The UNESCO listed Deer Stones and Bronze Age Monuments in Mongolia stand quietly across the open steppe, their weathered carvings and ancient stone slabs offering a rare glimpse into the beliefs, rituals, and artistic traditions of the people who lived here more than three thousand years ago.
Mongolia: A 19 day tour of the steppe and valleys
Contents
1. About Mongolia and our tour
2. Planning your visit
3. Best time to visit
4. Our itinerary
– Day One – London to Ulaanbaatar
– Day Two – First Impressions of Ulaanbaatar & Terelj
– Day Three – History, Politics and Pageantry in Ulaanbaatar
– Day Four – Monasteries, Wild Horses and a Night in a Ger
– Day Five – Crossing the Gobi to Mandalgobi
– Day Six – Mandalgobi and the White Stupa
– Day Seven – Dalanzadgad and Yolyn Am
– Day Eight – The Singing Dunes of Khongoryn Els
– Day Nine – Khavtsgait Petroglyphs and the Flaming Cliffs of Bayanzag
– Day Ten – Journey to Ongiin Khid
– Day Eleven – Journey Through the Orkhon Valley
– Day Twelve – A Morning with a Mongolian Family
– Day Thirteen – A Wet Road to Kharkhorin
– Day Fourteen – Back to Ulaanbaatar
– Day Fifteen – Among the Eagle Hunters of Western Mongolia
– Day Sixteen – Eagles and Mountains
– Day Seventeen – Golden Eagles and Frozen Fingers
– Day Eighteen – Snow, Eagles and a Return to Warmth
– Day Nineteen – A Warm Farewell to Mongolia
A Grand Tour 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.
Our 19-day tour took us across a wide stretch of the country, from the capital Ulaanbaatar through the open steppe to the southern deserts of the Gobi and back again. Each stop brought new landscapes and small surprises — wild horses grazing freely in Khustai National Park, the layered cliffs and strange shapes of Tsagaan Suvarga, and the famous Bayanzag, known as the Flaming Cliffs, glowing red in the late afternoon sun. We climbed the dunes at Khongoryn Els, watched the wind move across the sand, and later visited the quiet remains of Ongiin Khid Monastery, once one of Mongolia’s largest religious sites. Along the way, we met herders, shared tea and stories, and spent nights under clear skies filled with stars. The journey was long but never dull, with the vast distances adding to the feeling of being somewhere truly special and far from the familiar.
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.
Planning your visit
🗺️ Planning Your Visit to Mongolia
Planning a visit to Mongolia takes a little more thought than other destinations, but the rewards are immense. The country’s vast open spaces, dramatic landscapes and welcoming nomadic culture make it a truly unique place to explore. The capital, Ulaanbaatar, is usually the starting point for most travellers, with international flights arriving from several Asian and European hubs. From here, you can arrange tours to the countryside, often by private vehicle or organised group, since public transport to remote areas can be limited. Accommodation outside major towns tends to be in traditional ger camps, which provide a comfortable way to experience nomadic life.
🧳 What to Pack
The weather in Mongolia can change quickly, even in summer, so pack layers and sturdy outdoor clothing. A good windproof jacket, warm jumper, and lightweight trousers are useful year-round. Comfortable walking shoes or boots are essential for exploring natural sites. A sunhat, sunscreen and sunglasses are recommended for the strong sunlight, especially in the desert and high plains. If you’re staying in a ger camp, consider bringing a small torch, wipes, and power bank, as electricity may not always be available.
💬 Culture and Etiquette
Mongolians are proud of their traditions, many of which are rooted in nomadic hospitality. When visiting a ger, it’s customary to enter with your right foot first and never lean against the central supports. Always accept food or drink offered by your host, at least with a polite taste, as refusal may be seen as disrespectful. Pointing with your finger or touching someone’s head is considered impolite. Dress modestly, especially in rural areas and monasteries. Taking photos of people should be done respectfully and only with permission.
⚖️ Local Laws and Customs
Mongolia has strict laws regarding the protection of its environment and heritage. Removing fossils, artefacts or stones from national parks is illegal. Respect local rules around wildlife and avoid disturbing livestock or private gers. It’s an offence to drink alcohol in public places or be visibly intoxicated in towns. Possession or use of drugs carries severe penalties. When driving in rural areas, always stay on established tracks to prevent damaging the fragile landscape.
