Across Mongolian Plains A Naturalist's Account of China's 'Great Northwest'

eth Century suddenly and violently interjected into the Middle Ages, should be contrast and paradox enough for even the most blasé sportsman. I am a naturalist who has wandered into many of the far

the very names "Mongolia" and "Gobi Desert" brought such a vivid picture of the days of Kublai Khan and ancient Cathay that my clo

famous Nankou Pass and I saw that wonder of the world, the Great Wall, winding like a gray serpent over ridge after ridge of the mountains, was my dream-picture of mysterious Mongolia di

nan, along the Tibetan frontier, and through the fever-stricken jungles of Burma. Somehow, these companions of forest and mountain trails, and my reception at Kalgan by two khaki-clad

he dinner table, the talk was all of shooting, horses, and the vast, lone spaces of the Gobi Desert-but not much of motor cars

ains to Urga, the historic capital of Mongolia. But most unromantic and incongruous, most disheartening to a dreamer of Oriental dreams, was what I learned a few days la

e was brought safely through the rocky pass at Kalgan and across the seven hundred miles of plain to Urga by way of

been left on the plateau at a mission station called Hei-ma-hou to avoid the rough going in the pass, and we were to ride there on horseback while the food and bed-rolls went by cart. There were five of us in

t hard against the Great Wall of China-the first line of defense, the outermost rampart in the colossal structure which

masses which seemed all heads and curving necks, and some kneeling quietly on the sand. From around a shoulder of rock came other camels, hundreds of them, treading slowly and sedately, nose to tail, toward the gate in the Great Wall. They had come from the far c

their bases nestle mud-roofed cottages and Chinese inns, but farther up the river the low hills are all of loess-brown, wind-blown dust, packed hard, which can be cut like cheese. Deserted though th

e pony's heels until we reached a broad, flat terrace halfway up the pass. Then I swung about that I might have, all at once, the view which lay

ves of wind and frost and rain, and lay in a chaotic mass of gaping wounds-ca?ons, ravines, and gullies, p

tions quite so thoroughly. Behind and below us lay that stupendous relief map of ravines and gorges; in front was a limitless stretch of u

toward Hei-ma-hou between waving fields of wheat, buckwheat, mille

for half an hour. I was enjoying a gorgeous sunset which splashed the western sky with gold and red, and lazily watching the black silhouettes of a camel caravan swinging along the summit of a

ized what it meant, I was in the midst of a mass of plunging, snorting animals, shouting carters, and kicking mules. In a mom

n the borders of Mongolia. Imagine a camel or an elephant with all its Oriental trappings suddenly appearing on Fifth Avenue! You would think at onc

bly on the cushions of the rear seat. There I had nothing to do but collect the remains of my shattered dream-castles as we bounced over the ruts and stones. It

alized then that, for better or for worse, the sanctity of the desert was gone forever. Camels will still plod their silent way across the age-old plains, but the mystery is lost. The secrets which were yielded up to but a chosen few a

dy for use, however, for Coltman had promised a kind of shooting such as I had never seen before. The stories he told of wild rides in the car after stri

e deep ruts cut by mule- and oxcarts. These carts are the despair of any one who hopes some time to see good roads in China.

s for the women. Chinese farmers stopped to gaze at us as we bounded over the ruts-in fact it was all Chinese, although we were really in Mongolia.

the rolling, grassy sea of the vast plateau was too strong a temptation for the Chinese farmer. Encouraged by his own government, which knows the value of just such peaceful penetrat

er comfortable. The back of a pony is his real home, and he will do wonderfully well any work which keeps him in the saddle. As Mr. F. A. Larsen in Urga once said, "A Mongol would make a splendid cook

y Chapman Andrews

Borup Andrews, Photogr

d the Tabool hills. There Mr. Larsen, the best known foreigner in all Mongolia, has a home, and as we swun

e distance we often caught a glint of silver from the surface of a pond or lake. Flocks of goats and fat-tailed sheep drifted up the valley, and now and th

e motor had stopped a dozen dogs dashed from the houses snarling and barking like a pack of wolves. They are huge brutes, these Mongol dogs, and

is called, is perfectly adapted to the Mongols and their life. In the winter a stove is placed in the center, and the house is dry and warm. In the summer the felt covering is sometimes replaced by canvas which can be

rtunate combination of the worst characteristics of both races. Even where there is no real mixture, their contact with the Chinese has been demora

there was but little water and not a sign of human life. It resembled nothing so much as the prairies of Nebras

lover from their dust baths in the road, and crested lapwings flashed across the prairie like sudden storms of autumn leaves. Huge, golden eagles and en

a splinter gone. The method of protection is simple and entirely Oriental. When the line was first erected, the Mongolian government stated in an edict that any man who touched a pole with knife or a

of us scattered over the plain to hunt material for a fire. Argul (dried dung) forms the only desert fuel and, although it does not blaze like wood, it will "boil a pot" almost a

the desert night was in my blood, and I blessed the fate which had carried me away from the roar and rush of New York with its hurrying crowds. But I felt a pang of envy when, far away in the distance, there came the mellow notes of a camel-bell. Dong, dong, dong it sounded, clear and sweet as cathedral chimes. With surging blood I listened until I caught the measured tread of