There are journeys you plan, and there are journeys that change you. Travelling through Mongolia as a solo female traveller felt surprisingly natural. People were curious, kind, and welcoming. I never once felt unsafe; only gently nudged out of my comfort zone, which is arguably the best place for the soul to grow. 

Mongolia didn’t whisper its presence; it arrived with the sharp bite of wind across the Altai, the rhythmic gait of horses across endless plains, and the flicker of fires under constellations that felt impossibly close. Stepping off the plane in Khovd, in western Mongolia, the air was thinner, colder, and somehow quieter. I felt a strange mix of anticipation and humility. It’s one thing to see Mongolia on a map; it’s another to begin tracing its contours with my own footsteps.

Two Kazakh eagle hunters in traditional fur-trimmed coats on horseback, each proudly displaying their golden eagles against the Altai mountain backdrop.
This is a legacy written in the wind; witnessing these hunters, I realised that the Golden Eagle Festival isn’t just an event, it’s a living bridge between generations.

The whole reason I was in Mongolia was to attend the Golden Eagle Festival. Even before I reached the grounds, I could feel the energy of the crisp, autumn air: chilled but buzzing with something older, stronger, and deeply alive.

Among Mongolia’s eagle hunters

The festival was a riot of colour, motion, and majestic chaos. Held in the Bayan-Olgii province, this is a gathering of Kazakh eagle hunters, who journey here from across the rugged expanse of western Mongolia, dressed in traditional fur-trimmed coats and embroidered hats, with their eagles perched proudly on their arms. These birds aren’t pets; they’re revered members of the family, and it shows in every glance, every caress, every careful gesture.

An eagle hunter mid-competition, focused and calling out to his eagle during the festival in Bayan-Olgii.
The air felt electric during the calling competition; watching the intense focus as bird and hunter synchronised was like witnessing a private, powerful conversation in motion.

The eagle calling competition was the main event. There’s a surreal quality to watching eagles swoop through clear blue skies against the rugged Altai mountains. Hunters rode to a distant point and released their eagles from atop the hills. With a single call — sharp and brief — the eagles would plunge downwards in a blur of feathers and fury. Watching those massive birds slice through the air was nothing short of exhilarating. There’s a pause in those moments when everyone is watching the sky, holding their breath, waiting for the eagle to descend.

Young eagle hunters holding their massive golden eagles, capturing the intricate details of their traditional embroidery and the birds' regal feathers.
Every eagle has its own spirit, and every descent tells a story of trust that has been painstakingly built over years of companionship on the steppe.

Each descent was unique. Some birds soared in wide, confident arcs before diving. Others came like arrows: fast, direct, unwavering. Yet others veered off course, distracted perhaps by the crowd or the wind; a reminder that wildness doesn’t always perform on cue, nor should it. But when it worked, when bird and hunter were in sync, it was like witnessing a prayer in motion. And when the eagle landed, powerful talons locking gently onto gloved hands, there was always applause and cheers from the crowd, but also something quieter in the response: awe, admiration, maybe even a touch of envy.

Eagle hunters; the left image shows the sole female eagle huntress in the competition, standing tall with her bird.
Among the sea of traditional coats, seeing a fellow woman command such power and grace was a poignant reminder of the strength we carry, no matter how remote the landscape.

Beyond the Golden Eagle Festival

The two-day festival was a vivid celebration of heritage and skill, where tradition lives in motion. Watching the eagle hunters on their horses was unforgettable. But beyond the spectacle, what stayed with me were the details: the quiet focus in a hunter’s eyes, the pride in a child holding his first bow and arrow, the sound of wings before they touched down.

Two cows grazing on the open Mongolian steppe (left) and a woman pouring traditional salty milk tea inside a warm nomad ger (right).
Leaving the festival’s roar for the quiet life of the homestead, I found peace in the simplest of rituals—a shared cup of milk tea and the gentle rhythm of the land.

As I left the echoes of the festival behind for the quiet solitude of the steppe, the energy of the festival transitioned to something much more intimate. I arrived at a small homestead nestled in a valley surrounded by rolling slopes and open sky, where an eagle hunter and his family welcomed me with genuine warmth. Their ger (a yurt) stood firm against the wind, a low and rounded shape blending into the earth. Inside, the air smelled of woodsmoke and milk tea. Everything was simple, but nothing was lacking.

Solo female traveller Lynette Yee sitting and conversing with an eagle hunter inside his traditional decorated ger in western Mongolia.
Meeting the hunter in the intimacy of his home was a moment of profound humility; beyond the spectacle of the festival, this is where the true heart of Mongolia beats.

Meeting the eagle hunter in person was unexpectedly emotional. He greeted me with quiet dignity, his fur-lined coat and traditional hat as much a part of him as the confident bird perched at the entrance to his ger. The eagle was massive, alert, and impossibly regal. I’ll admit I was simultaneously awe-struck and mildly nervous. That beak does not mess around!

Finding courage in Mongolia

I sat in their home, surrounded by their children, and was offered milk tea. The hospitality was simple, but sincere. I had brought bubble solution with me for the children, and we played together, their delight palpable and their laughter contagious. There’s something sacred about being with people in their own space, especially when that space holds so much history and meaning.

Young nomad children in Mongolia laughing and playing with bubbles, a gift from the author.
Language barriers dissolved in a cloud of bubbles; their contagious laughter reminded me that connection doesn’t always need words—sometimes, it just needs a heart open to play.

Later, we went outdoors, and I’m not sure I’ve ever been more inspired. The hunter stood against the wind, eagle poised, mountains creating a perfect backdrop. I thought about how real strength is often silent. How freedom can sit calmly on a gloved hand. How some of the most powerful stories need no translation.

While I thoroughly enjoyed the Golden Eagle Festival, meeting the eagle hunter and his family brought the most profound moments of the trip. Sitting on thick carpets, sipping salty milk tea, I felt something I hadn’t expected: belonging. We communicated not with words, but with generosity, warmth, and the unspoken bond of shared presence. In the gentle chaos of their home, I found peace. Not the peace you get from spa days and scented candles, but the kind that comes from being deeply connected to something ancient and raw.

A final collage of eagle hunters in their regal attire, symbolising the enduring spirit of Kazakh traditions in the Altai mountains.
The festival was the spark, but the people were the flame; I left the Altai not just with photos, but with a grounded strength found in the quiet corners of the steppe.

Alone but never lonely, I found Mongolia to be a place where solitude doesn’t isolate but rather, connects. To the land. To its people. And, ultimately, to myself. I came seeking adventure, and instead found depth. What I carry now are not just memories, but a way of seeing, shaped by the eloquent pulse of the steppes, the untamed elegance of the eagles, and the enduring spirit of those who call this wild, sacred place home.

The most transformative journeys don’t stretch across maps; they guide you inwards. And in the hush of stillness, far from all I thought I needed, I arrived at something lasting: a quiet clarity, a grounded strength, and the kind of peace that doesn’t need words. 

Sometimes, all a girl really needs is a sturdy backpack, a pair of shoes built for dust and distance, and a heart open to being changed.

All images were taken and provided by the author.