In the frostbitten wilds of northern Mongolia, where GPS signals fade and civilisation is a rumour, a young woman can be found galloping through the taiga, not on a horse, not on a motorbike, but astride a reindeer. She belongs to the Dukha, or Tsaatan tribe, one of the last groups on Earth whose survival is entwined with the antlered creatures they not only herd but ride. Yes, you read that right. They RIDE reindeer.
The Tribe That Time (Almost) Forgot
The Dukha, also known as the Tsaatan (which literally means “people with reindeer” in Mongolian), are nestled deep in the Sayan mountains near the Russian border. With a dwindling population of just a few hundred, maybe fewer than 50 families, this Indigenous community represents a living echo of an ancient nomadic lifestyle that’s all but disappeared from the modern map.
Unlike their yak-riding or camel-wrangling counterparts across Central Asia, the Dukha have formed a remarkable symbiosis with reindeer over centuries. These aren’t tame zoo pets or seasonal Christmas icons, they’re essential transport, companions, and spiritual allies. The reindeer help the Dukha navigate harsh terrain, cross frozen rivers, and transport their teepee-like yurts, known as ortz, as they shift camps through the seasons.
A Day in the Life of a Reindeer Rider
The day begins early, often before sunrise, with herders checking on their animals who roam semi-freely. The reindeer, smaller and lighter than their Scandinavian cousins, are impressively agile on the uneven, snow-covered ground. They’re trained from young to be ridden, and yes, even the children ride them with the same confidence Aussie kids ride scooters to school.
Reindeer milk is turned into cheese and yoghurt, their antlers are harvested (without harming them), and their dung is even used as fire fuel. But it’s the intimate bond between animal and herder that stands out. Reindeer aren’t just livestock, they’re woven into the Dukha’s spiritual beliefs, often featuring in shamanic rituals and family totems.
The average person would struggle to balance on a reindeer, let alone gallop one through the boreal forest. But for the Dukha, it’s a rite of passage, passed from parent to child, antler to ankle.
Vanishing Footprints in the Snow
Despite their resilience, the Dukha face growing challenges. Climate change is melting their permafrost pathways. Government conservation restrictions have squeezed their migratory patterns. And the younger generation, tempted by city life and education, often don’t return to the taiga.
Tourism has become a double-edged sword. On one hand, visitors bring much-needed income and global attention to the tribe. On the other, staged photo-ops and brief encounters can romanticise a life that’s arduous, fragile, and under threat. While NGOs and explorers like Breanna Wilson (writing for Forbes) and National Geographic photographers have highlighted their plight, the question remains: how long can the Dukha ride on?
Guardians of a Hooved Heritage
The story of the Dukha isn’t just about reindeer, it’s about resistance. Against modernity, climate, and cultural erosion. While the rest of the world gallops forward on steel and silicon, these last reindeer riders offer a glimpse into a wilder rhythm of life, one paced by hooves, not headlines.
Their presence isn’t just poetic, it’s urgent. As the world’s last reindeer-riding culture, they remind us that the most extraordinary things are often the most endangered. And sometimes, to see the future, we need to honour those still galloping through the past.