🚐 Travel Tips
Distances in Mongolia are vast and road conditions can be rough, so travel times are often longer than expected. Hiring an experienced driver or joining an organised tour is the most reliable way to get around. Mobile coverage is limited outside cities, so offline maps are useful. Carry cash in Mongolian tögrög, as card payments are not always accepted in rural areas. Health facilities are basic outside Ulaanbaatar, so good travel insurance and a personal medical kit are essential.
The best time to visit
🌸 Spring (March to May)
Spring in Mongolia marks the transition from the harsh winter to milder weather, but it can still be unpredictable. March and April often remain cold, with lingering snow and strong winds across the steppe. By May, the landscapes begin to turn green, rivers start to thaw, and the nomadic herders return to the open plains. Although not yet the peak tourist season, this time offers quietness and a glimpse of daily Mongolian life before the summer crowds arrive. However, dust storms can occur in some regions, especially in the Gobi Desert.
What to pack: Warm layers, a windproof jacket, sturdy boots, gloves, and a hat. Temperatures can vary dramatically between day and night.
☀️ Summer (June to August)
Summer is the best-known season for visiting Mongolia. The weather is generally warm and pleasant, with clear blue skies, wildflowers in bloom, and green grasslands stretching to the horizon. This is also the time of the famous Naadam Festival in July, when wrestling, archery, and horse racing dominate the celebrations. It’s ideal for camping, hiking, horse riding, and visiting remote regions such as the Gobi Desert or Lake Khövsgöl. Expect occasional rain showers, particularly in July and August.
What to pack: Light clothing, a waterproof jacket, comfortable walking shoes, sunscreen, sunglasses, and insect repellent. A warm jumper or fleece is still useful for cool nights.
🍁 Autumn (September to October)
Autumn in Mongolia is brief but beautiful. The landscapes turn golden, and the air is crisp and clear, making it perfect for photography and outdoor activities. Temperatures begin to drop, especially at night, but the days often remain sunny. Tourist numbers thin out, so this season is excellent for travellers who prefer a quieter experience. Many nomads begin their preparations for winter, adding cultural interest to your trip.
What to pack: Warm layers, a medium-weight jacket, gloves, and sturdy footwear. A hat and scarf are useful for chilly evenings.
❄️ Winter (November to February)
Winter in Mongolia is extremely cold, with temperatures often dropping below -30°C in some regions. The steppe and desert turn into stark, icy landscapes, and most rural tourism slows down. However, this is also when you can experience the authentic side of Mongolian life — from the hospitality of nomadic families to winter festivals like the Ice Festival at Lake Khövsgöl and the Golden Eagle Festival in the west. Travelling can be challenging, but rewarding for adventurous visitors.
What to pack: Thermal base layers, insulated outerwear, snow boots, gloves, wool hats, scarves, and heavy socks. Warm sleeping gear is essential if staying in gers.
📊 Summary Chart
| Season | Months | Weather | Highlights | Recommended Activities |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 🌸 Spring | Mar–May | Cold to mild, windy | Thawing landscapes, fewer tourists | Cultural visits, steppe drives |
| ☀️ Summer | Jun–Aug | Warm, some rain | Naadam Festival, lush scenery | Trekking, horse riding, camping |
| 🍁 Autumn | Sep–Oct | Cool, clear skies | Golden landscapes, fewer crowds | Photography, hiking, cultural travel |
| ❄️ Winter | Nov–Feb | Very cold, dry | Ice & Eagle festivals | Cultural stays, winter sports |
🌤 Overall Best Time to Visit
The best time to visit Mongolia is from June to September, when the weather is warm, the countryside is at its most beautiful, and most roads are accessible. July offers the excitement of Naadam and peak greenery, while September provides cooler temperatures and fewer tourists. Whether you want to explore the deserts, mountains, or grasslands, this summer-to-early-autumn period gives the most enjoyable and comfortable experience.
