"Mama raised me to be honest, she taught me well. Living high up in a castle, she said, "Climb that hill."

Jerusalem, Israel: 2009

I stared in awe up at the Dome of the Rock. The massive mosque, with its golden cap and intricate mosaic walls was a feast for the eyes. It was one of the most beautiful structures I'd ever seen. I ran my eyes over the Arabic verses along the facade and down its electric blue columns again and again. Standing there on the Temple Mount my senses were alive, the air smelled crisp and clean, the sun glistened off the mosque's golden dome, Arabic chanting echoed in my ears as the faithful had begun being called to prayer. My revelry was shattered as I caught the sight of three armed soldiers marching in my direction, pointing at the exit to the Temple Mount and shouting in very stern Arabic. I quickly slinked towards the exit, stealing one last glance of the mosque over my shoulder as I left. The forbidden aura adding further to its wonder. The picture was clear, it was prayer time, I was a non-Muslim. I would be no where near religious practices, no matter how interesting or how beautiful I thought they were.

Khutul, Mongolia

I squinted through my own foggy breath as I stared out towards the rising sun. Outside of my host family's Khutul apartment it was the first day of Tsagaan Sar(White Month), Mongolian Lunar New Year. A time for renewal, rebirth, and connecting with those closest to you. I strained my eyes further, in the distance I could make out the tiny figures of people walking up a far off mountain. Scores headed uphill, making a pilgrimage to the top to pay respects at an ovoo, a religious totem of rocks and colored silk that crown the tops of many peaks and summits. The sun illuminated the white ice and snow. Watching the dozens of black silhouettes march upwards towards the sky was mesmerizing.

"Justin brother."

Jagaa, my host brother, nudged me on the arm. "Please, read again." Apologizing, I looked down at the piece of paper my host mother had sent me outside with. A special prayer she had written down just for me and my birth year, the year of the rabbit. I began repeating the few lines yet again. The Tibetan chant was unfamiliar on my tongue, which had only grown accustomed to Mongolian. Jagaa quickly helped me sound out each word. "Follow me", he said taking my wrist as we started the chant again. To the unfamiliar onlooker it appeared as if we zigged and zagged in nonsensical direction, I learned earlier that these steps were necessary to starting my new year and went hand in hand with the prayer that reverberated from my lips. The ritual having finished, we marched back up the steps to my family's third floor apartment. Three rooms with bathtub and toilet, these luxuries were a far cry from how we lived together in Orkhon, my former village only 15 minutes away. My host mother and youngest brother rented the apartment every winter so my brother could attend Khutul's private school. As we reentered, I was greeted by the bustling sight of my host mother, scurrying from room to room to throw a bowlful of milk out each window, up towards the sky. The ritual, one repeated during many occasions is an offering for safety and good fortune. Milk, a sacred liquid, for its symbolic color is often used. As the last bowlful was tossed skywards, the family gathered in the living room, lining up in front of the tiny altar. Adorned with candles, incense, an idol of Buddha, pictures of the Dalai Lama, and a small copper prayer wheel, my host family assembled oldest to youngest, each taking turns bowing and praying in front of the religious objects. I watched, grateful to just be present to witness their worship, something so unfamiliar from my own. When Mogi had finished spinning the tiny prayer wheel three times he turned to me. "Justin brother, it is your turn." Taken aback, I didn't know how to respond. My host mother urged me forward in front of the altar. "I don't know how," I exclaimed, "I am a Christian, is this okay?" My mother only chuckled at me, "Of course, just think about the new year." Hands clasped I bowed my head and closed my eyes. I thought about my family back home, my friends I left behind, the new family crowded around me, and the new friends I'd made living across the steppe. I wished good fortune on all of them. As I lifted my head and opened my eyes, I stepped forward and spun the tiny copper wheel three times. The metal was warm to the touch.

