Keeping Travel Going When Hotels Sell Out and Snowstorm Hits Kanas

As I received the request for a five-day winter trip to Xinjiang's Kanas for a team of 35, with less than ten days before their departure, the water in my cup was still steaming. Just thinking about a Xinjiang winter, I could almost smell the cold, metallic air. I reined in my scattered thoughts.

They were a company focused on ecological research, planning to spend five days deep in the heart of the Altai Mountains, studying the primitive forests, frozen lake surfaces, and traces of wild animals in winter.

The idea was great, and they were ready to go. But wait—my screen read, "Hotel Sold Out"?

Booking the Entire Herdsman's Ranch

Sold out. Sold out. Another sold out. The winter high season in Kanas had already begun. Lodging in Hemu and Kanas Village was nearly impossible to find, and even the herdsmen's barns had been booked as "specialty experience rooms."

I scoured every collaboration channel, my heart sinking a little at a time. The usual paths were blocked. I had to call upon the "cold resources" buried deep in my ten years of experience.

I remembered visiting a Tuvan herdsman on a slope above the Hemu River Valley during the last snow season. His ranch was far from the main village, with log cabins forming a small courtyard and a continuous snow ridge behind it. At the time, he had laughed and told me, "In winter, besides the wind and snow, no one comes here." I immediately contacted the local guide and asked him to ride his motorcycle up the mountain that very night to scout the route and talk to the herdsman. Three days later, the message arrived: that serene ranch was willing to host us. Not just a few rooms, but the entire courtyard—we had booked the entire idle winter camp.

It was a true snow-covered paradise, isolated from the world. The log cabins were low-slung, their roofs weighed down by thick layers of snow, and a gray-white smoke always drifted from their chimneys. The 30-plus team members split into groups, staying in adjacent cabins, heating themselves with fire walls and sleeping on warm kangs (traditional heated beds).

At night, the snow fell silently. The only sounds were the occasional crackle of firewood and the soft rustle of snow sliding down a distant slope. There was no Wi-Fi, no noise, only the dancing shadows of the firelight on the wooden walls. One team member said it was the first time they had ever truly "heard" silence.

Calling in Chain-Equipped 4WD Vehicles During a Blizzard

The first three days of the trip were almost uneventfully smooth. They hiked through the snow-covered forest in the morning, recorded data by the frozen lake in the afternoon, and returned to the ranch in the evening to sit by the fire and organize their notes.

However, on the fourth day, the sky looked ominous from early morning. The lead-gray clouds hung so low they almost rested on the mountaintops, the wind grew stronger, and the snowflakes turned from a fine mist to a wild dance. At 3 p.m., the guide returned from the mountain pass with news: the only road leading out was covered by heavy snow, with some sections buried under more than half a meter, and traffic had been cut off.

Some members of the team began to murmur, worried about being stranded and their return journey being blocked. I sent a message to reassure them not to worry. Because three days earlier, anticipating unstable weather, I had quietly coordinated with a partner fleet. Four specially-modified, four-wheel-drive vehicles were already on standby, each equipped with snow tires and snow chains. I had the drivers head up the mountain in advance, and they arrived at the ranch two hours before the blizzard officially sealed off the road.

One after another, the snow-encrusted vehicles emerged from the storm, coming to a steady stop at the courtyard gate. The sense of anxiety that had slowly seeped into the snowy courtyard gave way to a feeling of relief and relaxation.

They were not trapped. Instead, because of the snow, they were given a new opportunity. On the night after the snow stopped, the temperature plummeted to below -20 degrees Celsius. The air was as cold as frozen glass. I suggested, from my computer screen, that they light a bonfire in the open space of the ranch. The guide and drivers immediately got to work, dragging dried pine logs from the woodshed and piling them into a stack as tall as a person. When the fire was lit, the orange flames "whooshed" and shot up, blooming like a giant flower in the snowfield. The firelight shone on everyone's faces, their eyelashes rimmed with frost. The orange glow of any object can bring warmth to the heart.

They gathered around the fire, with a starry sky above them, untouched by city lights. The atmosphere after the snowfall was stunningly clear. The Milky Way stretched across the sky, the stars dense as scattered salt. The distant snow-capped peaks glowed with a faint blue light under the moon, while the nearby fire crackled and popped. Waves of heat hit their faces, but their backs still felt the biting cold. The confrontation of ice and fire created a strange tranquility. Someone brought out a thermos of hot milk tea; someone else silently offered a piece of freshly toasted nang (flatbread). No one spoke, they just looked up at the sky, occasionally letting out a quiet gasp of awe.

That night, there were no performances or scheduled activities—just a fire, the snow, and a sky full of stars.

As a travel consultant, I am often asked, "What exactly do you provide?" I think we provide more than just routes and accommodations. We provide the ability to solve a crisis and light a fire in the middle of a snowfield when everyone else thinks all hope is lost.