Tim & Tigon, page 17
It occurred to me that without my animals I would have lost my sanity long ago. Only from the solitude of the steppe, reconnected with them, did I feel ready for new horizons.
After almost three months in Crimea, I would soon reach the Ukrainian mainland. My final summer on the steppe was coming to a close. In fact, Hungary lay less than 1000 kilometres away, and with the worst of the winters and thirsty deserts now far behind us, this last leg promised to be a piece of cake. For the first time since leaving Mongolia I began thinking about reaching the end. If all went smoothly, I would cross the Carpathian Mountains and reach the Danube by early spring.
What I could not have foreseen was that in Ukraine my journey would be waylaid by the biggest challenge of all. In fact, another summer would pass before I could set my eyes on the finish.
But at that moment, as far as I knew, I was gathering momentum to reach the finish line. Gazing up at the stars, I rolled under the sweaty smell of the horse blankets and surrendered to sleep.
At 3:30 am the alarm clock sprung rudely to life and we were off within an hour, moving through the predawn darkness, the familiar dull ache throbbing up from my feet in the stirrups to my hips and bum.
When the black of the sky dissolved, it seemed the sun was rising just for us. Golden light spilled over the open steppe and Tigon was off, a black speck bounding through the yellow grass. I loved the way his tail and ears remained sky high. When I dismounted to pee, the three horses did the same, and when Tigon homed back in he joined us. I gazed across proudly at our team peeing in synchronicity – a sublime moment that only we could appreciate.
The soft rays of sunlight were deceptive. By seven am hot gusts thrashed at the grass and my eyes narrowed to slits. By lunchtime I had retired to the patchy shade of a lonely tree.
It took another day of riding through dry, hot conditions before we reached the narrow isthmus that connects the peninsula of Crimea to the mainland. The territory beyond was a land blessed with an abundance of fertile soil, rivers, and forests. I’d surely never have to worry about finding grass, grain or water ever again.
As we reached the mainland I felt the first whisper of autumn. A cool breeze from the west rustled through the grass, turning my sweat cold. The horses stopped to gaze in its direction, and Tigon lifted his nose. The sun had done its summer’s work and was moving on to new pastures. In its place thick, cottony clouds were filling the sky.
My own transition into autumn was not so smooth. On my first day on the mainland a horse and cart spooked the horses into a wild bolt, and I was forced to run 10 kilometres to catch them. Ogonyok cut his leg badly on a broken glass bottle, and was very nearly hit by traffic while crossing a bridge. And that evening Taskonir managed to run off with a full 50-kilo grain bag in his teeth, open the buckles and spread its entire contents on the ground – it wasn’t for nothing that I had resorted to sleeping with my grain bags in recent times.
In the city of Mykolaiv my horses were confiscated by customs and veterinary officials, who said my permits were inadequate. After another round of vaccinations, being issued with Ukrainian animal passports, and buying a bottle of vodka for the head of veterinary control, the horses were released. It would be a month, however, before I got back in the saddle. Unexpectedly, I had been selected as the Australian Geographic Adventurer of the Year, and as part of the award they were flying me to Sydney for the ceremony. The opportunity to see my family after two and a half years was too much to pass up, despite the delays it would cause.
Leaving the horses at an equestrian centre I spent some days with Anya in Kiev, then, still dressed in my tattered riding boots and single change of shirt and trousers, found myself in front of a packed audience at the Maritime Museum in Sydney, Australia. A week passed in a whirlwind of media interviews, visits to sponsors, and two days at home, culminating with a luxurious dinner with Mum, Dad and my great-uncle John Kearney. Over oysters and champagne we celebrated the award as if it were ours together. Afterwards Dad gave a short speech about what I had done, and in his swelling pride and approval I realised that, just as I had hoped, he had begun to see me as a man.
After staying together in a hotel on Sydney’s Darling Harbour, I hugged Mum and Dad and watched their taxi drive off. It was the last time I would ever see my father.
