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When it came to living in the outdoors, I had experienced much less than what I actually knew. Book smarts can take a fella only so far, so I was trusting God to transfer my head knowledge of Mongolia to the center of my survival instincts. Eventually, I wanted to live naturally in this land, with my labors focused on sharing the Word of God. When I was growing up in New York, I'd spent many nights in the city's one-thousand-plus city parks, like Pelham Bay Park and Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx. Though the parks have their wild sides, they're still set in urban surroundings. In Mongolia, winter temperatures range from five to twenty below—average. In New York City, the Atlantic Ocean tends to moderate weather extremes, and there's always an all-night laundry or donut shop to escape to under the most dire of circumstances. In Mongolia, outside of the few and far-between towns, there's simply . . . wasteland. Yet, I had a strange peace as I hiked down the mountain range into the cedar forest. With a determined smile on my face, I conversed with my Lord on this beautiful day, though perhaps my last, and saw no obstacle too great for my God.
As I stepped into the forest belt along the mountain range, I paused in the choking darkness and listened to the sounds around me. Here, I was familiar with the sounds of wind blowing through the branches and the constant chatter of squirrels. Pine, spruce, and white birch were before me, all but dwarfed by cedar trees with bases nine feet in diameter. Nine feet! This was virgin timber, never touched by man, though surely managed by God's system, including wildfire from time to time. There was an eeriness to it all, though, and I sensed I was being watched even then. I'd read that in the dense dampness under the boughs there were moose, giant brown bears, wolves, lynx, sable, and even reindeer. Many other species of animals were indigenous to the steppes where the rangeland endlessly spanned on the other side of the forest.
Creeping between the massive trunks, I felt truly small among the monsters of wood that reached from frozen ground to crisp sky. Patches of glacier and shale were nonexistent in the forest, but the air was still chilled. My breath vaporized in front of my face, though every step brought me to lower elevations where it would be more comfortable on this beautiful summer day.
Suddenly, I stopped and peered into the shadows on my left. Something large had moved twenty yards away, beyond a giant shrub that looked like solid fungus. There were endangered plants in this land of indefinite cold, but I wasn't interested in rare vegetation. I continued, my feet and heart both pacing a little faster.
Five steps later, I heard a whisper of movement behind me and to my right, then again to my left. Though I wanted to turn around and run back up the mountain to the wide open elevation where I could see what lurked around me, I had to travel through the tiaga forest sooner or later. It may as well be now. Stopping or running would've been a mistake, because I had a suspicion of what was out there. In prison, there were riots and frightening moments when my life had been in peril. At those times, I had simply put my back to the wall and begun to pray. There was no wall in the forest, but I could still pray.
"'Make me know Your ways, O Lord,'" I shouted in English at the trees. "'Teach me Your paths. Lead me in Your truth and teach me, for You are the God of my salvation! For You I wait all the day!"'
For an hour, I repeated those two verses from Psalm 25 as I marched through the forest. When I heard a scamper of feet nearby, I raised my voice to cover the sounds of stalking predators. Once, I paused long enough to pick up a gnarled branch that I could use as a walking stick—or a club if need be. I kept the stick in my right hand and pushed my bike along with my left, gripping it by the steering bar juncture.
A gray wolf with a slender muzzle and eyes like marbles crossed in front of me. It stopped to study me, then slipped away.
"'. . . for You are the God of my salvation!"' I repeated as another circled bravely into sight. There was nothing else I could do as they closed in around me.
My fear lessened as I realized I would have no chance of fighting off the wolves if they attacked. These creatures would have sensed my fear, anyway. Even if I used the 12-guage flare pistol, I had only three shots. I counted close to ten wolves. But as I prayed and yelled, my senses came to me as my adrenalin lessened. Hungry wolves would've attacked already, I reasoned. The land was plentiful with prey for the predators. They didn't need to eat me. They were curious. I hoped. Only curious. So, with nothing else to do but trust the Lord, I sang praises to the Creator of the highest cedar, for the same God who managed the timber also harnessed the carnivorous wildlife.
