Just Seven KM

One summer evening, Chantska and I wanted to ride horses along the dirt road, so we each chose one. I chose my grandfather's calm horse because I felt safe on him.

The sun was going down, and the whole countryside had turned soft and golden. Dust lifted gently behind the horses' steps, and the air felt cooler after the long day.

When the road opened wide, we started racing. Chantska rode ahead on her horse, shouting, "Hurray!" into the evening air, and I followed behind, laughing.

I still remember the feeling of the wind on my face, the sound of the horses' hooves on the dirt road, and the dust rising around us.

When I was in the United States, I often missed that feeling - the wind, the open land, and the sense of being free.

When I think of summer evenings in the countryside, this is one of the first memories that comes back to me.

I went to the countryside with my father during spring break to help. That was where I really saw the love between a mother cow and her calf.

When a cow is close to giving birth, we keep her near the corral instead of taking her out to pasture so we can watch her closely. My grandmother is very good at helping calves be born. I remember watching the mother cow lick her newborn calf again and again, never leaving its side until it was completely dry. Whenever another cow tried to come close, or even when people came near, she would make warning sounds and protect her baby as if she was saying, stay away. I could only watch from a distance.

The way the mother cow cared for her calf reminded me of how human mothers hold their newborn babies close to their chest right after birth. It felt like the same kind of love.

One of the calves became the one I looked after. He was a very mischievous calf. Because he drank too much milk, he had diarrhea for several days. I took care of him, gave him a name, and even made a collar for his neck.

One time, while I was bringing the calves back, he suddenly disappeared. I looked everywhere, wondering where he had gone this time, and finally found him outside the ger chewing on my freshly washed socks with foam around his mouth. I still remember how surprised and annoyed I was.

He was the most energetic among the five calves, so I called him the little leader. While the others walked calmly, he would lift his tail high, run back and forth, and pull the others around, making me chase after him until I was exhausted. I used to get frustrated and joke with him, saying, "If you do this again, I'm going to ride you." Of course, he didn't care and just kept running even more.

dad is taking care of mother cow

Boodog is our favorite summer food.

One summer day, I followed my father to the riverbank to gather stones for boodog.

When we got there, he told me to look for smooth stones without sharp edges. They needed to be about the size of a handful. I asked him about the color, and he told me not to choose the red-brown ones.

I found a light blue stone and asked, "Will this work?" My father smiled and said, "Yes, my daughter, that's good," and put it into the bag he had brought.

As we kept walking, I asked him why the stones had to be that size. He told me that before the stones cool down, people hold the warm stones in their hands to help with their fatigue, so they should feel comfortable to hold.

We kept walking along the riverbank and picking up stones. At one point, I showed him a slightly rough one. He said, "No, I need only smooth stones. This one will crack and ruin our boodog."

I thought it might still work, but I followed my father's words and kept looking.

When the bag was not even full yet, my father lifted it and said, "This should be enough."

I still remember walking home beside him and wondering how he always knew exactly how many stones we needed.

Almost 25 years later, I was in Home Depot in the USA with my kids, and seeing the smooth stones made me remember that summer day with my father by the riverbank.

my son draw this when he misses grandpa in USA

My grandfather used to say he had five granddaughters, like the five fingers on one hand.

The oldest, my sister Ichko, was older than the rest of us, and Miigaa, Chimka, Chantska, and I were close in age and spent the whole summer playing together.

Before summer break finished, we made a plan to go berry picking.

Uncle Baaska, who herded sheep in summer, kept telling us about the mountain berries, uhnii sheeg (Ribes diacantha). Every time he came back, he would say, "First they were green, then purple-yellow, and now they are turning red. In just a few days, they will be perfectly sweet and delicious."

Hearing those stories made us even more excited. I kept thinking, we have to go pick those berries.

The day before, we prepared drinks in bottles and got everything ready. The next morning, we finished our chores early and set out. We thought it would take about an hour to get there, but for us, who had not walked that far in a while, walking in the summer heat felt much harder than we expected.

At first, we walked together laughing with our hats on. After a while, we reached a sandy area and sat down to rest. We took off our shoes and buried our feet in the sand to cool them down.

When we reached the foot of the mountain, the berries still seemed farther than we had imagined. Now we had to climb upward, and this was the hardest part for me. After walking for more than an hour in the hot sun, climbing up the mountain felt endless.

Soon the path became difficult because of the trees. Going around them would make the walk much longer, so we decided to take a shortcut. The problem was the spider webs stretched between the trees. We were all afraid of them and wanted to avoid them.

Then Miigaa said, "What's there to be scared of?" She swept the spider webs away with the clothes in her hand like a broom, and after that we all used the same trick to clear our path.

As we got closer, we all started moving faster, going forward and backward, almost racing each other through the trees until we finally reached the berries.

Yes, we made it.

We ate as many fresh uhnii sheeg as we could. After we were full, we filled the glass jars and drink bottles we had brought from home.

When we looked back toward home, it seemed so far away. On the way back, we were tired and had finished all our drinks, but we kept joking with each other, and before we knew it, we had arrived home and were drinking cold tea.

I still remember Miigaa and Chimka's mother, Narangerel, laughing and saying, "Look at these brave children, going out in the hot sun to pick berries!"

We were tired, but we had fun together.

Even now, I remember it as one of the most memorable and challenging adventures of our childhood.

we went that mountain

It was time to milk the cows, but it was raining outside. It had been raining since morning.

Mother said we could not wait, so she put on her saalnii deel (milking deel). My job was to help her bring the calves out and hold them near their mothers while she milked. I put on a thick jacket with a hood and went outside.