Our Itinerary
Day One – London to Ulaanbaatar
A brutal 4:00 am alarm marked the start of the journey, but at least the empty roads made for an easy drive to Heathrow. With bags already packed, it was just a case of showering, loading the car and getting underway. Check-in and security were surprisingly smooth, and soon the first leg from Heathrow to Frankfurt with Lufthansa was done and dusted. At Frankfurt, there was the rather tedious routine of collecting bags, clearing immigration and changing terminals, but it all went efficiently enough.
The onward flight with MIAT, the Mongolian national carrier, was an eight-hour hop to Ulaanbaatar. Securing exit-row seats made the long journey more bearable, and the aircraft and crew were excellent throughout. The only real disappointments were the in-flight entertainment, which was entirely in Mongolian, and the rather uninspiring food. Still, it was a comfortable and uneventful flight, and a sense of anticipation grew as the plane headed deeper into Central Asia.
Day Two – First Impressions of Ulaanbaatar & Terelj
Arrival at Chinggis Khan International Airport at 5:30 am was mercifully straightforward. The airport was small and quiet, so immigration and baggage reclaim passed quickly. Outside, a guide from Goyo Travels, Hashi, met us and drove us into the city through heavy, slow-moving traffic that belied the short distance from the airport. Exhausted and desperate for coffee, we finally found a café opening for the day, then dropped our bags at the Tuushin Hotel in the city centre, far too early to check in.
Until rooms were ready, Hashi took our small group on a day trip out of the city. We crawled through Ulaanbaatar’s snarled traffic before reaching Gorkhi–Terelj National Park, with its curious rock formations, scattered ger camps and wide Mongolian plains. We stopped briefly at a roadside spot where tethered raptors were offered as photographic props, a sad sight that left a sour note. Inside the park we visited “Turtle Rock” and then walked up to Aryapala Temple, a small Buddhist monastery perched on a hillside. The climb, though short, was steep enough to leave us breathless, but the views over the landscape and the chance to spin prayer wheels and explore the temple more than rewarded the effort. Later, we continued to the colossal Chinggis Khan equestrian statue, climbing up through the visitor centre and into the body of the statue to stand on the horse’s head and enjoy sweeping views of the surrounding steppe before returning, tired and hungry, to Ulaanbaatar and finally checking into the hotel.
Day Three – History, Politics and Pageantry in Ulaanbaatar
This day in Ulaanbaatar was shaped by the arrival of Vladimir Putin on a state visit. The city centre had been locked down for days in preparation, with streets blocked, checkpoints in place and flags lining the main avenues. From the hotel, Chinggis Khan Square looked strangely still and empty, guarded by soldiers and military vehicles. A note under the door even warned guests to keep curtains closed because snipers would be positioned on nearby rooftops. With the square sealed off, our walk to the National Museum of Mongolia became a long detour through back streets and police lines, the atmosphere a mix of tension and curiosity.
The National Museum itself was outstanding, tracing Mongolia’s story from prehistoric times through the Mongol Empire and into the Soviet era and modern democracy. Exhibits ranged from Stone Age tools and Bronze Age artefacts to traditional costumes and weapons from the time of Chinggis Khan, and later, propaganda posters and photographs from the socialist period. It captured both the grandeur of Mongolia’s imperial past and the complex, often uneasy relationship with its powerful neighbours, Russia and China. Afterwards, with time to spare and not particularly hungry, we drifted back towards the square to witness the day’s main spectacle. A long motorcade of black cars swept in, delivering Putin to meet President Ukhnaagiin Khürelsükh on the steps of the Parliament building. The welcome from the Mongolian crowd was polite but restrained. A military parade followed, including an impressive display by the Mongolian cavalry, riders in traditional dress galloping across the square with effortless control.
Later, after a simple vegetarian meal found in a nearby shopping mall food court, we returned to the square once more. By evening, it had transformed into a concert venue, with a huge stage hosting Russian military performers—choirs, musicians and dancers—touring with the President as part of a cultural showcase. The performance was grand and technically flawless, filled with booming harmonies and swirling folk dances, but again the audience response felt measured rather than enthusiastic. As the temperature dropped and the show ended, we walked back through the cold night air to the hotel, reflecting on a day that had combined history, politics and spectacle in equal measure. The next morning would see us leave the city’s pomp behind and head towards the vast, open spaces of the Mongolian steppe.