It may seem a peculiar thing, but moving into a culture so much different then the one I came from I often compare my time spent those first three months in Orkhon as being born again. I was taught right from wrong, I learned to speak, how to cook, clean, and build a fire, how to survive the winter, and how to keep myself safe. My host family essentially raised me to be a half competent resident of Mongolia in only three months. It touches me to my core when I realize the shared impact we've had in each others lives. What they've shown me since I arrived in a land both scary and beautiful has been nothing short of love and compassion. People I know I can always turn to when I feel like Mongolia could swallow me whole. Words neither written nor said could describe the gratitude I have for them.

After three days of feasting, card games, and visiting Orkhon, friends, more family, and my teacher it was finally time to say goodbye. Hugging my brothers goodbye, they made one last attempt to get me to stay longer. If only travel were that easy. As I said goodbye to my host mother she hugged me and waved me out the door, "I will throw milk for you", she exclaimed as the door shut behind me. Trudging out towards the oversized van that would carry me back towards Ulaanbaatar, I stole a glance over my shoulder. My host mother stood at the apartment window making good on her promise. Holding a bowl in her hand she prepared to give an offering for my safe journey. She smiled and waved at me, then with a flick of her wrist and a small gasp she sent milk towards the heavens. It sparkled in the sun as it fell.

"Sometimes it gets a little rough. Like wheels made of steel going uphill mountain. Better stand tall, if you're gonna stand at all. And if you're gonna fall, well you might as well fall."

I reread the text message thinking I misunderstood. My Mongolian is bad, but its not that bad. I read it loud and clear. Shijirbaatar was telling me that today there was no coal. What I didn't understand was how that could be so. I pass the behemoth pile I leech my coal from every day outside the school. The huge black megalithic chunks casting shadows on me as I stride past, looking up longingly. The massive hoard of fuel only seems to laugh back at me, I'm at the mercy of my school, which chooses to spoon feed me portions of coal by the wheelbarrow full, once or twice a week. After four days of pestering Shijirbaatar that my supply was dangerously low, I was now running on empty. I silently cursed the spring for not coming sooner, and for Tsagaan Sar, the Mongolia holiday fast approaching next week which surely has kept every Mongolian in my soum busy. Deciding it would be fruitless to give Shijirbaatar a weather and temperature reminder, I step outside to assess my fuel situation. Going out into the fading evening light I sigh at the sight before me, a few meager branches make up the last of my wood stockpile, that main source of fuel also near depleted. My coal pile is even more pitiful, merely a black stain in the snow where coal once sat. I kicked the dust in frustration, how could something seemly so easy to fix be so difficult. I needed help. I'm lucky to have so many allies. Marching past Dakraa's limitless pile of wood I entered my neighbor's house, pulling the door shut against the snow and wind behind me.

"Yasan be?" (What's the matter?) Tuya greeted me, sensing my mood and expression. She stopped mid-meat carving, telling me to sit down and brought me tea. In the background Misheel, her six year old daughter waved at me from the floor in front of the TV. I smile and wave back. Janii, our teenage neighbor boy tinkered on the computer, barely acknowledging my presence. I showed Tuya the message I got. "There is coal at the school", she said confused, "why did he say that?" I told her I didn't know and explained I didn't understand and was frustrated. She pondered a moment then gave a sidelong glance at Janii, still lost in his computer game, oblivious to her gaze. "Today is very cold and very windy", she muttered to herself, glancing out the window at her house's cache of wooden logs and branches.

"Janii" she said.

"Go chop wood."

I'm warm tonight.

"Have no fear, for when I'm alone. I'll be better off, then I was before. I've got this light, I'll be around to grow. Who I was before I cannot recall."

