We are in the hands of both a madman and a saint. An artist tainted by ten years of cabin fever is our host. He takes the vodka bottle to his lips and words pour out.

He talks of his loneliness out here in Tsaganuur, surrounded by villains and throwbacks of Stalin’s 1930s persecution on Mongolians. His drunken recital is so convoluted that I am stunned into silence.

The man’s gait is strong and wild gestures with his fists do little to promote sanctuary in his presence. On the contrary, I feel that we are in the grip of a madman. A fledgling saint crushed by the might of the Darkhad Depression. An apt name for this god forsaken bowl, an outpost akin to those of the Midwest USA in their gold rush. Where men kill for minerals. It is a hard place for sure.

My mind is restless. Talk of a good-natured guide arriving today has yielded no truth. Given that snow is hanging heavy in the sky, this is the time to move. If the guide does not show early tomorrow I’ll go mad too. Forward is the direction even if going back is necessary first. Our options are growing more limited as snow approaches. No guide will be willing to lead an expedition in these conditions and when his animals are fat from summer grazing. Snow on the ground would make the road hard to travel – a road which is already rugged and mountainous. Prices will rise, as Darkhad people are no mugs.

Awake in the Siberian Wind

Last night our host poured out his heart in a tirade of drunken heartache. It is now dawn and we can still feel his dissettled vibrations travelling through from the family quarters in the other half of the cabin. His wailings carried on all night and the man is not in a good state now.

He arrived here in Tsagannur ten years ago and worked as a painter producing some wonderful watercolours. Yet they all remain boxed up in the attic, like the thoughts that have so long been enclosed in his mind.

Up here in remote north-west Khovsgol, people close up their cabins for winter. There is a piercing quietness in the air, broken only by the shrill howling of the Siberian wind.

In his pained discourse he tells us that ‘only when a blade of grass carried on the wind comes to light on his cheek does he feel alive’. Otherwise this town in but a stage – A place where life is played out by drunkards and the lonesome.

It is from here that our trek into the wild begins. By night we will pass a talking rock high in the western forest. Here we will not pause, but gallop by quickly as there are spirits who strike fear into all who pass.

I step outside the cabin. The lake is bathed in a mysterious yellow light which pierces the grey clouds above the snowy mountains. Vapor rises from the water and a warm yellow illuminates the mist.

I swing open the saloon door to the family quarters and step inside. The painter’s eyes are lakes of tears. His wife and daughters are quiet. A man can be broken so easily. The night of drinking took its toll on him, deranging his good intentions into heart wrenching chasms of aching loneliness and fear.

Gripping his wifely close to him, he kisses her above the ear, then with clench fist raised towards the townfolk outside he screams an illegible torrent of words, challenging any drunkard in this ghost town to take his wife from him.