Song Kul horse trekking:
a bloody uncomfortable ride
Kyrgyzstan is synonymous with horses. People have been taming and riding horses here for at least 2,000 years, and it is said that Kyrgyz people can ride before they can walk. When we came over the border from Tajikistan, the wide, green steppe full of horses was the first thing we saw. So even though I really don’t like horses it seemed wrong to be in the country and not go on a horse trek. But it still took some convincing for me to go on a three day horse trek. A promise of some luxury sometime soon, maybe…..
Out of the village of Kyzart, where we were staying, the dusty track led up onto the wide expanse of green steppe dotted with yellow wild flowers, rolling hills rising to the side and in front of us. We ambled along leisurely, Rosie, the dog from the hotel running alongside.
Unlike the very hard saddles we had in Mongolia we did at least get quite a lot of padding this time so the fact that we’d failed to buy any cycling shorts beforehand was less of a problem. I’m not saying it was comfortable but not absolute agony. At least at first……
My horse was also relatively well behaved, which made a change from previous horse treks. I mean it went in the right direction and generally kept to a gentle walk without too much effort on my part. It did have a predilection for walking right up the arse of another horse though, so I spent a lot of time with a delightful view of a horse’s bottom not to mention being in the line of fire for some very smelly horse farts. Thankfully, for me at least, my horse was the master trumper, emitting an almost constant and often quite musical amount of wind much to Simon’s disgust being behind and on the receiving end.
Nomads and Silk Road merchants have traversed these hills for hundreds of years and it’s easy to believe that nothing has changed since. There are no paved roads, no power lines. Only the massive expanse of vibrant green and dusty brown steppe, blue sky, grazing animals, and the occasional yurt.
A few hours in and the padding wasn’t working. I shuffled to a more comfortable position, inching back on the saddle, then tried sitting up off the saddle for just a few seconds of relief. Then the blasted horse starts trotting, pain shoots up my back and my bones rattle and jar. Oh no you don’t, you bloody naughty animal, I’m in charge. And, miraculously, it slowed back down to a steady, slow plod. Less painful.
Downhill (agony) in the valley I saw the welcoming sight of a yurt camp. My torture was over for the day. “Not here. Another 20 minutes”, smiled our guide. My face obviously told him what I thought. He turned to Simon – “20 minutes, your wife, ooohh.” We stayed.
My joy at stopping increased as we entered the dining yurt and saw the generous delights spread out on the low tables. Cream tea Kyrgyz style. Tea from a huge silver samovar. Freshly baked kattama (flaky, layered flatbread), homemade apricot jam and, best of all, delicious thick homemade cream. I indulged. It would have been rude not to. Needless to say I didn’t need much dinner.
Rumbling thunder had been echoing around the valley for several hours. Occasional streaks of bright white lightning pierced the black ominous clouds. The thunder increased to a steady, loud roar as if rocks were crashing down onto the dark ceiling of clouds above us. It reverberated off the hills, lightning flashes shone through the felt roof of the yurt, and with an almighty crash the rain started. Hammering down on the roof, we could hear it bouncing on the ground outside level with our ears, as we lay safe and cosy huddled beneath a mound of quilts on our mattresses on the floor. We double checked there weren’t any leaks before going to sleep.
Morning dawned clear, bright and blue. We woke to the sound of cream being churned by hand and horses galloping across the lush green hills having been hobbled all night.
I tried to resist more cream at breakfast. Failed.
In the cool fresh morning air with the sound of birdsong accompanying the steady clomp of hooves we wound our way upwards, through rolling green hills dotted with white yurts, chimneys smoking invitingly. We crested the summit to our first view of Song Kul. A huge expanse of hazy blue more like the sea than a lake with no edges visible. Below were yurt camps surrounded by small moving brown dots of cows and horses.
Kyrgyzstan’s largest freshwater lake, sitting at over 3,000 meters high, and stretching for 29 kilometers, the remote Song Kul lake is a summer home to many nomadic families who come to graze their flocks on the lake’s grassy shores.
We lingered for a long time admiring the view and the solitude, once the other, noisy trekkers had moved on. Rosie got bored of waiting and ran off with new found friends leaving our side after a day and a half of happily lolloping along. We’d become quite accustomed to her being there.
It was a long downhill plod to our yurt camp on the shore of Song Kul and by the time we arrived I was in agony. My backside was relieved by standing up, but that hurt my knees. My knees felt better sitting down, but I really didn’t want to do that either. Laying down at least relieved both areas and the yurts had comfortable beds (bonus). Our exclusive yurt camp was right on the lake shore and though it was lovely and warm in the sun, it was blowing a mean cold breeze off the water. We were mighty glad of our air pump heating (21st century yurt) during the night.
