The Eagle Hunters of Mongolia
Mongolia is a vast and beautiful country of sweeping steppe, rugged mountains, and immense skies that seem to stretch forever. It is one of the least densely populated countries in the world, where nature still dominates and traditional nomadic life continues much as it has for centuries. The landscape changes constantly, from the wide grassy plains dotted with gers and herds of livestock, to the striking desert formations of the Gobi and the forested hills in the north. There is a deep sense of space and freedom everywhere, and the simplicity of life in the countryside offers a sharp contrast to the modern pace of the capital, Ulaanbaatar. Travelling across such distances can be demanding, but the rewards come in the form of unforgettable scenery, warm hospitality, and a glimpse into a way of life that feels both ancient and resilient.
As a tourist destination, Mongolia is still relatively untouched and feels far removed from the crowded routes of mass tourism. Visitors come for its raw natural beauty, its strong cultural traditions, and the chance to experience true remoteness. Tourism infrastructure is improving, but it remains limited in many areas, which adds to the sense of adventure. Accommodation outside the main cities often means staying in ger camps — the round felt tents used by herders — which provide a more authentic experience of Mongolian life. Roads can be rough and journeys long, but the vastness and solitude of the countryside make every hour on the road worthwhile. For travellers looking for comfort and convenience, it can sometimes be a challenge, but for those open to a different rhythm, Mongolia offers something rare and memorable.
As part of our 19-day adventure across Mongolia, we journeyed to the far western reaches of the country — a remote and rugged region that borders Kazakhstan and is home to the country’s Kazakh minority. After a short flight from Ulaanbaatar, the capital, we descended over vast mountain ranges, glacial valleys, and seemingly endless stretches of steppe that shimmered under the wide Mongolian sky. It felt as though we had arrived in an entirely different world — one where the rhythms of life are shaped not by cities or technology, but by tradition, landscape, and the elements.
Our destination was a small Kazakh settlement where we would be staying with a local Eagle Hunter and his family. The Kazakh people of western Mongolia have preserved a centuries-old tradition that is both majestic and deeply symbolic — the ancient art of eagle hunting. Families here train golden eagles to hunt foxes and hares across the snowy plains, a practice that has been passed down through generations and is seen as a mark of honour and heritage. Staying with the family offered a rare glimpse into their daily life. We slept in a cosy ger, warmed by a central stove, and shared hearty home-cooked meals of mutton, dairy, and freshly baked bread. The hospitality was extraordinary — even in such remote conditions, guests are treated with deep respect and generosity, a reflection of the nomadic ethos that defines Mongolian culture.
The highlight of our stay was attending the Eagle Hunter Festival — an unforgettable celebration of skill, pride, and community. Hunters from across the region gathered, each dressed in richly embroidered traditional clothing and accompanied by their magnificent eagles perched on gloved arms. The festival grounds buzzed with excitement as riders competed in a series of events that showcased their mastery — calling their eagles from afar, racing across the open steppe, and demonstrating feats of horsemanship. Between competitions, there were moments of laughter, music, and shared stories, all set against a backdrop of snow-capped peaks and endless sky.
The trip was organised by Goyo Travel, and their arrangements made the experience smooth and enjoyable from start to finish. Everything from transport to accommodation was well thought out, and their local team showed real care in planning and guiding us through such a remote country. Our driver and guide were knowledgeable, friendly, and always willing to share insights about the people and places we encountered. Travelling in Mongolia can be unpredictable at times, with weather and road conditions changing quickly, but Goyo handled everything calmly and efficiently. Their organisation allowed us to focus on enjoying the journey rather than worrying about the details, and we would happily recommend them to others planning to explore this extraordinary country.
Day One – Among the Eagle Hunters of Western Mongolia
The day began quietly with breakfast at the hotel before we made our way to the airport for a short flight west to Ulgii, a remote town in Bayan-Ölgii province. From the air, the land below looked like a vast patchwork of golden steppe, rivers and snow-dusted mountains, seemingly endless. When we landed, Ulgii felt like a world apart from the capital. It sits in a broad valley ringed by the Altai Mountains near the borders with Russia and Kazakhstan. The air was dry and thin, with a clear, sharp light that made every ridge and rock appear close and bright. The town had a frontier feel—part Soviet-era practicality, part traditional Kazakh settlement. Most people here are ethnic Kazakh rather than Mongolian, and the culture reflects that: the signs are in Cyrillic, the spoken language is Kazakh, and Islam shapes daily life, with the call to prayer occasionally echoing softly across the valley. After settling in we drove up to a viewpoint where the town stretched below in a grid of low buildings with tin roofs, the wide valley floor and distant mountain walls reminding us just how isolated this region is.
