A Non-Typical Ali Small North Route for Novice Road Trippers

📍 Lhasa · 👁 8733 reads · ❤️ 38 likes

Since traveling the Sichuan-Tibet Highway more than ten years ago, I've always had an inexplicable fondness for Tibet's scenery—those free-spirited white clouds, the stars that seem within arm's reach, the snowy peaks that appear close enough to touch, the devout gazes, the heart-quivering blue lakes... Ali, the roof of the world on the roof of the world, has always been my dream. Every time I see someone else's photos of Ali, I can't help but drool.

In mid-year, four friends agreed to drive the southern route of Ali. Though I had some work that might prevent me from going, the more I browsed travelogues and photos, the stronger my desire to visit Tibet became. Later, two veteran drivers couldn't make it due to work, so the two novice road trippers carried on without hesitation.

The original plan was to take the southern route and, if conditions allowed, return via the northern route—a classic Ali loop. But my friend (who holds a Hong Kong identity) couldn't get a border permit, so we had to decide our next stop on the go. What unfolded was a non-typical Ali Small North Route. Along the way, many fun, embarrassing, and wonderful things happened, which I'll recount later.

This non-typical route blended sections of the south, middle, and north lines. The scenery was just as stunning. We traveled the first part of the southern route, crossed the uninhabited zone of the middle route, went from one lake (called 'tso' in Tibetan) to another, and followed the later part of the northern route to Mount Sapu.

But first, let's enjoy the scenery of this non-typical Ali Small North Route—maybe it'll spark some new ideas?

The Potala Palace sits on high ground in old Lhasa, overlooking all living beings. I love to photograph its night view from the back garden—graceful, serene, and captivating.

Norbulingka is the Dalai Lama's summer palace, but maybe describing it as a high-altitude botanical garden is more fitting. It cultivates rare and exotic plants unseen elsewhere in Tibet, bringing it vibrant life.

Full-body prostrations (chak tsal) are the highest form of reverence for Tibetans, regardless of wealth or age—only sincerity matters.

I've almost forgotten which lake this is. Along the way, there were many similar scenes; in the moment, one might feel aesthetic fatigue, but it's only upon returning home that you realize how breathtaking they were.

Zabuye Chaka, a salt lake on the plateau, is a mirror of the sky with colors that bewilder and enchant.

Rinchen Shubtso is a large lake on the Ali middle route, backed by a chain of snow mountains. Its azure waters, like a refined noble lady, smile gently at visitors from afar, her peerless beauty making one linger.

Tangra Yumco, the sacred lake of the Bon religion and the cradle of ancient Zhangzhung, evokes thoughts of its past glory.

The full view of Mount Sapu—the most stunning and magnificent sight of this journey and the roughest road.

A small monastery sits at the foot of Mount Sapu; it's said a lama has been here for forty years. The peak's perfect triangular snow cap looks down like a sacred deity.

Sunrise over Mount Sapu: golden rays spill onto the snowy slopes, reflected in the glacial lake, waking the mountain gently.

On the way from Lhasa to Drak Yerpa, Nagin Mountain Pass was festooned with prayer flags fluttering in the wind, like the murmuring of Buddhist chants.

None of us were first-timers in Tibet—my friend had been four times, I'd traveled the Sichuan-Tibet Highway once—but neither of us had been to Ali. Because of the pandemic, the trip wasn't finalized until late, and we hadn't worked out a detailed plan. We just wanted a simple route: the well-established southern line into Ali, and if time permitted, return via the north—a full Ali loop. Given the uncertainties, we only booked one-way flights.

