Ikh-Uul to camp 40km west of Bulgan city

Today we decided to head off the main track so we dont have to ride the same road twice. We got away fairly early, waving to our Mongolian friends, one of which was throwing up on the ground to send us off (perhaps a gesture of good luck??) and made for the floating bridge upstream of where we were camping. It looked like an old military instant bridge that can be constructed quickly and had a small camp of gers next to the river. The bridgemaster (as i like to refer to him) was an interesting fellow. A man of little words, an iron stare and a bleeding lip, like he had drunk too much and got into a fight the night before. He eyed us intensely and looked us up and down for a long while. Finally he declares he wants 500 tugruks each to pass. Alan doesn't like his look and slams the 1000 tugrik note on the bikes front rack in defiance so that he doesn't have to hand it to him...i nearly chuckle. We pass and ascend the steepest pass we have been over so far. With all the weight on the back of our bikes i feel like the front wheel is going to lift over my head so you have to lean forward up the steep hill to keep it all balanced. I had to use first gear on this hill....which is surprising because first gear is walking pace on these little 100's. The pass would be impossible in the wet. We passed through the town of Rashant, dusty and western style like the others. A guy comes up and says hello in Mongolian (Sain-bainuu) and i am pleased because i know how to say the equivalent of 'fine, how are you back'. The conversation stops quickly however and we revert to mumble point. After some confusion as to which direction to go (this happens regularly taking back tracks) we find ourselves riding south on an immensely broad valley and looking for a track heading east up another smaller valley to a pass. We take what looks like to be a minor track and head east and thankfully find the pass we are looking for. There is always more than 1 option of track in this country and part of the knack of navigating is learning that as long as you are heading in the right direction you will probably arrive where you want to be, abeit from a different way. It looks like we are riding into a big storm and the wind goes cool and you can smell wet soil and grass on the breeze. I see a beaver looking creature emerge from a hole and regard my most colour co-ordinated riding gear then dissappear underground unimpressed by my fading cordura. We pass a small monastary that looks stuck in the middle of nowhere and we stop to regard where it is framed and the timelessness of the landscape. We eventually hit a section of road that we rode on the way to Khovsgol which is quite bad, dusty and rough. We make camp in a place we have camped before in a dense forrest of conifers with a dense blanket of patchwork grasses and flowers, and an insect population that likes to play tagteam attacking your flesh while you try to make dinner with an insect net stuck over your head.