked in a trance that only comes with exhaustion. The dinner was decent. Murphy made a good couscous, and the chunky canned beef was enlivened with Indian vegetables. But the food was a little gritty from the sand that blew into the wok. It was hard not to long for New York's fare and those chilly November evenings when people retreat to steak au poivre and a good wine list. The wind blew heartily all night, and the moon was a sickly yellow through the hot dust clouds. Nevertheless most of us faded to sleep quickly -- the sort of sleep that as much Halcyon, Valium or cognac, can only pretend to induce. The sleep of exhaustion. But we were camped in a familiar place, the gates to Kheerman Tsav. We have been here before; we know what it is like to get in, lightly supplied, let alone to get out with the entire expedition.

July 13 started just as bad, but got better. The Morning at Kheerman Tsav usually blazes. The first sliver of sunlight is akin to a toaster oven. Our experiences here have been miserable, and we know why the Mongolian and Russian discoverers of this locality worked in late September, rather than shortly after the solstice. This morning we were lucky; it was overcast drizzly and cool. There was no sunrise, only a red blur on the horizon.

We managed to crawl out of a sand pit that is Kheerman Tsav with several tows, then extract a gas tanker by wrapping an anaconda-sized cable around its axles. Again our Mongolian driver Temur was a genius in solving these transportation problems. Such situations always bring out the best in people and show that paleontology is different than much of science. Today we called on the collective efforts and know how of our entire group-- be they scientists, mechanics, or technicians. The problem solving skills of our Mongolian drivers and the camaraderie and supportiveness of our entire group toward a simple goal keep our spirits alive. Hyperbole aside, this morning we did not know if we would make it. No, we are not talking about life or death but the expedition itself. Small things in life can be very sweet. When we observed the heavy trucks cresting the hill, we broke out in cheers, only to be disappointed again, a kilometer down the road.

By 6:30 PM, we at last reached our destination, Naran Bulak -- paradise for paleontologists in the Nemegt basin and caravan travelers much earlier than that. We felt like Napoleon's army retreating from Moscow at our low point. Our Gaz 66 has no clutch; we also crashed it on a precarious slope trying to rescue our supply truck. But the familiar hills surrounding Naran Buklak urged us on. It is home to a spring that spews ice water over a field of green, at least 2,000 feet higher and twenty degrees cooler than the hell from which we had just ascended. Dashzeveg said, "Hard journey, but now you know Trans Altai Gobi better than any Mongolian." Great, we thought, once is enough.

It's raining here to night and in many years we would call this an uncomfortable evening. We are well fed; we have accomplished much in our crossing of the most impenetrable parts of Oimnigov, and we are very tired. It is time to join our colleagues around a damp campfire before crawling under trucks, into tents, or under tarps until sunrise tomorrow.

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