RETRACING STEPPES

WHILE REVISITING THE MONGOLIA OF HIS PAST, STANLEY STEWART LOSES HIMSELF AGAIN IN A WIDE OPEN WORLD OF WILD HORSES, EAGLE WHISPERERS, AND THE HAUNTING SONGS OF NOMADS

- STANLEY STEWART

From the air, the emptiness is always startling. Flying over Mongolia in the predawn, I saw no light below, just unfolding landscapes, a river spooling away, a range of mountains surging across steppelands, an empire of grass tipping to undisturbed horizons. Just Greenland and the Falkland Islands have a lower population density. The only signs of habitation were the occasional encampments of round white yurts, or gers, which appear suddenly and mysteriously in the grasslands like overnight mushrooms. In a few weeks, they would have vanished, to spring up elsewhere, leaving no trace other than pale circles on the grass, as the nomads moved to winter pastures. Like a vast vacant lot grown wild on the edge of it all, Mongolia is the planet's last truly nomadic realm.

When people ask me my favourite place in the world, there is never any hesitation. I love Mongolia so much that I once spent five months crossing a thousand kilometres of it on horseback, the baggage horse loaded with gear, from a temperamental stove to a rapidly disappearing bottle of whisky. I wrote a book about the journey that was translated into a dozen languages. I fell in love with a Mongolian, an intense affair that unwound over years. It ended two decades ago. She has moved on, wisely. But Mongolia is still there. And it was time to go back.

This time, I didn't have five months. The plan was to spend 10 days, visiting a couple of regions with a driver, a guide, and a photographer friend to whom I had been enthusing about Mongolia for years. My calendar for the trip was surprisingly full. I had an appointment with a shaman, planned to search for wild horses, and visit eagle hunters. In between, I would look for myself, for my connection to this place, for what drew me here, for who I had been all those years ago.