When I was a boy there were two school subjects you could often find me reading ahead in the school textbook. History, of course, and literature. From as far back as I can remember one author was always included in that required tome, whatever the year, whatever the grade, Jack London. So as my teacher would drone on about some dry love affair in Wuthering Heights, I was in the Yukon, the wilderness, the frontier. London would take me on dangerous, thrilling, adventures. I still enjoy reading them today. One short story always struck me as my favorite, "To Build a Fire". A man and his dog are traveling alone in the north Canadian wilderness. Its winter, its cold, very cold. Through folly of his own the man missteps and his foot plunges through ice, soaking his leg. The temperatures are extreme, time is of the essence, he must build a fire. Misfortune befalls the man a second time when his first fire is accidentally snuffed out. He becomes frantic in his attempts to build a second fire knowing that delaying has already cost him his toes. I remember reading London's words, getting caught up in the man's desperation. I could almost feel the cold, almost see my breath materialize as I turned the pages. His hands now too numb to strike matches or break branches or even throttle his own dog to use its intestines for warmth, he makes one final effort to save himself. He runs, in denial that the exertion will warm his body, he finally gets tired and drifts into a final frozen sleep. All because he couldn't make a fire. Awestruck by the tale I remember closing the book and thinking something along the lines of "My God, I hope I never have to experience cold like that."

I grew up in a temperate climate, summers were hot and winters were cold. I'd play outside in the snow with my brother and neighbors till our noses were red and our cheeks stung. I remember coming inside our warm house afterwards to a cup of hot chocolate my mom would have waiting for me. At my grandmother's house it was always our special ritual, starting that first fire of the winter in her fireplace. We'd huddle around the hearth and she'd let me light the newspapers that would ignite the kindling, she'd even throw in special minerals to make the flames change vibrant colors. I'd sit dazzled and amazed, what an entertaining thing fire was. Snow, the cold, warm fires, it was a novelty, something that came around briefly once a year that you enjoyed. It meant days off of school, days experiencing the outdoors in a different way. It was never unbearable, it never scared me.

Then I moved to Vermont. Winters were longer, and colder. With the destituteness that comes with being a college student in an old apartment I spend the better part of the year huddled around a space heater. It couldn't have been less then fifty degrees in our apartment, but it was cold to me then. Walks to classes were taken at a quick pace and bundled up. It was cold, colder then I'd ever experienced previously but it was still doable. I still went out on weekends, I still walked downtown, but it certainly made me ready for summers a lot sooner. After graduation and my final summer at work drew to a close, I drove back home to New Jersey for the last time. I remember chuckling to myself as I headed south down the highway, the Green Mountains at my back, "Well at least I'll never have to be in cold like that again." The irony hasn't escaped me now.

Today I live in a ger, a yurt, a glorified tent. A round structure with a wooden skeleton and a sheep felt exterior. It is a sanctuary I've grown to love and make my own. I might dare say it may be my favorite place that I've hung my hat, so to speak. For all its romantic primal appeal it is not without its disadvantages. Mongolians have lived in gers for centuries, before the time of Ghengis Khan and up until the present day. A cozy space that keeps in warmth, but without special attention and care to that source of heat, the cold quickly creeps in. Cold that I've never felt or could have imagined before. My sanctuary freezes overnight or during prolonged periods of absence. Water, toothpaste, cooking oil, fruits and vegetables, milk and liquid soap. They all freeze. Cracking open my eyelids each morning, often times the first thing I see is my own breath. It is hard to will myself to get out of bed. When the wind rolls through the steppes and the temperature plummets further still, getting around town is excruciating. Walking from Point A to Point B, often distances of less then one hundred yards, is taken nearly at a running pace. Nostrils, face, and eyelids sting, extremities numb, and ice forms on facial hair. My body seems to scream "Get inside you fool!" I do with the utmost urgency. I tell you all this not for pity or praise but for recognition, I've been living here for a mere eight months. The people I have come to know have lived here they're whole lives. Enduring the same extremes every year. They do it and they survive. I look at the bundled up figure of a six year old and realize they're more hardened then I'll ever be.

I stand just inside my school's doors, poised to endure the elements. Ready to go home for the evening, I pull on my gloves and secure my hat. I stare at the wooden double doors, a testament to the fact that the cold can batter through any defense. Every crevice between the frames is encased in ice and snow. The wind swept draft entombing the wood in a frozen prison. The door and the walls sparkle with ice crystals. The glass above long obstructed by water turned solid. I take a breath and push out into the night.

