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WHERE EAGLES SOAR

Mongolia’s Eagle Hunter Festival

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Editor's Note: Local adventurers returned from Mongolia earlier this month, after learning to hunt with golden eagles in the country’s remote mountain valleys for two weeks.

Jean Gendreau was among the five Ely residents and seven other Minnesotans who went on the expedition through Ely’s global outfitting company Adventure Sherpas. Here, she shares a captivating narration of her cultural experiences staying with nomadic herdsmen and hunting fox with giant eagles atop barren mountains.

Adventure Sherpas plans to return to Mongolia next fall from Sept. 20 to Oct. 7. Those interested in learning more can attend their trip presentation at the Nov. 23 Ely Tuesday Group or sign up on their website at www.adventuresherpas.com.

By Jean Gendreau

The cold wind and light snow feel familiar, but this barren mountainside feels nothing like Minnesota’s Iron Range. An eagle hunter squats next to us, holding his golden eagle high, even though she weighs as much as a Thanksgiving turkey. The hunter says only female eagles “have the heart” to take down wolves, foxes and beech martens. He watches the slope below. When he spots prey, he’ll pull off her leather hood and let her fly.

We are in the Altai Mountains on the western side of Mongolia, a few miles south of Russia, east of Kazakhstan and north of China. These Kazakh families are Muslims descended from Turkic tribes, the khans who ruled Central Asia in about 1460.

We’ve come on a tour with Ely’s Adventure Sherpas. Kim McCluskey and Brad Ruoho are leading our group of ten. We flew into Mongolia’s capital, Ulaan Baatar, flew farther west to the town of Ulgii, left the roads and drove in land cruisers far into the mountains.

Remote takes on a new meaning in Mongolia. We’re not talking about a few miles on a dirt road. Mongolia has few roads, and most “roads” are faint tracks across rocky valleys.

After leaving the dirt road, we drive off-road for days, following valleys so isolated that we see only one or two gers. (Mongolians prefer ger to the Russian word yurt.) We see no fences, no roads, no property lines and no towns.

The valleys sweep to distant mountains. The Kazakhs are nomads. Their herds—thousands of yaks, cows, goats, camels and horses—run free for miles, grazing on sparse grass. Herdsmen ride behind them like cowboys.

It’s autumn. The nomads have moved from higher grazing to their lower winter quarters. The vast high valleys lie empty now as wind and snow arrive.

We see the soft white shapes of our gers, snug under a rocky mountainside. The nomads burn dung in little stoves, and the smoke has a pleasant earthy scent. Nearby are stone enclosures for goats, to keep them safe from wolves. Behind the goats’ corral, a herd of yaks makes low comforting grunts as they settle for the night. This is our home for a few nights while we visit an eagle hunter’s family.

Inside, the gers are warm and dark with thick felt rugs on the ground. The eagle hunter’s wife has hung pelts above our beds: wolf, fox and beech marten.

On a chilly morning we watch the eagle hunter work with his eagle. They capture young eagles, train them to hunt and then release them after about seven years.

The hooded eagle perches on the hunter’s arm. When he pulls off the hood, she cries out, lifts her wings and takes off. He trains her with meat and with a fox’s pelt that he drags behind his horse. She spots the pelt moving and dives for it.

Later, on a brilliant blue afternoon, we go out on the mountain to hunt with the men. We’re at 9,500 feet, and the wind is so cold that we pull scarves over our faces. Today the hunters are on foot, but usually they hunt on horses. Each of the two hunters carries an 18-pound eagle on his arm. Below us are beaters who run along the slopes, scaring foxes out of hiding.

Someone spots a fox. With a shout the hunters jump up and pull off one eagle’s hood. She screams as she senses the energy of the hunt. Normally she would fly high and the hunters would race beneath her. But today, the hunter does not see the fox and puts her hood back on.

Hours pass. We run up and down the rocky slopes, tripping and stumbling, then wait, squatting in the sun, fine air and biting wind.

Far below a beater shouts. The fox doubled back in the opposite direction and disappeared. We come down the mountain to our gers and drink warm, sweet yak’s milk by the fire.

The next day we drive to the city of Ulgii to attend the annual Eagle Hunters’ Festival. Hundreds of Kazakhs have come, bringing their eagles, camels and horses. Their high leather boots, fox fur hats, long padded tunics and fur coats make perfect sense in today’s harsh wind.

Women sell handicrafts such as embroidered felt rugs and fur vests. We drink tea and eat kebabs.

Seventy men and two girls are competing in skill events such as calling their eagles from a nearby mountaintop. A small stray dog wanders nearby. An eagle that should be answering her master veers away, dives for the dog and pins him. He scampers away.

The Kazakhs are amazing horsemen. Another contest is a tug of war between two riders using a sheep’s carcass. The men grab the carcass and pull, sometimes slipping to a position perpendicular from the horse’s side, but they hang on in that position, sometimes riding for more than five minutes while tugging back and forth.

As the festival winds down, the nomads take down the gers and load them onto trucks or camels. Three men in fox-skin coats and pointed fur hats ride by, their eagles on their arms. We gaze at the distant mountains, thinking of warm yak milk, meat dumplings and toasty gers, and pull our scarves up against the bitter wind.