Just Seven KM

I was shaped by two worlds, only seven kilometers apart.

Our Story

Return home

I am a mother of four, shaped by movement between two worlds.

During the year, our life followed school days, soum routines, and work. Every summer, it followed animals, weather, and light. That rhythm began in my childhood.

My grandparents lived seven kilometers from our home in the soum. There was no paved road — only dirt. But those seven kilometers marked a crossing. On one side was soum life: schedules, responsibility. On the other was the countryside: quiet labor, animals breathing, and time that moved more slowly. Each trip changed something inside me. By the time we arrived, the world had already softened.

My grandparents lived in a ger, open to the land. Life there was simple and steady. Milk warmed on the stove. Animals were cared for without hurry. The horses were always part of the day’s work. Silence was not empty — it was shared. My grandfather greeted me by gently pressing his few long gray beard to my forehead. It was an ordinary gesture to him, but it stayed with me. It meant: you are here, you belong.

As children, we learned by watching and by doing. We followed calves, waited for herds to return, and helped with daily work. No one explained these moments. They were not lessons — they were life.

When I was eighteen, I moved to Ulaanbaatar to study. Later I married, became a mother, and settled into city life. Eventually, our family lived in the United States. We lived there for two years, drawn by education and the promise of opportunity. My husband worked as an engineer in Michigan. Our children went to school as the first Mongolian family in the area.

From the outside, life was full — stable, busy, successful.

But inside, something felt unfinished.

Distance sharpened memory. When I felt lonely it was my childhood that returned to me — playing with cousins, animals at dusk, and the quiet presence of grandparents. Those memories carried me through unfamiliar days.

We returned to Mongolia not to repeat the past, but to stay close to what matters.

Today, our life moves between city and countryside. Our children attend school in Ulaanbaatar. In summer, we return to the land. Animals still require daily care. The road is still unpaved.

Just Seven Kilometers is not a destination.
It is the distance between two ways of living — close enough to cross, wide enough to change you.

How We Live

Life here follows animals, weather, and light.

Hand-combing cashmere from goats during spring

Cashmere Gathering

In spring, we gather cashmere from the goats.
We do it by hand, slowly and carefully, only once each year.

Newborn lambs and baby goats in spring

Receiving New Life

In spring, new life begins.

We stay close to the animals, watching and waiting. Some are born easily. Some need help.

Nights can be long. The weather is still cold.

A newborn stands slowly for the first time. The mother stays near.

We stay with them until they are strong.

My mother feeding a newborn lamb inside the ger

Herding & Daily Care

Herding is not an activity. It is the rhythm of the day.

Each morning begins by checking the animals. Some days are slow. Some days are long. Sheep and goats move together. Cows follow familiar paths. Horses are both helpers and companions. A herder rides for hours, often alone, listening to the wind and watching the land change with the light.

Young calves playing near the summer ger

Calves in Summer

In summer, calves roam freely near the ger, small and curious. They run, stop suddenly, then run again — never far from where they were born.

During the day, they are gently kept together while their mothers graze. By evening, they recognize their own mothers by sound and smell, moving toward them without guidance.

Their presence brings constant motion and quiet joy to the countryside. Watching them grow, day by day, is part of everyday life here.

Preparing traditional white foods for winter

White Food

In summer, milk becomes many things.
We boil it, dry it, and prepare it little by little for winter.
These quiet tasks have always been part of life around us.

Stacking hay for the long winter ahead

Getting Ready for Winter

Autumn is busy in a quiet way.
We gather hay, fix what is broken, and prepare food little by little.
Before the cold comes, everything needs to be ready.

Countryside and village life in Mongolia

The road between the countryside and the soum

Between Countryside and Soum

Our life moves between the countryside and the soum.
Some days are with animals and open land.
Some days are in town, with school, work, and people.

The distance is short, but the feeling is different.

Sheep Herding

Every morning, we take the sheep out to graze.
Some days are easy, some are harder, especially in winter.
We follow the animals and adjust as the day changes.

We made 800 buuz together for Tsagaan Sar

Tsagaan Sar

Before Tsagaan Sar, we prepare little by little.
We cook, clean, and get ready to visit family.
When it arrives, everyone gathers and spends time together.

Memories

Far From Home, Close to My Memories

These memories stayed close to me when I was in the United States

My grandfather used to say he had five granddaughters, like the five fingers on one hand.