I'm home, crouched in the center of my ger. Huddled next to my stove, I'm going through a ritual I go through multiple times everyday. A ritual I've come to appreciate: gathering wood, breaking up paper and cardboard, emptying ash. The stove, my lifeline, my key to survival. The creation of one of our universes oldest elements. I've never appreciated it more. My world is frozen, it will take time to thaw. It is warmer in my refrigerator then where I am sitting. I crouch, blowing on the hot coals, the blaze grows, the wood ignites to a therapeutic crackle. I smile in satisfaction, it's all okay, I'm okay, all because.....

bi gal tulj chadna.
(I can build a fire)

"If I'm bound or gagged. If I'm lost or losing. I might want to leave from here. Until then, I'll still be cruising, high above the atmosphere."

Saturday morning, my eyes shot open at the familiar but unrelenting sound. Shuffling, wood trying against metal. Someone was continuously pulling on my ger's door handle, impervious to the fact that it was locked. I rolled out of bed with a groan, pulling on pants as I hobbled towards the door, shouting "Hen be?" (Who is it?). No sooner did I release the latch then Shijirbaatar burst through the threshold into my ger. Ignoring my "frazzled and just abruptly awakened state" he fired off into a monologue. "Justin, will you help me?" "My brother is sick, I need to herd his goats." "There are many goats, with one person it is difficult." I pondered this, I was sick myself, looking forward to a weekend of recuperation and spending little time outside in the subzero temperatures. I have found that it is often hard to say "no" in Mongolia when someone asks for help, and I often never regret the decision. "Yes, I'll help you." I exclaim as I quickly get myself ready to go. Reaching for my winter jacket he stops me, "No, it is cold outside." Without saying anything I begin wrapping myself in my Mongolian deel, he nods in approval and instructs me to bring my camera. "The countryside is pretty today" he adds, and with that we trudge out towards the edge of town.

We entered a large hashaa filled with goats and a small ger. Shijirbaatar brought me inside where I was greeted with the sight of a man laying in bed, much older looking then his younger brother and at our entrance he scrambled to get up, jostling over to the kitchen area to make us tea. "How are you feeling?" I asked as we sat down and I was handed a hot bowl of milk tea. "Alright", he answered "I just need rest" he exclaimed stifling a cough. After being introduced by Shijirbaatar the man nodded his thanks and finished our tea and back outside into the January morning. I opened the gate while Shijirbaatar funneled the goats through the opening waving a stick and hollering. We were soon joined by Shijirbaatar's friend and fellow school coworker, "I heard your brother is sick, I came to help." As we walked out away from the town Shijirbaatar handed me a handful of bread nuggets. "Show them these" he explained "and they will follow you." He demonstrated holding a nugget out in his hand and the goats immediately clustered around him, none attempting to stray off or run out into the steppe. I followed his example and was soon engulfed by goats all rustling against each other standing on hind legs and using my body for leverage as they strained to reach the bready prize in my hand. After we had lured the goats far enough from the town and our nuggets had been expended we stood and relaxed while they grazed from the tall steppe grass that had somehow managed to poke its way up through the snow.

As we stood a man on a small white horse rode up from a nearby herd of cows and beckoned us good morning. After conversing with Shijirbaatar he climbed down from the saddle-less steed and instructed me to get on the horse. "You can ride my horse" he said with a gesture towards his mount. So with a boost from Shijirbaatar, I climbed atop and expecting a pony ride waited for him to grab the reins to lead me around. Instead Shijirbaatar gave the horse a light pat on the rump and it began walking along leaving me as the sole driver and briefly terrified. My last horse riding experience having been many moons ago on a family vacation to Yosemite I was not exactly comfortable on the beast. After nervously trotting about I managed to steer the horse back to Shijirbaatar where he promptly made me pose for a "Mongolian picture" before stepping down from the animal. Relinquishing the horse back to its owner the herder said goodbye and with one fluid motion was back atop his horse and galloping off towards his cattle.

