Beyond the end of the road: A four-hour horse ride to stay with Mongolia's reindeer herders

Deep in Mongolia's taiga, reaching the Tsaatan takes multiple days by road, 4x4 and horse – but the reward is two nights immersed in one of the country's most remote communities

I duck as a pine branch whips over my head. The stocky horse beneath me pushes through a shallow stream, scrambles up the rock and crests the embankment. Tightening my grip on the saddle, we follow Zaya Oldov, our guide, across northern Mongolia's taiga awash in golden hour light. The silence breaks as hundreds of reindeer begin melting out of the forest around us. Soon, we're immersed in a sea of antlers and soft footfalls as the herds come home. Beyond them, a dozen conical ortz, reminiscent of North American teepees, sit along the far tree line, grey smoke snaking from their roofs.

A wave of relief washes over me. After three days of travel, we've finally reached the Tsaatan camp.

Around 80 Dukha families, commonly known as the Tsaatan, live in a restricted border region near Russia, in one of Mongolia's most isolated landscapes. Unlike the country's traditional steppe pastoralists who move ger-to-ger only a few times per year, the tiny reindeer-herding community traverses harsh, uninhabited landscapes six to 40 times a year in search of fresh mountain moss and suitable weather for their herds.

Oldov is Tsaatan by marriage and Mongolian American by birth. Before she arrived in the taiga more than two decades ago, tourism here was rare. But today, thanks to her work developing the TCVC (Tsaatan Community and Visitors Center), visitors can stay with local families while supporting their livelihoods. Travellers sleep in an ortz, share tea and meals with them and learn about daily life with the reindeer herds. The only way to book is via WhatsApp with Oldov.

Three friends and I had organised two nights with the community while we were road tripping through Mongolia. That horseback ride was only the last stage of a much longer journey to reach the Tsaatan.

From Ulaanbataar, we hired a car and drove 630km (391 miles) north to Mürün, the regional gateway to the taiga, following a paved road through Mongolia's open grasslands. There, we collected the permits required to enter the restricted border region before continuing towards the "town" of Tsagaannuur. 

The next leg took us two days off-road, across deep river crossings, swampy traverses, mountainous climbs and a nearly entirely map-less route. By the time we reached a wooden homestay near Tsagaannuur's deep-blue lake, we had been on the road for 22 hours.

Oldov arrived early the next morning to meet us, several small horses in tow. "They aren't the easiest horses to ride," she warned, "they tend to spook at anything white in the grass." As a relatively inexperienced rider, I braced myself for the four-hour trot. Raw, rugged and completely undeveloped, the landscape oscillated from wild coniferous forest to grassy hills cut by streams and waterlogged wetlands. Our horses picked their way across the changing terrain, saddlebags bulging with supplies, until we finally arrived at our destination.

Stepping inside our ortz, four narrow wooden bed frames lined the walls around a small charred black fireplace with a round chimney. There is no electricity, running water or decoration beyond what can be packed and moved with the camp.

"The wintertime temperatures plummet to -58C [-72F]," said Oldov. "During those months, we construct shorter, smaller ortz to better retain the heat." 

Fortunately, it was August. The peak season to visit the Tsaatan, for obvious reasons.

The camp had moved here only weeks earlier, its 17 ortz and possessions transported on reindeer backs. This summer location meant our final leg by horse took around four hours; at other times of year, it can take eight to 12 hours.

The herd was never far away from camp. Reindeer are central to life in the Tsaatan community. Each family's herd provides milk for their dairy-rich diet of cheese, yoghurt, cream, butter and the salty tea that's ubiquitous as water out here. Reindeer are rarely slaughtered for meat, so that night's dinner was sheep.

Without refrigeration, the organ meat is always eaten first. That evening we ate boiled sheep liver, kidneys, intestines and stomach, alongside warm, freshly made fry bread. "Tomorrow, you'll get to meet the community," Oldov told us. "And the rest of the day is yours."

In the morning I was woken by the rhythmic hollow-clicking of reindeer ankles, a sound that helps keep the herd together when visibility is nil during passing Siberian blizzards. The camp was already awash with activity. Men chopped the firewood they had dragged by horse from forests miles away while the women filled silver buckets with milk from bridled reindeer carefully selected from the hundreds sleeping within the trees.

Although still traditional, life in the taiga is changing. Restrictions on hunting, alongside the effects of climate change, have increased the community's reliance on cash income. Oldov said that tourism now provides one source of that income, allowing local families to host visitors while remaining with their herds.

Later that day, Oldov took us from ortz to ortz, introducing us to families and showing us how daily life in the camp works. We dropped off essential goods we had brought as part-payment for our stay: flour, salt, black tea and AA batteries. At each home, we were offered generous cups of reindeer milk tea.

In one ortz, an elderly woman pulled a bulky pink plastic clock from the pocket of her deel, a traditional robe, and fiddled with the batteries. It hadn't worked for weeks. We adjusted the contacts and the clock blinked back to life before we used our smartphones to reset the time. In a place where almost everything must be carried between seasonal camps, even a plastic clock earns its spot by running for months on two batteries.

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In another home, strips of meat hung drying in the warmth of the fire, alongside deerskin bags filled with juniper and other plants gathered from the surrounding forest. A local medicine woman explained, through Oldov, how different herbs are used in traditional remedies, from Siberian pine for colds to bergenia crassifolia (bear pine) for stomach problems. For spiritual or psychological ailments, she said, people turn to the shaman.

Our final visit was with the community's shaman, who plays a spiritual role within Tsaatan life. Inside her ortz, she showed us an elaborate ceremonial headdress passed down through generations, decorated with ribbons, dried eagle feet and strips of animal hide. Juniper smoke hung in the air as we offered our final donation: a bottle of Russian vodka, the spirit she said is used in rituals and duties for the community.

On our last night, I stepped outside my ortz in the frigid chill, my camera pointed towards the Milky Way erupting across the sky, unbroken by artificial light. A reindeer wandered into the frame as I pressed my shutter.

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After two nights in camp, leaving felt abrupt, especially after the long days it took to get here. As we rode back towards Tsagaannuur, Oldov seemed to understand my reluctance to return to civilisation. More than two decades ago, she arrived here herself – and never left.

"It was this profound sense of peace that has kept me here," she said.

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