By the time I had returned to Ukraine the air was crisp, the autumn leaves were alight with yellows and reds, and the horses had begun to grow their woolly winter coats. For the third year in a row I donned my winter clothing and prepared to set off.
Anya had come to see me off, and when the day came to leave, she walked alongside my caravan to a small forest on the outskirts, where we kissed goodbye. We knew we might never see each other again, and by the time we parted, both our faces were wet with salty tears.
I aimed to traverse southwest Ukraine before crossing the Carpathian Mountains and descending into Hungary. For the first few days I charged across cultivated flats. The horses bristled with energy, and I sat high in the saddle, feeling Taskonir’s powerful chest absorb the shudders of pounding hooves. Tigon likewise galloped about, revelling in that unique autumn sun. Once, Tigon overstepped the mark with his exuberance and decided to take on a giant wild boar. I could clearly see Tigon stretched out in full flight as he chased it into the forest. No sooner had I screamed out ‘Tigooooon!!!!!’ than from that very same forest, who should appear but Tigon – this time moving even faster, his eyes as big as saucers. On his heels was a whole family of angry pigs.
Gathering momentum, we departed from all signs of main roads, and the flats grew into raised plains. Apart from the odd buckled car and horse and cart, thin trails of smoke rising from villages in the valleys were the only signs of life.
The late autumn chill had lifted the energy of the horses, and each day we seemed to be gaining speed and strength. The local people, however, faced with the onset of the cold, were retreating to the comfort of their homes. It struck me as no surprise that this was precisely the time of year that nomad armies traditionally chose to launch attacks. In Ukraine and Russia, Mongols wiped entire towns off the map in the colder months, when unsuspecting villagers had retired for relative hibernation and the Mongol horses were at their peak.
The downside of this early period of winter for me, I realised, was that there were fewer people to greet me, and those who did seemed more wary, and less inclined to accommodate me. When I enquired whether anyone was willing to put me up for the night, the typical response was, ‘Sorry, I can’t help you because I do not have space to shelter three horses.’
As the days wore on, the horses tired, and I began to feel vulnerable. On one evening in particular things took a sinister turn. I was in a remote field, where I had pulled up next to a broken-down truck. Suddenly, a hulking man emerged from under the hood. I noticed his powerful hands first, with their grease-stained, calloused fingers, each as thick as a sausage. Then came his face, wide and round as a dinner plate.
He shook my hand absentmindedly as his cheeks, brows, and mouth began to bunch up in a way that didn’t feel friendly. I started asking him for directions, but he cut me off.
‘Give me at least one of your horses!’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘These horses are going with me to Hungary!’
His eyes grew hard. ‘Sure!’ he grunted. ‘I know that you have stolen these horses, and so I will take them from you!’
There was a stand-off until he moved towards Ogonyok, behind me. Before he could reach the horse, I pulled on Ogonyok’s lead rope, kicked my boots into Taskonir’s side, and pulled away. I didn’t turn around until the man and his broken-down truck had been swallowed up by the land.
When I descended to the village of Vasylivka the following evening the shadow of danger was still on my heels. I had run out of grain and food, and the horses were exhausted. Some villagers offered the horses a drink on the outskirts, but no one was willing to put me up. I was told to go into the hills to the abandoned settlement of Mala Dvoryanka. ‘There is one man who still lives up there, and he can point you in the direction of water and grass,’ an old man told me.
After another hour’s ride we were drawn to the lonely glow of a house. The sound of the door swinging open filled me with relief, but then two snarling dogs leapt out. Tigon launched into attack, a blinding torch flicked on, and above the raucous barking and snarling came swearing. I could just make out the silhouette of a man and then, right in my face, came the pointy end of a rifle.
‘Calm down, please! I came for advice on where to graze my horses and somewhere to camp!’ I said angrily.