It was quiet, I gazed out at the steppe, the mountains, and the sky, never ceasing to be amazed by the expansivness of it all. Goats grazed around me, a horse brayed in the distance, the sun gleamed off the snow. It was so meditational, so peaceful, a landscape that always makes me feel happy and content. Shijirbaatar broke the silence, "Lunch time." With that we circled around the herd and led them back towards the hashaa. When the last goat cleared the gate Shijirbaatar patted me on the back, "Mash ikh bayarlalaa, Justin."(Thank you very much, Justin) He repeated this several times, thanking me again and again for my help. I shook his hand and thanked him instead. He gave me a confused look. I could only laugh. He had done so much more for me that day then I had done for him.

"I like the summers, I like the winters. Here I will settle me down. I'll spend my days here, the rest of my days here. Here I will watch the world go 'round."

Flashback: Omnodelger, October

The 14th to be exact. I was kneeling beside my wooden table looking for something to watch on my computer, getting ready to settle in for the evening. In between the quiet clicking of my mouse I heard another noise, footfalls. I cringed in anticipation, seconds before the shuddering noise of my wooden door gave way through its wooden frame. It was Dakraa. "Come on Justin, lets go!" He waved out into the night not stepping from my door's mat. With no heads up to this beckoning, I sat on the floor shirtless, in a messy ger, obviously not prepared to go anywhere. "Where?" was all I could seem to muster. "House party, come on, lets go!" So I threw on a shirt, my jacket, locked up my ger and we crossed through my hashaa gate. I sat shotgun in a SUV I didn't recognize, and knowing Dakraa's own vehicle sat in our yard crippled on three tires I asked, "Whose car is this?" He winked at me, "School director's" then spun the wheel and jammed the gas and we accelerated down the dirt road towards a house well lit, with cars, motorcycles and horses tied up outside.

The party was already in full swing and it didn't take me long to put the pieces together as Dakraa handed Enkhbaatar, my school director his keys back. Dakraa had not in fact committed grand theft auto but had been sent to fetch me. The house was teeming with people and tables laden with every Mongolian delicacy I knew. It was more like three separate parties, as not all the people could fit in any of the houses three tiny rooms, so tables were set up in each. So I sat down beside my schools computer teacher and one of my counterparts and servings of food and tea were given to me. My counterpart quickly explained to me that this just wasn't any house party. It was a party literally to celebrate the building of a new house. When a family moves from their ger to a wooden house, the community celebrates this accomplishment with a big congratulatory ceremony.

So we ate, and ate, and ate. Eventually the man of the house came around passing out shot glasses, and began pouring shot after vodka shot. Clink, we toasted to happiness. Clink, we toasted to the family's home. Clink, we toasted to the school. Clink, we toasted to the director. Clink, we toasted to Omnodelger. This went on for quite some time, with the host making sure everyone had finished their shot before he poured the next. Then everyone began to sing. Traditional and modern Mongolian songs echoed off of the house's new walls. Eventually it turned into a competition between the three rooms. Each picking a song and belting it out as loud as they could to see if the room after theirs could match in volume and enthusiasm. The competition ended with forgotten words and lots of laughter. Next an ornate silver bowl was brought out filled with airag, the traditional Mongolian alcoholic drink of fermented mares milk. It was passed around the room the receiver having to stand up, take a sip from the bowl then lead the room in song. When the bowl was finally handed to me I nervously stood up. My school's training manager sensed my hesitation and exclaimed, "To Justin's new ger!" They all cheered and with a clink toasted and downed another shot. Touched that they were recognizing my new home as part of the celebration I mustered the Mongolian and confidence I had, took a sour faced sip of airag and lead them in singing "Ayani Shuwuud", the Mongolian tune I helped perform at our swearing in ceremony. Hours went by and the revelry continued, finally everyone suddenly stood up and began gathering their coats and things. I got out of my seat, stretching my arms and blinking my tired eyes. This was when I learned the next stipulation to the housing ceremony tradition. October 14th was the traditional day to hold your housing ceremony. Throwing the celebration on this day ensures future good fortune and prosperity in your new home. As a result this wasn't the only family who had recently finished a home....