The calves were mooing. The yard was full of puddles, and water was everywhere. Cow dung was scattered on the ground, and I tried not to step on it. But when I went into the calf pen, it was already full of mud and water. It felt unpleasant.

Mother told me to bring the white-and-brown calf first.

"Alright," I said.

I tried to lead him out, but he did not want to come. I held his wet rope and opened the pen. Just then, another playful calf ran past me and splashed mud on my pants. I felt annoyed.

That mother cow was calm, so I did not need to tie her legs. Mother said, "Pull him out." I pulled him close and stood beside his mother.

Usually, while Mother milked, I liked to sit on the fence and watch the orange sunset in the cool air. Those moments always felt quiet and peaceful. Helping my mother was one of my favorite things.

After a few minutes, she said, "My daughter, let this calf go and bring the next one. Where is that lively red calf that kicks?"

I went to look for him. He was standing at the far end of the pen and did not want to come out.

"Why won't you come out and eat?" I said, pushing him, but he would not move. Then I tried pulling his tail, but he was strong. He was the biggest and laziest calf.

I struggled with him for a while and got almost completely soaked.

At last, I got him out, but instead of going to Mother, he ran the other way. I chased after him, and in my hurry, I stepped right into a pile of cow dung.

"Ugh, you naughty kicking master calf," I said.

When I looked up, he had already reached Mother and started drinking milk. I carefully pulled my foot out and wiped it on the grass.

After that, we milked five cows. Mother went back inside, but I stayed outside and waited for the calves to finish.

When the first calf finished, I put him back in the pen. Then the kicking master finished, and I put him back too. One by one, I returned all the calves. Even though the pen was wet and muddy, I still had to put them back. It would help us the next morning, so they would not run to the pasture with their mothers.

After the rain, I kept thinking about the calves. They had eaten and were ready to rest, but their pen was full of wet mud.

That made me feel sad.

But I knew that the next day we would build a new pen in a different place, as we always did. The calves would have a new home tomorrow.

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.

we lost Chantska's phone in this mountion and cows are coming to dad's car thinking they will feed

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 young, I had never tried to light a real fire by myself. I always thought it was something difficult, something only adults could do.

It was late autumn, and the cold had already begun to settle in. In Mongolia, winter comes early compared to the USA. Even in September, we could already feel the cold.

My brother and sister were away at university, living in a dormitory. My parents had gone to Ulaanbaatar to bring them meat and check on them, so it was just my younger brother and me at home.

Mornings in a cold house were always the hardest. Usually, Mother would wake up early and warm the house, and I would stay under my warm blanket and wait. Getting up into the cold was something I really disliked.

That day, I told my younger brother to stay in bed and keep warm under the blanket.

Then I got up.

The moment I left the blanket, I could feel the cold everywhere: in the air, on the floor, even in my shoes. From the very beginning, it felt like an unpleasant job.

But I knew I had to do it.

I started by cleaning out the ashes. I brought the iron bucket from outside and slowly gathered the ashes with the poker. Ashes are like flour. If you move too quickly, they spread everywhere. My sleeves, my hands, even my face became gray. I felt as if I had turned into ash myself.

After finishing, I carried the heavy bucket outside and covered it with a lid so the wind would not blow the ashes away. That was something Mother had taught me.

Then I began preparing the fire. I brought in argal and placed several pieces at the bottom, then arranged more on top in a square shape. Above that, I added small dry twigs so the fire would catch more easily.

We usually kept matches in the cupboard, so I went to get them. There was almost no fire starter left, and only a little paper. I used a piece of sugar packaging to light it and carefully placed it inside.

The fire started.

I kept watching, waiting for the warmth to come, but it did not feel warm right away. I remember thinking how quickly Father’s fire would warm the house.

Slowly, the heat began to spread.

My younger brother came and sat close to me.

At that moment, I felt something different, not just the warmth of the fire, but also a quiet feeling that I had done something I had never done before.

We sat there together, warming our hands, and for the first time, I felt that I could take care of us.

House that I raised in center of soum

One summer morning, I went to fetch water from the river with Chantska. We always had to go early, before the livestock entered the water and made it muddy.

That year, the river was far from our home, so we used a cart. We loaded the containers and set out in the cold morning air, dressed in thick clothes. The ground was still quiet, and everything felt slow and peaceful. Chantska walked beside me, holding the cart. Even though she was younger than me, she was stronger.

When we reached the river, mosquitoes were everywhere. We covered our heads with scarves to protect ourselves, but they were especially active in the morning, buzzing around our faces and hands. Sometimes they even bit our hands and eyelids while we were fetching water, and it was impossible not to notice them.

We went to the shallow place we always used, took off our shoes, rolled up our pants, and stepped into the water. It was very cold, and that first step always shocked my feet, but after a moment I got used to it.

I used a small scoop to fill the containers. The water was clear and still, but it took many scoops to fill even one container. We worked slowly, listening to the sound of the water and the small movements around us.

That day, we left one container by the river because Sister Tuya was going to wash lambskins there, and Father came later to take the cart. Chantska and I each carried a smaller container and started walking back home.

Usually, we would stop and rest halfway at our favorite spot by the river, but that day I felt impatient, so we rested earlier along the road instead.

As we walked home, the sun was rising, and its light slowly spread across the land, making everything feel warmer. It was quiet and peaceful, and I still remember that feeling: cold hands, wet feet, and the morning sun coming up.

Mother was already waiting to make morning tea with the water we had brought.

Our Tarniin river that we drink play and enjoy.

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.