In the summer of 2019, a dingy yellow-white 4x4 van barreled across the great Mongolian steppe, throwing up a dust cloud that seemed small in comparison to its expansive surroundings. To a hypothetical observer, the insignificance of this man-made object battling the rough terrain underneath the Great Sky would stand in sharp contrast to the imposing presence of the wide open steppe itself. A great green expanse, as far as the eye could see, slowly rising up to meet the foothills of the Khangai mountain range—the cradle of Mongolian history and culture.

It was no accident that I chose this area for a week-long solo hike. The region is protected as a UNESCO World Heritage site, and its highest peak, Otgontenger, was sacred to both the ancient Turkic empires as well as the Mongols that came to rule the region afterwards. It’s also the region where Karakorum, the first capital of the Mongol Empire, was built in the thirteenth century. Besides its cultural and historical significance, I was told of the extraordinary beauty of its valleys, its wild rivers, and free-roaming herds of horses and cattle.

The reason for my trek across this magnificently wild part of the world was to see if I could gain meaningful insight into Mongolian culture and its nomadic roots by immersing myself into the cradle of its civilization. After all, what does it take to truly connect to a place? Does true understanding of a foreign culture and its essence only come from long-term investments in learning the language and customs over a long period of time? Or is a brief but brutally honest window into the soul of a country enough to grasp the conceptual heartbeat of a place and its people?

Determined to find Mongolia’s cultural essence, I set out on what I thought to be my most remote and solitary long-distance hike yet. However, instead of a week of extreme solitude, I found myself embraced by the hospitality of a people that embody one of the last true nomadic cultures in the world.

Acts of giving

The small van came to a halt in the village of Uyanga, a tiny speck of civilization on the southeastern edge of the Khangai mountain range. After being squeezed in with seven others in what seemed the Mongolian equivalent of a clown car, being back on my own two feet was a relief. Not that we weren’t allowed any breaks during the two-hour drive up here; our two stops were used by my fellow passengers to relieve themselves on the side of the dirt track and to celebrate their empty bladders by sharing a bottle of vodka with the group, drinking from a bisected beer can. The driver received two shots as thanks for his selfless effort in getting us where we needed to go.

Once feeling had returned to my legs, I strapped on my backpack, heavy with camping gear and a week’s worth of provisions, and set off to the northwest. The two days were a long but steady climb along a valley leading to a pass in the mountains, after which I would enter the Eight Lakes nature reserve. It was on my second day that I had my first real taste of Mongol nomad hospitality.

The barking dogs warned me not to get too close to the camp. Not that I planned on barging in anyway; my sense of privacy already set me on a path well away from its edge. Alerted by the barking, a woman emerged from one of the gers (the Mongolian word for yurts) and started waving at me. Being friendly, I waved back while continuing on my avoidant course. Instead of returning to her business, the woman walked towards me while signaling for me to come closer. Eager to get out of the sun, I accepted her non-verbal offer and followed her inside.

After having been offered milk tea and cheese curds, I produced one of my lifelines for the trip: an English-to-Russian dictionary, which allowed me to look up basic phrases and point at the Russian translation in order to make at least a minimum of sense to my hosts. Or at least as much sense as a stranger trekking the wilds on foot could make to people living in this expansive wilderness.

I didn’t need to speak Mongolian to understand the unspoken curiosity in my host’s eyes: “Why is this stranger walking alone across the steppe instead of just getting on a horse?” As I would later find out, this question was on the lips of most locals I encountered—right before they’d offer to sell me a proper horse.

In spite of the abysmal state of my linguistic preparation, I did come prepared: I studied up on local customs and brought a bag of candy to hand out. The local custom is to invite strangers passing by your camp, but these guests are usually expected to give small, useful gifts in return. Seeing as my backpack was already quite full and heavy, I decided to bring the candy to hand out to the children of any potential hosts. My reasoning was that candy makes for happy kids, and happy kids generally make for happy parents, which in turn make for happy hosts. Judging by the smile on the woman’s face as her kids ran cheering around the tent, I wasn’t mistaken.

