Gorkhi-Terelj is a national park an hour and a half east of Ulaanbaatar, in Mongolia, where granite boulders big enough to climb stand out of open steppe along the Tuul River. No river or sea shaped them. They are the bones of a granite mass rotting in place. Water gets into the cracks, freezes on Mongolia's bitter nights and levers the rock apart block by block; over millions of years the edges round off, leaving tors that people read as a turtle, a camel, a praying lama. The way to meet the country around them is from a saddle. Herding families ride out with you on stocky Mongolian horses, letting the animals pick their own line through the river, with cold spray coming up at the crossings. The slower version is a wooden ox cart behind the cattle. In camp you watch the milking, and every guest is handed a bowl of salty milk tea. A scramble up any outcrop opens the whole valley beneath you: green meadows, scattered white gers and dark ridges of larch.
On the hillside above, 108 stone steps laid out to trace the curl of an elephant's trunk climb to Aryapala, a Buddhist temple built in the shape of an elephant's head, with prayer wheels and painted riddles along the path. Nights are spent in gers tucked against the granite, which holds the last of the day's warmth while the stove ticks down to nothing by dawn. With no city glow for an hour in any direction, the stars come out thick over the rocks. Behind all this lies the Khan Khentii, strictly protected and mostly closed, where the Siberian forest meets the steppe and brown bears and wolves still live. Terelj is as far into that country as most people ever get. The road in from the capital passes a Chinggis Khaan on horseback, forty metres of stainless steel, with a stair inside the horse that comes out level with the rider's face. He is looking east, at the mountains where he was born and where you are not going.