Plans couldn't keep up with changes. Before departure, we applied for border permits at the subdistrict office, but were told that Guangzhou had suspended issuing Tibet border permits due to the pandemic. Online, many travelers confidently said you could get one in Tibet easily—ten minutes and done. I was slightly worried. On the afternoon of October 2nd, after settling in Lhasa, we went to the permit office, only to be told their network was down and permits couldn't be issued from October 2nd to 7th. But online and from friends, we heard that Shigatse could issue them. Since Ali was our destination, Shigatse was on the way, so we decided to leave early. On October 4th, we skipped Yamdrok Lake and Karola Glacier and went straight to Shigatse. I got my permit in under ten minutes, but my friend (Hong Kong identity) still couldn't—they said Shigatse didn't have authority for Hong Kong, Macau, and Taiwan compatriots; he'd have to go back to Lhasa. So we were back to square one. We had two options: give up Ali and go to Nyingchi, Bomê, northern Tibet—places that didn't require permits—or continue into Ali but head north, bypassing border areas like Everest, Mount Kailash, and Shiquanhe (Ali town). We'd already seen non-Ali regions more or less, so we decided to go north and forge our own path. With no advance planning, we worked it out as we went, which became this non-typical Ali Small North Route.

Non-typical meant many unknowns. But along the way, Tibetan antelopes, wild donkeys, Tibetan foxes, yaks, even a bear escorted us forward. We'd both been to Namtso before, so we didn't detour in. In Lhasa, we also skipped visiting the Potala and Jokhang (and couldn't get tickets). To save time, we passed by Yamdrok Lake and Karola Glacier. The whole trip lasted 13 days and covered over 3,500 km: Lhasa (3 nights) → Shigatse (2 days, 1 night, mainly Tashilhunpo) → Sangsang Town (1 night as stopover) → Coqen/Pagjiang (2 days, 1 night, Zabuye Salt Lake) → Coqen (2 days, 1 night, Rinchen Shubtso, Zhari Namco) → Ombu Village (2 days, 1 night, Tangra Yumco) → Bangoin (2 days, 1 night, Tangqung Co, Serling Tso, Bangoin Tso) → Yangxiu (1 night stopover) → Mount Sapu (2 days, 1 night, glacier, ice lake) → Lhasa.

Road conditions in Tibet have greatly improved. Apart from two days on the middle route, half a day at Zhari Namco, and one day at Mount Sapu, most roads were paved. Of course, dirt roads are where trouble happens. We, two novices, had two tire blowouts and spent 2,800 yuan on two new tires. Back home, everyone says we were bold—two guys who barely knew how to change a tire dared to self-drive, even through uninhabited areas? Initially, we planned four people, two of them experienced drivers. But then they couldn't come due to pandemic work restrictions. We then looked for a local driver/guide—a young guy working there who claimed to be a great driver and very familiar with Ali (covering his expenses)—but that fell through. We tried to hire the vehicle owner's brother, but he wasn't around. We thought we'd pick up experienced drivers on the southern route, but without permits, we couldn't. So we two beginners had to tough it out the whole way. After this trip, we're definitely better drivers—at least now we can change a tire, right?

The tire was completely shredded—total loss. It happened in a valley on Provincial Road 302, returning from Pagjiang to Coqen, with virtually no cell signal. After the blowout, we looked around; ours was the only car in the desolate valley. No signal, no repair tools. Panic set in. If we couldn't get the spare on quickly, spending a night here in the cold was bad enough, but what about bears or wolves? Fortunately, it was still early. After an hour, a few cars passed, but they weren't familiar with our vehicle and didn't know where the tools were. A traveler from Guangzhou offered to help by going to Coqen to fetch a mechanic. Two hours later, a Mr. Meng from Harbin spent nearly an hour warmly helping us put on the spare (though it took him over ten minutes just to find the tools), and he then escorted us to Coqen. We ran into him again later in Ombu Village and wanted to treat him to a meal to express thanks, but he was in a rush. On the road, you need mutual help; if I get the chance, I'll help newcomers too.

Mr. Meng told us why we had two blowouts: our tires were highway tires, unsuitable for dirt roads; plus we were driving too fast on dirt (60–70 km/h), and sharp stones easily puncture them. Later in Coqen, we spent nearly 3,000 yuan on two domestic all-terrain tires and deliberately slowed down on dirt tracks—no more blowouts. What an expensive lesson!