Later we visited a small local hotel where musicians and singers had gathered to perform traditional Kazakh music. A long-necked dombra produced delicate, metallic notes that seemed to dance around the room, and then came a demonstration of throat singing, with deep vibrating tones and high overtones blending into an otherworldly sound that seemed to draw the landscape into the music itself. After lunch we walked through the town market, weaving between stalls piled with vegetables, furs, ropes of dried cheese and hanging cuts of meat. The smells were strong and unfamiliar but fascinating. We tasted local dairy products including tangy, hard aaruul and sweet pastries filled with curd. By late afternoon we set off for a small camp belonging to an eagle hunter family, following a river across open plains as the land grew wilder and emptier. The camp, a handful of gers beside the water, glowed softly in the fading light. Inside, a kettle boiled on the stove and the smell of wood smoke and mutton stew filled the air. Dinner was simple and hearty—meat, eggs for us, bread and salty milk tea—and although conversation relied mostly on gestures and smiles, the warmth of the welcome was unmistakable. Later we returned to our own ger, where a small fire crackled in the stove and the stars outside shone with startling brightness.
Day Two – Eagles and Mountains
Early in the morning, before the light had properly reached across the plains, a couple of family members slipped quietly into our ger to light the stove. They fed the fire with dried dung and wood until the space filled with a gentle warmth and the comforting smell of smoke. Outside, the air was icy and thin, but inside it felt cosy and safe. On the way to breakfast in the family’s main ger we passed a magnificent golden eagle tethered to a wooden perch, its large body perfectly still, only its talons flexing slightly on the wood. The bird’s feathers shimmered bronze in the early light, and its size up close was astonishing. It was hard not to feel a pang of sadness seeing such a wild creature tethered, yet here the tradition of eagle hunting—berkutchi—is based on deep respect and skill passed down through generations. Hunters take young eagles from the wild, train them with patience and care, hunt with them for several winters and then release them to breed. Seeing that bond at close range gave the practice a depth that no book or film can fully convey.
Later in the morning the young hunter of the family emerged dressed in full traditional costume, ready to practise for the festival. His fur-lined coat, tall hat and heavy boots made him look as if he had stepped straight out of an old photograph. Mounted on his horse, he rode with calm confidence, while his father carried the hooded eagle on his arm. We followed in the UAZ van into nearby hills, bouncing over rough ground to a quiet training spot. From one ridge the older man released the eagle, which soared and circled before dropping in a powerful, controlled dive straight onto the young hunter’s outstretched arm on a nearby slope. Watching this was breathtaking—the strength of the bird, the trust between them, the echo of an ancient tradition played out in real time. Afterwards we were invited to try on the heavy fur clothing and, one by one, to hold the eagle ourselves. Even with a thick glove its weight was surprising, and I could feel the strength in its grip. Later we drove to the family’s winter camp, a pretty green valley beside a river where they had built small wooden huts to survive the brutal winters. Sea buckthorn bushes glowed orange along the riverbank, heavy with tart berries. We sat in a meadow eating the fruit straight from the branches, pricking our fingers on the thorns and laughing at the mess. As daylight began to fade we continued towards the temporary camp that had grown up near the eagle festival site, passing at one point a UAZ with a broken axle abandoned by the track—apparently nothing remarkable here, where everyone knows how to repair them. By the time we arrived, the valley was dark and the gers were glowing with firelight, and we were more than ready to rest.Two
Day Three – Golden Eagles and Frozen Fingers
We had looked forward to the Golden Eagle Festival for days, and when the morning finally came there was a quiet buzz of excitement in the camp. After a quick breakfast of bread, eggs and tea we wrapped ourselves in as many layers as we could manage and climbed into the UAZ van. The journey to the festival grounds at Sagsai was short but unforgettable, the road crossing stony plains framed by snow-dusted hills and scattered gers. When we arrived, the field was already coming to life. Stalls lined the edge of the arena, the air filled with the smell of cooking mutton and wood smoke. Colourful felt slippers, embroidered bags and thick woollen gloves were piled high, and visitors moved from stall to stall in search of warmth. Even I gave in and bought a yak wool hat, which made an instant difference and attracted a friendly grin from the stallholder. On a small stage local musicians and school groups performed in bright traditional costumes, their music carrying across the valley. Then the eagle hunters began to appear, riding slowly towards the crowd, each one in furs and a tall hat with a massive golden eagle perched on a wooden rest beside the saddle. The sight of so many riders and birds together was extraordinary, like a moving painting.
Once the brief opening speeches were over, the main competitions began. The format was simple but gripping: the hunter waited in the arena while someone on the ridge released the eagle, which rose, circled and then swooped down at great speed towards its owner or a moving lure. When it worked, the bird landed neatly on the gloved arm or struck the fur with perfect timing. When it did not, the eagle might veer away, ignore the calls or fly off to a rock to watch the action from a comfortable distance. The crowd responded to each attempt with cheers, sympathetic laughter and bursts of applause. Hunters of all ages took part, including a few young women clearly proud to be part of the tradition. The cold was relentless, with a biting wind that numbed fingers and faces, and even simple tasks like visiting the rough temporary toilets became minor adventures. At lunchtime we gratefully retreated into a low canvas tent warmed by a small heater, wrapping chilled hands around bowls of hot stew and cups of tea while more music and throat singing drifted through the smoky air. In the afternoon there were games on horseback—riders leaning down at full gallop to scoop up a purse from the ground, or chasing each other in playful courtship races. By the time we climbed back into the van at the end of the day, red-faced and stiff with cold, we felt exhausted but deeply satisfied, our heads full of colour, sound and the powerful image of eagles diving from the sky.
