"You can't do anything about climate change....."

Arguing that, in the face of climate change, Mongolian herders have no choice other than to "simply adapt", is both misleading and a cop out.

I recently read a message I have heard so many times for the last 15 years, when I've had the privilege of working alongside herding communities across Mongolia.

Climate Change, Not Overgrazing: The Real Threat to Mongolia's Rangelands

Sadly, this is the truth we must face. This research adds another devastating piece to the growing body of evidence documenting climate change's negative impacts on ecosystems like rangelands—and the lives they support. Rangelands are Earth's dominant land type, supporting the livelihoods of more than 2 billion people, yet they remain among the most vulnerable to our changing climate.

I've been working alongside herding communities across Mongolian rangelands—from the Gobi desert near the Chinese border to the northern forest steppes.

Their observations have been consistent and alarming:

• Rain patterns are shifting unpredictably

• Droughts are lasting longer and occurring more frequently

• Massive snowfall episodes threaten both human and animal lives

• Stronger, more frequent storms are literally "pulling the grass out of the soil"

I trust these observations completely. These communities have been born into these landscapes, raised by them, and have accumulated generations of knowledge about their rhythms and changes. Their insights represent what we now recognise as Traditional Environmental Knowledge (TEK)—a massive source of information and resources for anyone interested in understanding the landscapes they inhabit.

The Schrödinger's Goat

For those in the cashmere industry, this research carries profound implications, as the quality of this fibre depends entirely on healthy rangelands and well-adapted, as happy as possible goats. Climate change threatens this supply chain at its very foundation. As rangelands become less productive due to changing precipitation patterns, extreme weather events, and shifting growing seasons, the sustainability of cashmere production faces unprecedented challenges. So they—brands, processors—want to know where their cashmere is from. Not the cooperative name, but the community and the animals grazing on the landscape. All that on maps with boundaries, and monitoring points. To check how much grass is there to be grazed, and how many livestock are actually grazing it. And there is less and less grass.

Recent studies confirm this alarming trend: approximately 70% of Mongolia's steppe ecosystem is now considered degraded, with widespread decline in vegetation observed across grasslands. Some say it's the goats, some say it's the climate, but they are not contradictory in their findings: everyone agrees, there is less and less grass. It may be happening slowly, but fast enough for everyone above 40 years old to remember the size of the grass during childhood. Knee high.

from knee high to golf course

This creates what a Mongolian friend calls the "Schrödinger's goat" situation—a state of profound uncertainty where two contradictory possibilities seem to exist at the same time: herders need their livestock to survive economically, yet those same animals may be contributing to the degradation of the very landscape that sustains them.

Put simply, economic survival depends on more goats; environmental survival depends on fewer goats.

“Herders Can Adapt”

Confident about herders skills, some may be tempted to think “herders can adapt” to the slow impact of climate change on their pastures. To me, this sounds like a dangerous simplification of the realities herder face both from an economic and environmental standpoint, when they are both tied with each other.

I'd rather say today Nature does the job.

Numbers of livestock can grow quasi-exponentially from year to year, when there is enough rain from early spring to late summer for the grass to grow. It happens, it's still described "a normal year."

And after a few good years of growth and prosperity, a disaster called dzud strikes. It's Mother Nature rebalancing ecosystems, removing livestock, reducing grazing pressure, giving rangelands some time to regenerate. Historically every 10 years, much more frequent now, with local dzuds every year. But after every dzud, the most fragile plant communities, the most palatable, grow back in smaller and smaller numbers, replaced by other species not so good for the livestock. And after every dzud, several households having lost all their animals have no other choice but to move to a city to try start another life.

Millions of livestock die of cold and starvation. Nature does the job, and it's ugly.

Herders can adapt, indeed. They have the necessary TEK to adapt, but there is one condition to this: they can't afford to lose money. But adapting, more often than we would like it, means reducing livestock numbers. And for such measure to be effective, in some places it's not 5 or 10% fewer animals, it's 5 times fewer or more. In this sense, the current livestock tax isn't going to help much (but I do appreciate the work of the people behind it, who advocated for the collected funds to be used locally and somewhat for herders' interests).

