A NOMADIC JOURNEY ACROSS THE MONGOLIAN STEPPE
Words by Ben Giese | Photography by Tyler Ravelle
In colaboration with Nomadic Offroad
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The Mongolian steppe stretches out before us like a surreal dream, with vibrant, untouched grass covering the land like a soft blanket, rolling on into infinity. The sheer enormity of it is almost impossible to grasp. This isn’t a landscape, it’s an ocean—an endless, hypnotic expanse of hills and flatlands that beckons us deeper into its wild, nomadic heart. We follow a faint two-track path that guides us across the land. A fleeting imprint on the earth, sculpted by travelers and erased by the invisible hands of time.
With each passing season these roads shift and dissolve, flowing like the landscape itself, never quite staying the same. Out here, this far away from the life we know at home, stripped to the bare essentials, you start to understand the truth of it all. Even the earth beneath your wheels whispers of impermanence. Everything is ephemeral.
For thousands of years, the nomadic people of Mongolia have mastered this principle of impermanence. They live in harmony with the land, following the Earth’s rhythms, moving like the wind across the steppe. They shift with the seasons, never tethered to one place for too long. To them, the nomadic lifestyle isn’t just a way to live—it’s the purest way to connect with nature. It’s an understanding that the land is not something that can be owned, but something to be protected and preserved. For the earth doesn’t belong to us—we belong to the earth.
We pull over and take a break to eat some lunch in a nice sunlit meadow. My good friend Tyler Ravelle pulls off his helmet and looks over at me, his face lit up with pure excitement. “Bro, I can’t believe we’re in Mongolia!” he shouts. We’re both grinning like fools, still in disbelief that we’ve made it here—out in the middle of this wild, beautiful and remote country. A few years ago, this was nothing but a pipe dream, the kind of wild idea tossed around in conversation. But now, here we are. In the thick of it. Living it.
In the distance, we spot a pair of horsemen herding a bunch of animals across the rolling plains. Intrigued, we decide to ride over and see if we could say hello. We park the bikes and approach them slowly, waving our hands in a friendly gesture. The men give us a blank stare, their expressions unreadable. It’s clear that a language and cultural barrier stands between us, but one of the men motions for us to join him in his family’s “ger” in the distance.
A ger isn’t just a home—it’s the heart of the nomadic Mongolian lifestyle. This portable, round tent, supported by wooden posts and traditionally draped in animal skins, has sheltered generations of nomadic people since the times of the ancient Mongolian Empire. We step inside, into what feels like a world frozen in time. Small beds line the right and left, modest sanctuaries after a long day on horseback. Straight ahead in the back are some religious ornaments, their significance lost on us but adding to the charm of the place. At the center of the room sits an intricate blue-and-gold pot brimming with fermented horse milk, shining like an ancient relic.
This fermented horse milk isn’t just a drink—it’s the soul of the home, a prized staple of the nomadic diet. We take our seats on the low stools surrounding the pot as the man’s wife, with a gracious smile, scoops out a bowl of the thick liquid for us to share. I won’t lie—the idea didn’t exactly thrill me, but it’s said to be packed with protein, antimicrobial and anti-inflammatory properties. I guess when you’re in Mongolia, you drink what the Mongolians drink. The bowl makes its way around, each of us taking tentative sips. The flavor is a potent mix of bitterness, sourness, and pungency—an acquired taste, no doubt. But the warmth and hospitality of this family, and the glimpse into their way of life, is worth every sip. These are exactly the kinds of experiences we were hoping to encounter on this journey.
We wouldn’t be here without the incredible support of Nomadic Off-Road. Founded in 2015 by Ganzorig Chuluun and Christopher Degano, this outfit has quickly become the premier enduro tour operator in the country, with a clear mission: to offer the most unforgettable riding and cultural experience on the planet. When they caught wind about what we were doing on the other side of the globe at VAHNA, they wasted no time inviting us to explore this magical land with them.
And they didn’t just hook us up with any guide. No, they paired us with one of their finest: Lkhagvasuren Ulziibaatar, or as we called him, “Sagua.” A true Mongolian horseman turned motorbike adventurer, Sagua would be our fearless navigator for the week. But he wasn’t just there to steer us through the vast terrain; he is a living, breathing archive of Mongolian culture and history, dropping knowledge at every turn, enriching our journey with each mile.
With Sagua leading the way, our ride for the day comes to a close as the sun hangs low in the sky, casting golden rays that stretch out across the landscape, turning the rolling hills and distant peaks into shadowy silhouettes. We roll into our camp for the evening and are immediately greeted by a sight that stops us in our tracks—massive sand dunes towering in the distance. Their ridges catch the last flickers of sunlight, shimmering as if they were alive. Tyler and I lock eyes, both grinning beneath our helmets. There is no way we can resist.
In an instant we are back on the bikes, engines roaring as we blast through the sand, tearing across the dunes for the last golden hour of the day. I watch Tyler ride a long wheelie across the top of a dune, his silhouette framed against the fading sky, as I hear him let out a wild, joyful “YEEEEW!” that echos off into the desert. It’s the sound of pure freedom.
Then the sun finally disappears behind the horizon, painting the sky in a soft shade of pink. We find ourselves perched atop a dune, watching the moon rise from behind a distant mountain peak. Its soft, ethereal glow washes over the desert, transforming the landscape into a rippling sea of shadows and light. The whole scene feels like something from another world, like we’ve stumbled onto the set of a sci-fi film. It’s alien, exotic and utterly breathtaking.