Driving in Ali gives you a grand sense of freedom—land stretching endlessly, clouds playing games, rolling and shifting shapes, a light-headed euphoria. Maybe because our car was a bit old, it got altitude sickness too. We crossed five or six passes above 5,000 meters, the highest at 5,500 meters. On those climbs, the car could only crawl despite flooring the accelerator.

The sky road seemed to have no end.

Lhasa is undoubtedly Tibet's hub—many sights and the starting point for acclimatizing. At about 3,600 meters, visitors (especially first-timers) need a few days to see if they adjust. We'd both been to Lhasa before, and during the National Day holiday, the major sites were packed. So we skipped the Potala, Jokhang, and other hot spots, opting for quieter places. We spent three days in Lhasa total: strolling around the Potala and Barkhor, visiting Norbulingka and the Tibet Museum, meeting friends, and on the last day, Drak Yerpa.

Back in Lhasa before our return flight, I chatted with a young woman who'd moved from inland China to work in Lhasa. She said there are countless hidden gems around Lhasa still uncommercialized; she explores a new place almost every week and after several months still hadn't finished. Indeed, in Lhasa, you can sit before the Jokhang watching devout pilgrims, lounge in Barkhor admiring its golden roof over authentic Tibetan cuisine, camp quietly by a lake, picnic by the open Lhasa River, or gear up for a low-altitude snow mountain...

Potala Palace – Sacred Ground

The Potala Palace, atop Marpo Ri hill, is the highest point in the old city and the winter residence of successive Dalai Lamas, looking down upon all Lhasa's beings. During the holiday, tickets were impossibly scarce and I'd been before, so I just admired from outside. The Potala is a sprawling complex of halls, stupas of past Dalai Lamas, living quarters, political chambers, and also a fortress with military use—a crowning glory of Tibetan architecture.

Whether at sunrise, under drifting clouds, or lit up at night, the Potala radiates splendor and charm.

The viewpoint on Chakpori (Medicine King Hill) offers a fine view; the soft golden morning light on the palace makes it solemn and sacred.

Lhasa restricts building heights in the old city to not exceed the Potala, so from anywhere, you can see it rising near or far, inspiring reverence.

A side view clearly showing the red palace's architecture. Clouds almost within reach drift above, as if it's a heavenly palace.

At night, peaceful and still, the Potala's reflection in Zongjiao Lukhang Park's waters quiets even the bustling park, leaving only streetlight glimmers behind.

Norbulingka – High-Altitude Botanical Garden

On returning to Lhasa, I wondered where I'd revisit; Norbulingka was one such place. Located on the fringe of old Lhasa, it's the summer palace of the Dalai Lamas, a Tibetan-style garden with a variety of plateau flowers and rare plants from interior China—a renowned alpine garden. Few tourists visit, so you can quietly wander among the palaces, admiring flowers until time slips away.

Norbulingka actually consists of several palace compounds, each belonging to a different Dalai Lama, separated by walls and linked by tree-lined paths.

The architectural styles vary—some simple, some splendid—housing invaluable treasures: statues, thangkas, ancient Tibetan medical charts, imperial gifts, and artworks.

As deep autumn arrived, the trees gradually turned golden.

The gilded double-door handles on the palace gates, tied with colorful khatas, hint at the noble status of their owners.

Tibetan-style pavilions, platforms with little flowers, and ponds with lotuses: in summer, there must be insect chirping and lotus fragrance.

The Dechen Mingyur Podrang seemed to have the most flowers. Though the interiors were off-limits, its bright gardens were still delightful.

Its main hall's freshly gilded roof was exquisitely carved, lifelike, and glittering.

Because of high latitude and long daylight, flowers in Tibet bloom with intense, delicate colors whenever they get the chance.

Bees seized the last warm days to store food for winter; Tibetan bees seemed a bit more robust than their inland cousins.

Colorful butterflies, sunning themselves and collecting nectar, were utterly at ease.

By the door, a beautifully carved ceramic vase with cutouts was just one ornament.

Bidding farewell to autumn Norbulingka, I look forward to returning in spring.

