Mongolia is “out there” by most standards. And its western fringes—the high Altai region—are truly among the wildest places on the planet. There are vast open spaces, few roads, and the area is bordered by the towering, icy peaks of Tavan Bogd National Park, which separates Mongolia from China and Russia.
There’s less than one person per square kilometer here—not surprising, given that winter temperatures regularly plummet to minus 50 degrees. Nevertheless, some 250–300 hardy ethnic Kazakhs still follow a 6,000-year-old tradition: training eagles to hunt from birth. They rely on the birds’ uncanny vision and hunting prowess to help them survive the harsh life on the steppe, maintaining a remarkable way of life that, ironically, is now under threat in part because of its uniqueness.
I journeyed to Olgii, the largest town in western Mongolia, to attend its annual autumn Golden Eagle Festival. While there, I spent a week living with an eagle hunter, getting a glimpse of a way of life on the Central Asian steppe that hasn’t changed all that much over the years. The festival showcases the talents of both the eagles and their trainers, provides tourism income to an impoverished region, and offers a rare opportunity to witness a vanishing tradition.
Known as berkutchi, eagle hunters have been around for centuries. Genghis Khan and Kublai Khan were known for keeping thousands of hunting birds, their expeditions documented by Marco Polo. Today, the few hunters who remain train young eagles in captivity to pursue corsac foxes—whose warm pelts are used for clothing—as well as hares and marmots, prized for both meat and fur. The eagles can also take down wolves and even the occasional snow leopard.
Older eagles make the best hunters, with females preferred to males due to their larger size and greater aggression. But adult birds are fiercely independent, making them much harder to capture and train. Chicks, which are less proficient and not yet set in their ways, are easier to handle. During hatching season, they can be located in nests on mountain ridges.
Arkelak, a hunter near Olgii, took me to his ger—a traditional nomadic yurt. He and his family live here in the summer, then move closer to town in winter to a small wooden home, from which he makes forays onto the steppe to hunt. The family keeps sheep, goats, cows, horses, and an eagle, ensuring a constant supply of mutton and dairy. This gave me the sense that modern eagle hunting is as much about preserving heritage as it is about survival.
Once trained, an eagle travels with its hunter, perched on his left arm as he rides out across the steppe. Eagles have astonishing vision—more than eight times sharper than a human’s—and can spot prey from miles away. The bond between bird and hunter is so strong that a subtle change in talon pressure on the hunter’s arm can signal that the eagle has seen or scented something. If close enough, the hunter may use a rifle to take down the target. More often, though, the eagle is released to handle the hunt itself—no surprise, given its six-foot wingspan, razor-sharp talons, and flight speeds of up to 90 miles an hour. When not hunting, the birds wear a small leather blindfold, or tomaga, to keep them calm and unfocused on prey.
Back in Olgii at the Eagle Festival, I witnessed some of the dilemmas facing today’s Kazakh eagle hunters—and how the tradition might be nearing its end, at least in its original form. The festival was launched to bring tourism to the region, which is now one of Mongolia’s top sources of income. The 2016 documentary The Eagle Huntress, about a girl who wins the competition, was a global hit and boosted attendance at the annual event.
Most tourists aren’t prepared to stay in a ger during the frigid Mongolian winter when real hunting takes place. In the festival’s early days, live animals were used during competitions, but complaints from visitors and international animal rights groups led to a change: now, pelts and furs are tied to ropes and dragged behind horses instead. Younger hunters—exposed to fame and financial rewards through TV programs and online specials—often value the status of eagle hunting more than its meaning.
Other forces are at play, too. Overgrazing by livestock has impacted wildlife populations, limiting natural hunting opportunities. Climate change threatens both the eagles and their prey. One can only hope that even if eagle hunting becomes more sport than subsistence, it remains a rite of passage passed from father to son (or daughter). The heavy fur robes and hats the hunters wear may still ensure a need for these ancient skills.
Despite the changes, the Olgii festival remains captivating. In addition to showcasing hunting and horsemanship skills—not to mention the brilliance of the birds—other aspects of Kazakh steppe life are celebrated. The men play kokbar, a horseback tug-of-war using a fox pelt. In tenge alu, they dismount at full gallop to snatch coins from the ground. And then there’s kyz kuu, a game where a man chases a woman on horseback. If he wins, he earns a kiss. If he loses, she turns around and chases him—with a whip—to the amusement of the crowd.
After about a decade of service, trained eagles are released back into the wild. Despite criticism from animal welfare groups, the hunters and their families truly see the birds as kin and treat them with deep respect. Out here in one of the remotest corners of the world, an old Kazakh proverb still resonates: “Fast horses and fierce eagles are the wings of the Kazakh people.” And in the high, thin air and wide-open spaces of the Altai, it still rings true.