As the speedboat skimmed over the waters of Kanas Lake, Lu flicked the steering wheel to the left and we went bouncing up and down over the wake of another tourist boat passing in the opposite direction.

Lu grinned as half a dozen Chinese tourists whooped in excitement.

We were heading up the crescent-shaped lake to take a look around and perhaps catch a glimpse of a local aquatic mystery.

Lu, a young Han Chinese who has been carrying tourists in his boat for six years, piloted us at 50km/h with ease while his passengers shivered in the open-top boat. Even though it was the height of summer, the glacial meltwater that fills the lake keeps temperatures cool. Hillsides covered in pine and birch trees rose up steeply from both sides of the lake.

It was hard to believe we were in China. It looked more like Switzerland, or western Canada.

But this is indeed China, although one of the most remote and distant corners of the country. Kanas Lake is inside a 2,500-square-kilometer nature reserve at the northern tip of Xinjiang province, where the borders of China and its neighbors form a scraggly X, with Russia to the north, Kazakhstan to the west and Mongolia to the east. We were more than 2,500km west of Beijing, so far west that even though we were officially in the same time zone, the locals did everything two hours later, on "Xinjiang time.''

After about 20 minutes, Lu cut the engine in the middle of the 24-kilometer-long lake.

The sky was overcast and the water a murky turquoise. To the north, a dark grey peak studded with patches of snow was visible. A woman passenger asked Lu if he had ever seen the gwaiwu, or monster.

"I haven't seen the gwaiwu,'' he replied. "But I've seen the red fish.''

"But aren't the red fish the same as the gwaiwu?'' she persisted.

Lu didn't answer, but just stared out at the placid, mysterious waters.

I had travelled to Kanas, which means "beautiful, and mysterious'' in the local Mongolian dialect, because I had heard it was famed for its pristine Alpine scenery and minority peoples, including Kazakhs, Uighurs and Tuwa Mongolians. After six months of studying in Beijing, I had wanted to get as far away from Han China -industrial, urban, ugly, polluted -as possible.

But I was also intrigued by the local legend surrounding Kanas Lake, which holds that a mysterious creature lives in its waters, a kind of Chinese version of the Loch Ness monster.

Over the years, official media have carried news reports about the aquatic creature, or creatures, quoting witnesses who claim they are more than 10 meters long. Some scientists, on the other hand, believe the creatures are nothing more than a type of red-colored Siberian salmon called a taimen.

The latest sightings came on June 7 when seven Beijing tourists saw "two dark objects, very large in size, springing out of the water, breaking a wave one meter high,'' according to a report in The People's Daily.

Details about the creature are sketchy, although some say it is responsible for the disappearance of horses, cattle and sheep that get too close to the shoreline. Local lore also has it that the monster surfaced an hour before an earthquake hit the Sino-Russian border two years ago.

Over the years, researchers have attempted to get to the bottom of the mystery. This summer an expedition with a budget of 1.5 million yuan (HK$1.43 million) was planned to explore the depths of the 180-meter deep lake.

We had no luck spotting any mysterious creatures out in the middle of the lake that day. The grey skies on that day didn't bode well; a Uighur woman told me the creature only comes out either when the sun is shining or when it's raining.

After about 10 minutes, Lu started up the outboard motor and we sped back to the dock. On the return trip, he pointed out the spot where the Beijing tourists spotted the creature in June.

Whether the Kanas Lake monster is real or not, locals and visitors enjoy talking about it. Tourists and locals at the park were buzzing about the creature and the recent sighting but in the same way people talk about the Loch Ness monster: As a bit of fun.

Aquatic mysteries aside, there are plenty of other reasons to visit the lake, although travelers should expect to rough it, as I discovered when I spent three days there. The only way for independent travelers to get to the park is to first take a 15-hour overnight bus from Urumqi.

As the bus followed the road northward from the city, the desert slowly faded into semi-arid grasslands. Here and there, oil pumpjacks appeared by the side of the road while gas flares burned in the distance.

The bus dropped us off at the small town of Buerjin, where freelance drivers offer rides up to the park. Another three hours and 150 kilometers later, and we were driving alongside the Kanas River and through the front gates of the park.

