Updated Jan 2026
Song Kol Lake was one of the places I had been most curious about before coming to Kyrgyzstan, and it ended up being one of the most memorable parts of the trip. High in the mountains and far from towns and paved roads, it’s the kind of place that immediately slows you down — even if your days still include horseback rides, walks across the plateau, and time outdoors. The rhythm feels different here, shaped as much by the landscape as by the evenings spent at the Song Kol Lake Yurt Camp.
Song Kol sits at roughly 3,000 meters (about 9,800 feet) above sea level, surrounded by broad alpine meadows and low, rolling mountains. There are no permanent settlements here. In summer, semi-nomadic families bring their herds—horses, cows, and sheep—up to the jailoo, the high pastures, and live in yurts for the season. When winter comes, the lake freezes solid and the area empties out again.
I came to Song Kol from Karakol with a small group I’d been traveling with. This was the day we traded our van and split into three four-wheel-drive vehicles. It didn’t take long to understand why. As we got farther from Karakol, the paved road disappeared, replaced by dirt tracks, deep potholes, and long stretches of uneven terrain, with switchbacks climbing steadily into the mountains. Driving was slow and dictated entirely by the road itself. There was a lot of bouncing and holding on—but just as much laughing. (I love a rough ride.)
We stayed at a small place commonly referred to as Song Kol Yurt Camp, one of several seasonal camps scattered around the lake.
By the time we arrived, late in the afternoon, the landscape felt wide open and almost unreal. The lake stretched out in front of us—calm and silvery—with horses grazing freely nearby.
Song Kol was part of a longer overland journey through the country, which I wrote about in more detail in my 7 Days in Kyrgyzstan: From Bishkek to Osh Along the Silk Road itinerary.
Our yurt camp wasn’t far from the lake’s edge and was made up of a small cluster of yurts—I believe twelve in total. There were ten sleeping yurts, a kitchen yurt, and a larger dining yurt where everyone gathered for meals. Aside from my group of nine, there were only a couple of other people staying there.
The sleeping yurts were traditional in structure but nicely furnished. Inside, the circular wooden frame was visible, with felt layers forming the walls and roof. Mine—which I assume was typical—had two wooden bed frames topped with real mattresses, sheets, and thick comforters, along with a few extra blankets. Rugs covered the floor and hung along the walls, adding warmth and color while helping insulate the space.
Each yurt had a small stove in the center for heat. At night, when temperatures dropped quickly, the stove made all the difference. Once it was lit, the yurt warmed up fast and stayed comfortable through the night. The rugs and bedding were bright and patterned and gave the yurt a very cozy, lived-in feel.
With our guide translating, someone at the camp explained how the yurts are assembled and taken down. First the wooden lattice walls are unfolded and tied into a circle, then the roof poles are set into a central wooden ring. After that, thick felt coverings are wrapped around the outside—roof first, then the walls—and secured with ropes. The felt is naturally water-resistant, which makes the whole structure surprisingly weatherproof in a place where conditions can change quickly.
The dining yurt was larger, with low tables and cushions arranged around the edges. Meals were communal, and everyone ate together. Afterward, we played a Russian card game called Durak that one of our fellow travelers taught us.
Evenings were surprisingly social, with everyone gathering in the communal yurt to talk, drink tea, play cards, and trade stories once the temperature dropped and the sky went dark.
Meals were prepared in the nearby kitchen yurt. Dinner was always hearty and warming—soups, vegetables, rice dishes—but breakfast deserves a mention too. In the mornings there were eggs, porridge, cheese, pancakes, jam, honey, and plenty of coffee, along with more of that incredible fresh bread, called lepeshka.
It was a round, thick loaf, meant to be torn apart by hand. Warm and dense, it was perfect with honey or jam, or honestly just on its own. At the Song Kol yurt camp, that bread showed up at nearly every meal—dinner and breakfast alike. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was some of the best bread I had on the entire trip.
Facilities were basic, as expected. There were no showers. There were two sinks for brushing teeth and washing up, located outside the communal yurt, and a couple of toilets set a short walk away.
At night, once the stove was going, the yurt felt sealed off from the cold outside. The wind moved across the lake, horses shifted nearby, and everything else went quiet.
What made Song Kol feel so special wasn’t just the landscape or the yurts, but the sense that this way of life still exists, seasonally, much as it has for generations. Families move here with their animals, set up their yurts, and live according to the rhythms of weather, daylight, and livestock.
Horses were everywhere—tethered, grazing, being ridden across the open fields. It felt completely normal here, not staged or touristic. The people running the camp were warm but not intrusive, happy to answer questions without being overly performative about their culture.
The camp offered horseback riding, which is one of the most common ways to explore the area. A few people in our small group went out for a short ride—about an hour—heading toward the lake and back.
At one point, we met a man who was doing a seven-day trek, staying in different yurt camps along the way. It sounded like exactly the kind of trip I might like to do someday.
In the communal yurt, there were also a few handmade items for purchase—small embroidered bags in a few different sizes, wall hangings, and bracelets. I bought one of the embroidered bags.
Instead of riding—which I didn’t even realize was an option until I returned from a morning hike—I spent that time walking through the nearby hills, wandering without any particular destination. There aren’t clearly marked hiking trails around the camps, and that freedom is part of the appeal. You’re free to roam, pick a direction, and turn back when you’ve had enough.
Song Kol isn’t dramatic in the way some mountain destinations are. There are no sharp peaks or plunging valleys. Its power is quieter. The space, the light, the cold air, and the simplicity of daily life combine in a way that feels deeply calming.
Staying in a yurt there wasn’t about “roughing it.” It was about stepping into a different rhythm—one that values warmth, shelter, shared meals, and time. Long after leaving, that sense of stillness stayed with me.
Of all the places I visited in Kyrgyzstan, Song Kol Lake Yurt Camp felt the most removed from the modern world—and, at the same time, the most grounded.
