The horse bolted, the reins broke, and I went head over heels into a marsh, coating me with mud. As I stood up my first thought was to retrieve my hat - until it struck me that this time I was in serious trouble. I was totally alone in the Mongolian wilderness and the only trace of my two horses was a meandering trail of hoof prints vanishing into the forest of Siberian larch and pine.

After nearly three weeks in the saddle, I'd become quite adept at falling off and losing the horses. Up until now I'd had the help of amused local herdsmen, who would miraculously appear, then happily gallop off and recover my unwilling steeds. But this was different - there were no herdsmen; only a silence broken by the sounds of birds, and thump of my heartbeat. Was this the end of my five-month horse trek? What would I tell my friends, sponsors and all the people who'd helped me get this far?

Eight years of dreaming and several months planning had brought me to this point - three weeks into my journey through central Mongolia, in Gorkhi-Terelj National Park, 50 km northeast of the capital Ulaanbaatar. Before I left my Sydney home, many people questioned my dream of riding in Mongolia, especially when I admitted I'd had little experience with horses. But I was fascinated by Mongolia's mystique and the legacy of Genghis Khan who, in the 13th century, laid the foundations for the largest land empire the world has seen, stretching from the Sea of Japan to Eastern Europe. The famous ruler united warring tribes, moulding them into an efficient cavalry, and their riding skills have been handed down through generations to the nomadic herders of today. To me, my dream made perfect sense.

Finding information on Mongolia was difficult, so planning my journey was largely guesswork, but learning to ride was fairly high on my pre-journey agenda. I fronted up to a Sydney riding school and explained that I needed to have lessons because I'd be leaving in two months to ride through Mongolia. They thought I was joking but I wasn't fazed - I was glad to have enough time for eight lessons before I left.

I packed 80 kilograms of supplies including chocolate, peanut butter, Thai curry paste, powdered coconut milk, parmesan cheese, tomato paste, dried peas, rice and pasta, enabling me to cook three different cuisines - Italian, Thai and Indian. Past travel experience had taught me the value of gifts so I included 300 kangaroo pins, a photo-journal of Australia and photos of the Dalai Lama, which I knew would be popular in this nation of Buddhists.

Two weeks in Ulaanbaatar solved my most pressing problem - obtaining horses. A man I'd befriended, Gavaa Batkhuu, owned a substantial herd of racehorses and was so inspired by the story of an Australian travelling across his country on horseback that he gave me two - one of the greatest honours one can receive in Mongolia. Before leaving, I despatched half my food supply to Khatgal - a town on the southern tip of Lake Khövsgöl and my halfway point - to pick up on arrival.

Wrestling is a popular Mongolian pastime and Umjil's grandsons (left) regularly challenged their guest, three at a time, often felling him like a giant tree. Umiil's grandson, Olzii, at left, shows off his victory with a winner's traditional Eagle dance, while Graham lays buried beneath his excited charges. The adventurer stayed with the generous family for six days while Umjil tracked down the wandering herd of horses that included Graham's mounts.

Wind-driven snowflakes couldn't mask the sparse beauty of the Mongolian steppe as I bounced around in the back of Batkhuu's car on the way to my starting point and the camp - 50 km south of Ulaanbaatar - where I would collect my horses. The grassy, undulating plain seemed to stretch forever without a tree to be seen - I was in awe of its expanse. The driver pulled over numerous times to use a local navigation system known as the Ger Positioning System. This involved stopping at gers (herders' dwellings) to ask directions, which usually consisted of "turn right at the hill over there".

Hard yakka. Traditionally herders have been tremendously self-reliant - Umjil's neighbour (right) is treating the hide from the steer that was killed to feed the family over the long winter months. He will use it to make leather straps for lassos, ropes, bridles and stirrups. Spring is always busy in the Mongolian countryside. Nomadic herders find greening pasture to fatten up their undernourished animals - many of which give birth before the snow melts - while young horses need breaking in and low food supplies need replenishing.

We arrived at the camp, which was made up of two gers and a sheep pen where, nestled into the side of a hill, more than 100 horses grazed on the short grass. Gers, commonly known in Australia by their Russian name, yurt, are made from layers of felt draped over a collapsible wooden frame, which are then covered in canvas, making a cosy home for nomadic families. They are extremely practical structures for the nomads, who typically move with the four seasons. Within two hours a ger and its entire contents can be collapsed and packed onto four camels.

Thrilled in anticipation of beginning my adventure, a route formed in my mind, despite the fact that I wasn't sure how far the horses could travel each day or exactly when the severe winter would end my trek. My plan was to travel in a large loop around the nation's capital by riding through Gorkhi-Terelj np, across to Lake Khövsgöl, 570 km north-west of Ulaanbaatar, then back to the capital via the central provinces of Arkhangai and Övörkhangai - a journey of about 1500 km.

During the evening before I'd planned to set off, snowstorms drove some of the horses, mine among them, out across the fenceless plain - a common occurrence. While the herdsmen tracked them down, I distracted myself with last-minute preparations, including picking up riding tips from my hosts, Dash Umjil and his family. One of the first lessons I'd learnt in this country was to accept "Mongolian time" - here no one seems to be in a hurry. Knowing nothing I could do would speed up the search for the horses, I set about learning more of the Mongolian way of life.

Umjil's four grandchildren were excited by their foreign visitor and took every opportunity to play with me. Wrestling, a national sport, was on for young and old and I would often hit the dust like a giant, with four anklebiters hanging off various limbs. The neighbours didn't mind me visiting and I spent the time developing my language skills and learning to enjoy the national drink - salty milk tea, made from boiled cow's milk and tea stalks.

Small lakes such as this one (above) are common in central Mongolia and make good watering holes for goats, sheep and other domestic animals. Country life revolves around livestock that provides essential milk, meat, skins and transport for a nomadic way of life. Children learn to ride as soon as they can walk and, once old enough, help tend the animals. As an Australian, Graham found he had an immediate affinity with sheep herders, many of whom recognised Australia as a notable wool producer. Yaks, with their thick wool and rich creamy milk, are more productive than cattle in the higher, colder altitudes. Women and girls (left) are responsible for hand-milking the animals.

However, as the days passed with no news of the horses, I became frustrated - it was now early June, and each day brought me closer to the onset of winter. Finally, after six days, my horses were found and I immediately got started. My hosts could only look on in amazement as my little packhorse groaned under gear weighing nearly 90 kg - the herders were used to travelling with little more than a raincoat and a small bag of supplies. Umjil escorted me to the end of the valley, pointed out the hilltop to head for, and bade me farewell.

I was filled with an immense sense of freedom. I was finally alone, feeling comfortable with my small, stocky horses - each only chest-high - and surrounded by virtually empty steppe and an expanse of blue sky. Small lakes, the white specks of gers and herds of sheep, horses, cattle and goats occasionally broke the view of endless hills. I set my compass for northeast, knowing I could easily lose my way in a land that appeared the same in every direction.

Unfortunately my sense of exhilaration was short-lived when, after 10 km, my riding horse sat down and refused to continue for several hours. Over the following days it grew weaker and the packhorse became as stubborn as a mule. I struggled forward, covering barely 15 km a day. I transferred 40 kg of supplies to my own back and struggled to lead the horses on foot. To further ease the load I began giving away food to people I met along the way. Peanut butter was a great favourite, but Vegemite wasn't so popular.

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