In the burnished-copper light of dawn, Sailau and his son were mounted on their horses, dressed in splendid hunting gear of fox- and wolf-fur coats and hats, studded daggers and embroidered leather boots, and they were ready to show me what their berkut, or golden eagle, had been trained to do. Sailau was a skilled hunter, or berkuti, who commanded respect amongst his people. He stroked his eagle’s head and back with affection. ‘I’m married twice,’ he smiled, ‘once to my wife and once to her.’

Although they spoke in Kazakh, Elik, my comely local guide from Bayan-Ölgii, western Mongolia, translated for us.

The eagle had been kept hooded to keep her calm, and tied on her back, was a plume of owl feathers, like the ones on the hunters’ hats. They were white with horizontal black lines, a talisman of good luck, as they resembled the verses in a Quran.

When we reached the hilltop, the wistfully beautiful views opened up like an epic cinematic scene. All around us, the Altai Mountains were hooded with snow. The rolling grasslands resembled a crumpled bed and fell away gently. A cobalt blue lake glistened beneath us. I stepped up close to take a good look at the eagle, whose intense stare demanded awe. Her wind-blown feathers were brown with tan flecks that glistened gold in the light. She was enormous, weighing around seven kilos with a wingspan nearing six feet. Her talons clutched Sailau’s thick glove. His hand rested on the crook of a stick the end of which touched the saddle, so ultimately her weight was borne by the horse. I could hear her breathing heavily.

Silau handed his son the eagle and cantered downhill and away. When he called, the eagle immediately lifted her mighty heft and flew towards him, judged his speed and distance and landed impeccably on his arm.

Once again she was brought to the hilltop. This time Silau called her, while zigzagging a fast-moving foxtail on the ground. She went after it relentlessly, got dragged along yet did not let go. He immediately deflected her with some meat on the bone, which she tore at rapaciously.

The hills are home to hare, pika, marmots, wolverines, argali goats, foxes, wolves and many types of birds. Hunting parties of men only set out in late October, often travelling for days when the landscape gleams white with snow, their quarry is easily visible and the foxes’ and wolves’ winter coats are thick and luxuriant. It’s an integral part of their culture, and with the recent launch of the Golden Eagle Festival, the hunters are enjoying evermore attention from within their community as well as from people from all over the world.

Sailau described how he climbed the far mountain to select an eaglet from its nest. He chose a female, as they’re bigger, stronger and more ferocious. He then kept her close to him so she became familiar with the sights and sounds of his hut, and he trained and honed her skills her each day.

Nothing stirred in the vast open landscape. Except the wind. Every now and then it would toy with us—push us back, flap our clothes and roar with unusual bellicosity.

I asked if they hunted casually at other times. ‘Very rarely,’ said Silau. ‘But just the other day, we were right here with her, and I spotted a marmot with my binoculars. I unhooded her, and let her go. Within seconds she saw it, and swooped down—her eyesight is eight times better than ours—and before it even saw her shadow, she had him in her clutches. I thundered down, and took it from her, giving her some meat. That night we cooked the marmot inside-out in our special way by filling it with steaming hot stones. It was a special meal for the family.’

Keeping eagles is really for sport, and there are around 400 falconers in these parts, 70 of whom participate in the festival. They’re nomadic shepherds who look after their vast herd of cows, yaks, horses, camels, goats and sheep and live off their dairy and meat, and they sell the wool and hide. They move with the seasons to familiar pastures where their huts and shelters await them, else they set up the round felt tents.

Late that evening we drank milk-tea and ate hard cheese and biscuits with Sailau and his wife in their wood-and-felt kiiz-yii. The last of the livestock had been herded to base from the vast open pasture and gentle lowing and neighing could be heard right around the huts. The room was cozied by a light bulb, a roaring fire in a dung-powered metal stove and colourful felt rugs on the floor and walls.

Depending on where the nomads are, sometimes milk can be more plentiful than water. They wipe themselves down, and bathe when they’re near a stream. Other than the light powered by a small solar panel, a rickety TV, a radio, a mobile phone, and an open-back truck, little has changed since Prophet Mohammed’s time. Their children and grandchildren constantly popped in and out of the low kiiz-yii door, borrowing this, sharing that. They were curious about me and asked to see pictures of my family and home, which they viewed with enthusiasm, taking over my phone and flipping freely through the images.

I took pictures of them with my Fujifilm instant camera, which they loved looking at and holding in their hands. They pulled out their best clothes from the chests—while the men wore dark colours, the women and girls were especially partial to pink—and they stood still naturally being unfamiliar with posing. ‘Rehmat. Rehmat (thank you),’ they said, many times.

‘Our people,’ Sailau said, ‘moved to the Mongolian Altai area from nearby Kazakhstan over a century ago as under the Soviet regime, we were forced to give up our religion and nomadic ways to work on collective farms. More recently, many families walked across from China—just beyond those hills to avoid high pasture taxes. Here, we’ve been able to keep our language and identity intact. Life is hard, but the freedom and simple pleasures give us great joy. If we’re hungry, we kill an animal. If we need money we sell an animal.’

I could see clusters of small felt-huts a good distance from us, yet close enough to reach within a few minutes on horseback. If the livestock stray or intermingle, they’re nudges homewards.

As it was too cold to sleep in the guest tent that had been set up for me, they made a few sleeping adjustments and Elik and I slept in one of the family’s huts. I lay in bed, pulled my heavy sheepskin blanket up close and looked around. It was a Spartan life spent in the silence of the curving plains, the absolute darkness of the night and the sighs of the wind. The family had just a few belongings, they ate pretty much the same food every day, worked ceaselessly at milking, pasteurising, collecting dung, chopping wood, gathering wool, making felt rugs, mending things, and watching out for their animals.

Over the next couple of days I joined them as they milked their mares, collected grass-rich horse-dung to be used as winter fodder and visited their friends. In the evenings we went for long walks in the pine forest or the edge of the serene Dayan Lake, where the vanishing pink and lavender skies turned into a blur of grey just before dusk.

On my last afternoon, we sat down to share a joint-effort meal of soup, salads and dumplings. Beautiful natural light filled their large kiiz yii, picking up the rich red tones of the textiles. My eye was drawn to the wolf fur-coats and fox pelts hanging like trophies along the circular wall.

Silau followed my eyes, and then as though he was reading my mind, he said, ‘There are many, many more of them around here. As for our eagles, much as we love them, and much as our heart soars on their wings when we watch them fly, we release them once they’re seven years old, so they can live in the wild and breed for a long time to come.’

***

Best time to go: July to September for pleasant weather. The upcoming edition of the Golden Eagle Festival will take place on 6 and 7 October, 2018. The next one will be held in March.

How to get there: Fly to Ulaanbaatar, via Seoul or Hong Kong. Then fly 3 hours west via Hunnu Air or Air Mongolia to Bayan-Ölgii in the Altai Mountains. Then drive by road to your eagle hunters family.

Tip: The nomadic eagle hunters’ families live in remote areas; do carry thoughtful gifts if possible.