Read the story of a traveler who took part in one of our three-day horseback treks in Kazakhstan. Through her words, immerse yourself in her personal adventure, from the beginning in Almaty to the heart of the landscapes and nomadic life, as she journeys through each stage of the trip.
We left Almaty driving east toward the village of Kainazar. The city thinned out. Concrete gave way to dust. The road straightened. The noise dropped. The world widened.
We were a small group of eight. I was traveling with my mother.
We had spent the previous days road-tripping through southeastern Kazakhstan — Charyn Canyon, Kaindy Lake, Kolsai Lake, Altyn Emel — moving constantly, seeing endlessly. This felt different.
In Kainazar, we met the horses. Mine was a chestnut named Typhoon. Kristin, our guide, said he was stubborn. Said he liked to stay behind. Told me not to give in.
I would soon understand that Typhoon wasn’t stubborn — he just liked doing things his own way.
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We rode out slowly. First through the village, then across a wide plain scattered with crows, and finally upward into the foothills of the Tian Shan. Civilization didn’t end abruptly. It simply stopped insisting.
Autumn had begun to settle gently. The land was gold and rust, sharp-edged and calm. The mountains loomed ahead, softened by haze.
Once you’re on a horse, life gets reduced. Weight. Balance. Direction. Breath. Everything else waits. Life felt simple, and strangely unreal.
By the time we reached camp, I wasn’t thinking much at all.
Yurts stood quietly beneath pear trees. Goats and sheep moved as a single body. A small wild-looking cat slipped between boots — her name was Ryska.
Inside the main yurt, we shared lunch: thick soup, baursak (fried Kazakh bread), black tea, slices of watermelon. Outside, the horses rested.
Afterward, we rode again.
Typhoon lagged. Tested me. Ignored me. I didn’t fight him. I stayed present. Used the stick when needed. Over time, we met somewhere in the middle.
The hills rose gently. Autumn light warmed our backs. Colours deepened as the sun lowered. Wind cut across open slopes. Birds wheeled overhead. Nothing needed naming.
At sunset, we descended toward camp, Typhoon steady beneath me.
That night, darkness came quickly. The animals settled. The land exhaled.
Life had narrowed to essentials: movement, food, rest. And yet it felt rich.
We slept with the yurt door open. I heard the dog, the goats, maybe something larger moving beyond the dark. The night felt alive — not dangerous, not romantic. Simply real.
In the morning, I fed Typhoon pears I had picked for him.
We rode out following a river, past cows and foals, sheep scattered across the hills. A dead lamb lay still in the water. No one commented. The land still had its own rules.
As we climbed higher, the air sharpened. The landscape opened into a wide summer pasture, scented with wild thyme and sagebrush, an open plain held gently between mountains. We passed the Aydosuly Sarybay Bi memorial, standing quietly in the vastness.
At about 2,300 meters, the view broke open. Snowy peaks rose in the distance, four and five thousand meters high. Still and indifferent.
We ate there. A falcon circled above us.
I lay in the grass, basking in the sun, wanting to stay there forever.
Time didn’t stretch. It disappeared. Thought gave way to sound. Wind. Hooves. Breath.
Something settled inside me — not loud or euphoric, but raw and true. Feeling small made me feel big. I wasn’t out there experiencing the land. I was just another body moving through it.
On the way down, the light turned gold. A fox observed us quietly from the slope.
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Typhoon moved differently now. Forward. Attentive. We didn’t argue anymore. That’s what horses do to you. They strip the performance away.
As night fell, villages on the steppe began to glow — scattered lights flickering like stars dropped onto the land. Darkness thickened among the trees. The moon rose.
Back at camp, the sauna was steaming. Dinner was generous: mutton, bread, kumis with honey, cognac.
The day felt complete. Nothing was missing. My body was tired for honest reasons. My mind stayed quiet. The land had done its work.
The last night was cold and still. I woke to birds, the yurt quiet around me. I lay there staring up at the shanyrak until the night dreams faded.
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After breakfast, we trained with bows. String striking skin. Fingers raw. My arm bruised where the string struck. It felt fair — the body learning the old way.
By the time lunch was finished, the camp was already being packed. The horses stood still. Nothing pushed us forward.
The descent began in late-afternoon light. Cars and motorcycles passed us now. Dust rose beneath hooves. For a long stretch, I rode alone behind the group. The sun sank lower. The steppe stretched endlessly ahead. And then we galloped. Hair in the wind. Horses stretched wide across the steppe. Whatever freedom is supposed to mean, it lived there — briefly, completely.
We passed cows with a herder and his dog, weaving through the last bands of sunlight. In the village, life carried on — children playing, grandmothers watching, and a few small hands lifted to wave as we rode by.
At the ranch, I rested my hand on Typhoon’s neck one last time.
Those three days made me feel placed. They quieted me. They reminded me that I am not separate from the world — I am made of it.
That beneath habits, schedules, and noise, the land hasn’t disappeared. It’s still there. Unchanged. Unimpressed.
Some journeys distract you. Some teach you something. And some don’t give you anything at all — they just remind you that the world is still out there, and knowing that brings peace.
Come join us for an unforgettable experience on one of our upcoming expeditions. If the dates don’t work for you or you have a specific project in mind, feel free to contact us on Instagram or WhatsApp!
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