The forest began to thin, and I hastened without running to see what lay ahead. Emerging from the trees, I stopped in awe. I'd seen this from the mountain ridge, but now, I was here! At the base of the Gobi Altay Mountains, the desolate land sprawled before me like a sea frozen in its waves of grass and scattered bushes. The hills rolled high with a gentle grade, then sloped down into greener bowls where the ground was closer to the water table. I felt the ground tremble and a flock of vultures at the edge of the forest took flight. Two wolves not a stone's throw away howled mournfully as the earthquake lasted nearly a minute. Smiling, I raised my hands to the sky, tears of happiness in my eyes for being so transplanted from prison into the middle of God's creation. Behind me, and to the north and south, the Altay range was seismically active. Though I'd seen no steam yet, I had read there were also hot springs along the fault line.
A wolf padded out of the forest nearby. Lowering his head, he laid down on the coarse grass to watch me. He was a timber wolf, gray and black, with a sleek frame and jaws stained from recent kills. I imitated a canine whine at him and he barked back. Though I hadn't seen them, I knew the country had thousands of stray dogs that mingled with the wildlife, often breeding and intermixing even with the wolves.
"Don't mind me," I said to him. He tilted his head. "I'll be out of your territory in the morning."
The night was closing quickly, the moon already looming. On the open steppe, the bitter wind barreled down from the north with nothing to hinder its path. I made camp against the trees where the forest could give me some shelter from the weather and I could find fuel for a fire. Using dry twigs and fallen branches from the forest floor, I built a grand fire then sat down with my back against a grand cedar to enjoy the flame's warmth. As the stars came out, I could see the light reflecting in the eyes of the wolves as they drifted past my fire, their bodies not quite visible. And by the light of my blaze, with a can of clam chowder warming next to the coals, I wrote this first journal entry:
"Gino, my first day here has been touched by both death and life. Without the patience of your teaching and challenging, I fear I would've faltered. By God's grace, I'm held upright through these struggles, and I thank Him with my every breath that He and you and others didn't give up on me so long ago."
I stopped writing for a moment. To the south, I listened to the wolves fight over a recent kill, snapping at each other for a piece of the carcass. For a moment, I recalled a night in my youth that I'd spent with an angry dog after I'd run away from my foster parents. God had been watching over me then, and He was watching over me now.
"The wilderness around me, the savagery, is unlike the States, but it's strangely familiar as well. As wild beasts tear at each other selfishly for a morsel of food nearby, I'm reminded that such violence wouldn't even exist if it weren't for mankind bringing it into the world through sin. Man sought selfishly for a morsel of food, the apple. How simply and naively we destroy ourselves when there could've been infinite peace and harmony in God's love.
"I trust you are well and safe, you and your family, and your congregation. I have prayed for your spiritual growth and well-being every day as I know you pray for mine. The journey across the Atlantic and through the Mediterranean was magnificent! My Russian hosts were both accommodating and demanding, as was the work . . ."
Writing into the night, I paused often to gaze up at the stars which I could see twenty times clearer without the smog and lights of civilization. Mongolia! And with this remarkable land came a remarkable people with whom I prayed I could share the Gospel.
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In the morning, the beginning of my second day in Mongolia, I saw no trace of the wolves except their numerous tracks around my camp. I had slept restfully, waking only twice to stoke the fire beside me. The vultures had claimed the carcass from the night before. They circled and squawked over what bones and flesh the wolves had left behind. For breakfast, I sloshed water around in my clam chowder can from the previous night, heated it to a boil, and drank it down. Since I hadn't expected to be stranded in the barren land, my food had to be carefully rationed. There were nine cans of food remaining. It was enough, I calculated, to last me four days. But my water would run out before that, even though I had filled my metal canteen with snow run-off the night before. Mongolia had its share of rivers in the central region, but they were scarce in the west and south. Water itself wasn't scarce; one only had to dig for it. If I could locate a region frequented by nomads, I would also find wells which were fashioned with nineteenth-century hand pumps if not a bucket and lever system.