Barkhor Street and the Lesser Jokhang – Wandering in an Earthly Pure Land

Barkhor is the old quarter around the Jokhang Temple, Lhasa's famous commercial district and kora route. Lined with shops, it's bustling by day, crowded with pilgrims, tourists, and idlers. Maybe due to the holiday, we saw young mainlanders in bizarre makeup doing photo shoots—perhaps mimicking old Tibetan aristocratic makeup? Shopping in Barkhor requires sharp bargaining and discernment.

Perhaps Barkhor is more authentic before dawn, when the streets are nearly all Tibetans walking in one direction, spinning prayer wheels, murmuring mantras, with hurried steps and devout faces.

I remember this place being an internet sensation on my first trip, though I thought it wasn't yellow then. Vaguely, I recall sitting on the second floor, ordering tea and pastries, just watching pilgrims do kora all afternoon.

Many young people wore Tibetan dress for photos—these were normal looks; some others were just strange.

Denied entry to the Jokhang, we chose a rooftop restaurant facing its golden roof for lunch. With that view, even the food tasted extra delicious.

The Jokhang and the Lesser Jokhang differ by just one word and are close to each other. The former was packed, while the latter was quiet with few visitors. The Jokhang houses the 12-year-old statue of Buddha brought by Princess Wencheng; the Lesser Jokhang holds the 8-year-old statue brought by Princess Bhrikuti. There are many stories between them—Google if interested.

Most devotees circumambulate the Jokhang; fewer prostrate themselves before its doors now (too many tourists?). At the Lesser Jokhang, several Tibetans were still prostrating devoutly.

Compared to the resplendent Jokhang, the Lesser Jokhang is modest: a main hall and a few side buildings.

Some of its decorations are exquisite, detailed, and worth studying, bearing traces of age.

Drak Yerpa – Devotion on the Cliff

On our last day in Lhasa, we had an evening flight and almost a full day free. We considered Sera Monastery, but a local friend suggested Drak Yerpa instead—first, because the temple is built into a cliff face, unlike others; second, because it's Nyingma (Red Hat sect), quite different from the usual Gelug (Yellow Hat).

About an hour's drive from Lhasa, Drak Yerpa clings to the cliff. It's said that great masters once meditated in caves here, so the caves came before the temples, creating a site where cave and temple are one—one of Tibet's four major retreats. On the way, we passed Nagin Mountain Pass, where thousands upon thousands of colorful prayer flags danced in the wind—truly a stunning sight.

On the mountainside at road's end, several structures of Drak Yerpa are embedded in the cliff, almost appearing to float.

Below them, sheer drops; above, you can gaze out at distant villages and scenes. The hillside plants had turned to autumn colors—another year passing.

Because the rock is hard, the caves aren't deep. I recall one cave in this building extended only a few meters, filled with statues and a footprint-like mark painted with gold paste (the resident lama gestured for us to venerate it and said something about its origin—probably a great master's relic, but we didn't understand Tibetan). Perhaps because of the golden print, the building was painted bright yellow.

Is this where one or several masters practiced? The cave barely fits one or two people; its walls are polished smooth and reflect light, with the entrance letting in outside daylight.

In one cave hung a thangka of unknown age, still vivid in color, draped with white khatas and ribbons. How many years did those masters spend before it?

First time seeing these small wind-powered prayer wheels—maybe a special Nyingma ritual object? Simply fixed to a board, they spin in the breeze, producing a pleasant sound.

Looking down from the temple into the valley, the village stretches far, the vegetation varies in height, and snow peaks peek in the distance—the practitioners must have had profound insights here.

On a table in the temple, bowl-like objects were neatly arranged, basking in the sunlight.

At Nagin Pass, myriad flags fluttered; a young lady in Tibetan dress sat resting on a rock. The mountain wind stilled at that moment, as if admiring her beauty.

When writing this travelogue, I tried to recall the scenery from Lhasa to Shigatse—nothing came to mind. Was my mind entirely on the permit issue, or did high altitude erase it? Similarly, the hours from Shigatse to Sangsang Town left little memory. Perhaps that stretch was so ordinary compared to what lay ahead that my brain just deleted it. There were only faint recollections of a few golden birches by the roadside.

