Finding a balance between tradition and modernity in Mongolia

By Maria Vittoria Mazzamuto and Sukhchuluun Gansukh

Editor’s Note: In this story, authors Mazzamuto and Gansukh imagine the lives of Tserendorj (Цэрэндорж, meaning bravery and wisdom), a herder on Bogd Khan Mountain, and his daughter Tuul (Туул, named after the Tuul River, symbolizing flow and life), who studies wildlife conservation. Inspired by the authors’ colleague—a fellow wildlife biologist who comes from a herding family—Tserendorj and Tuul are composite characters. Their experiences and voices are grounded in an in-person survey the authors conducted with residents of Bogd Khan Mountain and the authors’ firsthand experiences on the mountain.

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As the sun rises over Bogd Khan Mountain, Tserendorj watches from the doorway of his ger, the round, felt-lined home that has been part of Mongolian life for centuries. The golden light washes over the forested slopes where Siberian larch, pine, and spruce meet the green and yellow steppe of the valleys. This is the place Tserendorj has known since childhood, where he and his ancestors have guided their horses and cattle, along with some sheep and goats, across sacred lands for as long as anyone can remember.

But something feels different. The hum of distant construction breaks the morning stillness, and Tserendorj can see the outline of a new road coming up the mountainside. Tserendorj sighs, reflecting on the changes that have come so quickly, as if the mountain itself is shifting under his feet. “This place has always taken care of us,” he says, “but now I wonder how much longer it can.”

The nomadic lifestyle and traditional ecological knowledge of Bogd Khan’s herders have shaped the cultural and ecological fabric of the mountain. (Cavan Images/Alamy)

For centuries, Bogd Khan Mountain has stood as a symbol of resilience, a natural fortress towering thousands of feet over the vast Mongolian steppe. It’s not just any mountain; it’s sacred. One of the world’s oldest protected areas, revered and cared for by the Mongolian people since the 12th century, the mountain became a special protected area almost 100 years before renowned sites like Yellowstone. Generations of monks, nomads, and wildlife have coexisted on its slopes, the mountain shielding them from the rest of the world.

But even this sanctuary is not immune to the tides of change sweeping through Mongolia. At the foot of Bogd Khan, Ulaanbaatar, once a small city in the steppe, has transformed into a bustling capital home to nearly half the country’s population. As its influence creeps up the mountain, the pressures of urbanization are being felt most acutely by people like Tserendorj, whose nomadic lifestyle and spiritual traditions have helped keep the balance between human and nature for centuries.

Tserendorj, now in his sixties, remembers the stories his father and grandfather told him as a child. They spoke of the mountain’s spiritual importance, how monks once lived in the Manzushir Monastery on the southern slope, and how prayers for the mountain’s protection were a daily ritual. For the nomads, the land wasn’t just a resource; it was a living being, revered and respected. “For us, the mountain is alive,” Tserendorj says, watching his herd of horses and cattle grazing nearby. “It has given us everything we need, and in return, we have always been careful not to take too much.”

This delicate relationship between people and nature was central to Mongolian life. Buddhism and traditional shamanistic practices fostered a deep respect for the environment, ensuring that the mountain’s resources were used wisely. Nomadic herding, in particular, allowed the landscape to rest and regenerate between seasons, leaving little trace of human impact. With the herders’ light touch on the land, Bogd Khan’s ecosystems thrived, supporting deer, wolves, and the elusive Pallas’s cat, all living in the mountain’s high altitudes since time immemorial.

Just outside the capital city of Ulaanbaatar, Bogd Khan Mountain is an increasingly popular hiking destination. (Discover Mongolia Travel)

But now the city feels uncomfortably close. Tserendorj’s daughter, Tuul, travels back from the city each weekend, where she studies wildlife conservation at the university. She often speaks of the new roads, the ever-growing skyline, and the recreational trails winding up the mountain. The city, she says, offers new opportunities and new conveniences. But Tserendorj is uneasy.

“When I was young, we had the mountain to ourselves. This road, the buildings, they were never here,” he says, looking toward the forest where new trails for hikers have appeared. “Now there are people up here all the time, leaving behind trash, scaring wildlife.”

Indeed, Bogd Khan has become a hotspot for outdoor enthusiasts. Hikers and cyclists frequent its trails, while pine seed collectors and mushroom gatherers venture deeper into the forest. Roads and construction projects further fragment the landscape, threatening the habitats for all wildlife.