The oldest, my sister Ichko, was older than the rest of us, and Miigaa, Chimka, Chantska, and I were close in age and spent the whole summer playing together.

Before summer break finished, we made a plan to go berry picking.

Uncle Baaska, who herded sheep in summer, kept telling us about the mountain berries, uhnii sheeg (Ribes diacantha). Every time he came back, he would say, "First they were green, then purple-yellow, and now they are turning red. In just a few days, they will be perfectly sweet and delicious."

Hearing those stories made us even more excited. I kept thinking, we have to go pick those berries.

The day before, we prepared drinks in bottles and got everything ready. The next morning, we finished our chores early and set out. We thought it would take about an hour to get there, but for us, who had not walked that far in a while, walking in the summer heat felt much harder than we expected.

At first, we walked together laughing with our hats on. After a while, we reached a sandy area and sat down to rest. We took off our shoes and buried our feet in the sand to cool them down.

When we reached the foot of the mountain, the berries still seemed farther than we had imagined. Now we had to climb upward, and this was the hardest part for me. After walking for more than an hour in the hot sun, climbing up the mountain felt endless.

Soon the path became difficult because of the trees. Going around them would make the walk much longer, so we decided to take a shortcut. The problem was the spider webs stretched between the trees. We were all afraid of them and wanted to avoid them.

Then Miigaa said, "What's there to be scared of?" She swept the spider webs away with the clothes in her hand like a broom, and after that we all used the same trick to clear our path.

As we got closer, we all started moving faster, almost racing each other through the trees until we finally reached the berries.

Yes, we made it.

We ate as many fresh uhnii sheeg as we could. After we were full, we filled the glass jars and drink bottles we had brought from home.

When we looked back toward home, it seemed so far away. On the way back, we were tired and had finished all our drinks, but we kept joking with each other, and before we knew it, we had arrived home and were drinking cold tea.

I still remember Miigaa and Chimka's mother, Narangerel, laughing and saying, "Look at these brave children, going out in the hot sun to pick berries!"

We were tired, but we had fun together.

Even now, I remember it as one of the most memorable and challenging adventures of our childhood.

We climbed this mountain

It was time to milk the cows, but it was raining outside. It had been raining since morning.

Mother said we could not wait, so she put on her saalnii deel (milking deel). My job was to help her bring the calves out and hold them near their mothers while she milked. I put on a thick jacket with a hood and went outside.

The calves were mooing. The yard was full of puddles, and water was everywhere. Cow dung was scattered on the ground, and I tried not to step on it. But when I went into the calf pen, it was already full of mud and water. It felt unpleasant.

Mother told me to bring the white-and-brown calf first.

"Alright," I said.

I tried to lead him out, but he did not want to come. I held his wet rope and opened the pen. Just then, another playful calf ran past me and splashed mud on my pants. I felt annoyed.

That mother cow was calm, so I did not need to tie her legs. Mother said, "Pull him out." I pulled him close and stood beside his mother.

Usually, while Mother milked, I liked to sit on the fence and watch the orange sunset in the cool air. Those moments always felt quiet and peaceful. Helping my mother was one of my favorite things.

After a few minutes, she said, "My daughter, let this calf go and bring the next one. Where is that lively red calf that kicks?"

I went to look for him. He was standing at the far end of the pen and did not want to come out.

"Why won't you come out and eat?" I said, pushing him, but he would not move. Then I tried pulling his tail, but he was strong. He was the biggest and laziest calf.

I struggled with him for a while and got almost completely soaked.

At last, I got him out, but instead of going to Mother, he ran the other way. I chased after him, and in my hurry, I stepped right into a pile of cow dung.

"Ugh, you naughty kicking master calf," I said.

When I looked up, he had already reached Mother and started drinking milk. I carefully pulled my foot out and wiped it on the grass.

After that, we milked five cows. Mother went back inside, but I stayed outside and waited for the calves to finish.

When the first calf finished, I put him back in the pen. Then the kicking master finished, and I put him back too. One by one, I returned all the calves. Even though the pen was wet and muddy, I still had to put them back. It would help us the next morning, so they would not run to the pasture with their mothers.

After the rain, I kept thinking about the calves. They had eaten and were ready to rest, but their pen was full of wet mud.

That made me feel sad.

But I knew that the next day we would build a new pen in a different place, as we always did. The calves would have a new home tomorrow.

