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The chief ranger, Gana, greeted us in a worn purple hoody. He wasn’t the picture of earnestness that we all know from our NPS rangers in smoky-the-bear hats, but if I was stranded somewhere in his park, he seemed like the kind of guy I’d want on the search.
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Ranger Gana led from his horse. Behnid him on a string walked the camel with our kayaks. A light rain began as we scrambled along the rim of the gorge, scouting. At a chunky 20-foot falls, a simple up-and-over portage route was apparent, and I signaled Gana onward before turning to Pat and Susan, “Is that sleet I’m seeing?” Twenty minutes later there was little doubt about the precipitation. It was full-on snowing.
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I pulled on my drysuit over wet socks and soaked long underwear, sucking on my fingers to keep them operable. The glacial water was difficult to read, and we skipped over rocks hiding in the dirty grey silt.
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The Tsagaan Gol Gorge is an angry place; cold, grey, fast, sharp, loose. The unrelenting snowstorm only added to the drama. I was loving every second.
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We shared a relieved high-five at the mouth of the canyon. The run-out was dreamy, the afterglow of adrenaline coaxing us into crashing wave trains. Children of the ger camps alerted their families, and lines of people came spilling out to watch from above.
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I woke in the middle of the night to find a crystalline twinkling sky and a fresh cover of snow, July in the Mongolian Altai.

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