Skiers talk about the slopes; they forget that half of Xinjiang turns into a skating rink for three months. On a rest day near Sayram Lake I laced up rented skates and spent an afternoon on glass-clear ice with the snow mountains ringing the shore. It was one of the most relaxing days of the trip, and almost free. Here is how to do it.
Where the ice is good
The big, safe bets are the large frozen lakes: Sayram in the west, Ulungur near Fuhai in the north, and the smaller reservoirs near several resort towns. Sayram is stunning but windy and high; go mid-morning when the wind often drops. Ulungur, near Fuhai, is broad and calmer and locals skate there all season. Many resort bases also flood a rink beside the beginner slope — tame, lit, and perfect for kids after a family ski morning. I have done both; the wild lake is the postcard, the resort rink is the reliable backup when the wind is up.
Renting skates
Town sports shops and the lake-side stalls rent figure or hockey skates for 20–40 yuan an hour. They are beat-up but fine. Bring your own thin merino socks — the rental boots are rarely washed, and cold wet feet end the fun fast. The same rental logic from skiing applies: rent the hard stuff, own the layer next to skin. A helmet is worth it; lake ice is unforgiving and the falls are different from snow. I also bring a small towel to dry the blades before I hand them back — a courtesy that has gotten me a discount more than once, and a warm word from a stallholder who sees you care for his gear.
Safety on the ice
Never walk onto a lake nobody local is on. Ice needs to be solidly frozen across — at least 10 cm for skating, more with a wind. I ask a stallholder or a local kid; if they shrug, I do not go. Stay near shore, away from inlets where currents thin the ice. This is the watery cousin of wilderness first aid: the danger is cold water, so the rule is simply do not test it. Resort rinks are maintained and safe; wild lakes are a judgment call, and the call should be made by someone who lives there, not by a tourist with a phone and a rental pair of skates.
Why it pairs with skiing, and the gear I wish I had
A ski trip is hard on the legs by day three. Skating uses different muscles and feels like play, not training. I used it as active recovery between powder days and came back to the mountain fresher. It is also cheap and social — you will meet locals who never ski but skate every weekend, and that is its own window into winter life here. Tie it to a hot-springs stop and you have a perfect non-ski day. Beyond socks and a helmet, a thin pair of liner gloves under the rental mitts kept my hands usable for lacing, and a thermos of sweet tea shared with the stallholder turned a transaction into a conversation about which bays were safe — local knowledge, free with a pour.
Skating technique for skiers
If you already ski, skating comes fast — the balance is similar, the edges are not. The first ten minutes are comically wobbly as your brain expects a ski edge that is not there, then it clicks. I teach friends the “push and glide” rhythm: one foot pushes out and back, the other glides, then swap, like a slow-motion ski stride without poles. Knee bend is everything; a stiff leg on ice is a fall. Within an hour a confident skier is lapping a frozen bay and grinning, and within two they are trying backwards crossovers they would never attempt on snow. It is the easiest new winter skill in Xinjiang, and the cheapest, and for a rest day it is unbeatable — different muscles, same cold, none of the lift-line patience.
Where not to skate, and a rental tip
The places to avoid are obvious in hindsight and invisible from the shore: inlets where a river feeds the lake and the ice stays thin, the pale milky patches that mean recent snow insulating weak ice, and any bay with open water at the far end. I ask a local every time, even when the ice looks bomb-proof, because the local knows last week’s thaw. For rentals, the lake-side stalls are cheaper than the town shops but rougher; I pick the stall with the most skaters queuing, because a busy rental means a busy, safe bay. And I sharpen nothing — rentals are dull on purpose — I just check the blade for a burr and the binding for a crack before I lace up, because a failed binding at the far end of a lake is a long walk back.
The best lake I skated
The one I keep recommending is the broad northern lake near Fuhai, Ulungur, because it is calm, wide, and full of locals who make a beginner feel normal. I went on a still February morning, the kind where the surface is a mirror and your own breath hangs in front of you, and skated a lazy loop with a grandfather and his grandson who were racing each other and ignoring me entirely. That is the gift of the wild lake: it is a public, ordinary, local pleasure, not a staged experience. Sayram is the postcard and I would not skip it on a calm day, but Ulungur is where I would send a first-timer, because the wind is kinder and the company is real. Get there mid-morning, ask the first skater you see where the safe bay is, and skate until your ankles tell you to stop. The mountains around it are the same ones you skied yesterday, seen from a different, quieter angle.
Skating with kids on the ice
Kids take to ice faster than to snow, in my experience, because falling hurts less and getting up is easier. I took the six-year-old from the ski trip onto a resort rink, and within half an hour he was chasing a tennis ball across the ice while I pretended not to be proud. The double-bladed beginner skates they rent for small children are the trick — they cannot fall, which removes the fear that slows the first ski day. I treated it as pure play, no lesson, no goal, and it became the off-slope highlight of the week for him. If you have children on a Xinjiang ski trip, swap one ski afternoon for a skate; the legs rest, the mood lifts, and the resort rinks are warm, lit, and staffed, so the risk is near zero. The mountain will be there tomorrow; the grinning kid on the ice is today.
One last safety habit
I carry a length of paracord and a screw-in ice anchor in the pack on wild lakes, not because I expect to need them but because the cost of needing them and not having them is a cold-water rescue I am not equipped to do. If a skating partner ever went through, the rope from shore is the difference between a story and a catastrophe, and the anchor gives me something to brace against. I have never used either in anger, and I have lent the rope to a local who waved me off a thin bay he could see was weak. The gear is cheap, the habit is cheaper, and the rule it enforces is the one I started with: never step on ice nobody local trusts. The skating is the fun; the rope is the part that lets the fun stay fun, and I do not skate without it anymore.