I repeated this party scenario three more times that evening. More food, more drinking, more vodka, more singing. By 2am I was finally dropped off at my ger. I was stuffed, drunk, and exhausted, but the revelry had made me feel like a new part of the community, like I would really grow to love Omnodelger and its people. My fears of being alone wouldn't seem bad at all with a new place to call home. I lay my head on my pillow and drifted off to sleep, with laughter and the clinking of glass ringing in my ears.

"Wandering and wandering. What place to rest the search. The mighty arms of Atlas, hold the heavens from the earth."

I spread the three cards out on my table for Dakraa's brother to see. Two jokers and the ace of clubs. Half amused in being defeated a third time he gave me a smirk. "If you win again I will give you something," he exclaimed patting his jacket pocket. With new incentive, I dealt the cards again excited for the prospect of a reward and the fact that I found something I could actually beat Mongolians at. Ten minutes later, I once again placed down my last three cards signifying I had won the game. He only chuckled to himself then let out a sigh, placing down the generous amount of cards he still held in his hand and reached into his pocket. He slapped the object on my table, covering it with his palm, almost to build suspense he held it concealed for several seconds before relinquishing his hand. There sat a bone, but not just any bone, a tooth, but not just any tooth, a canine, a fang, long white and curved that looked to be bigger then my middle finger. "Chono,"(Wolf) he murmured to me as I sat staring at the huge fang. "I killed it," he added, miming firing a rifle. He pointed towards the chain I wore around my neck which holds my St. Christopher medal. He gestured for me to put it on the chain, pointing towards the small hole he bored at the top of the fang. I took off my necklace to attach the tooth when he noticed St. Christopher. "Ter yu we? Jesus uu?"(What is that? Jesus?) he asked. With the help of my dictionary I explained that St. Christopher was not Jesus, but a saint who protected travelers. With my new charm hanging next to my medal, I turned the fang over in my hand feeling its new weight around my neck. "Will this protect me too?" I asked. He let out a small laugh, "No, no, it will give you strength." Knowing the shamanist ties still prevalent in Mongolia, animals such as horses, wolves, and eagles are held in high esteem. As I pondered this he added,

"If you are strong, you do not need protection."

Three days later: New Years Eve

It was a Saturday morning, I was looking forward to a lazy day of relaxing and doing minimal ger chores when Dakraa burst into my ger. "Justin!" he greeted me excitedly, "Lets go, we are going to the countryside." The word "hudoo" or "countryside" when spoken by people living in cities, usually refers to places like my town, when spoken by people living in places like my town, "hudoo" means places where people don't exist. When I asked why, he rambled in lighting fast Mongolian, able to only catch a couple words I tried piecing them together, "Chono"(wolf) and "khon" (sheep) and "buu" (gun). After asking him to repeat more slowly I got the whole story, a wolf had harassed a herders sheep in the night, now we must go hunt it. Now as excitable as Dakraa I grabbed for my winter jacket when he stopped me, "No" he said, "it will be cold, wear your deel." Putting on the traditional Mongolian garb, I grabbed my hat and gloves and then clamored into a Russian jeep with six other men, armed to the teeth with weapons that you'd have a lot of explaining to do if you were carrying them around in America. We drove out towards the Khentii mountains, Dakraa outlined the peaks with his finger as we drove along, explaining which ones we would check for the wolf at. The sheep herder sat in the front seat, his chatter not betraying the obvious anxiety he felt, "Whose cows are these?" he asked as we passed a herd. "No one is watching them."

Finally as we winded through the valleys along the mammoth bases of the mountains, me and Dakraa were let off. He grabbed his rifle and we started heading for the base of a rocky mountain with scattered trees. We hadn't gotten far when he crouched down to examine tracks in the snow. "Chono", he said. We followed them until we were amongst the rocks and trees, finally Dakraa turned to me and said, "Now, we sit and wait." So we sat and waited, I took in my surroundings, the trees, the rocky summits, the endless blue sky, the untarnished snow drifts all of this encompassed by total silence, not even a bird chirped. After a while, Dakraa stamped out a cigarette, "See anything?" he asked. I shook my head. So we trudged out away from the mountain just in time to see the jeep come speeding back.

