Attention globetrotters! You’re in for a real treat. Our dear friend and globetrotter, Stacey West, joined us for the Golden Eagle Festival last year, and she has generously shared her love letter to Mongolia. Her vivid descriptions will teleport you to Mongolia and make you feel as if you’re right there with Stacey, witnessing everything this powerful place has to offer. So, get cozy and get ready for a mesmerizing read that’s bound to have you emailing us with the subject line, “URGENT BOOKING REQUIRED!”
I haven’t felt like writing.
The spring deep within me, usually bubbling vocabulary and ideas, is now but an occasional burp of acidic muck.
But today I leave Mongolia again.
I leave my soulscape of grey chipped rock summits, rises dense with pines, hollow vales that echo every footfall, haphazard vegetation, serene marshy lakes, wandering streams, colossal caverns, expansive cornflower blue skies, heavy gunmetal coloured clouds, magnificent sunrises and magic snowfalls. I can hardly bear it.
Mongolia asks nothing more of you than who you already are. If you are stoic and courageous, Mongolia will demand it. If you are excitable, Mongolia will delight and rejoice with you. If you are thoughtful, considerate, reserved, Mongolia will take your hand and show you details only you can appreciate. If you need peace, Mongolia will sit with you in companionable silence, leaning on your shoulder while the lilting breeze lifts the hair straight off your head. Mongolia suffers no fools, but will give you a cheeky wink after absolutely kicking your ass. If you are uncomfortable, too bad. Mongolia refuses to shrink herself for you.
Mongolia is unfailingly honest, epically vast, gloriously beautiful, unnecessarily harsh, but above all, Mongolia cuts through all the bullshit and straight to the heart of humanity and nature.
I love her, without reserve.
I love the sudden drama of snow-capped mountain ranges, entirely cloaked in blinding white powder. I love the crunch under foot, the soft indentations of hooves, splitting thin ice shards that too quickly melt in the shallow grooves of flat brown boulders, becoming a precious water source for all creatures. I love the way the horses wend their way through the drift, scooping frozen mouthfuls as they go, only to bob up with icicle whiskers and ticklish nostrils. I love the jagged and arduous climb of mountain passes, the frosty silver, the heavy wetness that shrouds you. I love squinting into the burning sun while your eyelashes catch tiny snowflakes, and your still-warm breath fogs up your sunglasses. I love the sideways pelt of frosty missiles as you step straight into a blizzard. I love the nothingness of a complete whiteout. I love the unsettling and biting winds that flay you as you go.
I relish the silent companionship between human and equine, the bristly fibres of mane between fingers, the longer dreadlocks that catch in your reins. I love that there is no need to communicate, at least not with words. I love the crunch and crack of flint under hooves that becomes a meditation, the inhale and exhale of two beings breathing in unison, the heat of skin that travels from human to horse, and back again, as each divides energy among exposed body parts needled by the brisk air. I love the sticky peel of sweat that glistens on necks after exertion, cantering over plains or straining stubbornly onward, up steep peaks and through gorges that sigh in the stillness. I love laying a palm on my horse’s spiky wither, a gentle reminder to us both that we are in this together.
I love the larch and birch trees dotted along ridges that filter light at golden hour, creating a breathtaking and far-reaching glow. I love the colours of fall that settle thickly in the bracken on river’s edge, the oranges, umbers and burnt yellows that nest between greens.
I love the unassuming trickle of creeks that swell to rivers, the rush and meander of glacial pools. I love that you will see straight to the bottom of the water, or your own reflected sun-crisped face, depending on the time of day. I love the baked shale underneath, desperately clinging to the day’s heat and centuries of secrets.
I love the sky. A sky that holds rainbows and lashing downpours in balanced measure. A sky that is an open window to heaven, constant, yet somehow surprising. A sky that streaks copper, violet, magenta and indigo, announcing the day. A sky that is rarely obstructed, a sentinel and omnipresent spirit overhead.
But mostly, I love the land. The land that is rugged and wild, the land that is pockmarked by marmot holes, the land that bloats, squishy after a deluge. The land that changes in a blink. The land that fluctuates from green to tea-coloured to barren. The land that rages through each season, a land that grins through gritted teeth, a land that allows only the most resilient to thrive, a land that manages to feel equally limitless and also like a cocoon. The land that makes you feel infinitely small. The land that will always be there to break your fall.
That’s my Mongolia. That’s why I love her.
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