We’ve got a lot of ground to cover on day two, so we wake up early with the sun, gearing up in the crisp air of dawn. The distances you cover in Mongolia are vast, but the nomadic people believe it’s bad luck to worry about the time or the weather. Don’t ask how far away it is. Don’t worry about when you’ll arrive. And never question what the skies have in store. Just embrace the journey for what it is, because if you worry about those things you’ll bring evil onto the trip. Just flow with it. You’ll get there when you get there. The weather will be what it will be. Ride with it. Be present. Don’t chase the time or the destination. Let the land guide you where you need to go.
Our journey takes us farther over more towering green mountains as the landscape becomes more rugged, with massive rocks and boulders scattered over the terrain. Each mountain peak brings us deeper into the ancient kingdom, and as we crest over the last ridge, the view opens up, revealing the legendary Orkhon Valley—also known as the “Valley of Kings.”
This valley has been the cradle of nomadic empires for over two millennia. From the Huns to the Turks and later the Mongols, it has witnessed the rise and fall of great civilizations. Its soil pulses with history, rich with the legacy of the warriors and rulers that once dominated. We ride straight down into its heart, where the ancient capital of Karakorum once stood.
As we ride into the ruins of the old capital, the structures of empires long gone rise up from the earth, silent but imposing. Standing in the midst of these stone buildings, you can feel the warrior spirit still alive in the air, and the weight of the ancient Mongol Empire’s power. A timeless energy that seems to seep up from the land and into your bones.
In the 12th century, the vast East Asian steppe was a land of scattered nomadic tribes, each fiercely independent and constantly at odds with one another. By 1206, however, a remarkable transformation took place under the leadership of a man named Temujin, who would later adopt the name Chinggis Khan, meaning “Universal Ruler.” This title was fitting for a man who would forge the largest contiguous empire in human history. Stretching from Korea to Ukraine and from Siberia to Southern China, the Mongol Empire under Chinggis Khan’s rule was an unstoppable force that forever changed the course of history.
Even in Mongolia today, Chinggis Khan remains the prominent cultural figure. He symbolizes national pride, unity, strength, and the embodiment of leadership that turned a fragmented society into a world-dominating force. While history remembers his rule as a bloody and brutal conquest, to the people of Mongolia, he remains a hero, a symbol of their strength and endurance. And these ruins stood at the heart of that once-great empire.
As the day winds down, we set up our tents along the river at the base of a mountain, deep in the Valley of Kings. After a long and dusty day on the bikes, our dinner tastes better than anything I can remember. As the flames flicker on our campfire, we share drinks and stories under a canopy of stars. Exhausted from the day, I sneak off to bed early, the rushing water playing a soothing symphony as I fall asleep, dreaming of where this wild adventure might take us next.
The days that follow are a whirlwind of jaw-dropping landscapes, each one more savage and awe-inspiring than the last. We scale mountains so vast they seem to touch the sky and drop into valleys that stretch out like the open palm of the earth. The steppe feels infinite and sparse, but it pulses with life at every turn. Wild horses tear across the horizon, their manes flowing in the wind, while herds of gazelle flash by in the distance, a blur of motion against the plains. Yaks roam like peaceful guardians, indifferent to our presence.
The higher we climb, the more the terrain shifts. The smooth, verdant steppe gives way to a harsher, more unforgiving landscape—jagged rocks and craggy outcroppings, the land becoming as wild and untamed as the warriors who once roamed it. It feels like we’re reaching the end of the Earth, venturing into a primordial land, a place that time itself has forgotten.
Our destination is Terkhiin Tsagaan Lake, or “White Lake”—a massive body of water born from the fury of a volcanic eruption millions of years ago. The jagged volcanic rocks around us tell the story of a prehistoric place forged in fire. We arrive just in time as the sky begins to blacken with ominous storm clouds. From the edge of the lake, we watch the dense wall of water approach. Lightning splits the sky like the swords of ancient warriors, the crack of thunder echoing their battle cries across the mountains.
As the first drops begin to fall, we retreat to the warmth of our ger, closing the door just as the storm unleashes its full fury. The wind roars outside, rain pelting the canvas walls in sheets. Inside, we are cocooned in warmth, lulled to sleep by the steady, rhythmic drumming of rain on the roof.
The downpour doesn’t let up, and by morning we find ourselves riding through a landscape transformed by endless mud and standing water in every direction. Slipping, sliding, and soaked to the bone, the once-solid ground now turns soft and treacherous beneath our tires. My goggles are useless, soaked and fogged, leaving me flying blind through the storm. It’s as if the wrath of Tenggeri, the Sky God, has been unleashed upon us. But as we’ve learned on this trip, you don’t battle nature—you surrender to it, become one with it. And so, we ride on.
By afternoon, the storm finally breaks. The sun emerges, casting a silver glow on the rain-soaked grass, making it shimmer like a sea of diamonds. We sit on a ridge, overlooking the most breathtaking valley of the entire trip. The shadows of clouds drift across the hills like poetry in motion, and in this serene moment, it feels as though nature is offering us a parting gift—a final, stunning reminder of the beauty that Mongolia holds.
The air is thick with a sense of reflection, of finality. It would be our last evening in Mongolia.
Tyler wakes up the next morning before dawn, and in a quiet gesture of remembrance, rides back up to the top of that mountain to scatter some of his father’s ashes. One last farewell to the land, and to a father who instilled such a beautiful spirit of adventure.
I drink my coffee and think about what this place has taught us. The journey has been more than just a physical adventure—it has been a reminder of how small we are in the face of nature, and how rich our experience can be when we let go of control. Mongolia has given us a connection to something far greater than ourselves—a bond to the past, to the people who got us here, to the earth, and to the untamed nomadic spirit that will live on in us long after the ride is over.