‘Turn around, thief! Get out of here! I will shoot your dog just like that!’ he screamed in a mix of Russian and Ukrainian.
I replied in Russian, ‘Okay! Okay! I’m leaving!’
After calling Tigon back I rode away and felt my way up a gully until we were safely hidden. My fear and anger subsided only after I had set up camp and the last of my pasta had settled into my stomach.
The morning sun revealed a promising sight for hungry horses: thick, unruly pasture. Plus, there was indeed a well nearby. Despite the risk of meeting the old man again I decided to stay put for a rest day.
While the horses grazed I had just enough battery power to start my computer, connect the satellite phone and post an update to my blog. Before I could manage it, however, an email arrived in my inbox. It was from my father, addressed to me and my siblings, and was in a tone I had rarely heard from him. He expressed his feelings about his early retirement that he had recently taken. As you know, he said, I took a step into the unknown last year . . . I struggle each day to try and determine what I should be attempting to reach forward for . . . and it is a major readjustment not having as a goal the care and maintenance of our children.
For most of his career Dad had worked in outdoor education at university. As children we got to go out with university students on skiing, bushwalking and sea-kayaking trips. But in the past ten or fifteen years the job had taken Dad into more office work – hence his decision to retire early.
Dad’s letter went on: you are all in the prime of your life with many years of energetic activity to go, but once partnered and with children it would be fun to be near you. The email finished, I wish you well and look forward to sharing your ambitions, joys and sorrows and the sound of your voices in our house.
Love, Andrew
The battery died and my screen went blank. My mind began to twist through images of my childhood, as well as a kaleidoscope of familiar smells, sounds and feelings.
I wanted to tell Dad how brave I thought he was for making the decision to resign. I was lifted from my thoughts by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Tigon woke with a growl, and I unzipped the tent to meet the gaze of a startled cow herder.
‘Do you have any cigarettes?’ the man asked.
I was the first foreigner that Kolya had ever spoken to, and soon I had packed up and was following him home.
As I pulled in, Kolya invited my horses into a barn. My horses, however, pulled back in fright and refused to enter.
‘Your poor horses!’ Kolya exclaimed. ‘They have been out in the elements for so long they have forgotten what a stable is!’
I gave him a wry look. ‘The problem is that my horses have almost never been in a stable!’
Kolya shook his head and grinned, then took a longer look at my horses.
It was difficult to explain to him that his stables would have appeared more prison than refuge to my horses. Many times on my journey, people had pitied me for living out in the elements, but after so long on this journey, I found it hard to imagine living in a town or village, let alone a four-walled dwelling.
That night I proudly tied the horses up outside and Kolya gave them generous piles of hay. In the morning, however, I found myself relishing the feel of my warm clean skin and the fresh sheets. The smell of fried pork, buckwheat and eggs wafted into my room, while outside, the first snow of the season had blanketed the earth. Perhaps there was something to this ‘house’ thing after all!
With some reluctance I saddled up and rode out over the frozen waves of mud in the streets of Vasylivka. Beyond the village I carried on through high open plains broken by the occasional gully. Bitten by frost, the land had lost its autumn gleam, and by evening it was so cold I was forced to get off and walk to bring life back to my toes.
As had become the pattern, trouble was forever lurking. In the town of Obzhyle I was met by drunken men driving a horse and cart. ‘Where the hell! From where the hell?’ they hollered when they saw me. There was something rough and aggressive about them, and so I rode out of town fast, aiming to camp in the hills nearby. But as dark fell a car pulled up and a man in police uniform stepped out demanding documents. I told him angrily that I didn’t have time, for it was getting late, but a second man emerged and took Taskonir by the reins. ‘Hand over your passport. Now!’
By the time they concluded I was legal, it was too dark to get out of town and find camp. I told them that since they had held me up, they were responsible for finding me a place to stay. It was a mistake.
