Drawn to Mongolia during its coldest season, a New York–based photographer braved subzero temperatures to experience life on the steppe at its most authentic. Here, his words and images recount a wintry adventure warmed by local hospitality.

Photographs by Matt Dutile

Left to right: Dressed for the season in a winter deel (robe) and fur hat; a camel rider attired in traditional finery for a winter festival.

Winter in Mongolia is stark. From the great grasslands of the steppe to the flowing dunes of the Gobi Desert, the frozen season brings not only formidable cold, but also piercing beauty. Across the vast East Asian nation, temperatures regularly plunge below -30°C. Whipping winds can penetrate even the thickest layers of clothing. Finding just how many woolen under garments strike the right balance between warmth and immobility is something of an art form. Still, I felt up for the challenge.

Mongolia had always fired my imagination. It is a land of striking contrasts—from the modern, metropolitan sprawl of Ulaanbaatar to the nomadic herders that carry on much as they have for centuries. In recent years, I’d watched it bloom into an “it” destination for adventure travel. Visitors enthused about its endless blue skies, wide open spaces, and enduring traditions.

I could wait no longer. While most tourists descend upon the steppe during the brief summer and autumn, I chose the depths of winter for a more insightful look at how locals cope during the harshest time of the year. In mid-January, I stuffed my bags with fleece, merino, and windproof layers, and set off to brave the bone-chilling conditions of the Mongolian countryside.

Mongolia has urbanized rapidly over the past decades, to a point where almost half its people live in Ulaanbaatar. Life here proceeds much like in any other city around the world, despite the challenges of bitter cold, an infrastructure strained by a population it wasn’t built for, and traffic-clogged streets.

Our small band of six—four travelers plus a Mongolian guide and driver—piled into a breadbox-shaped Russian Furgon and set out for the vast lands south of the capital. Where Ulaanbaatar is jam-packed, the countryside remains one of the least densely populated places on earth. Over two weeks, we zig-zagged across frozen dirt roads—some times through snow and sand squalls that reduced visibility to mere meters—and stayed with locals in the traditional ger tents of semi-nomadic herders. These “guest gers” were insulated only by thick layers of wool and canvas, with a central stove that required a regular supply of coal or dried dung to keep burning.

Left to right: The Milky Way spans the sky above a ger camp at Tsagaan Suvarga in Dundgovi province; a boy balances on the back of a shaggy Bactrian camel during a winter festival in the Gobi Desert.

Left to right: A man in a blue deel looks over a frozen lake at Elsen Tasarkhai; Erdene Khamba Monastery sits empty for the winter in the nearby mountains.

Left to right: Bactrian camels huddle for warmth at sunrise at a camp near Tsagaan Suvarga; a deel-clad man sits on a motorbike at a camp near the Gobi Desert’s Flaming Cliffs.

Granite formations at Baga Gazriin Chuluu in Dundgovi province.

Along the way, we met incredibly genial locals bundled in colorfully patterned deel, the robe-like national dress worn by both men and women. Many were out tending flocks, hair and beards tipped with white frost, searching for meager bits of forage above the snow. Mongolia’s herder culture is still alive and well, no mere relic of the past. Today, these modern pastoralists balance their traditional life style with new conveniences like solar power, freezers, televisions, and even Wi-Fi in more populous areas.

Few tourists visit in winter, and our stays were a welcome bit of income during the off-season. Yet hospitality here runs far deeper than commerce. When our van got stuck in a snowdrift, a gentleman passing by in a Prius stopped to help shovel us out. On numerous other occasions, we were ushered into homes for airag (fermented mare’s milk), biscuits, and warmth by the stove.

On clear nights, bundled tight against the piercing cold, I would step outside to watch the Milky Way rise as I’ve never seen it before—the entire sky alight with more stars than there were grains of sand on the dunes below. For a city dweller like myself, it’s easy to forget that this is how much of humanity once regarded our place in the cosmos. I can’t help but feel we’ve lost some greater connection, awash in the glow of our electric empires.

In Elsen Tasarkhai, dubbed the “Little Gobi” thanks to its narrow stretch of dunes, we stumbled on a festival thrown by local public servants—teachers, police officers, and administrators gathering with their families for a day of midwinter merriment. They played games like shagai (anklebone shooting), ice wrestling, and three-legged races alongside camel competitions and a singing contest. We shared drinks, lamb dumplings, and laughter with our newfound friends. January may be the most frigid month in Mongolia, but the warmth of its people is strong enough to keep the cold at bay.

Two women lock arms in a bout of ice wrestling at a festival near the Elsen Tasarkhai sand dunes.

Left to right: A grandfather and grandson pose for a portrait at a winter festival; women gather to share buuz dumplings and fermented mare’s milk in an open ger.

Left to right: A herder braves the freezing temperatures of Mongolia’s wintry grasslands; men exchanging snuff bottles at a gathering near the Elsen Tasarkhai sand dunes.

Goats and sheep foraging for winter grasses in the snowy hills south of Ulaanbaatar, the Mongolian capital.

This article originally appeared in the December 2025/February 2026 print issue of DestinAsian magazine (“Mongolia in Winter”). Buy a single issue or subscribe here.

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