One rainy summer day, the three of us—Chantska, her younger sister Pöödii, and I—went to herd sheep. Sister Tuya had gone into the village center, and since the sheep had gone up the mountain, we three went to bring them down before the rain got worse.

We had just entered the valley when the rain started soaking all three of us. It grew fiercer, and we found a place to hide. We took shelter under a rock face, waiting for the rain to ease. All our clothes were soaked, and I had never seen such violent rain with my own eyes before.

The sky roared and lightning flashed. Along the riverbank in the valley, large trees were flowing as though carried by the river itself, tumbling down the valley with the floodwater.

The rain was so powerful. The three of us waited, wondering if rain could really be this strong.

Then suddenly, Chantska realized she had lost her phone. Her first phone—such a beautiful phone—and now it was gone. The three of us searched and searched along the path we'd taken. We searched for quite a while.

Walking around in such a terrible rainstorm, searching for a dropped phone—how could we possibly find it? But Chantska was afraid to tell her mother she'd lost the beautiful first phone she'd been given, so she kept searching. We didn't find it.

Three animals soaked by rain, arriving home late—my grandmother was surprised. When we came in, she had prepared hot tea and food for us, saying "Drink hot tea, eat food!" We were cold, but the main thing was that Chantska, who had lost the phone her mother gave her, just sat there quietly.

When Sister Tuya came back from the village center, Chantska broke down crying. Her mother hugged her and comforted her, saying "It's okay, it's okay"—making such a big deal of it.

Poor thing. That phone was finally found more than ten years later when Uncle Buren was herding sheep in the mountains.

During that rainstorm, I saw for the first time how powerfully rain can wash away and carry even trees. And I also witnessed Chantska's fear of her mother—and her mother's love—from a different angle.

We lost Chantska’s phone on this mountain, and the cows came to my father’s car expecting to be fed.

Spring break had already begun. I wanted to go to the countryside, so I kept asking my father to take me.

When spring is harsh, we keep our cows in the soum. When the weather is mild, they stay in the countryside. That spring was a good one for the animals.

One day, Father was going to the countryside to deliver hay. He said he would not take me, but I asked him again, and he gave in, like he always did.

I was happy to see the newborn lambs and baby calves. In winter, I also like to walk up the mountains, look at the small things from above, and feel the cold air and wind.

Soon, we headed to the countryside.

The sound of the car moving over the snow was beautiful to hear.

When we arrived, Sister Tuya said she would go out to collect snow. I happily joined her.

I have always liked spending time with her. Since I was a child, her voice has been calm and gentle. Being with her feels easy, like someone you can talk to without thinking too much.

Whether we were herding sheep, collecting argal, or just walking together, she always gave me that feeling.

Now, she is the one who stays in the countryside, keeping everything going while we are away.

We walked toward the slope near the winter shelter. She said we should take snow from a place where the animals had not stepped.

After walking for a while, we found a clean spot. The snow was untouched.

We knelt down on the hard surface. First, we removed the top layer with a shovel. Then we took the clean snow from the middle and filled our bags. Mine was only half full. Hers was heavier.

We carried them back.

Inside, the ger was warm. Father, Grandmother, and Grandfather were sitting together, talking and eating.

"I'll make tea with this snow," Sister said, and sent me inside.

She put the snow into a clean pot. As it melted, she prepared the tea. When it began to boil, she added frozen milk.

The smell was soft and warm.

We drank the fresh tea together, then went back to the soum.

On the way back, I felt quietly full, listening to my father's music in the car.

When I was young, I had never tried to light a real fire by myself. I always thought it was something difficult, something only adults could do.

It was late autumn, and the cold had already begun to settle in. In Mongolia, winter comes early compared to the USA. Even in September, we could already feel the cold.

My brother and sister were away at university, living in a dormitory. My parents had gone to Ulaanbaatar to bring them meat and check on them, so it was just my younger brother and me at home.

Mornings in a cold house were always the hardest. Usually, Mother would wake up early and warm the house, and I would stay under my warm blanket and wait. Getting up into the cold was something I really disliked.

That day, I told my younger brother to stay in bed and keep warm under the blanket.

Then I got up.

The moment I left the blanket, I could feel the cold everywhere: in the air, on the floor, even in my shoes. From the very beginning, it felt like an unpleasant job.

But I knew I had to do it.

I started by cleaning out the ashes. I brought the iron bucket from outside and slowly gathered the ashes with the poker. Ashes are like flour. If you move too quickly, they spread everywhere. My sleeves, my hands, even my face became gray. I felt as if I had turned into ash myself.