I was sent home with a drunk man, who after half a bottle of vodka outlined his plan to steal my horses. I broke out of his hut in the middle of the night and slept on the frozen earth among the horses, who were tied up outside.
I enjoyed two days’ respite in the town of Kodyma, but when I rode out the winter ahead was looking ominous. The Carpathian Mountains now seemed cruelly distant, and I wasn’t sure how I could sustain my pace through the winter. I tried calling Dad via satellite, but time after time, the call went to voicemail. There was only one solution: it was time to grit it out and get this journey done.
Two days out from Kodyma I rode towards the sun as it set. I passed a herd of cattle returning for the night, and noticed a horse and cart clopping along a track in the distance. Ahead of us, the land planed off into a gully, and I reasoned that if I hurried, I could make it there to camp before dark.
Before speeding up, I reached into my backpack and pulled out the satellite phone. For some time now it had been beeping – I had accidentally left it on. As I went to switch it off, I noticed a new message. It was from my brother Jon: Tim! Call home please!
I leapt from the saddle and knelt in the grass. Clutching the handset, I dialled home. When our family friend Peter Nicholson answered, it was obvious something was wrong. As the handset was carried to Mum, I could hear other familiar voices.
Mum was in the bathroom when she picked up. ‘Tim?’ Her voice crackled down the line, shaking. There was a long pause. I held my breath.
‘It’s Dad,’ she started, her voice strong, but in an instant it wavered and she began to cry. ‘He was in a car accident . . . I’m so sorry, Tim . . . he is dead . . . I can’t bring him back.’
It’s not hard to remember the moments after I hung up that evening, on 16 November 2006, but they are hard to describe.
Sitting there at the feet of my horses, the journey that I’d been on for two and a half years evaporated as if it had never been. I couldn’t breathe, and my back muscles heaved. I nearly vomited two or three times, and cried.
But also there was a numbness, and a sense of normality. I was still in the Ukraine, and I needed to camp, find grass and unsaddle. I split into two distinct parts from that moment – the practical me, and the grieving passenger.
Among the thoughts competing for space was the certainty that I had to be alone, away from anyone who had not known my father. Somehow I knew that if I was quick about making camp, out on the steppe under the stars I had a fleeting chance of connecting with Dad before he was gone.
I worked fast to set up the tent in a gully. Tigon whined for his food, and the horses tried to bolt. For a fleeting moment it felt as though the two parts of me joined to get the job done. But then the horses were tied, the food was cooked and eaten, and I crumpled onto my canvas bag. I gazed up at the sky, and suddenly it was so big and so lonely. Where could he be? Did he know how to find me?
I wanted to know when Dad had died. I took into account what Mum had told me, and weighed up the time differences: he had been alive when I woke up, but had died by lunch. My lungs seized at the thought.
How many times had I called? I could imagine his phone lighting up, my name coming through. Maybe when I made that last call he had still been alive.
I was tired, yet resisted the urge to sleep. To sleep would have been to abandon him. And yet the practical me guided me until I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
When I awoke again, there was ice on the tent, and outside a sea of mist was gushing in, devouring us. It must have been about four am. I picked up the phone again. This time I got Jon. We just cried. Then I talked to my sister, Natalie. The first thing she asked was, ‘Did you reply to his email?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ I replied.
‘I didn’t, either.’
There was only one thing to do: go back. Back to the spot where I had eaten lunch after he died, back to where I’d camped the previous day, when he was still alive. Back home, where I could return to the life I’d had as his son.
I packed faster than I had ever managed.
We trotted through the village under the cover of heavy mist, and before the sun could rise over a world without Dad we were lost in the folds of the land. I pushed the horses harder, into a canter. Mist began to swirl, then above me a circle of clear sky turned peach. I craned my neck and twisted around, but urged the horses on.
Dad, I’m coming!
I was catching up with him. But then Ogonyok pulled at the lead rope, I slowed, and the mist began to rise.