Day Four – Monasteries, Wild Horses and a Night in a Ger
Plans to visit Manzushir Monastery and hike on Mount Bogd were abandoned when Putin’s visit effectively paralysed much of Ulaanbaatar, closing roads and clogging the city with traffic and security. Hashi swiftly devised an alternative: a visit to Gandantegchinlen Monastery followed by an escape into the countryside and an overnight stay near Khustai National Park. Outside the hotel, two sturdy Russian UAZ vans waited — simple, rugged vehicles perfectly suited to Mongolia’s rough tracks. After loading our bags and clambering aboard, we drove first to Gandantegchinlen, one of the country’s most significant Buddhist monasteries. Inside its courtyards, monks in crimson robes moved between temples, prayer wheels spun continuously and the air was thick with incense. The main halls, filled with chanting, butter lamps and a towering statue of Avalokiteśvara, felt deeply spiritual, while the modern donation counters downstairs, complete with card machines, added a slightly surreal note of practicality to the sacred atmosphere.
By late morning, the city’s concrete blocks gave way to open steppe as the UAZs headed towards Khustai National Park. The tarmac ended abruptly, replaced by rutted dirt tracks that had the vans bouncing and rattling as we crossed rolling grasslands under a huge sky. After a basic but hearty lunch at the park’s visitor centre, we explored a small museum explaining the park’s wildlife and the remarkable reintroduction of the Przewalski’s horse, or takhi—the world’s last true wild horse, once extinct in the wild. Later, we drove deeper into the park, climbed a low hill for panoramic views of the surrounding ridges and valleys, and then walked quietly to watch a small herd of takhi grazing on a distant slope, stocky and dun-coloured, perfectly at home in the landscape. As evening approached, we reached the home of a park ranger and his family, a small cluster of gers on the open steppe. Our guest ger was simple but warm, with bright painted woodwork, a firm bed and the toilet set in a basic outhouse a short walk away. Supper with the family was traditional and meat-heavy, and a careless remark from one member of the group about the food briefly offended local sensibilities and upset Hashi, a reminder of the importance of respecting hospitality. Yet the mood gradually eased, and stepping outside later into the cold, crystal-clear night to see thousands of stars blazing above the silent plains felt magical. Wrapped in thick blankets inside the ger, with the wind whispering outside and wild horses somewhere in the darkness, it finally felt as though our Mongolian adventure had truly begun.
Day Five – Crossing the Gobi to Mandalgobi
The day began with stiffness from a hard ger mattress and the memory of midnight trips into the freezing dark, rewarded only by the extraordinary blaze of the Mongolian night sky. With no light pollution for hundreds of miles, the Milky Way arched overhead in crisp detail, the stillness broken only by a faint wind. In the morning, a simple breakfast with our hosts – fried eggs yet again but warmly offered – set us up for the long journey ahead. Once we left the tarmac, the Gobi unfolded in every direction: pale, dry and seemingly endless, the horizon playing tricks so that after hours of driving it felt as though we had barely moved. A welcome pause came at Baga Gazrin Chuluu, where ancient granite outcrops rose unexpectedly from the plains. We walked among weathered boulders, past blue-scarved ovoo and stubborn tufts of grass, before coffee was brewed in the middle of nowhere and the desert once again swallowed the track ahead.
As the day wore on, a basic roadside lunch and a few scattered settlements were the only hints of human life in a landscape without road signs or landmarks. The drivers navigated by experience rather than maps, steering the UAZ vans across an almost featureless sea of dust and stone. By sunset, the desert glowed gold and the temperature dropped sharply. In the dark, our van spluttered to a halt and for a tense spell we stood under a sky thick with stars while the driver coaxed the engine back to life. Eventually, a cluster of dim lights on the horizon resolved into Mandalgobi, and we rolled into a courtyard where gers waited for us within a family compound. The beds were hard but felt luxurious after more than eight hours of rattling tracks, and as we settled under heavy blankets, it was clear that this long, dusty day would be one of the most memorable of the journey.