Two days later, after I spent the morning clearing the remains of a summer snowstorm from my tent, I crossed a high pass into the Eight Lakes nature reserve. Named after the eponymous eight freshwater lakes fed by the Urkhit river, this serene alpine valley is a popular destination for the many horseback riding tours and jeep safaris in the region.

The beauty of its blue waters and flowery meadows was further enhanced by another encounter with nomad hospitality when a group of Mongolian campers offered me a bag of dried mutton. Whether it was an act of common courtesy or if they took pity on my diet of millet, oats, and vitamin supplements is a mystery that remains unsolved to this day. One thing was certain though: that bag of dried mutton saved my sanity on later stages of my trek, when the addition of extra protein to my diet proved a welcome reward for long days spent on my feet.

Feats of strength

Over the next day, I made my way through patches of pine forest and fields of alpine flowerbeds, their bright colors forming a vibrant counterpart to the ever-present, dominating blue of the sky. And by the time I entered the next valley, I came to understand why the shamanistic Mongols worshiped the skygod Tengri as a personification of the universe itself.

Unless you’ve witnessed it for yourself, the sheer openness of the sky above the steppe is hard to put into words. It almost creates a fish-eye lens effect, where your eyes can’t fully process the incredible wideness of it. In a world where most of us are used to having our horizons limited by high-rise buildings, tall trees, or other such obstacles, the unobstructed vistas of the open steppe offer a sight worthy of pause and contemplation.

In contrast to the heavenly scenes above, the field of boulders before me reminded me of another aspect of life on the steppe: the wildness and harshness of this existence that molded the Mongol people into the tough, seasoned warriors of Khublai Khan’s Golden Horde. There was literally no way around it; the river of stone before me, deposited by glaciers in ages past, blocked my passage to the northwest. Walking around it would cost me time my limited provisions wouldn’t allow for, so my only option was to plow forward with my head held high.

Figuratively, of course, as I needed to keep my head down to focus on my footing and to avoid the many loose stones and crevices that could result in a broken leg and a seriously problematic situation. Taking inspiration from the might and hardiness of the Mongol hordes in ages past, I pushed through. After all, wasn’t this why I came to this remote wilderness—to gain understanding from the land itself while testing my own limits? To traverse wild terrain while learning about the land: exploration the way it was meant to be.

That evening, my body sore and aching from hours spent traversing the wild terrain and cursing all romantic notions of exploration, I came across another nomad camp.

A cluster of gers provided a picturesque scene: the tents were beautifully located near a river running through a verdant, grassy meadow surrounded by patches of pine forest doused in orange light from the setting sun. Along with its beauty, nature also showed its fangs as the howling of nearby wolves prompted me to once again wield my trusty dictionary to ask permission to put up my tent near their camp. With curious looks and heartfelt smiles, my new hosts directed me to a spot near their largest ger.

Moments of introspection

I spent most of that evening trying to fix dinner on my camping stove while my host’s 3-year-old daughter hovered over me, undoubtedly looking for more candy and opportunities to gaze at the strange man that came to share their camp. When my host came to rein in his daughter’s belligerence, they ended up sitting next to my tent, non-verbally expressing their curiosity at my lightweight tent and Spartan diet of millet oats and dried mutton.

That evening, I came to know the quiet, contemplative side of life on the steppe. A far cry from the somewhat exaggerated romantic notions of wild, boisterous warrior nomads, our evening was spent finding meaning in non-verbal communication as they sat with me and shared in the mutual curiosity and wordless appreciation of the moment.

Over the following days, I made my way towards a high pass that led into a large river valley flowing northwest—my ticket back to relative civilization. And even though I covered enough distance each day, the scenery seemingly never changed. For two days I walked what seemed to be the same dirt track, seeing the same hills and the same peaks, the horizon eluding me like a carrot tied to a long stick. It was during those days that I realized what it meant growing up in a small country, or in Europe for that matter. I never had a sense of distance, of real scale, until I walked for days without seeing the horizon change.

