Walking Through Kalajun

Day 1: Qiongkushitai to Jiasagan Camp

We set off from Tekes at 9:30 in the morning. After about two hours of napping in the car, I woke up to find us winding through mountainous roads. The surroundings already bore the appearance of grasslands, but what was peculiar were the undulating hills—lush green grass on the sun-facing slopes and bare piles of rocks on the other side.

After another half-hour of drowsy sleep, we arrived at Qiongkushitai. The parking lot was already packed with cars. A fellow traveler pointed to the wooden cabins hidden among the trees across the bridge and said, "There are plenty of restaurants over there where we can eat." Looking around, the village nestled in a low-lying valley surrounded by tall pines and spruces. Beyond that stretched verdant grasslands, with a river meandering through the village, its gentle murmurs filling the air. Hikers ready for their journey walked along the gravel paths, accompanied by the rhythmic clip-clop of horse hooves from passing riders.

An open-air restaurant caught our attention, with the owner calling out, "Freshly made pilaf!" We ordered one serving of pilaf and one lamb soup for a total of 95 yuan. Behind the restaurant lay a dense pine forest, enveloped by the sounds of birds and flowing water. Nuonuo pointed to the riverside and said, "The Wusun Ancient Trail starts by following this river."

After a satisfying meal, we borrowed two trekking poles from our guide (which later proved to be lifesavers). We followed the livestock migration path, initially encountering gentle slopes. It was June, and the surroundings were lush with tender grass and dotted with small flowers in red, yellow, and purple. As we ascended, the view gradually opened up, revealing Qiongkushitai nestled in the valley. The distant mountains were a vibrant green, with straight rows of pines lining the riverbanks—reminiscent of the Swiss landscapes we had seen the previous year. Eagles occasionally circled halfway up the mountains. Our guide pointed to exposed yellow earth on the slopes and said, "See those yellow mounds? Those are marmot burrows, and the marmots are sunbathing on the rocks nearby."

As we crossed a hill, rain began to fall. We put on our raincoats at the hilltop, only to find the skies clearing by the time we reached the bottom, forcing us to pack them away again. Herders on horseback passed by occasionally, much like encountering mounted travelers in Hyrule. When we descended into another valley, a milky-white river blocked our path. Washing our hands in the icy water, we took a short break before the rain returned. Our guide said, "Once we cross this forest, we’ll face the 500-meter 'Despair Slope.'"

We pressed on through the forest as the rain intensified, and the group began to spread out. Looking back, only five of us remained at the front. At the foot of a nearly 70-degree slope, I checked the route—yes, this was the way up. The once-soft dirt path had turned into a muddy mess under the rain, making each step feel like two steps back. Pulling our feet out of the mud often left our shoes behind, with only socks visible. I thought to myself, without those trekking poles, we’d never make it up.

As we climbed, a Kazakh rider suddenly appeared, galloping down the steep, winding path. In broken Mandarin, he asked if we wanted to ride up. We declined, suggesting he check with the others behind us. Thanking us, he rode off toward the base of Despair Slope as effortlessly as if the treacherous terrain were flat ground.

Near the top, the rain eased, and the overcast sky gave way to patches of blue. Sunlight broke through, warming us instantly. We paused on an outward-jutting stone platform with a sweeping view. Below, hikers struggled upward, while Kazakh riders led mud-splattered travelers on horseback. Here, we also met "Natasha," who was carrying supplies.

After a short rest, we continued toward the summit. Though the rain had stopped, the slope remained slippery, our shoes caked with thick mud. At the top stood two yurts, where earlier arrivals were already resting, eating instant noodles (10 yuan per pack). The yurt’s owner chatted with everyone, holding his grandson and leading a horse. We rested briefly as others gradually joined us.

A Kazakh rider offered us a drink. As I wondered what it was, our guide said, "Fermented mare’s milk—try it, it’s unique." I took a sip, and the sourness hit me instantly, but it left a surprisingly sweet aftertaste.

After another break, we headed toward the campsite, now entering the vast, flat Kalajun Grassland. The post-rain air was crisp, and the flowers and grass seemed even more vibrant. Kazakh riders occasionally passed by, singing folk songs—a scene straight out of The Legend of Zelda.

