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This blog brought to you by Funhog Press and MRA.

Leaving the tourist enclave of Tavan Bogd, we were the morning sideshow. Pat, Susan, and I paddled away on the swift Tsagaan Gol, the Milk River.
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Back in the van, we rattled down the Tsagaan Gol Valley. Out of the high country and into the desert, Ahktilek turned down a dirt track that climbed back into green steppes, topping a windy pass where the snowy Altai revealed itself in distant grandeur.
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It was 8 pm by the time we found a semi-sheltered camp near the outlet of Hurgen Lake. From here, it would be 130 kilometers down the Hovd River back to the town of Olgy.
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The lake gathered itself into a deep blue river, big and choppy. At 5 miles, a tributary entered. Neither watercourse looked like a normal river. There was no evidence of high water; no beaches, no driftwood. They flowed over wide beds of boulders right up to grassy banks, like spring fed creeks. But these creeks combined to make a swift river of 5,000 cfs. We rode the restless current into a stiff wind, stopping for lunch at a ger with racks of cheese drying in the breeze.
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Out of the mountains, the river braided into a bizarre maze of channels. It was like a sluggish floodplain, but it wasn’t sluggish. Steady current raced through a patchwork of willow jungle, and we followed the biggest arteries, hoping they would all re-unite. They did, at an open bay where a westerly wind swept us past sand dunes into an inexplicable gap through a stark desert range.
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Clouds swallowed morning’s blue sky, and we sped out of the desert range into a blustery grey valley.
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Camp came atop a rocky promontory surrounded on all sides by the river, and millions of mosquitos, but up there on our breezy outcrop they were scarce. A winter residence, or hasha, provided a windbreak.
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Jagaa’s welcome smile greeted us at the bridge in Olgy. Laying in the hotel bed that night, I realized it was the first time I’d been awake after dark for weeks. Moslem prayer songs echoed through the streets, doing battle with brutal karaoke coming from the hotel bar downstairs. In 7 hours, I’d be meeting a ride to the airport, and the start of the long journey home.

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