Day Six – Mandalgobi and the White Stupa
Morning in Mandalgobi felt gentler, with a slower start and the rare pleasure of not immediately facing a very long drive. After breakfast, we visited the Gobi Oasis tree nursery, a modest but determined project working to restore the fragile environment of the semi-arid Gobi. Rows of hardy young trees – saxaul, elm and other species adapted to the harsh climate – grew in carefully tended beds, nurtured by drip irrigation and painstakingly conserved water. Planting a sapling of our own was a small act, but it underlined the scale and patience of the work being done here to combat desertification and support local livelihoods. Later, a short climb to a nearby memorial hill gave a broad view over Mandalgobi: a scattering of low buildings pressed between steppe and desert, with the dunes not far away and the wind carrying the dry scent of dust and grass.
By late morning, we were on the move again, heading for Tsagaan Suvarga – the White Stupa. Our new ger camp felt more like an organised site than a family homestay, with neat rows of gers and, to general relief, a shower block. After lunch and a brief rest, we drove out to the escarpment itself. The White Stupa rose from the plain in bands of cream, pink and ochre, a long cliff that looked almost like a row of ancient temples. Once a seabed millions of years ago, it still bears traces of marine life in its layered rock. We walked along the rim and then down into the dry gullies below, the formations appearing even more dramatic from beneath – frozen waves of stone, sculpted by wind and time. As the sun dropped lower, the colours deepened and the cliffs seemed to glow from within. Returning to camp in the cool of the evening, it was hard not to reflect on the contrast between the small, hopeful act of planting a tree and the vast, ancient story written in the rocks we had just walked among.
Day Seven – Dalanzadgad and Yolyn Am
The day’s journey carried us south towards Dalanzadgad, the principal town of the South Gobi. The drive passed through open steppe and low, stony hills, the colours subtly shifting with the light – washed yellows, greys and browns under a wide, restless sky. White gers appeared from time to time on the horizon, temporary dots of life in an otherwise empty landscape. Dalanzadgad itself emerged suddenly as a cluster of buildings and busy streets, buzzing with motorbikes and lined with a mix of modern blocks and older Soviet-era structures. At the small South Gobi Museum, carefully curated displays of dinosaur fossils and nomadic artefacts helped to frame the desert we had been travelling through – a place of deep time and fierce resilience. A simple lunch in a family-run restaurant, accompanied by the quiet hum of local radio, reinforced the town’s role as a waystation between the wide spaces of the Gobi.
Leaving Dalanzadgad behind, we drove towards the dark ridges of the Gurvan Saikhan Mountains and the narrow gorge of Yolyn Am. Here the road dissolved into rougher tracks, and the landscape closed in as steep rock walls rose around us. A cold river ran through the gorge, higher and faster than usual after recent rains, its milky water twisting through stones and shaded pools. We followed the path beside it, hopping from rock to rock and crossing on rough planks where the banks narrowed. The air in the gorge was noticeably cooler and sharper, a welcome change from the open heat of the plains. After turning back before one of the deeper crossings, there was time to sit quietly on a boulder, listening to the rush of the stream and watching the light shift on the rock walls. Later, the track opened once more onto a broad plain where our ger camp awaited under another vast sky. Dinner was simple, the wind low, and as night fell, the sense of having stepped for a while into a different, greener corner of the Gobi lingered.
Day Eight – The Singing Dunes of Khongoryn Els
This was a day long anticipated: time among the great sand dunes of Khongoryn Els, the famed “Singing Dunes” of the Gobi. After breakfast we set off across an increasingly sandy landscape, the morning light soft and the horizon shimmering. The dunes appeared gradually, first as low ridges, then as towering waves of pale gold, some rising hundreds of metres above the surrounding plain. From a distance they looked smooth and delicate; up close they proved steep, hot and demanding. At the base of one of the highest dunes we stepped out into warm, powder-fine sand and began to climb. Every step slid back almost as far as it gained, turning the ascent into a slow, breathless slog. Halfway up, the view already stretched endlessly across the desert, and the eventual run back down – plunging and sliding in cascades of sand – was pure exhilaration, the dunes briefly alive with our shouts and laughter.
