Saddle up in China's wild, wild West on the border of Tibet. Text by Nick Easen, photos by Josephine Loo.

On a bitterly cold morning in northern Sichuan, we stood by a group of unevenly tempered horses with smoking nostrils. Our trekking guide appeared from nowhere and broke the ice by directing his one good eye to a cigarette offered in an outstretched hand.

You might not immediately associate mainland China with horse trekking; but if you want horses in the orient, the town of Songpan in northern part of the western province of Sichuan is the place to go. Don a Tibetan hat, hold a leather bridle and trot into the sunset, just like Zhang Zi-yi in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Songpan was founded in 1379 during the Ming Dynasty, and lies firmly above the Sichuan basin, 335 kilometers—or a jarring 10 hour ride—directly north of the capital city of Chengdu.

The rural areas, though, are vastly different than the city. This is the horse country epitomized by the swift brush strokes of silk paintings. It is home to a rich mix of Hui (Chinese Muslims), Yi and Qiang minorities, and a mass of seething Han; yet the hills are still a Tibetan stronghold. The area has only been open to tourists for a decade, though the fabled Tibetan Kingdom of Kham is not particularly inaccessible to the adventurous traveler. Public buses ride the ribbons of tarmac, and as you get closer, someone with horses on his mind will try and befriend you.

Guo Shang has run Shun Jiang Trekking for nine years now, and knows that Songpan means horse riding for visitors. He beckoned to us laowai, which can mean foreigner, or "old friend"—and casually leaned over to talk in pidgin English as our bus lunged up by the Min River. Locals parted like waves as he sat; they knew something we did not and respected the subtle, dulcet tones of Guo Shang’s sales pitch. His chaffed, bear-like hands were hidden by a frayed suit, worn for respectability. It barely cloaked the wild side of this Sino-cowboy, more at home with the smell of horses, big skies and deep Sichuan valleys than that of the mainland's burgeoning cities. After a pleasant chat, books of testimonials and presentation of a business card, he departed. Most people, ourselves included, visit his shop-house the same evening they arrive. To be honest, it was the mosaic of photos displaying happy trekkers that did it for us, a warmth equally reflected in the faces of eager guides, all 20 of them illuminated under one 40 watt light bulb. So we took up Guo Shang's offer of four days on horseback with romantic visions of fire-lit camps. Our decision was heartily agreed upon with a shake of the same bear-like hand.

Kebabs and Bao
Very early the next morning, we wandered the streets to find bao (buns) for the journey. The market was caked in yak carcasses, undoubtedly cut by the same Chinese Muslim Hui, with the same knives, blood and fur that were clotted on the icy path. The northern gateway—one of three leftover from when Songpan was a garrison town—shielded the wind as shish kebabs cooked by the Hui sizzled among hot coals and street side skewers. Armed with some food, we stumbled on to the horse posse waiting for us.

At first light, our guides led the horses through the streets, past Tibetan-style pine houses which were elaborately carved with low slung roofs. The dwellings and inhabitants here represent an ethnic blend far more harmonious than that of Tibet and the neighboring Xinjiang Province. The road then swings past the last encampment of swaying yak wool tents, which doubles as a brothel. Beyond lies the hinterland, and you literally ride out of town.

A Firey Autumn
Family-run farms and animal husbandry dominate life. Mud walls enclose barley fields, a harnessed yak is dragged by its nose ring and angry Tibetan dogs greet new faces with fear. This time of the year, the hillsides are on fire with yellowing willow, deep evergreen forests of hemlock, while the dragon spruce are ablaze with red euphorbia. Because of the heavy grazing, there are thorny scrubs everywhere that will rip your clothes. This land is criss-crossed with the narrow, muddy trails that were once the arteries joining remote villages, and that now act as convenient bridle paths. Our horses led us into the lush rolling hills accompanied by the falsetto songs of our guides.

