Just Seven KM

Our family is semi-nomadic. My grandparents and older brother depend entirely on livestock. My mother works in town. We go to school. But every summer, we return—three months with the animals.

In spring, we bring young calves and care for them. We're there for the hard work: combing goats, birthing livestock, building, migrating, water tasks.

This life is fading. When my sister can no longer herd, what becomes of our animals, our home? I feel this time approaching.

My father's back aches. My grandmother grows cold in autumn winds. My brother visits the hospital now, two or three times each year.

My grandfather's children became teachers, technologists, politicians, opera singers, engineers. We studied in universities thanks to the livestock. We earned our degrees. And now we all live in Ulaanbaatar.

Before this way disappears, we want to share it—the beauty, the hardship, the deep connection to land and animals that sustained us.

I went to my grandparents' place with my father during spring break. There, I witnessed the love between mother and child.

Herders sometimes keep cows close to calving in the corral instead of taking them to pasture, caring for them closely. My grandmother is very good at helping deliver calves. I watched as the mother cow licked her newborn calf dry, never leaving its side until it was completely dry. Whenever another cow tried to approach, or people came near, she would fiercely protect her baby, making threatening sounds as if to say "stay away." I could only watch from a distance.

The way the mother cow licked and cared for her calf reminded me of how human mothers hold their newborns on their chest right after birth, feeling and expressing love.

My calf was a very mischievous one. Because he drank too much milk, he had diarrhea for several days. I cared for him, gave him a name, and made him a collar for his neck. One time when I was bringing the calf back, he suddenly disappeared. I searched everywhere thinking "where did he go now?" and found him outside the ger, chewing on my freshly washed clothes with foam coming from his mouth!

My calf was the most energetic among five calves. I called him "the leader." While the other calves walked calmly, he would lift his tail high, run back and forth, drag the others around, and completely exhaust me. I became very frustrated with him and threatened, "If you do this again, I'm going to ride you!" He didn't understand and kept wearing me out even more. I jokingly said to him, "Are you as fast as your owner?" and got off.

Thanks to Grandfather, Uncle Baaska, and Uncle Buren, we children didn't have to go with the sheep very often. But sometimes we did go to help with work like herding the sheep. During those times, I would ride my grandfather's gentle horse.

My job was to drive them from one side, herd them forward, then start from the other end to make sure no sheep were left behind as we brought them home. Some small lambs and lazy, heat-weary sheep would stay behind resting in the shade of the bushes, so it was my responsibility to watch carefully for them. I kept a good eye out as I herded.

Then as I was driving them forward, I saw a sick lamb left behind in the shade of a bush, so I turned my horse back around, herded it from behind, and reunited it with the flock.

Boodog is our favorite summer food. When my father prepares boodog, we first gather stones. Father took me along one evening to prepare stones by the riverbank.

When we reached the river, Father told me: "Find the smoothest stones without sharp edges, about the size of a handful." I asked him about the color. Father said we cannot use red-brown stones. I found a light blue stone and asked, "Will this work?" My father said, "Yes, my daughter, that's good," and put it in the bag he'd brought.

I asked Father why they needed to be handful-sized. "My daughter, people hold hot stones to relieve their fatigue. So we consider what's comfortable for a person to hold." We continued searching and collecting.

I showed him a slightly rough stone and asked if it would work. "No, I absolutely need smooth stones. This stone will crack and ruin our boodog," he said. In my mind, I thought this stone would work, but I followed my father's words.

After we'd filled the bag we brought, Father lifted it and said, "This should be enough." Inside, I wondered how my father had calculated it all, and we headed home together.

Before autumn school started, Chimka, Chantska, Miigaa, and I—friends who played together all summer—planned to go berry picking.

Uncle Baaska, who herded sheep in summer, would return each time telling us about the mountain berries: "The berries were green, then turned purple-yellow, now they're turning red. In just a few days they'll be perfectly sweet and delicious!" He stirred our hearts with these stories. "Oh, on the far side of that mountain, they're easy to pick and taste wonderful!" I thought to myself, "We must go pick those berries."