Later, we drove on to an area where camel herders live and graze their animals along the margins of the dunes. Here we saw our first large herd of Bactrian camels at close quarters: sturdy, double-humped animals with shedding coats and calm, watchful eyes. Built perfectly for this environment, their broad, padded feet carried them easily over the soft ground, and their stored fat saw them through long periods without pasture. Some of the party chose to ride, swaying off across the sand on twenty-minute circuits, while others stayed back to watch, talk with the herder and absorb the scene. As the afternoon waned, we drove back towards camp with the dunes glowing gold, then rose and rose-pink as the sun slipped behind them. Long shadows stretched across the plain, and by the time we reached our ger the sky was turning deep blue. Dinner was eaten with fine sand still clinging to clothes and hair, a tangible reminder of a hot, joyful day among the Singing Dunes.
Day Nine – Khavtsgait Petroglyphs and the Flaming Cliffs of Bayanzag
The morning began unhurriedly, with a leisurely breakfast before we turned east once more across the open steppe. Our first destination was Khavtsgait, a rocky hillside sheltering ancient petroglyphs carved thousands of years ago. After clambering out of the UAZ vans, we followed Hashi up a gentle slope scattered with boulders and wiry grass. At first the rock faces seemed plain, but slowly the carvings emerged: faint outlines of ibex, wild horses and human figures, some simple and stick-like, others surprisingly detailed with curved horns and poised bows. Hashi explained that many of these images date back to the Bronze Age, preserving scenes of hunting, herding and everyday life in a time long before written records. Sitting for a while on a warm slab of stone, with the desert spreading out below in muted ochres and golds, it was easy to imagine the people who had once paused here to chip their stories into the rock.
Eventually we descended, brushed sand from our boots and continued on towards Bayanzag, where our next ger camp lay near the famous Flaming Cliffs. After a midday meal and short rest, we set out again in the softening light of late afternoon. As we approached, the flat land broke into a maze of gullies and red sandstone ridges, the cliffs glowing more intensely with every passing minute. Known locally as Bayanzag, this is a place renowned both for its beauty and for the dinosaur fossils uncovered here in the 1920s by Roy Chapman Andrews. Walking along the edge of the escarpment, we watched the rocks shift through shades of orange, red and gold as the sun dropped low, the desert below patterned with dry riverbeds and scattered scrub. The silence was profound. When the sun finally dipped, and the cliffs cooled to violet, we returned to camp in gathering dusk. The evening was quiet and reflective, the day filled with the sense of having touched both deep human history and deep geological time.
Day Ten – Journey to Ongiin Khid
The journey north towards Ongiin Khid carried us deeper into Mongolia’s heartland, along rough tracks that wound through rolling steppe and scrub. Herds of goats and horses moved aside as the van approached, the animals disappearing quickly back into the wide spaces behind us. The sky felt even bigger here, the air clear and dry, and the land almost empty of obvious human traces. A mid-morning stop for our now-familiar coffee ritual brought a welcome pause: Hashi and the driver unpacked the stove and supplies with practised ease, and soon the smell of fresh coffee mingled with the scent of sun-warmed grass and dust. Later, we halted again at a sudden river ravine where the land dropped away in sheer cliffs to a narrow thread of water below. Standing on the edge, looking down at the steep, crumbling sides, was a sharp reminder of how raw and untamed this landscape remains – and how far from immediate help one can be out here.
By around midday we reached our ger camp near the Ongi River, a scattering of tents set against low, rocky hills. After a simple but satisfying lunch, we walked to the ruins of Ongiin Khid, once one of Mongolia’s largest monastic complexes. Founded in the 17th century, it grew into a major centre of Buddhist learning before being almost destroyed during the communist purges of the 1930s. Hashi described how monks were arrested or killed, temples were razed and the site left to the elements for decades. Since the 1990s, a few small temples have been rebuilt, and new prayer flags now flutter among broken walls and scattered carved stones. Wandering slowly through the remains, it was impossible not to feel the weight of both loss and renewal in the air. Back at the camp, the late sun cast a golden light over the river and the steppe. As evening fell, tea was shared in companionable quiet, and the night sky once again filled with countless stars, closing the day – and this section of the journey – with a sense of solemn beauty.