We arrived in Shigatse at noon. After trying a few places, my friend still couldn't get a permit. Frustrated, we checked into the hotel at 4 p.m. and asked the receptionist about local sights. She thought for a while and said, apart from Tashilhunpo, she couldn't think of anything in the city. Feeling down, we wanted a good Tibetan meal to cheer up, but then got our one and only parking ticket of the trip. Walking back to the hotel from Tashilhunpo, the city was bustling with shops and eateries, just like any second- or third-tier city.

The next morning, we visited Tashilhunpo Monastery. Along with the three great monasteries of Lhasa, it's one of Gelug's four main seats and the principal monastery of the Panchen Lamas. Built on the slopes of Niseri Mountain, it covers 150,000 m² and contains 3,600 rooms and halls. Following the visitor route, we saw halls of various architectural styles and eras, the stupas of successive Panchen Lamas, Buddha halls, exquisite murals, statues, and Buddhist objects. Tashilhunpo is the religious center of Tsang; we often saw prostrating devotees.

Almost every monk's quarters there had window boxes of flowers. White (walls), crimson (outer temple walls), gold (roofs), and blue (sky) formed a uniquely Tibetan, richly colorful scene that brought calm.

A major complex with surrounding halls and a courtyard, a flagpole in the middle—a gathering place for monks during grand festivals.

On a pillar, a lacquer painting of a mythical beast looked both familiar and unfamiliar, adorably cute.

At each hall's entrance, walls were covered with exquisite murals telling different mythological tales.

Every hall door had a hanging copper bell. Devotees entering would ring it once to announce their presence to the deity, and again on leaving to show departure. The bells hung a bit high—only taller people could reach easily; children needed lifting, shorter ones had to jump. Sincerity seemed to require height.

An elderly woman performing full-body prostrations, devout and chanting. She was well dressed, likely prosperous, seeking spiritual richness while allowing her clothes and forehead to gather dust.

I never knew the purpose of this unique structure until I searched online later—it's the Sunning Platform used annually to display a giant thangka, over 500 years old and unique to Tashilhunpo. It's 32 m high, 42.5 m wide, and 3.5 m thick with nine levels. How enormous must that thangka be?

From Shigatse towards Ali on National Highway 219 is different from the northward 216. The 219 feels like a gentle beauty with meandering streams and distant mountains; once you turn onto 216, the scenery turns stern—vehicles thread through peaks, like a rugged northwestern man, with endless rolling ridges.

Near Sangsang, there was a meadow with a curving stream and red grasslands, said to be planned as a scenic spot.

Standing atop a mountain, surrounded by ranges and drifting clouds, a sense of grandeur arises from overlooking the smaller peaks.

The Daggyai Geyser Field along Highway 216 has dozens of vents along a river valley, China's largest geyser field at 5,086 m. Some geysers shoot 1–2 m high; the water is hot enough that we saw travelers cooking meals and boiling eggs beside it.

Driving the Ali middle and small north routes, a deep blue lake often appeared by the roadside. Ali's lakes are usually calm, mirroring the sky and clouds in stunning symmetry. Along this stretch, we passed more than ten lakes, some famous, many nameless—but all showed peerless beauty.

The clouds in Ali seemed so close to the peaks, within reach, casting shadows easily onto the mountains and lake surfaces.

Scenery was always on the road; though I don't remember this lake's name—or maybe it had none—I stood there dumbstruck, overwhelmed by the lake-and-mountain view.

Zabuye Chaka, one of the world's three largest lithium salt lakes. When making backup plans, I'd read many travelogues mentioning it as Tibet's Mirror of the Sky and the palette on the wasteland, so I set it as a destination. Perhaps the timing wasn't ideal, or we didn't find the right spot, but it wasn't as stunning as imagined.

The salt lake has two parts: one semi-solid (white lithium salt surface), the other clear water reflecting mountains and clouds. Some say at the right time you'll see a pink lake surface; we only saw blue.

