A ground-level trek along the Silk Road — the fabled East-West trade route — within a mountainous stretch of Central Asia.
by Jesma Reynolds | photography by Georgina Preston

It was the middle of the night and I hadn’t slept properly in a week. The glowing map on the seat back in front of me indicated we were about to skirt Syria to the south while crossing the Aral Sea. A couple of hours later, I witnessed the sun cresting over the eastern horizon, the same direction we were heading. I was 23 hours from home by plane, but hadn’t even begun my journey — an 8-day pilgrimage, by horseback, across the mountains of Kyrgyzstan.

I’d done a good deal of adventure travel post-college, backpacking through Thailand, India and Nepal. Though I was now decidedly middle aged, it was this continuing curiosity and longing to explore somewhere relatively untouched that led me to sign up for a horse-riding trip through Kyrgyzstan, something I’d read about during COVID and had earmarked in my “maybe one day” file. I knew little about its history, but it looked to be one of the prettiest and most remote places in
the world. 

I enlisted one of my best friends, Noel Moore, an accomplished equestrian who shared my inner anthropologist yearnings, to go with me. Once she agreed, preparations began in earnest. Unlike her, I had not grown up riding, due to a horse allergy that I’d since outgrown. I found a barn nearby in Aberdeen, Valkyrie Sporthorses, that was willing to work with a beginner adult whose goal was to canter with confidence in six months. What began as once-a-week mounted lessons quickly morphed into two, along with horsemanship classes that taught me about the riding equipment and history of these conscripted animals.

Meanwhile, our trip’s host, Alexandra Tolstoy, the recently appointed tourism ambassador to Kyrgyzstan (and, yes, a distant relative of Russian writer Leo Tolstoy) provided a reading list on the country’s history and culture. An English citizen, Tolstoy had traveled the Silk Route on horseback with friends in the early aughts and has since been taking fellow adventurers on her own private trips to the country for the past 20 years. Noel and I embraced this learning portion with gusto, devouring her list of books, videos and podcasts, learning about this vast region and how empires shape history. Along the way, I came upon an article from the late, notable writer P.J. O’Rourke, who had done the same trip in 2008, also with no riding experience.

He recounted it in hilarious and terrifying detail for Forbes magazine: “There were places where leading was impossible. We had to jump and slide on our own, then call the horses like dogs, asking them to perform stunts that Lassie would have left Timmy down the well rather than attempt.” I shared the article with my family, who reacted with laughter… and questioned my sanity.

As the trip grew closer, I started to worry: Was I still capable of sleeping on the ground in a tent for a week? Could I independently set up my kit? Had weekly lessons prepared me for riding days-straight over varied mountainous terrain — or the Kyrgyz stallions, whose temperament were unlikely akin to the indolent ponies on whom I’d trained?

In late September, departure day arrived. Noel and I flew to London to decamp for a few days, where we fretted over the contents of our enormous duffel bags, which contained everything we could possibly need for eight days in the wilderness (BYO sleeping bag, be prepared for any and everything — but don’t forget your riding jodhpurs and boots and a “swimming costume” — helmet optional). We wrangled these mini-dirigibles into a black cab to Heathrow, embarking on a 10-hour overnight flight via Istanbul to Kyrgyzstan’s capital, Bishkek.

We arrived early the next morning, excited and slightly disoriented, at Manas Airport, named for the country’s national hero and legendary warrior. There, we met up with our group of fellow riders, 13 of us in all, including Tolstoy and professional photographer Georgina Preston. Most were traveling in twos, either couples or friends who arrived from England, Germany, Dubai and the Cayman Islands.

Our 45-minute drive into the city gave us time to absorb the landscape. The open steppe with vast fields gave way to small villages with traditional mud-brick houses and the occasional mosque (modest in scale, with a brightly colored and ornately patterned minaret). Dogs roamed freely while commerce took place in open-air markets. Cows grazed in triangular patches of median between roadways and exit ramps. Even the sun itself cast a different hue than it does here in North Carolina: more diffused, as if the atmosphere itself conveyed its fascinating and mysterious culture.

After checking into our hotel, we spent a day in Bishkek, a modern city with a population of over one million whose brutalist buildings testify to its Soviet provenance. After touring the State History Museum, we entered Ala-Too Square in the heart of the city, where we were greeted by a towering statue of sword-bearing Manas the Great atop his powerful horse. In the background stood the majestic snow-capped Tien Shan range, aka “Mountains of God/Heaven,” which spans into China, Kyrgyzstan’s longest shared border.

Kyrgyzstan’s history dates back to the Bronze Age, and this area played an important part in the expansion of the Silk Road, the fabled East-West trade route that exchanged goods, ideas and cultures. It fell under Tsarist Russian occupation for much of the 18th and 19th centuries before Stalin established it in the 1920s as a Soviet territory, along with Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Turkmenistan. In 1991, Kyrgyzstan and the other “Stans” emerged as independent states when the USSR dissolved. Often dubbed the Switzerland of Central Asia, the country’s mostly mountainous terrain has helped protect it from the influence of outsiders over time.