About 2 kilometers later, we reached the campsite, where triangular tents stood in neat rows. As we settled into ours, a stray cat wandered in. At our call, it leaped into our arms, purring contentedly.

After unpacking and changing, the rest of the group trickled in. We sat under the canopy, snacking on fruit and chatting while watching horses graze outside. As dusk fell, the sky blazed red. During dinner, we kept dashing out to admire the sunset.

Night brought a sky ablaze with stars, the Milky Way arching overhead. We drifted asleep to the chorus of crickets.

Jiasagan Camp to East Kalajun Camp

The second day’s route was the longest—about 22 kilometers through Kalajun’s core area. We traversed multiple pastures, but heavy fog soon rolled in, followed by rain. Having endured yesterday’s downpour on Despair Slope, today’s rain was no match for us. After two hours of walking in the rain, we reached a resting spot—a herder’s yurt.

Cold and hungry, we learned the herder sold instant noodles for 10 yuan per pack. Though we had snacks, everyone craved something warm after the rain. We gathered around the stove in the round felt tent. The herders welcomed us warmly, offering hot water and homemade milk tea from their cows. We chatted by the fire until we were dry and warm. Outside, the rain stopped, replaced by clear skies.

The second half of the journey took us through more pastures, where sheep, cows, and horses lounged, grazed, or galloped. We even spotted a family of marmots sunbathing. By 5:40 PM, we arrived at East Kalajun Camp, nestled in a valley with no signal. To get online, we had to climb a 50-meter hill dubbed "Telecom Hill"—only China Telecom users could catch two bars there.

After settling in, we ate dinner. At around 9:30 PM, with the sky still bright, we hiked up the hill to watch the sunset. By 10:20, the sun began to dip, painting the horizon in shades of purple and red. At 11:00, as darkness fell, we returned to camp.

The next day, we explored the area around East Kalajun Camp.

I was woken early by the sound of cows. Annoyed, I peeked out of the tent to see a mother cow calling to her calf. Realizing it was still dawn, I decided to climb "Telecom Hill" for sunrise. Nearby, a shepherd opened the sheep pen and herded the flock up the hill on his motorcycle.

At the summit, golden sunlight streamed over the distant peaks. The open landscape stretched before us, with sheep bathed in warm light. Two shepherds—one on a motorcycle, the other on horseback—guided the flock.

On the way down, I passed the shepherd milking the very cow that had woken me. Two buckets of fresh milk sat beside him. At breakfast, everyone complained about the noisy cows. I pointed to the delicious milk tea and said, "We’re drinking her milk right now."

At 10:00 AM, we set off for a hilltop picnic. A group of Kazakh riders soon approached, offering horseback photos for 20 yuan or rides for 50 yuan (with a guide). I chose a 20-year-old horse, and the rider led us on a brisk trot—a taste of true草原 freedom.

The day’s planned route was only 8 kilometers, but we felt restless and decided to explore a nearby valley. After an hour of winding trails, we reached a riverside home with a foal and a disinterested puppy.

Further in, we found a horse pasture. At a bridge, we washed our feet in glacial meltwater. A herder soon arrived, and after some charades, we agreed on 20 yuan for a short ride.

By 4:00 PM, back at camp, a sudden downpour sent us napping in our cooled tents. We woke at 8:00 PM to find the grass freshly washed and the air crystal clear. Riders galloped past—today was the rare "Eagle Festival," where horsemen competed to snatch a goat carcass. Nuonuo explained, "It’s like草原 soccer, but with a goat instead of a ball."

East Kalajun Camp to Tarim Forest Park

After another night at camp, it was time to descend. Today’s 20-kilometer hike began with crossing a few hills before the long downhill stretch. The first half offered stunning ridge walks alongside cliffs and distant snow-capped peaks.

Lower down, the terrain grew barren, with thorny shrubs replacing grasslands.

Walking on, I suddenly missed the lush pastures, lazy livestock, and galloping horses atop the mountains. Before coming to Xinjiang, I couldn’t have imagined its beauty. At first, Kalajun reminded me of Switzerland, but by the end, its uniqueness was clear—Xinjiang encompasses every landscape, with a sense of boundless freedom found nowhere else.