In those moments, I gained a true understanding of the bond between Mongolians and their horses. There is no way any civilization could thrive on this expanse without developing a symbiotic relationship with an animal able to carry people across vast distances.

And even though I found myself walking past herds of half-wild horses on many occasions, my first encounter with nomad horse culture came in the form of an invitation by a teenager on a motorcycle.

Eager to show me his camp and show off his English, he made me sit on the back of his bike, heavy backpack and all. After a wild little offroad adventure—including a few river crossings where we miraculously kept both the bike engine and my hiking boots from getting submerged—we arrived at his family’s camp. The fact that this kid spoke English quite well meant that I could finally understand more than the basics of polite conversation. After he showed me around the ger, explaining what his family did to make a living on the steppe (they mostly produced dried cheese curds, various other cheeses, milk, and of course airag, the fermented mare’s milk iconic to this part of the world).

It wasn’t long before he added me on Facebook and let me ride what must have been their most well-mannered horse. Now, I’ve ridden horses before, but never on the crotch-splitting contraption that is a traditional Mongolian wooden saddle. To say my equestrian exploits amused my hosts would be understating the situation, but at least we all had a good laugh about it. Also, I made a Facebook friend that to this day still provides random photos of life on the steppe every time I scroll my feed.

Eventually, I had to move on and go on my way again. Declining more offers of horses, I reminded them of my comedic level of horse riding skill and that it would probably be best for the horse, myself, and the Mongolian Republic itself to just let me continue on foot. After all, I was on a mission.

Understanding

By that time, I was determined to finish what I started. The only things separating me from a village connected to the rest of the world were three days, a final climb up a mountain pass, and one large valley to follow out of the Khangai plateau. Besides the physical goal of forging a path through this wilderness, my little expedition also provided priceless insights and experiences that provided an unfiltered, uncurated understanding of nomad culture, however minimal that might have been.

I came to understand nomad culture through the eyes of a visitor, experiencing their matter-of-fact hospitality firsthand. When you consider the basics, the rule is simple: if you see a stranger out on the steppe, you invite them in and give them sustenance. A useful tradition, if you consider the harsh reality of steppe life; a welcome one if the host ever finds themselves on the receiving end of some much-needed assistance.

I came to understand the culture through the land itself, coming to terms with the sheer scope of the territory in which this culture has thrived for thousands of years. I struggled through fields of volcanic rock, up muddy slopes, and across wild rivers the likes of which I’d never seen before. Wide open spaces became a hurdle in itself, as the scenery seemingly never changed after days of following the same dirt tracks while the flies buzzing around my head tested the limits of my sanity.

I came to understand their spirituality after witnessing an open sky so incredibly vast and dizzyingly wide that the concept of Tengri as an all-powerful sky god seemed completely plausible, if not perfectly conceivable, from an anthropological point of view.

I also came to understand the unpredictable nature of Khangai summer weather.

I knew the region was prone to sudden rain storms and bouts of thunder, but I wasn’t prepared to get caught out in the middle of a valley while no less than three thunderstorms passed in the scope of four hours. All I could do was don my rain gear, huddle down on my rubber boot soles, place my backpack and all metal items well away, and pray to Tengri that the lightning would strike a nearby tree instead of me.

A final lesson

With the blessing of the gods—or a good amount of dumb luck—I managed to not get hit and stay relatively dry. This didn’t last long, however, as the intense rain had swollen the river I was following down the valley. It took only a few crossings before my boots took on water and became soaked through. With my waterproofs now waterlogged, I took a look at my map and the endlessly winding river down the valley. This meant facing numerous river crossings and a delay that would force me to ration the little supplies I had left. As the expedition’s leader and only participant, I made an executive decision: I needed help.

At this point, it wasn’t any surprise to find a nomad camp after only a few hours of soggy walking. Neither was it surprising that after observing the rules of hospitality, we sat down to negotiate the price of a ride to the nearest town.

After all, romantic ideals only get you so far; modern reality is a stack of banknotes handed over in gratitude for a ride down the valley in a 4x4 Jeep.