The day before, we prepared drinks in bottles and got ready. We finished our morning chores early and set out. We figured it would take about an hour to walk there. For us who hadn't walked such distances recently, walking in the summer heat was quite challenging.

At first, we wore our hats and walked laughing together. After walking for a while, we reached a sandy area, sat down to rest, took off our shoes, and cooled our feet by burying them in the sand. Some of us talked about how "we never find trees like these at home, but here they're everywhere," chatting among ourselves as we reached the foot of the mountain.

The berries seemed farther than we'd imagined. Now we needed to climb upward—this part was the hardest for me. After walking over an hour in the hot sun, climbing upward! When we went around the mountain slope and looked left, we could clearly see our grandfather's summer camp and the winter shelter behind it.

Soon the path became a bit difficult with trees. Well, we could just go around the trees—but that would add too much distance to our journey, so we decided to take a shortcut. The main problem was the spider webs between the trees, which we were afraid of and wanted to avoid. But then Miigaa said, "What's there to be scared of?" and used the clothes in her hand to sweep away the spider webs like a broom, clearing the path for us. We followed behind her.

Now we were getting close to our destination. Though Miigaa had led the way at first, soon we all encountered spider webs, going forward and backward, racing each other until we reached our destination. Yes! We made it and ate as many fresh red currant berries as we could.

After we were satisfied, we filled the glass jars and drink bottles we'd brought from home. When we looked toward home, it appeared so far away. On the way back, tired and out of drinks, we joked with each other, and before we knew it, we'd arrived home and drank cold water.

Sister Narangerel laughed: "Oh my, look at these brave children, going out in the hot sun to pick berries!" and gave us some of the berries to eat. This is how we went on one of the most memorable and challenging berry-picking adventures of our lives.

It was time to milk the calves, but it was raining outside. Mother said we couldn't postpone it, so she put on her raincoat. I had the job of bringing out the calves, so I put on a thick jacket with a hood and went outside.

Outside, the sky was overcast. The calves were mooing. The yard was full of puddles, and water had pooled on the cow dung that lay scattered about. I tried not to step on that dung as I entered the calf pen. It was full of mud—oh, how unpleasant! When I grabbed the calf by the neck rope, it was wet, and covered with flies.

Mother told me to bring the white-brown calf first. "Alright," I said, trying to lead it out. But then the calf next to it charged at Mother and kicked mud all over my pants, making me furious. "Wait!" I said as I pulled the white-brown calf through the hungry calves and brought it close to its mother.

The white-brown calf was calm, so there was no need to tie its legs. If I tied the legs, the thought crossed my mind that the rope would just get wet and muddy again. So I just pulled the calf over and tied it in a nearby corner.

Usually I would sit on the fence and wait while Mother milked. But today because it was wet, I watched Mother milking. Rainwater was coming in from the side of the cow's udder, running down the skin and making her hands muddy. Mother wiped her hands on her traditional deel.

"My daughter, bring the next calf," Mother said. "Where is that very lively red calf that kicks?" I went to find it. Since it was at the very back, I went into the calf pen. But it wouldn't come out. "Why won't you come out and eat?" I said, pulling it by the tail. Its tail was wet—oh, what a muddy animal! I grabbed it by the neck rope, but it was strong and I couldn't manage it.

I wrestled with that stubborn calf, wrestling and wrestling until I was almost completely soaked. I finally got the calf out, but instead of going to Mother, it ran off in another direction. I chased after it angrily, and in my rush, I stepped right into a pile of cow dung. "Ugh, you bad thing!" I looked up and saw the calf had reached Mother and its udder. I carefully pulled my foot out and went to clean it in the grass.

After all this struggle, we milked five cows, and Mother went back inside. I had to stay and wait until the calves finished nursing their mothers and then put them back in their pen.

What made me feel most pitiful after the rain was this thought: the calves had just nursed their mothers and were satisfied, ready to rest—but how would they sleep in their pen full of wet mud? This thought always made me sad.

