Across Mongolian Plains: A Naturalist's Account of China's 'Great Northwest'

In Short

This book serves as a travelogue and survey of the Second Asiatic Expedition, led by a naturalist seeking to record the fauna of North China and the Gobi Desert. Through a series of excursions into remote territories, the author balances the practical demands of scientific exploration with a sportsman’s appreciation for the wild. It remains a vital document because it captures a fleeting moment in history, preserving detailed observations of a traditional Mongol culture and untamed geography before the encroaching influence of the twentieth century forever altered the region’s character.

The Story

The narrative begins with a sense of romantic anticipation. Despite the encroaching reach of the railroad and the presence of motor cars in the capital, the author carries the mindset of a classic explorer. He is joined by his wife, Yvette Borup Andrews—who serves as the expedition’s photographer—and a group of associates including Charles Coltman, a seasoned resident of the frontier. Their journey from Kalgan to Urga acts as the primary arc, marking a transition from the world of modern machinery to the vast, silent, and often unforgiving expanses of the Gobi Desert.

Throughout the journey, the author navigates the stark realities of the desert: the extreme shifts in weather, the physical exhaustion of traversing sandy terrain by motor vehicle, and the logistical challenges of securing supplies in a land where a simple sack of flour becomes a precious commodity. As they press northward, the focus shifts from the logistical struggle to the biological and cultural richness of the region. The author details the habits of the antelope, the wolf, and the wild sheep, observing the natural world through a lens defined by both scientific curiosity and the adrenaline of the hunt.

The cultural encounter is equally central. The author observes the Mongol people with a mixture of ethnographic interest and respectful distance. He documents the sacred nature of Urga, the capital city, where the spiritual life of the lamas perpetually shadows the mundane. He describes the local attitudes toward death, where bodies are often left to the elements, and the strict codes of conduct that govern a nomadic lifestyle. These descriptions are punctuated by the recurring contrast between the author’s foreign scientific equipment—such as his cameras and rifles—and the ancient, unchanging traditions he observes.

As the expedition concludes, the tone shifts toward reflection. The author acknowledges that the very speed and accessibility provided by the motor car are the agents of the region's transformation. He laments the inevitable decline of the wild species he has studied, noting that the "mystery" of Mongolia is being systematically dismantled by the progress of technology. The book ends not with a grand discovery, but with a quiet admission: the era of the great, unknown frontier is closing. He finds solace in the knowledge that through his museum collections and the photographic record provided by his wife, he has at least secured a testament to a world that will soon exist only in memory and the archives of science.

How It Unfolds

The voyage begins The author leaves the familiar comfort of Peking, traveling toward the legendary Great Wall and the frontier town of Kalgan. Accompanied by experienced local hands and his wife, he prepares to trade the convenience of the railroad for the unpredictable, rutted tracks of the Mongolian plains.

The push into the Gobi The party struggles against the physical terrain, using motor cars to cross vast stretches of sand and sagebrush. They encounter the harsh, indifferent climate of the plateau, finding themselves between seasons where the landscape is stark and empty of both life and vegetation.

Observations in the field The narrative shifts to the rhythms of the camp, where the author studies the local fauna and the nomadic inhabitants of the region. He balances the intense activity of scientific trapping and hunting with long, meditative days spent observing the mating dances of cranes and the movements of gazelles.

Life in the shadow of the sacred The team reaches Urga, a city defined by its golden temples and the spiritual gravity of the Living Buddha. Here, the author documents the strange coexistence of modern machines and archaic funeral rites, highlighting the psychological distance between the visiting explorers and the local population.

The final hunt and return The expedition moves into the mountainous regions of northern China to collect specimens of wild sheep and wapiti. Facing the dangers of brigand-infested trails and the physical toll of climbing high-altitude slopes, the author achieves his final goals before returning to the civilized world.

The People

The author, Roy Chapman Andrews, is the primary observer, driven by a professional mandate to document the region’s fauna for the American Museum of Natural History. He is a man caught between two worlds, utilizing modern rifles and cars to pursue knowledge of the ancient. His wife, Yvette Borup Andrews, acts as the expedition’s eyes; her photography provides the visual evidence for their mission. Her presence adds a personal, grounded dimension to the adventure, often tempering the author’s more detached scientific focus.

Charles Coltman is the essential bridge between the foreign explorers and the local reality. As a seasoned resident of Kalgan, he possesses the practical knowledge of routes, transport, and local politics necessary for the expedition’s survival. His influence is everywhere—from the cars they drive to the contacts he secures. Beside them are the native collectors, such as Chen, whose expertise and labor are the backbone of the scientific work. The local Mongol guides and the wandering lamas serve as both the subject of the author’s study and the guardians of the land’s secrets. They remain largely enigmatic, operating under a system of spiritual and social rules that the author observes but never fully penetrates. Ultimately, these figures are all united by the temporary necessity of the expedition, yet they remain separated by their disparate worldviews.

In Its Own Voice

"But Mongolia! That was different. One could not go there in a roaring train."

The author reflects on the departure from the familiar, industrialized world as he prepares to enter the Gobi.

"The golden roofs of scores of temples give back the sunlight, and the moaning chant of praying lamas is always in the air."

This observation captures the pervasive, sacred atmosphere of the capital city, Urga, during the expedition’s visit.

"It is too much to hope that China will make effective game laws before the most interesting and important forms of her wild life have disappeared, but we can do our best to preserve in museums for future generations records of the splendid animals of the present."

The author summarizes the underlying purpose of his work, acknowledging the inevitable decline of the natural beauty he has witnessed.

What It's Really About

At its core, this book is an elegy for the vanishing wilderness. It explores the tension between the march of human progress—represented by the motor car, the wireless, and the railroad—and the slow, cyclical nature of the Mongolian frontier. The author asks a fundamental question: what happens to a landscape when its mystery is stripped away by accessibility? He is not merely cataloging animals; he is documenting the end of an era. The recurring themes of extinction and cultural isolation underscore his argument that the modern world is fundamentally incompatible with the untouched, vast spaces he explores. He treats the wilderness as a repository of historical and evolutionary data, suggesting that while the physical land may be conquered, the duty of the naturalist is to preserve the record of what once was before it is irrevocably lost.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy historical travelogues or accounts of early-twentieth-century naturalism will find this a captivating, if at times challenging, experience. The writing is precise and avoids the flowery, overly dramatic prose common to the period, opting instead for a grounded, observational tone. You will feel the biting chill of the Mongolian wind and the exhaustion of the long, sandy treks, as the author excels at rendering the physical sensations of the journey.

However, a modern reader must be prepared for the attitudes of the time. The author operates with a colonial sensibility, and his views on the local people, while respectful in a detached, ethnographic sense, reflect the era’s inherent biases. The descriptions of hunting for sport and the casual mention of animal slaughter may also be difficult for some. Yet, these elements are exactly what make the book a valuable historical artifact; it is an unvarnished look at how a representative of Western science viewed the "Great Northwest" in 1921. If you can approach it as a primary source—a window into a mindset that viewed the world as a vast, open laboratory to be surveyed and categorized—you will find an evocative, richly detailed, and deeply honest account of a world that no longer exists.