Loading ourselves back in we picked up more of the other hunters who were scouting around other parts of our mountain and drove off towards another peak. This time I got out with a boy who could not have been more then eighteen. We walked out into a rise in the steppe and sat facing a tree line at the base of another mountain. Once again we waited. The sun had long passed its zenith and was now slinking behind some of the near by mountaintops casting a pinkish orange glow over the snow. We waited and waited, I wiggled my fingers and toes, they had gone numb long ago. My compatriot chewed on a length of grass he had plucked from the snow and rested his soviet era rifle across his lap. I was once again getting lost in the beauty of the landscape and vibrant colors of the sky when he sprung up on his knees, clutching his rifle and repeated in a excited whisper "Chono! Chono! Chono!" Roused from my thoughts I followed his gaze and the barrel of his gun towards the trees. My heart pounded, I could feel the cold fang hanging at my chest. I couldn't see the creature, I cursed my poor eyesight, then whispered "Where?" He took his hand off the trigger and pointed, giving me just enough time to see the haunch of an enormous grey wolf slink into the underbrush. It was gone, disappearing out of both of our views. A moment passed, the excitement and adrenaline dying down into quiet again. Suddenly he stood up, slung his rifle over his shoulder then took off down the hill towards the path the jeep had taken. I sprinted after him, through the snow and frozen steppe, down to where he stood waving his arms at the approaching jeep. As it pulled up there was much excited chatter, "Did you see it? Did you see the wolf?" "How big was it?" "It was very big, it was grey and white." "Where did it go?" "In the forest, going east." We hopped in and they sped off towards the east following the tree line, shouting, honking and firing their guns into the trees in an attempt to scare the wolf into moving towards the hunters waiting on the other side. With seven rifles, keen eyesight, and a fast jeep I thought the wolf stood no chance, its wooded refuge was small, offering little protection. We made several passes with no luck, or second sightings. Only myself and the boy had seen the animal. As darkness started to settle in we gave up the hunt and headed back towards town. As we headed down the bumpy road back towards Omnodelger I sat in the back thinking about the unbelievable day I had just experienced. The old herder turned around in the front seat to face me. "We will try again tomorrow." he said sternly. Then as if speaking of an old friend he added,

"The wolf is very clever."

"He is also very strong."

"This isn't who it would be, if it wasn't who it is."

"HELLO. TEACHER!"

The classroom of 10th graders greet me together as they stand at attention next to their desks. I ask them how they are and they respond in robotic unison.

"I'M. FINE. THANKS. AND. YOU?!?!"

I tell them I'm fine and let them take their seats knowing full well that any other response would bring on confused grunts, blank stares, and possible brain aneurisms. Today's lesson, brought to you by our schools mandated British English textbook: Cell Phones! Complete with a plethora of useful vocabulary: display, buttons, accessory, message, SIM card and more! Usually I like to steer the lesson in my own direction away from such non-applicable themes (entire chapters devoted to contortionists and Chinese foot binding for example) but Munkhkherlen, my counterpart, convinced me to follow the book on this one. So using my own phone as a prop I went through the pronunciation of each word. Somewhere during "blue tooth headset" (a device I've yet to see in Mongolia) a student shouted out a question. I understood and didn't quite know how to answer. Munkhkherlen translated, taking my hesitation for not understanding. "Justin teacher, what is your phone number?" Other students quickly echoed the request, and I cringed at the thought of thirty something 10th graders calling me whenever they got bored. "It is a good idea, if they need help or want a tutor", Munkhkherlen whispered to me. Thats when the light bulb went on in my head. I'll give it to them in English! That'll severely reduce the amount of kids who actually get my number! No sooner had I finished reciting it then one of the class's more advanced students shouted out each digit in clear Mongolian. I grimaced as I watched pens scratch against paper. I nodded to myself satisfied that everyone else in the room was satisfied then picked up my chalk. I turned around and placed the chalk against the board, poised to write the next word. I was stopped before I could even make a mark. The familiar noise reverberating from my pocket.

My phone was ringing.