A low hum of reverence still vibrates through the steppes each time hands reach toward an ovoo—a ceremonial cairn of stones and wood piled at a mountain’s crest or riverbank. Draped in blue silk scarves called khadag, offerings of kumis (fermented mare’s milk), barley cakes and bits of meat are placed at these shrines to honor both the ongod (ancestors) and the spirits of wind, water, earth and fire. Clouds overhead, believed to carry messages to Tengri, seem to lend approval.

Inside yurts, small altars carry ancestral tablets or carved wooden plaques. Families pass down stories of great-grandparents by candlelight before gently laying out bowls of rice, cheese and tea. Smoke curls from incense, believed to ferry thoughts and gratitude straight to departed elders, while shamans—clad in bird-feathered headdresses—beat drums to usher souls toward the otherworld.

Mountains, rivers and old-growth forests each claim their own esprit: the Burkhan Khalkh of Mongolia’s sacred Khentii range, the spirit of the Irtysh River in Siberia, or the whispering djinn of Central Asian groves. Pilgrims circumambulate these sites, tying ribbons to tree branches as a handshake of sorts—a pact of respect and protection. Chanting in ancient Turkic languages, they ask spring waters to bless herds and winds to carry good fortune for the coming year.

A surprising modern twist popped up at the recent Nauryz celebrations in Almaty: youth-led “Tengri rides,” where participants race horses around ovoos, scattering petals and dropping tiny spirit flags in their wake. It’s a splash of color that bridges past and present, showing how ancestral and elemental spirits remain as alive under these vast skies as the steppe grasses dancing in the wind.