After a day of testing the resistance of our rear ends, setting up camp was a welcome relief. We soon learned that the guides handle everything very carefully, like parents busying about their children. Beds of surprisingly comfortable branches were neatly constructed below old tents. A fire pit, cooking pot and wooden cradle were set downwind. Dinner comprised of a hearty broth of fresh wheat noodles and vegetables; forget about meat, we only had that on one lucky meal involving goat stomach, scraps from a passing extravagant expedition.

That next morning, we woke to fresh bread and a roaring fire. The guides—colorful, warm characters with a tendency for chain smoking even in the fiercest wind—were what made the trek so memorable. Their grubby, seemingly fire-resistant hands gesticulated while a wealth of stories spilled forth. Past expeditions, rural life and the machismo ways of these wranglers figured highly in their banter. They spoke pragmatically about the death penalty for killing pandas and tigers for medicinal sales, yet acknowledged that the practice continues.  They are country gentlepeople with a wild, unaccountable air: The steadying hand offered for support is the same one that whipped the horses into a gallop.

 At one point, we woke to find the horses had disappeared that morning. Fear leapt from the hearts of our guides, as they are always plagued by the continual fear of horse thieves, usually poorer Tibetans who sell horses in far-away prairie towns. Alert and afraid, our guides scoured the bush and eventually found the horses quietly grazing on a lush patch of grass. On return, the relief was evidently written on their exposed faces.

Imperial Coins Among the Rubble
The second day involved crossing crystal clear streams and exploring remote hamlets inhabited by brightly dressed Tibetans starring at us with ruddy-faced inquisitiveness. The sound of barley mills echoed in the canyon and prayer flags fluttered in the breeze. The whinnying of the horses signaled our arrival up from the steep valley. We were lucky, and arrived just as the evening sun prepared one of its picture postcard sunsets against a backdrop of peaks and grunting yak. We camped for two nights in a shepherd's hut set in a truly splendid amphitheatre of breathtaking mountain scenery. At night, the light turned to a speckled mass of stars against a vast blackness.

This horse trek in the Min Mountains was not without a prize. On the third day, our goal was a high glacial valley below the region's main pinnacle, Xue Bao Ding (Snow Mountain Peak). At 5,588 meters, it bears the easternmost glacier in China. The low incline makes access easy, yet it was only climbed in l986 by a Sino-Japanese team. One of the most noteworthy of the Alpine lakes up here is Fanghai or "square lake;" it is a mirror reflecting the heavens and snow-scape at 3,800 meters above sea level. Our horses could only take us so far and tired easily at high altitudes, so we finished the rest of the hike on foot. Despite the thin air and the snow on the ground, it was well worth the effort. From here, it was understandable why, since the third century, Sichuan has been known as "Heaven on Earth."

We came upon a hut near a ransacked Tibetan monastery that spoke of a turbulent history. It was a great site for an impromptu archaeological dig, as there are hundreds of imperial coins to be found among the fallen rubble. Brushed up, they make great keepsakes with shiny Manchurian and Qing Dynasty characters. One trekker even found a ruby ring worth 10,000 RMB. To unearth ancient treasure here is like opening up a fissure in history.

To leave this high camp was not without remorse. The returning trek took in villages with a myriad of bold, white eyed satellite dishes all tuned in to another era. It was a disturbing sight as we realized that the 21st century has eventually sought out the far recesses of the planet. TV advertisements can now be heard as the 1,000 year-old practice of collecting long ears of barley for drying is carried out by local Tibetans. Sadly, Songpan begins to grow quickly on the horizon.

If you have made a good impression on your guides, then you will undoubtedly be invited to their home for dinner. The catch—you supply all the rice wine and beer they can drink. Kids played around us as we sat on potato sacks doubled chairs and listened to a relative singing as his voice rose to a falsetto pitch doused in wine. A tumultuous Tibetan folk song ensued. We asked about its title: It was ironically named "The Road to Beijing." He strummed a banjo and with its final chord, we came to the end of a truly amazing journey.