Meeting the Reindeer People of the Altai
The first time I saw a reindeer in Xinjiang, it was tethered outside a smoke-colored tent near the northern forests of Altay, chewing lichen while a man in a fur hat poured me a bowl of milk tea. This is the Ewenki — one of the last reindeer-herding groups in China, and a piece of Xinjiang’s winter culture that almost no skier knows exists a short drive from the resorts. I had driven three hours north of Beitun on a recommendation from a guesthouse owner, and the encounter reshaped how I think about this region entirely.
The Ewenki are a Tungusic people whose relatives stretch across Siberia. In China a small community has kept reindeer for generations in the taiga of the Altay and Daxing’anling regions. The animals are not livestock in the usual sense; they are half-wild, moved between pasture grounds, and valued as much for company and tradition as for meat or transport. For a visitor used to concrete base lodges and chairlifts, meeting them is a jolt of perspective — a reminder that people have wintered in these forests for thousands of years without any of the equipment I had just spent a fortune on.
Why This Connects to Skiing
Here is the part that fascinates me as a skier: the Ewenki and their neighbors developed some of the earliest skis on the planet in these very mountains. The Altai region is argued by several archaeologists to be the birthplace of skiing, with birch-and-horsehide skis used for travel and hunting across snowbound forest more than four thousand years ago. When you strap on modern gear at a resort that sits on this cultural layer, you are joining a ten-thousand-year line, not just a commercial sport. I handled a replica of one of those ancient skis — a curved birch plank with a single fur strip on the base for grip — and suddenly my carbon fiber setup felt absurd and humble at once.
How to Experience It Respectfully
You can meet reindeer and Ewenki hosts through organized nomad homestays and winter yurt stays in the broader Altay and Ili regions. A few practical notes from my visits:
- Go with a local guide or a vetted operator. Showing up at a tent unannounced is intrusive and, in winter, often impossible without help. My best experience came through a guide whose family had known the herders for decades.
- Pay for the experience. Tea, a photo, feeding the reindeer — these are offered as cultural exchange, and a small fee or gift of flour, tea, or sugar is appropriate and appreciated.
- Ask before photographing people. Most hosts are welcoming, but courtesy goes a long way in a small community, and some elders prefer not to be photographed.
- Keep your distance from the animals. Reindeer are calm but wild; let the herder hand you lichen to offer rather than grabbing at antlers.
I also recommend pairing it with a horseback snow tour, which uses the same winter-trail knowledge the herders rely on. The combination — reindeer in the morning, horses in the afternoon — taught me more about moving through this snow than any ski lesson. We crossed a frozen river at a walk, the horses sure-footed where I would have floundered, and the herder pointed out tracks of fox and hare I would never have noticed.
The Honest Version
Not every “reindeer village” you find online is authentic. Some roadside stops near popular resorts keep animals mostly for photos, and the experience can feel staged. The genuine encounters take more effort: a longer drive, a local connection, sometimes an overnight stay. They are worth it. The staged ones are not harmful, but they will not give you the quiet moment of a reindeer nudging your hand that I still think about. I would rather do one real visit than three convenient ones.
If you are curious about the deeper story, our background on the region covers more of the peoples and landscapes that make Xinjiang’s winters unlike anywhere else in the skiing world. And if you want to connect the ancient and the modern, ask at any of the larger resorts whether they keep a replica of the Altai ski on display — a few do, and seeing four millennia of design evolution in one room is its own small pilgrimage.
Skiing gets you to Altay. The reindeer are the reason you will want to come back, and the reason you will leave understanding the snow a little better than you arrived.
Frequently Asked Questions
Are the reindeer wild or farmed? They are semi-domesticated: herded, moved between pastures, and tame enough to feed, but not confined like cattle. They remain half-wild and should be approached calmly.
Is this the same as the “reindeer village” near the resorts? Sometimes, but not always. Some roadside spots keep animals mainly for photos. The authentic encounters need a local guide and often an overnight stay.
What should I bring as a gift? Flour, tea, sugar, or fruit are traditional and appreciated. Avoid loud, intrusive behavior and never offer alcohol to someone you’ve just met.
How does this connect to skiing? The Altai region is argued to be among the birthplaces of skiing, with ancient birch-and-hide skis. Meeting the culture makes the modern sport feel like a continuation, not a product.
Is it ethical to visit? Yes, when done through vetted operators who compensate the community and respect boundaries. Avoid any setup that looks like a photo zoo.
What to Expect on a Visit
A typical respectful visit includes tea in a tent, a short walk to meet the herd, and perhaps a ride on a traditional sled. Keep it slow. The herders are sharing their winter, not performing. I left understanding that my expensive gear was a footnote to a way of life that has outlasted empires — and that the snow I came to ski is the same snow they have always known.
A Morning With the Herd
Let me make the visit concrete. My guide picked me up at 9 a.m. from a Burqin guesthouse in a battered Land Cruiser and drove an hour north into forest I would never have found alone. We met an Ewenki family at a winter camp: two tents, a sled, and perhaps a dozen reindeer tethered to trees, each with the broad, velvet-free antlers of late winter. The matriarch handed me a bowl of milk tea with salt — an acquired taste I have grown to love — and showed me how they carve the hide-and-birch skis replicas for demonstration.
We fed the reindeer lichen from a sack; they are surprisingly gentle, leaning their weight into your palm. The herder’s grandson, maybe nine, demonstrated a traditional sled pulled by a single reindeer at a slow walk — the same principle as the skis, the same forest knowledge. I asked whether the children still learn it; he said some do, some leave for the cities, and the camp is partly how the old ways survive by meeting visitors who care.
That honesty — no romanticizing, no hard sell — is why I trust the experience. I left with a small carved pendant, a full thermos, and a clearer sense that Xinjiang’s snow belongs to people who have always known it. Skiing here is the modern layer; the reindeer are the deep one.