Festival time. Mongolia's annual NA AD AM - sporting and cultural carnival - is a time for celebration, and families dress in their finest gowns (left). Graham was the only foreigner at the small Bornuur N A AD AM and received much attention from the curious, gregarious people. At the larger Erdenet NAADAM (above), an archer uses a traditional bow and a rubber-tipped arrow to shoot a small wicker basket on the ground, 75 m away. Competitors travel from surrounding provinces for this colourful event.

Salvation came after seven days of slow riding and pulling the stubborn horses across 100 km of steppe. My riding horse bolted while I was saddling up and the ensuing chase led me, by pure chance, to the family of a friend from Ulaanbaatar, living near a small village called Erdene. Garamjaviin Ganbat's family had no shortage of good horses: their herd is famous across Mongolia as the provider of frequent winners at Naadam, Mongolia's annual nationwide cultural and sporting festival. With 700 horses to choose from, I felt in good hands and two days later set off again, this time with two strong geldings suitably named Samson and Zeus. I decided to ride the stockier, Zeus, a chestnut horse with a distinctive blaze down his nose, and use Samson, a liver chestnut, as my packhorse.

After travelling north for nearly 150 km, the country became mountainous and cooler as I entered the thick Siberian larch and pine forest of Gorkhi-Terelj np. It was here that Zeus threw me, the reins breaking as I landed in a muddy marsh with both horses disappearing. After searching for two hours I'd concluded that they and my gear were gone, and was resolving to continue on foot when in one last effort, I began climbing a grassy embankment to gain a vantage point. Pausing halfway I looked through a clearing across the Terelj valley, when a flash - perhaps a saddlebag buckle - caught my eye. Refocusing, I saw part of the horses' outline! Taking a compass bearing, I set out towards them, threading my way through the trees.

I stealthily approached from downwind, and emerged in a clearing to find them, quietly standing head to tail as though, without me, they'd lost their purpose. I walked up to them, took their lead ropes and we quietly continued on our way.

Almost uninhabited, the national park, a 3000-square-kilometre area, was littered with wildflowers and bubbling with streams of clear water. Home to more than 250 bird species, the park was alive with the sound of woodpeckers drumming on bark and parties of colourful finches kept me company. Sadly, after riding 50 km through the park, my plans to continue through the serene woodland were scuttled by repeated warnings from herders about wolves, bears and bogs, and my desire to make up for lost time and move westward.

In early July, I reached the central village of Bornüür just in time for the local Naadam - a celebration of horse riding, wrestling and archery skills. Jockeys, some as young as six, competed in horseraces over 30 km and herders wore their finest traditional gowns, called dels. I was invited to stay with a local family and the horses enjoyed a well-earned rest as I took part in the exciting event and ate delicious buuz (steamed dumplings). After three days I set off with the horses, our bellies full and spirits high.

Boots and all. The use of traditional boots called GUTAL (left) dates back centuries and Buddhists believe the curved toe prevents them disturbing the ground while walking. Graham watched the Bornuur horserace - that included boys and girls as young as six (right) racing up to 30 km - from a special chase vehicle.

A splash of AIRAG - fermented mare's milk - is poured on a horse's back (right) for good luck before a race at Bornuur. Across the field, wrestlers battle for hours with no time or weight limit. Graham watched this pair (below) lock head for over half an hour. The champions are treated like heroes and winners are bestowed glorious titles like Falcon and Elephant, and the national champion is revered as a demigod.

Life source. Samson and Zeus (right) take a well-earned drink after travelling almost a day without water. When there were no rivers or lakes, Graham relied on a system of wells that forms the mainstay of rural existence. Once served by pumps that have long-since broken, the thoughs are now filled using a bucket. Nearby, the small town of Jargalant (below) - Graham stopped for basic essentials such as fruit and vegetables - provides a stark contrast to the beauty of the open steppe. Like many rural towns, Jargalant is in decline with little place in Mongolia since the transition from communism to a market economy.

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