Mongolia. May 2024 marks the 19th anniversary of my first arrival in this extraordinary country, and as I look back on that moment, I’m filled with a deep sense of nostalgia. It’s a bittersweet feeling, yet a powerful reminder of how profoundly Mongolia has shaped my life and become a part of who I am over the years.
At the time, I wasn’t exactly looking to visit Mongolia. In fact, it wasn’t even on my radar. My focus had always been on places like Tierra Del Fuego, the Falkland Islands, Newfoundland, and Antarctica. All remote and wild, yes, but none of them landlocked. I was fascinated by communities living along coastlines, how the sea shapes lives and the resilience of those who depend on it.
But that all changed when my boss, Fordie, sent me to Mongolia. To be honest, I had no idea what to expect. I remember sitting on my bed in a hotel room in Yangshuo, Guangxi Province, China, with my outdated Lonely Planet guidebook in hand when I came across an image of Zavkhan Province in the book—an image of an in-between landscape, vast and untamed, where the earth stretched endlessly. Something about that image captivated me. I was hooked.
I arrived in Mongolia with two colleagues, Neil and B2, all three of us nursing hangovers from a farewell dinner in China where we had indulged in baijiu—China’s notorious rice wine. Our Chinese agent, Miss Pei, was leading the charge, and if Miss Pei said something, you did it, no questions asked. The morning after was brutal, and the alarm was a painful reminder of what we’d gotten ourselves into.
But as we flew over the Gobi Desert, something shifted in me. The land below was vast, empty, and epic, with only small pockets of movement—herds of livestock, dusty tracks carved by animals and motorbikes, smoke rising from a distant ger, and the shadow of the Trans-Mongolian railway track tracing its way across the land. It was a landscape unlike any I had ever seen. I fell in love instantly.
When we finally landed in Ulaanbaatar, the contrast between the wild beauty of the countryside and the gritty, smog-filled city was stark. The city’s skyline, with its Soviet-era architecture, was a jarring reminder of the past, while modern developments stood in stark contrast to the traditional ger districts. I could already sense that Ulaanbaatar was a place of complex history, combining elements of Soviet influence, Tibetan Buddhist temples, and contemporary growth.
As we made our way through the city, I caught glimpses of the rugged wilderness surrounding it—ger settlements, power stations, and wolves that seemed more like dogs. Despite the chaos, there was something about Ulaanbaatar that I instantly connected with. The city felt foreign, yet familiar, with a frontier-like toughness that beckoned me.
By evening, the Bogd Khan Mountain stood majestically in the distance, its silhouette framed by the setting sun. It’s a view I’ve come to love and still look for every time I return to Ulaanbaatar.
As the sun set on my first day in Mongolia, I had an overwhelming sense of belonging. I realized that I felt completely at home. Fifteen years later, that feeling hasn’t changed. Every time I return, it’s as though I’m coming home again.
Who could have known back then that my love affair with Mongolia would lead to the creation of Eternal Landscapes Mongolia? The journey has been filled with peaks, valleys, and challenges—the ups and downs that come with any business or relationship. But despite the hurdles, I don’t regret the day I fell in love with this Mongolian landscape. Not for a second.
In fact, I feel incredibly grateful for that moment, for the unexpected journey that followed, and for the deep connection I’ve formed with this land. Mongolia, with all its rugged beauty and its resilient people, has become a part of me. And every time I return, it feels like I’m stepping into the embrace of an old friend.