Day Eleven – Journey Through the Orkhon Valley
After breakfast we continued our slow journey north, the morning sun lighting up the endless steppe in warm shades of gold and brown. The road ahead was long and open, cutting through stretches of grassland that seemed to have no end. After a couple of hours our driver pulled over near a small cluster of white gers where smoke curled softly into the clear blue sky. This was a nomadic Mongolian family’s home, and we were welcomed inside with an easy warmth that felt entirely natural. The air in the ger was thick with the smell of burning dung fuel and fresh tea. Children moved quietly in the background while an elderly woman arranged small squares of yak cheese on a tray ready to dry in the sun. More cheese was spread out on the roof, slowly hardening in the dry air. We were offered aaruul, the traditional dried curd cheese made from yak’s milk. At first it tasted strange—sour, tough and very chewy—but after a few bites it began to make sense, like something that belonged to this land: sharp, clean and honest. We were given softer pieces that were slightly creamy and kinder on the teeth, and we sipped salty milk tea as time seemed to slow to a halt. Their life felt simple but rich in rhythm and connection, entirely shaped by the land and the seasons, and when we finally left, they waved us off until we disappeared beyond the next hill.
The landscape opened out even more as the Orkhon Valley began to unfold around us—a wide, sweeping plain that seemed to hold the memory of Mongolia’s ancient past. This valley, known as the cradle of Mongolian civilisation, was once at the heart of the great Mongol Empire. The Orkhon River wound through the steppe like a long silver ribbon, glinting in the sun, while herds of horses grazed freely, eagles circled high above and distant gers glimmered like scattered pearls. We stopped often to take in the views and to feel the strange sense of continuity between past and present. Later we reached the Deer Stone Monuments, tall carved stones etched with images of deer, weapons and solar symbols, standing silent in the wind. Nearby lay the Square Tombs of the Camel Stone, their rough stone outlines and central marker rock hinting at early steppe cultures long before written history. Towards the end of the day, we arrived at Uurtin Tokai Canyon, where the land suddenly dropped away into a dramatic gorge carved by the Orkhon River, a waterfall thundering into a deep pool below. By the time we reached our ger camp for the next two nights, set on a gentle rise overlooking the valley, the white tents were glowing softly in the fading light and the whole landscape felt timeless.
Day Twelve – A Morning with a Mongolian Family
The next morning began with clear skies and a cool wind sweeping gently across the steppe. After breakfast we climbed into the familiar UAZ van, its engine coughing into life before we rolled out of camp. The drive took us across open land that seemed to stretch forever—a sea of grass with low hills in the distance and the occasional ger appearing like a small white dot on the horizon. Eventually we reached another family’s ger camp, a neat cluster of round white tents set against a backdrop of green hills. The air smelled faintly of smoke and dry grass. We were welcomed inside and offered fermented mare’s milk—airag—which I accepted politely but could only sip; its sharp sourness is a taste I don’t think I will ever grow used to. We were then shown the family’s horses grazing nearby. Mongolian horses are compact and muscular, built low to the ground, with thick manes and a strong, sturdy look that suits this demanding landscape. They seemed calm but alert, and it was easy to understand how deeply they are woven into Mongolian life, providing transport, milk and status, and inspiring so many songs and legends.
When it was time for riding, I quietly decided to stay on the ground. I have never been fully comfortable around horses and the idea of climbing onto one of these powerful little animals made me uneasy. Karen felt the same, so while others rode out into the open land, we set off on foot instead. I wandered towards a line of low hills, taking my time in the extraordinary silence, which was not empty but full of subtle sounds—the whisper of grass, the distant call of a bird, the occasional bark of a dog. The land felt timeless, as if little had changed here for centuries. After a while I turned back towards camp and saw Karen making her own slow way across the grass; when we met, we shared quiet smiles, both of us feeling oddly calm and grounded. Around ninety minutes later the riders returned, flushed and happy, their horses snorting as they came to a halt. I felt content with my choice to walk. We all gathered for lunch inside one of the family gers, eating simple but delicious mutton stew with handmade noodles, fresh bread and salty tea. Even without a shared language, the hospitality needed no translation. Later we returned to our own ger camp, where the afternoon passed quietly in reading, resting and watching the light shift over the hills.
