A Journey of Wild Beauty and Untamed Spirit
In Kazakh, “Altay” means “Golden Mountain,” while “Fuyun,” the name of a county in the Altay Region, comes from a Chinese phrase that means “heaven’s abundant treasures.” And then there’s “Goufan,” odd enough meaning “Dog Food” in Chinese, belongs to a Pallas’s cat with a story worth telling.
On February 5, 2024, a scrawny six-month-old Pallas’s cat wandered into a herder’s yard in the Altay mountains, desperate enough to steal dog food. The herder, Wulan, found the poor cat too weak to even run away. Out of kindness, he fed and sheltered it for a few days before reporting it to the forest police. The police contacted Dr. Chu Wenwen, who runs a wildlife rescue center in Fuyun County, and the cat—now christened “Goufan”—began its journey to recovery.
In just over a year, Goufan transformed from a fragile 1-kilogram kitten into a robust 3-kilogram hunter, mastering the art of catching pigeons and mice. On May 13, 2025, Goufan was deemed ready to return to the wild. I had the privilege of joining the release event, watching as this spirited little cat bolted from its cage into the dense mountain forest. It felt like watching a happy ending in real time, though I couldn’t help but carry a quiet worry for its survival.
The Altay Region Nature Conservation Association, a young and dynamic grassroots organization, has been working tirelessly to protect local wildlife. With the support of CERS and the leadership of Dr. Chu Wenwen and President Huang Wenpu, the association has made impressive progress. What started as a wildlife rescue has now expanded into public education, a sign of their growing influence.
From May 9 to 20, 2025, I joined the association on an expedition to survey and map scientific research routes in Fuyun County, Qinghe County, and Karamay. The invitation came from Dr. Chu Wenwen and President Huang Wenpu, and I was honored to be assigned by CERS President Wong How Man as an advisor.
Our journey began at a new wildlife rescue center on the outskirts of Fuyun County, generously provided by the local government. Nestled by the Irtysh River, the center is not only a great facility for wildlife rehabilitation but also an ideal venue for nature education programs.
One of the highlights of our trip was the Karasengir Earthquake Fault Zone, located on the border between Fuyun and Qinghe counties. This site was the epicenter of one of the world’s ten most powerful earthquakes—a magnitude 8 disaster that struck on August 11, 1931. Stretching 176 kilometers, the fault zone is one of the best-preserved earthquake relics in the world. It holds immense scientific value in geology and geophysics and serves as a unique resource for natural education. As I stood there, I couldn’t help but imagine how this dramatic landscape could inspire people to better understand the forces shaping our planet.
In a valley east of Fuyun, we spotted 15 Siberian ibex grazing gracefully on the slopes. Snow leopard scat samples were also collected—a promising sign of the elusive predator’s presence. The conservation team had set up nearly 20 infrared cameras in the area to monitor wildlife. Reviewing the footage on two of the cameras, we were thrilled to see images of snow leopards, proof that the valley remains a vital habitat.
Chu even took me on a little “treasure hunt” during our visit. Leading me behind a massive boulder, she revealed a series of ancient petroglyphs carved into the rock, mostly depicting Siberian ibex. The age of the carvings is unknown, but the Altay Region is famous for its wealth of rock art. The next day, we explored the Dundebulake Cave Paintings, another stunning example of this region’s cultural and historical depth.
In the following days, we visited the association’s “Beaver Canteen,” a reforestation project aimed at restoring habitat for Eurasian beavers. Supported by social funding, the project even includes a live-streaming site that provides real-time footage of beaver activity to major media outlets like Xinhua News Agency and People’s Daily. We also visited a Kazakh workshop where traditional handmade skis are crafted, a Mongolian monastery known as the “Trumpet Monastery,” and the Ulungur Lake wetlands in Burqin County, a haven for birdlife.
One stop on our journey brought back vivid memories. Twenty years ago, I joined How Man and Dr. Chu Wenwen’s father, Professor Chu Hongjun, on a wildlife survey in Kekesen Mountain in Burqin County. The name “Kekesen” has stuck with me ever since. Returning to this mountain with the current team felt like closing a circle.
The moment we entered the valley, a few chukars darted across our path, their distinct cries echoing through the air. Locals affectionately call them “Gua Gua Chickens,” a name as cheerful as their calls. While not endangered in China, chukars are the national bird of Pakistan—a fun fact I shared with the team.
As we climbed higher, we spotted five argali sheep perched on a ridge, their watchful eyes fixed on us. A steppe eagle soared overhead, its silhouette cutting through the vast sky. Nearby, we found the remains of two argali sheep—horns and bones left behind by a predator, perhaps a wolf or a lynx.
Reaching the summit, I was greeted by a fierce gust of wind that instantly blew my hat hundreds of meters away. The wind was so strong that standing upright became a challenge. For me, it was a minor inconvenience, but for the wildlife here, it’s a daily struggle. The surrounding Gobi Desert has been transformed into a sea of wind turbines, towering like giants. While these turbines generate renewable energy, they also create barriers for animals, making it harder for them to migrate, forage, or interbreed. Watching the steppe eagle circle near the spinning blades, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of worry.
Back at the foot of the mountain, we met up with Professor Chu Hongjun and his wife, who had traveled all the way from Altay to join us. It was such a joy to see old friends again, and the reunion was filled with smiles and stories. To celebrate, the Nature Conservation Association had arranged for a special Kazakh feast at a local herder’s home—a whole roasted sheep, a meal worthy of the occasion.
When the sheep was brought out, steaming and golden, everyone gathered around the table. The host, with a small knife in hand, carefully sliced the cheek meat from the sheep’s head and placed it on my plate as a sign of respect. Then, he cut off the ears and set them in front of the two youngest members of our team. The room fell silent as everyone folded their hands, waiting.
Professor Chu leaned over to me and said with a grin, “You’re the oldest at the table and the guest of honor. You should say a few words before everyone starts eating.”
Caught off guard, I managed to piece together some words of gratitude and well wishes. With that, the meal officially began, and laughter and conversation filled the air.
It dawned on me—this was exactly the kind of moment that used to belong to How Man. But now, here I was, sitting at the head of the table, and the truth hit me squarely: I really am the oldest one here. When did that happen?
Looking around at the young, determined faces, I couldn’t help but notice how much the torch had already been passed. The world belongs to them now. It’s their turn to face the challenges ahead, to protect what truly matters, and to forge their own paths. Looking around at the young, enthusiastic faces, they may still be at the beginning of their journey, but I felt a quiet confidence that they are ready for the road that lies ahead.