One rainy summer day, the three of us—Chantska, her younger sister Pöödii, and I—went to herd sheep. Sister Tuya had gone into the village center, and since the sheep had gone up the mountain, we three went to bring them down before the rain got worse.

We had just entered the valley when the rain started soaking all three of us. It grew fiercer, and we found a place to hide. We took shelter under a rock face, waiting for the rain to ease. All our clothes were soaked, and I had never seen such violent rain with my own eyes before.

The sky roared and lightning flashed. Along the riverbank in the valley, large trees were flowing as though carried by the river itself, tumbling down the valley with the floodwater.

The rain was so powerful. The three of us waited, wondering if rain could really be this strong.

Then suddenly, Chantska realized she had lost her phone. Her first phone—such a beautiful phone—and now it was gone. The three of us searched and searched along the path we'd taken. We searched for quite a while.

Walking around in such a terrible rainstorm, searching for a dropped phone—how could we possibly find it? But Chantska was afraid to tell her mother she'd lost the beautiful first phone she'd been given, so she kept searching. We didn't find it.

Three animals soaked by rain, arriving home late—my grandmother was surprised. When we came in, she had prepared hot tea and food for us, saying "Drink hot tea, eat food!" We were cold, but the main thing was that Chantska, who had lost the phone her mother gave her, just sat there quietly.

When Sister Tuya came back from the village center, Chantska broke down crying. Her mother hugged her and comforted her, saying "It's okay, it's okay"—making such a big deal of it.

Poor thing. That phone was finally found more than ten years later when Uncle Buren was herding sheep in the mountains.

During that rainstorm, I saw for the first time how powerfully rain can wash away and carry even trees. And I also witnessed Chantska's fear of her mother—and her mother's love—from a different angle.

What is the hardest thing? I have experienced extreme cold many times.

I hear my mother's voice saying "Good morning, get up." When I think of my father now, I love my mother even more for waking early while he slept, just to warm the ger for us.

Every morning, Mother prepared a cup of warm water with honey ready for me. That morning, Mother had gone to work. Father of course didn't wake—the ger was cold and chilly. I woke to Father's call and began my morning preparations.

Getting up from your warm blankets in -30 degrees is the hardest thing. I barely got up, put on my felt inner pants made from sheep's wool—warm, no matter what. Then I put on my deel and my cold boots. "Oh, how cold it is," I thought as I reached the door—the inner door had frozen shut. I pushed it open without touching it with my hands, then opened the lock of the outer vestibule door with the cold key. When I got outside, the cold air rushed at me from above.

I ran to the outhouse. I had to pull the outhouse door open by hand and went in. I peed. Steam rose from my urine. "Well, no choice," I thought, and ran back to the ger. When I tried to wash my hands, the water in the basin had frozen solid. I broke through it with a clean cloth dipper and washed my hands and face with the cold water, then put on my school clothes.

Thinking about it now, being that cold is quite easy. Remembering the cold and feeling cold again—that was the hardest part.

Father was going to Grandfather's to deliver hay. He said he wouldn't take me, but I put on thick clothes and decided to go along.

The sound of the car driving over snow is so beautiful to hear. We both got out of the car. Sister Tuya said she would go into the snow. I decided to go with her. The two of us walked forward toward the front slope of the winter shelter. She said we would scoop snow from a place where the livestock's hooves hadn't reached. On our way, we talked about many things.

Sister Tuya has such a soft, gentle voice—when you talk with her, she's a good listener who supports you. That's what we think. After walking for some time, we arrived at our destination. Indeed, the livestock's hooves hadn't reached there. The two of us knelt on the hard snow. We cleaned off the bad upper layer with a shovel, then took the pure clean snow from the middle and put it in our bags. My bag was half full. She filled hers more. We carried them and headed back home.

