Some places make you feel small.

A place like Mongolia does not diminish you but shows your real place on earth. The vastness. The raw stretch of space outside your reach.

Mongolia stands apart.

The sky appears as an endless deep blue which erases memories of cities. A quiet land speaks through wind across the steppe. Fire dances on ger walls as woodsmoke or boiled mutton fills the air.

The land teaches you to need less ‒ a road, a horse as well as time.

I traveled to Mongolia without a checklist of sights. I searched for true quiet along with a place where my name meant nothing.

The wild beckoned me to vanish in its embrace.

The Road to Nowhere

Ulaanbaatar stood as a city of opposites – a mix of modern life next to aged structures. Traffic filled streets as neon lights shone.

Soviet buildings towered over Buddhist temples. Men in suits crossed paths with others in deel (the traditional Mongolian robe).

A simple crosswalk divided these different lives.

But the city was not my goal. The open plains called to me.

A guide named Baatar agreed to help. His face showed marks from years in nature – like the land had shaped him. He gave me a horse called Tenger a name that meant “sky.”

Then we set out.

The journey lasted days without roads or fences. A few ger settlements marked our path through untamed spaces. The vast steppes made any sense of direction fade away. Time lost its power.

We set camp near a river each night. The water ran so clear it seemed impossible. Baatar lit fires with skill as well as cooked meat pieces over flames. He shared a wooden cup of airag – mare’s milk with natural fizz. The drink tasted odd but people still chose to have it.

The liquid matched the character of these plains – raw or pure. A taste no one forgets.

The Keepers of the wind

A family of nomads greeted us without pause, like old friends who expected our return. These people followed nature’s rhythms by the seasons or packed life onto yak backs.

The grandmother’s sun-worn face showed deep marks of time as she placed hot dumplings in my hands. Her stare fixed on me as if I would turn to mist. Small faces peeked from behind the father’s deel with eyes that sparkled from wonder.

No one questioned my presence here. To them the simple act of travel told the whole story.

Baatar shared the father’s words:

“The wind owns no place but moves forever. People share this nature too.”

The truth in his statement sank deep inside me.

Chasing ghosts

One morning we scaled a hill with a view across untamed land. The earth or sky reached without end in each direction.

“The old warriors rode here,” Baatar said. “Genghis Khan shaped an empire in this place.”

A vision formed in my mind: thousands of riders who moved across plains as well as valleys. The dust rose like smoke behind them with a presence that vanished as fast as wind.

Mongolia holds many spirits. Not the type found in dark houses but spirits that stay in quiet spaces inside the open land. A force that leaves traces of its path creates a sense of something greater than oneself.

The leaving that never feels like a departure

On my last night I reclined under stars that seemed ready to fall from their brightness. The horses moved close by next to the crackling fire or the wind that shared mysteries I failed to decode.
I searched for quiet in this place yet discovered far more than expected.

Mongolia offered me stillness as well as room to exist or dream or let my mind wander.

A truth settled in as I rode to Ulaanbaatar along with my flight home – back to crowded spots filled with sounds besides the tall structures that hide stars…

Some part of my soul now lives in those vast plains.

The deepest places do more than mark our memories.

They own us.

And Mongolia made me its own.