Anxious to be on my way, I packed my belongings, stomped out the coals, and climbed onto my bike. I slid my walking stick into place next to the shovel handle and started southeast. Until I found a trail or pathway, I had to ride and steer through the bumpy range land, which took some skill with my shoulders and wrists absorbing the pounding from the front wheel. Though it was a rolling landscape, it was mostly downhill as I descended from the mountains.
After an hour, I stopped. My buttocks were already bruised and sore from the jarring, rough ride. I had expected to have my trailer to burden my gear, but now, the weight rested on my back and subsequently, my rear end took a beating on the thinly padded seat. For a few miles, I walked and pushed my bike alongside, then paused once again at the top of the last significant hill. Behind me, the forest was a stand of green midway up the mountains. Though the trees provided some comforts of fire fuel and shelter, it was a sign of man that I needed most.
I climbed onto my bike and coasted down the great hill. At the bottom was a dirt trail and I examined it for sign. Horse hoof prints were heading somewhat toward my intended direction, but I was no expert in tracking; the prints may have been weeks old. Horse sign didn't necessarily mean people were nearby, though. The aduu, Mongolia's domesticated horse, made famous by the conquest of Genghis Khan, ruled the steppes here. Though domesticated, when they weren't ridden, they were loosed by their owners to forage. Oftentimes, they returned to the wild, needing to be broken again before riding. The animals wandered where they wanted, from watering hole to grazing land.
Peddling down this dusty, vague trail, I hoped to find a more developed trail, especially since it meant smoother riding for my troubled bones. All that day I traveled, walking up the steeper inclines, using my binoculars to scope ahead when reaching small rises. I watched for herdsmen, caravans, or even a road traversing the range, but there was nothing in sight.
Near sundown, my simple trail came upon a very small bog where mud had puddled to provide wild animals an inch of water. I'd received all my shots before leaving the States, but I had no interest in tempting some parasite against my healthy insides.
Weary to the core, I moved a distance away from the bog and made camp. I broke my stick over my knee until I could break it no more, and used it for firewood. It was a small fire, only large enough to warm my hands as I heated a can of stew. One can had been my lunch, which left seven in my stock. My coals glowed red for a while, and I read the Word, prayed, and wrote in my journal until my eyes would stay open no longer.
The next two days were the same, as I moved deeper into Mongolia's vastness. Twice, I came upon larger water sources, but I didn't pollute my canteen with the liquid—no matter how much it looked like healthy water. My canteen was still a quarter full, and though I had water purifying tablets, I wouldn't feel completely safe until I could boil the questionable, animal-trampled water. With no more fuel for fire, there would be no boiling.
But the next day, my water was gone before noon. All morning, I placed this concern before God, and near one o'clock, I found crystal clear water trickling out of a hillside into a wooden trough fashioned by human hands. I filled my canteen, dropped two water tablets inside to quench my paranoia, then quenched my thirst.
For an hour I remained at the trough, bathing and eating a can of food. Every few minutes, I felt the devil put fear in my head. Fear that my food would soon be gone and I would starve to death. And water. What if this was the last water hole for a week? Then what? But I had to shake my head and pray for God's help. He knew.
"I'm on the Lord's business," I'd say aloud. Then I'd look at the sky—which I have a habit of doing when I pray, though I know God is with us and not only above—and I'd say, "You know my provisions, Lord. I know You'll take care of all my needs."
Though I was still a baby missionary, I was quickly learning that the mission field is touch-and-go sometimes. Provisions and safety are so uncertain, one can only turn to God for the things that are otherwise out of man's control. I remembered the Israelites in the wilderness, Elijah, John the Baptist, and many others who weren't always certain how or what they would eat that day. But they depended on God, and He was worthy of such dependence. In a way, I was forced to trust Him.