Top Things to Do in Mongolia

Inside a white-felt ger on Ulaanbaatar's pine-scented edge, flour drifts like snow while you pinch buuz around juniper-scented mutton. The host-mother shoves a cast-iron pan over a dung-fired stove. Fat crackles, the roof ring exhales smoke, and you taste caramel-edged aaruul that clacks between teeth like brittle cheese.

Olivia meets you at dawn, parks her Russian UAZ beside Soviet blocks, and within 40 minutes you're climbing 250 steel steps around the gleaming 40 m stainless-steel boot of the Genghis Statue, horse and rider aimed east forever. Turtle Rock looms next, a granite reptile half-submerged in larch. Climb its shell and wind whistles through fissures nomads once used as spirit flutes.

The drive east out of Ulaanbaatar peels open into grass so green it looks wet; then, without warning, the 40 m stainless-steel Chinggis Khaan rises like a rocket on the steppe. Inside the pedestal elevator you rise to the horse's mane for a 360-degree swirl of larch hills before descending to Terelj's emerald floodplain where yak carts cross the Tuul River.

Three days, three parks: Hustai's re-introduced Przewalski horses toss brick-red manes at sunrise; Terelj's larch needles smell of butterscotch after rain; Gun-Galuut's marsh reeds hiss when demoiselle cranes land. Nights are spent in nomad guest-ger; your host slices boiled mutton with a pocketknife that once belonged to his grandfather.

Terelj's pony herd includes a chestnut gelding named "Wind Chime" because his gait jingles the iron stirrups. You mount, trot across edelweiss meadows, then canter up a ridge where larch shadows stripe the ground like tiger fur.

After 12 hours of connections you land at Chinggis Khaan International. The air smells of jet fuel and koumiss from the café. A driver holding a felt-covered placard ushers you into a Hyundai County van where seat heaters roast away the −20 °C January chill.

Eleven days, 410 km of pedalling: you coast downhill from Arkhangai's pine scent into Orkhon Valley where volcanic cliffs glow rust-red at dusk. Each campsite overlooks nomad winter pastures. Ox carts creak while fermented mare's milk pops in leather bags hung from saddle pommels.

Pick your ride: Soviet UAZ for axle-snapping river crossings, Kia Carnival van for film crews, or 20-seat Coaster for budget student groups. All come with drivers who know every mechanic between Ulaanbaatar and Khovd.

One dawn-to-dusk sweep: Gandan's copper temple roofs gleam like dull fire. The Winter Palace smells of yak-butter candle wax. The Black Market (Narantuul) reeks of raw sheepskin and diesel generators. Lunch is hand-pulled noodle soup slapped on a tin table hotter than the kettle.

Leave the capital at sunrise. By noon you're walking dunes the colour of pale coffee that squeak when sand grains rub. Overnight in Kharkhorum beside Erdene Zuu's brick walls. At night the only light is moon reflecting off 108 white stupas.