Day Thirteen – A Wet Road to Kharkhorin
After breakfast we packed our bags and climbed back into the sturdy UAZ van that had carried us across so much of Mongolia’s wild countryside. The sky was low and heavy with cloud, and a fine drizzle hung in the air as we set off on the long road towards the capital, with one more overnight stop ahead. The road wound through rolling open land dotted with grazing horses and the occasional herder wrapped tightly in a thick deel against the damp. About an hour into the journey, we stopped at a small monastery that seemed to appear out of nowhere, perched on a rise above the valley. Its walls were faded but strong, prayer flags flapping weakly in the rain. We wandered slowly around the courtyard, breathing in the smell of wet earth and juniper incense, and for a few minutes simply listened to the wind whistling round the temple corners. The rain intensified as we left, tapping against the van windows while the tyres slipped along the muddy track back to the main road.
Several hours later we reached Kharkhorin. Even in grey, steady rain, the great white walls of Erdene Zuu Monastery were impressive. Once at the heart of Genghis Khan’s ancient capital, the monastery now stands as a living reminder of Mongolia’s Buddhist heritage. We entered through an ornate gate and found ourselves surrounded by a ring of stupas, the ground slick with water so that every step over the worn stones needed care. Inside the complex, faint chanting drifted from one of the shrines, and the air smelled of incense, damp wood and butter lamps. A dance festival was taking place in the courtyard, bright costumes splashing colour across the dull sky. Later we visited a nearby museum that told the story of Karakorum’s glory days, with displays of tools, pottery and coins showing the blend of cultures that once passed through this trading city. By the time we drove out towards our ger camp near the Monument of the Three Kings, the clouds were beginning to lift, and shafts of sunlight were cutting across the fields. From the monument hill we looked out over the Orkhon River twisting below and the steppe stretching in every direction. We also visited a small calligraphy centre filled with brushes, scrolls and elegant script. On the way back we stopped at a natural rock known as the Penis Stone, linked to old fertility legends. As we stood there a perfect rainbow arched across the dark clouds, and for a few minutes the landscape felt almost unreal in its beauty.
Day Fourteen – Back to Ulaanbaatar
The drive back to Ulaanbaatar felt long and unhurried, the kind of journey where the vastness of Mongolia makes time harder to measure. The landscape shifted slowly from open steppes dotted with distant gers to hills and then to the first scattered signs of the city. Traffic thickened, buildings grew taller, and eventually the familiar skyline of the capital came into view. When we reached our hotel there was a quiet sense of relief at being back somewhere with hot water, coffee and a proper bed with an ensuite bathroom.
Day Fifteen – 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 Sixteen – 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.
Day Seventeen – 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 Eighteen – 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.
Day 19 – A Warm Farewell to Mongolia
We woke feeling properly rested for the first time in days, wrapped in the soft warmth of the hotel room after a deep, undisturbed sleep. Outside, the cold still pressed against the windows, but inside we could take our time getting ready, enjoying the small luxuries of running water and proper heating. Over breakfast we found ourselves quietly reflecting on how far we had travelled since our first night in a ger. Before long it was time to say our goodbyes to the local team who had looked after us so patiently over rough roads and long days. There was genuine gratitude in those farewells. Soon afterwards we were on our way to the airport for the flight back to Ulaanbaatar, watching from the plane window as the mountains and empty plains of western Mongolia slowly slipped away beneath us.
Back in the capital we had a few free hours before dinner. We wandered through the city one last time, ducking into small shops and markets more out of habit than any real desire to buy souvenirs. With more travelling still ahead of us, we resisted anything bulky, but a pair of soft merino wool beanies caught our eye—simple, warm and perfect for the colder stops still to come. That felt like the right kind of memento from Mongolia: practical and understated. In the evening the company owner gathered us for a farewell dinner at a small Indian restaurant tucked away on a quiet street. Over shared dishes we talked about the moments that had stayed with us most—the silence of the steppe, the star-filled nights, the kindness in so many small gestures, and the fierce beauty of the eagles and their hunters. Mongolia had been demanding at times, with rough tracks, unpredictable weather and basic comforts, but it had also been deeply rewarding, raw and real in a way few places are. As we walked back through the chilly streets to our hotel, the city lights soft against the dark sky, there was that familiar bittersweet feeling that comes at the end of a journey. We knew we would move on the next day, but some part of us would remain out there in the vast stillness of the steppe, among the horses, the hills and the circling eagles.
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