After finishing, I carried the heavy bucket outside and covered it with a lid so the wind would not blow the ashes away. That was something Mother had taught me.

Then I began preparing the fire. I brought in argal and placed several pieces at the bottom, then arranged more on top in a square shape. Above that, I added small dry twigs so the fire would catch more easily.

We usually kept matches in the cupboard, so I went to get them. There was almost no fire starter left, and only a little paper. I used a piece of sugar packaging to light it and carefully placed it inside.

The fire started.

I kept watching, waiting for the warmth to come, but it did not feel warm right away. I remember thinking how quickly Father’s fire would warm the house.

Slowly, the heat began to spread.

My younger brother came and sat close to me.

At that moment, I felt something different, not just the warmth of the fire, but also a quiet feeling that I had done something I had never done before.

We sat there together, warming our hands, and for the first time, I felt that I could take care of us.

The house where I grew up in the center of the soum.

One summer morning, I went to fetch water from the river with Chantska. We always had to go early, before the livestock entered the water and made it muddy.

That year, the river was far from our home, so we used a cart. We loaded the containers and set out in the cold morning air, dressed in thick clothes. The ground was still quiet, and everything felt slow and peaceful. Chantska walked beside me, holding the cart. Even though she was younger than me, she was stronger.

When we reached the river, mosquitoes were everywhere. We covered our heads with scarves to protect ourselves, but they were especially active in the morning, buzzing around our faces and hands. Sometimes they even bit our hands and eyelids while we were fetching water, and it was impossible not to notice them.

We went to the shallow place we always used, took off our shoes, rolled up our pants, and stepped into the water. It was very cold, and that first step always shocked my feet, but after a moment I got used to it.

I used a small scoop to fill the containers. The water was clear and still, but it took many scoops to fill even one container. We worked slowly, listening to the sound of the water and the small movements around us.

That day, we left one container by the river because Sister Tuya was going to wash lambskins there, and Father came later to take the cart. Chantska and I each carried a smaller container and started walking back home.

Usually, we would stop and rest halfway at our favorite spot by the river, but that day I felt impatient, so we rested earlier along the road instead.

As we walked home, the sun was rising, and its light slowly spread across the land, making everything feel warmer. It was quiet and peaceful, and I still remember that feeling: cold hands, wet feet, and the morning sun coming up.

Mother was already waiting to make morning tea with the water we had brought.

Our Tarniin River, where we drank, played, and spent time together.

One summer evening, I needed to pee, so I asked my sister to come with me.

Sometimes she came with me. Sometimes she did not want to come. One time, she stayed in bed. She pulled the blanket closer and did not follow me. I stood there for a moment, hoping she would change her mind, but she didn’t. So I went alone.

In the dark, she usually said, “Close your eyes,” and held me like a little penguin. Then she guided me until we reached the place. I held onto her words, opened my eyes, and kept going.

I opened the wooden door of the ger, and the cool night air touched my face. I ran quickly to the place and told them not to close the door. I could still hear voices and see the light from the stove behind me. Inside was warm. Outside felt dark and big.

My heart was beating fast.

Then I looked up.

The sky was full of stars.

I always tried to find the Big Dipper, the Doloon Burkhan Od my grandmother taught me. She told me that if I could find it, I would not be afraid. It would guide me and keep me safe.

I searched for those seven stars, just the way she showed me. When I found them, I felt my body relax. The fear slowly disappeared.

Then I noticed the animals in the dark.

The sheep were lying down together with their families, close to each other. Sometimes, if I came too near, they woke up and moved a little, quietly. Not in fear, just careful. I tried not to disturb them. Even as a child, I felt I understood them a little. They felt safe because they were together.

The horses were resting after a long day. The cows stayed near their calves. Everything had its place. Everything belonged.

Then I was not scared anymore.

I walked back to the ger.

Inside, I usually slept with my sister. Sometimes we fought over space. She usually won, and I cried. My mother would wake up, a little angry, and tell us to stop.

But later, when I was in the United States, I understood it differently. My sister was part of that feeling of safety. Like the animals staying close at night, being near her meant I was not alone, even when we fought.

Even now, as a mother, sometimes I feel I still need her guidance. Not only in the dark. I miss her guidance in life too.

She was not always there with me.

And maybe that night, when she stayed in bed and I walked out alone, was the first time I learned how to look up, find my own stars, and feel safe by myself.