When we arrived, the ger was warm—Father, Grandmother, and Grandfather were sitting, talking, eating and drinking. "I'll make you beautiful tea with the snow you brought," Sister said, and sent me inside from the cold. She put our snow into a washed pot and as it melted, she prepared the tea. Then when it started to boil, she added frozen milk from a bowl. It smelled truly wonderful.

When I was very young, I had never tried lighting a real fire. I thought it was difficult—work for adults. My brother is 5 years older than me, my sister 3 years older. They were both away at university. Now the responsibility of not letting my 9-year-old younger sibling freeze fell to me. My poor little one looked up at my face expectantly. The time had come for me to light the fire. I would light the fire! Oh my god, could I really do this?

First, I gathered the ashes. I brought the iron bucket in from outside and carefully swept the ashes into it with the poker, transferring them gently to the bucket. Ashes are just like flour—if you're not gentle, they scatter everywhere and turn all your clothes and everything else ash-gray. I myself had ash-gray sleeves and ash on my face and hands—I had become ash myself.

So this ash-girl finished collecting the ashes, carried the heavy bucket outside, and put a lid on top. Mother had taught me that without a lid, it would fill with wind and scatter. Alright, now to light the fire.

I brought in a bag of argal from outside and placed 10 pieces at the bottom. Then from the pile of argal wood, I took some pieces, arranged them in a square shape, and placed them on top. Above that, I positioned small dry twigs to catch fire quickly, getting everything ready.

We usually kept matches in the cupboard, so I went and got them. The fire starter was almost gone and we barely had newspaper left, so I lit my lighter and used sugar packaging paper to light it, then placed it in the fire. My fire lit! I kept trying to predict when it would warm up, but it just wouldn't get warm. "Father's fires warm the ger so quickly," I thought to myself as I went to hug my younger sibling.

I brought out more argal, swept away all that dust, cleaned it up, and brought my chair near the fire, warming my hands. I sat down like Mother. Our stove has several holes, and I found it pleasant to watch the fire burning through them.

Every summer morning, the first task I did after waking was fetching water from the river. It was the most important job—to do it early, before the livestock's hooves entered the river and muddied it.

My grandparents chose their summer camp based on the year's plant growth conditions. "This year we'll camp on the road side" meant the river was far from home. So for morning water, we pulled a cart. We fetched water for both Grandmother's household and ours.

We loaded two 40-liter containers, one 25-liter canister, and two 10-liter containers on each side. Chantska and I would go together. We'd set little cups and bowls on top, and to prevent worms and dirt from getting in, we brought clean gauze as well.

As I write this, I find myself wishing I could go back—just one more time—to that cold morning river, dipping my feet in the water to fetch it. These writings, whether published or not, give me such a feeling of going deep inside.

Well, because mornings were cold, we'd put on thick clothes and go out. We'd place our containers on the cart and walk on either side, holding it, moving forward together. My younger cousin Chantska was taller and stronger than me, though she was younger.

We approached the river. There were mosquitoes. We both went close to the clear, shallow section we always used and took off our shoes. Since that shallow spot was right in the middle of the river, we had to take off our shoes, roll up our pants, grab our scoops, and wade in.

First I wet my head a little, then stepped into the river water—just as cold as before. This time the river water was clean, so there was no need to use the gauze we'd brought. I scooped with my ladle and began filling our 10-liter containers. My scoop held only one ladleful, so I had to scoop many, many times before it filled to the brim.

We first filled the containers on the cart we'd left on the riverbank, then the 25-liter canister, and finally the few remaining containers we'd brought. We finished.

Sister Tuya said she was going to wash lambskins that day, so we left the 25-liter canister of water at the river's edge. Father came to pull the cart with the water. After Father pulled the cart away, Chantska and I each carried one 10-liter container and walked toward our homes.

Usually when we fetched water, we had a favorite resting spot right in the middle of the river where we'd stop and rest. But this time I was impatient, so I said "Let's rest here!" and we rested on the road before reaching the river.

The morning sun was rising as we returned. How peaceful and content I felt, I remember. We talked as we walked, arriving outside our homes. Mother was waiting, of course, to make morning tea with the water we'd brought.