Above the stark, almost lunar Mongolian landscape, an eagle circled and pivoted in an equally empty but piercingly blue sky. The ease with which the great bird maneuvered and traversed the heavens contrasted with the rugged trail we had to follow in order to arrive at Mongolia’s annual eagle festival.
Flying into Ulaanbaatar , Mongolia’s capital, one of the first things you notice is how vast and overwhelming the Mongolian landscape is. It is easy to get lost here. Highways cover only a small portion of the country. And the road to the great eagle festival winds between enormous steppes and towering mountains. The eagle festival takes place amidst these barren heights.
And that is the easy route, the one my colleagues had taken earlier, after flying three hours westward to their jumping off point. My route to the festival was more complicated. Coming from the capital later, I traveled four hours by an aging turboprop to Hodk and then transferred to a beaten up jeep for an eight hour trip across some of the sparsest roads and trails imaginable.
But the hardship and trouble in getting there was well worth it. The festival is spectacular. The birds’ owners enter in ranks, mounted on horses. Decked out in full traditional regalia, the men themselves resemble the eagles. Thick, burly fur coats and leather boots cover most of them. All wear hard leather gloves to protect themselves from their eagles’ steel-like talons. And more than a few sport red furred hats that resemble the crest of some great flying predator.
The culmination of the festival, however, rises to even greater heights. Perched high on the mountains’ rocky crags, the eagles sit waiting. Far in the depths below, across an utterly empty valley floor, devoid of everything but rocks, moves a slight figure. A man on a horse. It is the owner of one of the birds.
As the owner calls out and his eagle recognizes him, the massive bird takes flight. He soars against an azure sky, a wide expanse of heaven that contains not a single cloud. Only the form of the eagle can be seen. Climbing. Circling. Diving. And turning. Until it streaks down and alights on its owner’s outstretched arm.
Man. Horse. And eagle. The combination produces a lethal hunting team. And the festival celebrates this millennia old tradition of nomadic culture in Mongolia. The mountains and enormous valley floors present a stage for this exhibit that retains the authenticity of the experience as generation upon generation of Mongol must have experienced it.
At the end of the day, I noticed something else across the valley floor. Walking towards it, I realized it was a two-humped Bactrian camel. Around the ungainly beast stood a young Mongol family, a man, his wife, and two small children. In his fur hat and layered purple coat, the husband’s outfit almost sparkled in the setting sun. But even he was overshadowed by the camel, which was bedecked in a multi-colored blanket, saddle, and bridle. Getting up closer now, I was able to see the young wife sitting astride the camel. As the animal rose off its knees, she extended her arm. Simultaneously, one of her children grabbed hold and was hoisted aboard the camel’s back.
Such a dramatic act. But she achieved it with the grace and fluidity of a practiced routine. And then it occurred to me. All this magnificence. All this gala celebration. For generations it had been a practiced routine. A matter of survival. Nomadic families on camel and horseback, moving across harsh valleys, undulating steppe, and twisting rivers. Men tethered to their hunting eagles. This was the secret life behind the spectacle I had just witnessed.
By: Al Caudullo, 3DGuy