Despite the grueling journey, I was surprised to find hordes of local Chinese package tourists already there. Xinjiang's famed attractions are crawling with newly rich travelers from eastern China as well as local Uighurs keen to explore their province.

The Kanas Tourism Planning Bureau says 3,000 people a day visited the park this summer. In 2004, visitor numbers totaled 460,000 - a record.

To help handle all those new arrivals, the government is building an airport an hour's drive from the park. It should open in two years.

Park authorities seem to be trying to limit the side-effects of mass tourism by stopping private tour buses at the main gates. Visitors must ride the park's own blue coaches to get up and down Kanas village's main drag.

Accommodation is cheap but basic. I found a ``room'' at the Green Mountain Villa for 50 yuan a night. The villa was essentially a log cabin subdivided into half a dozen tiny rooms. There were no doors on the rooms when I arrived although one of the owners hastily bolted one on for me. There was a solar shower, although it had yet to be assembled. Dirt was stuffed into the cracks between the logs of the cabin, and a communal pit toilet stood 50 meters away.

But I hadn't come to Kanas Lake for creature comforts. Alpine mountain peaks towered all around us, their slopes covered with a mix of trees and meadow. Log cabins and white sheepskin yurts dotted the valley in and around the village. There wasn't a single white-tiled, blue-glass building in sight.

The day before my boat ride, I hiked up to Guan Yu Ting, or Fish Watching Pavilion, atop a peak across the valley that provides spectacular views of the lake and surrounding mountains. I was accompanied by Leonard, a Swiss tourist, and a Uighur mother and her two kids, all guests at the Green Mountain Villa. We decided to hike up the mountain together instead of taking the shuttle bus to the top.

We crossed a meadow where we came upon a red-cheeked Kazakh girl on a horse munching on wild berries. She offered to let us ride the horses she and her friends were riding to the foot of the mountain path for 15 yuan an hour, saving us some walking.

Forty-five minutes later, we started up a staircase of wood and stone, set into the side of the mountain.

We we were taking the hard way up. There were about 3,700 steps to climb and the route would take several hours. As we climbed, the opaque turquoise waters of the lake came slowly into view. Leonard and the two Uighur kids had little problem but the mother, Zainapu, who was 46 and not wearing hiking shoes, only dainty leather pumps, was beginning to struggle.

Despite dizziness, she managed to get to the summit.

The pavilion at the top was crowded with tourists. They had taken the bus up the road on the other side of the mountain and we joined them in admiring the spectacular views of the lake and the surrounding peaks, many of them patchy with snow.

The sky was brilliantly sunny and filled with clouds, which cast irregular shadows on the lake and hillsides. Far below, tourist boats sped back and forth in straight lines on the water's surface like bullets in slow motion.

Even at the top of the mountain, talk of the creature in the lake was never far away. As we walked down from the summit path, Maimaiti alerted me to a commotion among some tourists on a lookout platform. Some of them were excited because they had seen something jump out of the water. Were they red fish or the creature?

That night we feasted on Uighur specialities prepared by the staff, such as la tiao zi, chewy handmade noodles in a spicy tomato sauce with lamb and peppers, and da pan ji, a big platter of potatoes, onions, peppers and freshly killed chicken in a thick brown spicy sauce.

On a later walk, heading away from the lake, I came across a pair of Kazakh boys on horseback approached me.

``Qi ma? Qi ma?'' they asked, offering me a horse ride. One of the boys, Janatee, lived with his parents and two brothers in a yurt on a field just off the park's main road. He said he was 14, although he looked about nine or 10.

His father, a bear of a man named Bikh, showed me around the family yurt, decorated with colorful carpets and traditional Kazakh costumes hanging on the wall. He offered me a bowl of cow's milk, fresh from the udder. I tried to be gracious and take a sip, trying not to swallow the strand of yellow hair or splotchy bits swimming in the bowl. I declined, however, the ladle of horse milk that Janatee offered me.

With the light fading, I rode back to village with Janatee on the saddle behind me, holding on to my backpack. He dropped me off at the edge of the settlement. I paid him 30 yuan and it was only when I arrived back at Green Mountain Villa that I discovered he had stolen my mobile phone.

But I was too relaxed to care.

By the end of my trip, I was beginning to think the story of the creature in the lake was all made up, maybe as part of a ploy to lure more tourists. If so, it seems to be working.