Light and Vastness - Across the Mongolian Steppe

When we arrived in western Mongolia at the end of May, the landscape appeared barren at first - almost like the surface of the moon. Snow still covered the mountains, and parts of the lakes were frozen. Soon we experienced the full range this country has to offer: nights dropping to - 5 degrees and days climbing up to 25 degrees Celsius. It was the transition between winter and summer - yet nothing like the spring we know in Europe. In Mongolia, there are essentially only two seasons: a long, bitterly cold winter and a short, hot summer.

One morning, I opened the door of my hut - and snow was falling. Only for a few hours, before the sun returned and bathed everything in silvery light. That moment made clear just how sudden weather shifts in this region can be.

Day after day, we covered hundreds of kilometers - more than 2,000 in total. Asphalt was rare; instead, we drove along tracks of sand, gravel, and stone. In the Russian UAZ Bullis, which our drivers handled with masterful skill, we were often jolted violently. Once, one of the vehicles broke down - but within half an hour the drivers had it running again, and we were back on the trail.

What stayed with us constantly, though, was the dust. It hung in the air everywhere, seeping into our lungs and clothing. For me personally, it eventually became a burden. My lungs grew irritated, I ran a slight fever in the yurt, and I could feel how my body had to adapt to this dry, unfamiliar world. At the same time, it was precisely this dust, this harsh air, that made the experience so intense: an immersion into a nature that makes no compromises.

We first encountered them in front of the yurts: the large, powerful Mongolian Bankhar dogs. At our very first stop, seven of them lay scattered around two yurts - many still young, playful, and curious. Our drivers warned us to be cautious, but we quickly realized they were full of joy, eager for a scratch, and entirely gentle.

The Bankhar are regarded as a traditional treasure of the nomads. For centuries, they have been bred as livestock guardian dogs, protecting herds against wolves and even snow leopards. Their persistent barking through the night keeps predators at bay - a vital safeguard in a region where conflicts between herders and wildlife are part of daily life. In recent years, programs in cooperation with WWF have worked to stabilize the population and reintroduce these dogs to nomadic families (WWF, 2024).

For us, they were not a threat but a meeting - a direct glimpse into the Mongolian soul.

The steppe was alive with movement. Horses, yaks, sheep, and cashmere goats roamed freely across hills and valleys, without fences or boundaries. At times we encountered herds of camels - two-humped Bactrians, just as much a part of nomadic life. They would suddenly appear along the shore of a lake or drift slowly across the open land.

Most striking of all were the shifting plays of light. Dark storm clouds swept overhead, while the sun broke through in golden bursts, turning the vastness into a dramatic interplay of shadow and brilliance. This landscape - endlessly open and yet full of mood - was unlike anything else I had ever experienced.

Along the way, we met nomads moving their animals from one camp to the next. Often an entire family would ride together on a single motorcycle—father, mother, and child—balanced with wooden poles for building a new yurt. These were scenes of pure pragmatism, of a way of life still deeply bound to nature.

Almost everywhere, we were welcomed with kindness. At times we asked to stop at a family’s camp with their cashmere goats. With visible pride, they showed us their work: combing the animals to gather the fine undercoat that later becomes precious cashmere. About 40% of the wool can be used, the young herder explained. At first the goats resisted, but once the brushing began, they seemed to almost enjoy it—as if it were a massage.

What moved me most was the interplay of motion and stillness. The motion: our drivers, sometimes turning their UAZ vans into a playful race, laughing, brimming with pride in their skill. The stillness: the land itself, radiating a calm stronger than any noise.

This journey through the Mongolian landscape was exhausting, demanding, and beautiful all at once. It showed me how deeply life here is shaped by extremes—and how closely people, animals, and nature remain bound together.