“It’s not just the people; there are also more horses, more cows,” Tserendorj explains. His own herd has grown larger, not because he wants more livestock but because the pressures of modern life demand it. When Mongolia was a satellite state of the USSR and everything was collectivized, herders had only as many animals as they needed to live. But after socialism fell in the early 90s, herders took ownership of their own livestock. Now, everyone is focused on growing their herds to secure their future.

The market for meat, wool, and especially cashmere has surged, making livestock one of the few ways to ensure a stable income in rural Mongolia. “People say it’s our way to survive the new demands,” Tserendorj adds. Yet, there’s another reason, too: the climate. Harsh winters—known as dzuds—can wipe out entire herds, so herders are building up their numbers to protect against those losses. “It’s like a safety net,” he says. “If we lose animals, we still have more to fall back on.”

As Tserendorj’s herd has grown, so has the strain on the land. Overgrazing has stripped the once-lush meadows, and the herding dogs that accompany larger livestock populations have started to chase off and prey on the local wildlife. “It feels like there’s not enough space anymore,” he says. “We need to feed our families, but the mountain can only give so much.”

Religious altars on Bogd Khan mountain are decorated with blue silk, which symbolizes purity, goodwill, auspiciousness, compassion, and the sincerity of the offering. (Maria Vittoria Mazzamuto)

Tuul listens intently to her father’s concerns. She knows all too well how the pressures of modern life are straining the balance that herders like her father have maintained for generations. But she also sees hope in her studies, hope in the possibility of finding new solutions that can protect both the mountain and their way of life.

One evening, Tuul approaches her father with an idea. She’s been learning about new technologies that could help manage livestock and protect wildlife at the same time.
“Father,” she says gently, “we can’t stop the changes that are happening, but maybe we can adapt. There are ways to protect the land and your herd without overusing it.”

Tserendorj looks at her, skeptical but curious. “What do you mean?”

Tuul explains that remote sensing can track the movement of livestock and wildlife, ensuring that herders avoid overgrazing in certain areas. She also suggests that by rotating grazing locations more carefully and reducing the number of livestock, they could allow the land to regenerate more effectively. Tuul speaks passionately, her words a blend of her academic knowledge and the deep respect for the land her father has taught her. “We could also work with conservationists and administrations to set aside protected areas for wildlife,” she says. “The mountain needs space to breathe, just like our herds.”

Tserendorj listens, nodding slowly. Bogd Khan is more than a mountain to him; it is part of his identity, his past, and, he hopes, his future. The old ways have always worked for him, but he sees the wisdom in what his daughter is saying. Perhaps this new generation, with its mix of tradition and science, holds the key to protecting the mountain and their livelihood.

He imagines a future where his grandchildren walk these same slopes, herding livestock as he once did, while also benefiting from the knowledge and tools of a changing world. “I’ve always trusted the mountain,” Tserendorj finally says, “but maybe it’s time we trusted new ways too.”

It’s that deep connection to the land, combined with a willingness to embrace change, that offers a path forward. After all, this mountain has stood the test of time—and with the right care, it can continue to stand for generations to come.

Maria Vittoria Mazzamuto is an adjunct faculty member of the Haub School of Environment and Natural Resources at the University of Wyoming specializing in wildlife conservation. She has integrated ecology, animal behavior, and conservation biology into her wildlife research, providing a comprehensive understanding of ecological processes, species dynamics, and ecosystem functioning. Over the past few years, Dr. Mazzamuto has been at the forefront of several impactful projects in Mongolia, particularly within the UNESCO Biosphere Reserve of Bogd Khan Mountain. In collaboration with the Mongolian Academy of Sciences, she aims to implement conservation actions to protect small, medium, and large mammals in this region.

Sukhchuluun Gansukh is the head of laboratory of mammalian ecology at the Mongolian Academy of Sciences’ Institute of Biology. His research focuses on community ecology, rodent physiology, and biodiversity conservation. He currently leads research on mammalian diversity and species interaction in the protected area of Bogd Khan Mountain Biosphere Reserve and non-protected areas around the capital city of Ulaanbaatar that are under human pressure.

Header image: At Manzushir Monastery on Bogd Khan’s southern slope, prayers for the mountain’s protection were a daily ritual. (Arabsalam/Wikimedia Commons)

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