Kyrgyzstan’s most popular horse game is Kok Boru. And luckily for us, the local yurt camps put on a friendly match. Kok Boru, also known as Dead Goat Polo, is an ancient game originating either as a way to train riders and their horses for war or from watching wolves hunting and playing with prey, depending on who’s telling the story. It’s basically a rugby game on horseback with a headless goat used as a ball.
The two teams raced to pick up the goat carcass, blocking and jostling each other until a whirlpool of dust obliterated the players from view. Then out of the murk they charged, attempting to carry the carcass to the end and toss it into the center of the kazan, a ring of tyres functioning as a goal. The goat was thrown about like a ragdoll, pulled and stretched, it’s woolly body pulled taut as the other team tried to take possession, ramming into each other to loud whoops and shouts. Very competitive, hard work, dangerous and extremely entertaining. And the tenderised goat was then served to the victors for dinner.
Being grateful to be off the horse and being only proficient to sit on one in any event, we stuck to a sedate game of archery firing arrows into a stuffed Marco Polo Sheep/huge goat – the deformed creature stood incongruously outside our yurt camp, we had wondered why, maybe it was just there for target practice?
We breakfasted on the deck of the almost complete glamping pods next to our yurts under a clear blue sky, with the mountains at the opposite side of Song Kul now visible, snow still nestled in crevices glinting bright white against dark grey rock. The calm lake was perfectly still today and we could see the rocky bottom near the shore. A far cry from the choppy waves of the previous day.
I was hoping for a miracle so I didn’t have to get back on the horse in order to get back to Kyzart. But to no avail. And to make matters worse, the beast was misbehaving from the off. After I’d had two days of doing quite well, now it just didn’t want to know. Even being led it still wouldn’t behave and I’m sure it was trying to make the ride as uncomfortable and jarring as possible.
After walking along the shore where cows grazed at the waters edge it was a steep climb up to the Kyzart Pass at 2664m high. The grass bursting with wild flowers, yellow, purple and white. Herds of glossy chestnut and mahogony horses with unsteady foals on spindly legs grazed as we passed. There were lots of other riders going the same way today, but no Rosie. Where was she?
We crested the pass and the view was spectacular, we could see for miles, over the flat green steppe to mountains that shaded from red to brown to charcoal as they disappeared into the distance. What I didn’t like was the long, steep descent or the precipitous drop to the river on one side. The path was narrow and unsteady, a slippery mix of shale and loose dirt between lush grass. I clung on, feeling as if I’d topple over the horse’s head at any minute as it picked it’s way down, glad that today I wasn’t having to control it. Behind me, Simon was reigning his horse in and trying to stop it getting in front. The descent seemed to take hours, but was maybe only 30 minutes, both painful and scary, zig-zagging back and forth, the riders following now very quiet and no longer laughing and singing as they concentrated. It was a relief when we reached a gentle slope.
Back to Kyzart through streams and marshes, water splashing up from the horses hooves. We rode past burial grounds, where graves are fashioned from mud looking like mini Taj Mahals and castles, forming small peaceful cities.
I was glad to be back. The scenery was fabulous and it felt good being in the expanse of nature. The yurts were good, as was the food (especially the cream) and at times on the horse I really enjoyed it. The romantic idea of horse trekking across the steppe might sound great but, for me, the reality was just too painful. I am never doing this again.
Simon loved it though. So he’ll be going on his own if he ever gets the idea again.
Footnote: What happened to Rosie? We stayed in Kyzart for another day after the horse trek, but she still hadn’t returned. We hope she’s just enjoying herself and not lost. As we left the worried hotel owner was organising a search party….
Helen (29th June 2025)
Oh my God what a journey for you Helen I would be the same with horses. Still you did it and got there. Well done. XX
The things I have to do, but at least there was the afternoon tea to enjoy
Very good read that Helen. That is a lot of horse! I recon Simon’s height has lined him up to return to the UK as a jockey!
Fresh cream? Was it warm? Not sure I could stomach that.
What an amazing adventure though… actual proper horse trekking.
Hope you’re both enjoying it, but I’m sure you are. Keep posting…
Cream was lovely & cool, actually frozen in the morning like ice cream. Almost worth the discomfort to get there….
I thought the idea of you telling off the horse was funny, I can just imagine it! Sounds like an adventure if nothing else.
It wasn’t having the effect I wanted though, maybe as it couldn’t see the look on my face…..
Hi, Helen & Simon – catching up with you at long last! What a journey you’re having. I tried horse riding but went off it when I came off and got a hoof in my face. Our journeys are few and far between at present – a great many other commitments, but looking forward to a few days away in September.Enjoy!
Lovely to hear from you. That sounds like a far worse injury than my bruised rear end, maybe I should be grateful…..Though I’m still never doing it again. Enjoy your travels.