Following the path of the Mongolian shepherd

“The Mongolian sky was impossibly blue. And beneath it, my bike tire had burst.”

Freedom in discomfort, connection in solitude, achievement through failure. On the ancient trails of nomads stretching back five millennia, the smiles and generosity of the Mongolian people revealed the pure essence of humanity—something you can only encounter out on the road.

1. The Journey Begins with a Torn Tire

Leaving Ulaanbaatar, we headed east toward Terelji National Park. Our plan was ambitious — a 550 km route passing Khagin Khar Lake, down to Tunhel, and back to Ulaanbaatar.

Once off the paved road, the steppe opened wide — cows, goats, and horses grazed freely under the endless sky. Riding into the setting sun felt like pure freedom itself.

That night, we camped by the Tuul River, the flames of our first campfire flickering with excitement. But the next morning’s dew brought trouble — my tire was swollen and on the verge of bursting. I had forgotten that it was already damaged before coming to Mongolia. There was no bike shop for hundreds of kilometers.

Out of desperation, I checked my GPS. Strangely, it showed a “bike rental shop” 3 km ahead. Unlikely, but we had to hope. When we arrived, it turned out to be an abandoned resort. Ten more kilometers later, we spotted a lonely ger in the distance.

An old man came out. I pointed to my shredded tire and made pleading gestures. A moment later, he disappeared behind the ger and returned — rolling out a rusty old bicycle. The wheel size was 26 inches. The same as mine. It was a miracle. I shouted with joy.

Photo 01.Riding across the steppe in the glow of the evening sun felt like pure freedom.

Photo 02. Our first camp by the Tuul River — a joyful night by the fire.

Photo 03. In the middle of the Terelji steppe, we found a nomad who gave us a bicycle tire to replace the damaged one.

2. Lunch in a Nomad’s Home

After fixing the tire, we asked the old man if he could prepare lunch. Our guide translated over the phone. The old man laughed and said:

“I’ve never cooked before… and now, for foreigners?”

But soon, steaming bowls of mutton noodle soup, fresh bread, and yak cheese appeared on the low wooden table.

That simple lunch — more than the taste of the noodles — left us with a lasting impression of Mongolian warmth. Each family’s aaruul (dried cheese) had its own flavor, and the salty suutei tsai (milk tea) soothed our tired bodies. The ger was warm, and the old man’s smile, even warmer. Amid the vast foreign steppe, we felt the humble kindness of nomadic life.

Photo 04. Mutton noodle soup, lovingly prepared by the old man himself.

Photo 05.Following nomadic tradition, he served Aaruul (dried cheese) and Suutei Tsai (salty milk tea).

Photo 06.A photo with the elderly nomad who offered us the spare tire.

3. Night of Swamps, Fear, and Flickering Light

That afternoon, the real challenge began. On the map, the route looked simple. In reality, it was a maze of rivers and swamps.

There were no bridges. The current was waist-deep and strong enough to sweep us away. We ferried our bikes and bags across separately, barely making it through twice.

Then came more marshland. And more mud. Our wheels sank. Our energy drained. The sun began to set.

“When will this swamp ever end?”

Someone muttered.

Tension grew as exhaustion set in.

Darkness fell. We switched on our headlamps and stumbled through the misty forest. Fear, fatigue, and frustration blurred together. Finally, we found a patch of dry ground and set up camp. The chill made me shiver.

The darkness of the open steppe was overwhelming, but when the campfire flared up, it felt like the world became small and safe again.

Photo 07. The current was waist-deep and so strong that one misstep could have swept us away.

Photo 08. The endless swamp stretched on until dusk.

Photo 09. Only after we lit the campfire did we finally feel safe.

4. Between Advance and Retreat

It rained at dawn. If the river rose, we could be trapped.

We debated for hours:

“Should we push on, or turn back?”

Eventually, we agreed — “Let’s go a little farther.”

At first, the detour looked manageable, but the high-altitude wetlands seemed endless. Mud, puddles, and knee-deep marshes tested our strength. The sky darkened. Food was running low — barely three days’ worth left.

