On any other trek day, each rider had developed his own routine for preparing his camel. My own was to pack all my kit, have breakfast, take my “constitutional”, and catch up on trek gossip between 6 and 7 am. 

Being on an expedition such as this one only served to convince me further that I was right about one of my few theories about people. That is, there are only two sorts of individuals in this world. Those who are in the habit of waking up happy and those who are in the habit of waking up unhappy.

Waking up in Camp 11 was significant from two perspectives. The first was that Peter W., who had been one of the original driving forces of the Trek, had to leave us.

Waking up on what I’d nicknamed the Mongolian Plain felt good. The previous evening, I’d managed to use a spray bottle to wash down my body, and although it was the chilliest of ‘showers’, it felt good to have a clean set of clothes on skin that had seen some soap.

It had been a short night. We’d arrived at camp well after dark, with the focus on getting the camels to rest, changing out of our riding clothes, cleaning up any injuries, and getting some sleep. No sooner had my head hit the bag I was using as a pillow than my alarm was sounding in the pitch dark at 0600.