Herders can adapt, but they can't do it alone. If one herding family decides to reduce numbers, it won't make a difference. All the households utilising the same set of pastures have to agree. To agree on number of livestock they need to first estimate the quantity of grass available, and then sit in a yurt all together and talk about rotations, and numbers. Although it's quite easy for a community of 20 households to agree on seasonal pastures boundaries and dates, talking about numbers is more delicate, especially when it's about decreasing them. In very few cases, some households will reduce numbers anyway—it happens when the household kids have become independent and age is becoming a limiting factor to keeping large herds.

For more people to agree, the community needs a serious business case: reduce production while stabilising and diversifying income streams. A good idea is also to improve product quality with better breeding and better veterinary services. And for all these conversations to happen, of course they need to be good buddies and share compatible views about their future.

It seems quite logical to me that herders can adapt, but they need some allies. They need modern tools to measure their rangelands and follow the trends. They need professionals delivering zootechnical and veterinary services. They also need a good set of buyers of meat, dairy and fibres to back their plans in the long run. And for their products to remain competitive, they need another source of income, disconnected from production volumes, connected to nature.

Is It Even Worth Trying?

The same people claiming that "herders should just adapt" seem to think it's an easy game.

They also suggest that efforts should rather be focused on mitigating climate change. I'm not sure this is helping, and might even be counterproductive. Climate science is breeding non-activity and inaction through this messaging of "it's all at the macro level and working at the individual and the community level is not needed."

But here's the truth: herding communities cannot adapt alone, by themselves, and we cannot afford to wait for macro-level solutions alone.

Reducing livestock numbers in Mongolia is not just an adaptation strategy—it is a climate change mitigation strategy. Less livestock means less methane emissions, less pressure on degraded ecosystems, and more carbon sequestration potential in recovering grasslands.

We all know we're making too much stuff. Humanity has already crossed seven of the nine planetary boundaries that define our safe operating space on Earth. We're in the red zone for climate change, biosphere integrity, land-system change, freshwater use, biogeochemical flows, novel entities, and now ocean acidification. The signs are clear: business as usual is no longer an option.

A Path Forward—Together

Yet this reality also presents an opportunity for genuine transformation. The fashion industry, particularly cashmere brands and processors, has a unique role to play. By working directly with herding communities, companies can:

• Support rangeland monitoring and restoration efforts that benefit both ecosystems and supply chains

• Invest in community-led adaptation plans that reduce herd sizes while maintaining livelihoods

• Pay fair prices that reflect the true value of sustainably produced fibers

• Develop payment mechanisms for ecosystem services—compensating herders for carbon sequestration, biodiversity conservation, and watershed protection

• Co-create business models where quality replaces quantity as the success metric

This is not charity—it's enlightened self-interest. The cashmere industry's future depends entirely on healthy rangelands and thriving herding communities. Without them, there is no supply chain to manage.

For rangeland practitioners, the message is equally clear: we need integrated approaches that combine Traditional Environmental Knowledge with modern monitoring tools, community organising with market development, and local action with global advocacy.

The question isn't whether we should work at the community level or the macro level—we need both, simultaneously. Climate mitigation happens through a million small decisions made by herders, brands, consumers, and policymakers. Each matters. Each compounds.

Herders can adapt, yes—but only if we adapt with them. Only if companies that depend on their products become genuine partners in building resilient landscapes and livelihoods.

Only if we recognise that reducing production in fragile ecosystems isn't a failure, it's a necessity. And only if we're willing to pay for the true cost of sustainability.

The rangelands of Mongolia, like those across the globe, are at a crossroads. The path forward requires courage, collaboration, and a fundamental shift in how we value both nature and the people who steward it. The science is clear. The herders have been telling us for years. Now it's time to act—together.