At last, we made the call.

“Let’s turn back.”

We hadn’t completed our planned route, yet somehow, it felt right. Now we knew exactly how far we could go — and where to stop.

5. Riders We Met Again

On our way back down, we met two Mongolian riders we’d seen crossing the river the night before. They looked exhausted too. They were also descending, so we decided to ride together.

“There are bears around here. Make noise as you ride!” one of them warned.

We laughed and shouted along the trail,

“Waaaah—!”

Following their shortcut along a cliff, we saw the same river that had terrified us yesterday — now shining beautifully under the morning sun. What had been fear became awe. The water sparkled, and our bikes rolled freely again. Once more, we felt the freedom of the steppe.

Photo 10. The river that terrified us yesterday became a beautiful view today.

Photo 11. We rode again, as if flying across the open steppe.

6. Camp on the Steppe

The new valley road the Mongolian riders showed us led into rolling green hills, dotted with strange rock formations like stacked sculptures.

We found an old campfire site and cooked dinner there. Stars spilled across the sky, and the wind was still cold. That night, no one wanted to sleep early.

Photo 12. The new route the Mongolian riders showed us was stunning, and the campsite was perfect.

7. Back on the Road

The next morning, frost covered our tents and bikes. Our feet were still wet, but by now we were used to it.

Even damp wool socks felt comforting when warmed by the fire. Mongolia in September is harsh, yet pure. In the cold air of the high wetlands, we felt vividly — alive.

The descent was gentle. Streams crisscrossed the road, but we crossed them without hesitation. When we reached Terelji town along the Tuul River, civilization welcomed us — a warm ger guesthouse, a stove, a charging phone. Luxury, reborn.

Photo 13. Even in early September, frost formed at 1,800 meters above sea level.

Photo 14. Wet wool socks, once warmed by the fire, felt wonderfully cozy.

Photo 15. Our lodging in Terelji Town felt like pure luxury.

8. Back to the Steppe Again

The next day, we chose a new route — following the Tuul River upstream, crossing the Bosgo Bridge, over Zamtiin Pass, then toward the Chinggis Khan Equestrian Statue before heading back to Ulaanbaatar.

At a riverside ger, we stopped again — the same one where the old man had helped us days ago. This time, his wife and daughter-in-law came out smiling. We shared fried mutton, hot rice, and laughter. For a while, it felt like home.

Photo 16. We shared a second lunch with the same old man who had once helped us.

9. The Dogs and Winds of the Steppe

In the distance, a herd of horses thundered across the plain, raising clouds of dust. A lone herder galloped behind them. We stood speechless before the power of that sight.

That night, we camped near another ger. A gray Kangal dog circled our tents, guarding us. When it heard strange sounds, it barked. When it came close, it nuzzled us playfully.

Mongolian dogs wear no collars. They are free — and they know their duty. They are the true keepers of the steppe.

Photo 17.Evenings on the Mongolian steppe are always beautiful.

Photo 18. Dogs roam freely across the steppe, doing their job faithfully. Like most dogs, they love to chase passing bicycles — so be careful!

10. The Festival and the Final Ride

Crossing the last ridge, we saw the massive Chinggis Khan statue gleaming in the distance. A local festival was in full swing. People welcomed us, offered food and tea, and laughed with us.

Our final day on the steppe ended in celebration.

Photos 19–21. On the final day, we stumbled upon a traditional festival. The locals welcomed us with food and tea.

Epilogue

We didn’t finish the full course we had planned. But we gained something far greater — the people we met when we got lost, the resilience we found in hardship, and the endless wind that embraced it all.

“The Mongolian steppe isn’t a place to finish a route — it’s a place to leave your heart.”

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A month later, I returned to Mongolia — this time with a local driver and travel guide who knew the countryside well. Together, we explored the ancient nomadic trails and mapped out a fascinating new route.

In 2026, we’re creating an exciting new Bikepacking event, “Malchin Trail” along these paths. ‘Malchin’ means herfer in Mongolian. If you’re curious, visit our website (http://www.malchintrail.com).