Today many Kyrgyz remain semi-nomadic, relocating to their jailoo, alpine summer pastures, where they live in yurts with their families and animals. After spending one night in Bishkek, we traveled by bus for 11 hours through the expansive Suusamyr Valley and several mountain passes — often sharing the narrow roads with shepherds on horseback navigating herds of livestock down from their summer meadows — to reach our first campsite. There, we met our five local guides: Djuman (the group leader), Aftan-Dil, Arslan, Bakit and Melis. These affable men were shepherds and beekeepers when they weren’t escorting foreigners around, and, most importantly, owned and cared for the horses we would ride for the next eight days.

Though none of our horses had names, we quickly grew attached to them, figuratively and literally. Our journey took us in and around the heavenly Sary-Chelek Nature Reserve, a designated UNESCO World Biosphere that’s an oasis of pristine lakes, verdant alpine meadows, soaring mountains, prolific fruit orchards and one of the world’s largest walnut forests. Victorian botanists collected early specimens of wild peonies, tulips, poppies, irises and lilies from this Eden that are still favored in today’s gardens.

Traveling on horse proved to be an ideal way to see the land. The pace was fast enough to cover ground but still allowed time to absorb the breathtaking surroundings. There was no room for distraction, just a feeling of true presence in the moment.

And just as O’Rourke promised, there was plenty of adventure: our sure-footed stallions traversed steep trails, sheer rock faces, gushing rivers and dizzying passes. A personal highlight was cantering flat-out for over a mile through a canyon that was likely formed eons ago, while experiencing an incongruous mix of thrill, joy and terror.

On our toughest climbing day, we got to a place on the narrow, rocky trail where Djuman directed us all to dismount. There was hardly room to place our feet solidly, we were so close to the sheer drop. Sending the horses ahead, we were left to hike up the steep path, our hearts pounding from the thin air and anticipation of reaching the top at just over 8,000 feet. But what a view when we finally summited and soaked in the surrounding peaks and distant valleys! There just aren’t enough superlatives to describe the beauty and majesty of it all.

We typically rode six hours a day, broken up by idle two-hour lunches served bento-box style by our hospitable guides, who also shared apples and plums foraged along the way. Each night was spent in a different location. A separate team of mostly Russians traveled ahead in a Soviet-era truck to set up each of our campsites. Arriving at day’s end, we were greeted with freshly baked goods, relishing still-warm powdered doughnuts with raspberry jam and hot tea, plus stronger libations for those ready to imbibe.

Dirty martinis and negronis served from tea kettles quickly became pre-dinner cocktail favorites. Everything was placed on tables adorned with floral linens and vibrantly patterned Uzbek pottery sourced at the market in Bishkek. Tea time usually melded into dinner, which was prepared by our capable Russian cooks. There were soups and stews, handmade dumplings and more meat than I’ve eaten in a decade. No one went to bed hungry, just early. Our headlamps were usually shut off by 8:30 p.m.

Most nights we slept by a river or lake, sometimes near a dung barn. The walls of these attractive and surprisingly unsmelly shelters are made of dried manure and straw, an extension of the land from whence they came. The physical beauty, hearty food, fresh air and unadulterated night skies — oh, the stars! — lent a sense of contentment and true freedom for want of anything beyond the present. On one of the last days, our guides showed their competitive side, along with their expert riding skills, playing a friendly but fierce game of kok boru against a local team.

Not surprisingly, it is a treasured national sport in a land rooted in horse culture and played in the World Nomad Games, an international competition showcasing Central Asia’s traditional sports. Exhilarating and hair-raising to watch, it is a mashup of rugby, football and polo, where riders wrestle to gain control of a headless 50-pound goat carcass, or ulak, packed with salt. The objective is to gallop down the field and hurl the ulak over the opponent’s goal before being stopped or having it stolen — all the while staying atop one’s horse. I stood proudly on the sidelines cheering for my horse, who turned out to be one of the game’s stars. Because nothing is wasted in this land, our victorious team proceeded to skin and grill the prize for our dinner that evening.

My new comrades and I couldn’t believe how quickly the week passed, and none of us particularly wished to re-enter our busy modern lives. Of course, we missed our families, and a hot shower seemed like an incredible luxury — but we had all bonded over this extraordinary experience. On our last day at camp, we watched our Kyrgyz guides and Russian team exchange hugs and tears, then we too joined in, having bonded with our horses, the people, the mountains and each other.

One of the first words we learned upon arrival in Kyrgyzstan was spasibo, a frequently used Russian word that means “thank you.” It comes from “spasi bog,” which translates to “God save you.” As I stood there, it struck me how this expression summed up our trip, capturing both the expansiveness and sufficiency of all that we’d experienced: what you have, what you are and where you stand is more than enough. 

A languorous lunch stop within the Arslanbob walnut forest, one of the world’s largest. After competing in kok boru, guides cook the tenderized goat (ulak) on willow skewers over an open pit. Their distinct traditional felt white hats, called ak kalpak, bear deep, sacred meaning connecting them to the land and each other.

Two nights were spent on the beautiful shore of Lake Iri-Kel within Sary-Chelek National Park. The stunning natural beauty lent itself to contemplation of the surroundings. The communal camp tent was the nightly gathering spot for dinner, drinks and conversation, lit by oil lamps and decorated with regional wares. Below: Missing her own furry friends, the author plays with Akjaltoy during a lunch break. 

This article originally appeared in the March 2025 issue of WALTER magazine.