Day Four – Snow, Eagles and a Return to Warmth
When we woke the next morning the world outside our ger had changed. A thin layer of snow covered the camp, dusting the gers and turning the surrounding hills white. The air was sharp and bitterly cold, but the sky was a clear icy blue that made the landscape shine. After a quick breakfast we piled on every layer we could find—jumpers, scarves, spare socks—knowing the cold would creep in soon enough. The final day of the festival began with fewer formalities and we quickly found our front-row spots again, close enough to hear the rush of wings. The competition continued, though for visitors it was almost impossible to follow the scoring without a scoreboard or commentary. We watched eagle after eagle rise from the mountainside and glide down to the waiting hunters, the birds’ dark shapes cutting through the bright air above the snow-covered plain. Between rounds we wandered through the crowd, surrounded by hunters in heavy fur coats and tall hats, their eagles perched calmly on their arms. Against the white snow, the rich colours of the clothing and the gleam of feathers made every scene look almost staged. The smell of wood smoke drifted across the field and the crunch of snow under our boots was constant.
By midday the cold had become brutal. Even through gloves our fingers ached, and our faces burned with the wind. The simple lunch tent felt like a lifesaver—a brief chance to thaw out over hot tea and a warm meal. In the afternoon, once the last eagle flights had finished, the tone changed and the field became the stage for other traditional games. One of the most memorable was a kind of tug-of-war on horseback, played with a goat carcass instead of a rope. Riders galloped, twisted and leaned low from their saddles, trying to wrench it from one another while snow and dust flew around them. It looked like complete chaos but the skill and balance involved were remarkable. As the sun dropped lower, a practical question emerged: whether to spend another freezing night in the ger camp or head back to a hotel in Ulgii. The offer of warmth and a real bed, especially with an early flight the next morning, was too tempting to refuse, so we chose the hotel. We returned briefly to camp to collect our bags, then drove for a couple of quiet hours through the snowy landscape, watching the mountains fade into the dusk. The hotel was simple but felt luxurious after several nights in gers—electricity, a proper bathroom and the miracle of a hot shower. Our basic room, with its narrow bed and frosted window, might as well have been a five-star suite; lying under clean sheets, listening to the hum of the heater, felt like pure comfort.
Planning your visit
The Eagle Hunter Festivals are among Mongolia’s most captivating cultural events, celebrating the ancient Kazakh tradition of hunting with golden eagles. These festivals are held mainly in the far west of the country, in Bayan-Ölgii Province, against the dramatic backdrop of the Altai Mountains. The main events take place in October, when the weather starts to cool and the golden eagles are ready for the hunting season.
📍 Choosing Which Festival to Attend
There are two main festivals each year: the Golden Eagle Festival in early October and the Altai Eagle Festival, usually held a week or two later. Both are hosted near the provincial capital, Ölgii, and attract hunters from across the region, along with photographers and travellers from around the world. The Golden Eagle Festival is the larger of the two, with more participants and media coverage, while the Altai Eagle Festival offers a smaller, more intimate experience.
✈️ Getting There
Reaching the festivals requires some planning. The easiest way is to fly from Ulaanbaatar to Ölgii, a journey of about three hours. Flights operate several times a week during the festival season, though it’s best to book well in advance as they often sell out quickly. Overland travel is possible but takes at least two days by road. Once in Ölgii, the festival grounds are usually a short drive outside town, and local drivers or tour companies can arrange transport.
🏕️ Accommodation and Tours
Accommodation in Ölgii ranges from basic hotels and guesthouses to traditional Kazakh ger camps set up for the festival period. Many visitors choose to join a guided tour, which includes travel, accommodation, and interpretation. Local tour operators also offer cultural visits to eagle hunters’ homes, where you can learn about their daily lives and the close bond they share with their birds.
🎟️ Festival Highlights
The main events usually run over two days, featuring eagle-handling displays, horseback competitions, traditional Kazakh games, and cultural performances. The atmosphere is lively and welcoming, with plenty of opportunities to take photos and talk with local hunters. Visitors can also browse local crafts and enjoy traditional Kazakh food from stalls around the grounds.
🧭 Practical Information
Location: Near Ölgii, Bayan-Ölgii Province, Western Mongolia
Typical Dates: Early to mid-October (exact dates vary each year)
Festival Hours: Approximately 10:00 to 17:00 each day
Entry: Tickets can be purchased on site or arranged through local tour operators
Best Time to Arrive: One day before the festival begins to settle in and explore the town
⚠️ Things to Be Aware Of
Weather in the Altai Mountains can be unpredictable in October, with chilly mornings, strong winds, and even occasional snow. Warm clothing, layers, gloves, and waterproof boots are essential. Remember that this is a remote area — facilities are limited, and cash is preferred over cards. Respect local customs, ask before taking close-up photos, and follow guidance from festival organisers.