Other travelers noted the road to Zabuye Chaka is dirt, not easy. We detoured via Coqen, and it was on that dirt road we had our two blowouts and stayed in Pagjiang in a Tibetan-style house without a toilet—definitely a highlight of our self-drive trip.

Though most of the lake was covered in lithium salts, the remaining water was mirror-calm. To get deep shots, the drone used up all its charge at high altitude, nearly crashing into the lake.

The white layer is lithium salt, solid, about 30–40 cm thick, walkable.

The liquid part mirrored the mountains. In some season, when the mountains turn red, does the lake turn red too?

At sunrise or sunset, the lake surface also reddens—perhaps that's the origin of the pink lake?

Sunrise over the salt lake: because of the high salt content, the mid-air was already pink while the lake surface remained blue, creating a surreal spectacle.

Rinchen Shubtso is a lake on the middle route backed year-round by snow mountains, at about 4,800 m, covering 180 km². I found its scenery no less impressive than Namtso, and it's completely free with no crowds jostling for photos. Since we'd visited Namtso before, we had no urge to go again this trip.

Amidst the desolate, yellowish mountains, first a fuzzy snow tip appeared, then a chain of snowy peaks. Turning a corner, suddenly the expanse opened to reveal a sapphire blue gem—an indescribable joy.

In the lake is a small islet connected by a narrow dirt track; you can drive right to its base and admire the snow mountains up close.

Under the intense noon sun of the plateau, the water became transparent lake-blue, almost indistinguishable from the sky.

A white cloud drifted over, casting shadows, turning the water deep azure. A few waterbirds bobbed in the distance, softly chirping. A breeze came from somewhere, ruffling the surface and stirring the traveler's contentment.

Not far from Coqen, we encountered Zhari Namco, Tibet's third-largest lake, spanning 1,000 km² at 4,600 m. Many say it lacks distinct features, but from its viewpoint, the vast sea-like expanse was still refreshing. However, the 120-yuan entry fee, compared to other free lakes, didn't feel great value.

Around Zhari Namco, lush pastures made it a natural rangeland. Following the tracks of other vehicles (due to road construction, we ended up in a dead end and slid off the dirt shoulder while reversing—took ages to get back on the road, so us novices gained another skill), we spotted agile Tibetan antelopes watching from afar. When we slowed or stopped, they'd turn and run. We also saw wild donkeys and foxes. Adventurous travelers have developed a loop route here, likely offering more wildlife sightings.

Like other lakes, Zhari Namco was deep blue. A few birds drifted idly on its surface, like a moving landscape painting.

In Tibetan areas, stacking stones is a way to show respect to lakes—the higher, the more reverence. Tying a khata adds more. But stacking irregular stones requires good balancing skills.

The blue water stretched to the horizon; the clarity was high, and the lakeshore wind was mighty, like standing by the sea.

The viewpoint sat on a small hill by the lake, featuring a yak skull with a khata for photos and some railings—120 yuan.

Tangra Yumco (Ombu Village)

Ombu Village has become very popular online recently. It sits beside the sacred Bon lake Tangra Yumco, birthplace of the Bon religion and heartland of the ancient Zhangzhung Kingdom. True to a holy lake, it's vast, backed by snowy mountains, with water depths giving rise to multiple mesmerizing shades of blue. The next day, we set out to find Zhangzhung relics: the sacred lake and clouds were still there, but Zhangzhung had vanished into history, nowhere to be found.

The village is split into two parts: the front is a tourist area with two- and three-story Tibetan guesthouses, throngs of visitors, and by the time we arrived only a few rooms remained—locals were scarce; the back part is the actual residential area. My friend (an architect) remarked how solid the local stone houses were, finely crafted.

At night, I considered shooting the starry sky, but it was cold and the stars weren't that spectacular, so I gave up.

The road into Ombu Village felt almost sacred, like a pilgrimage.

Snow mountains provide a backdrop for the holy lake; the lake embraces the mountains; sky and clouds add poetry.

Even without the snow mountains, the lake still mesmerizes: sapphire-clear water tightly held by grey mountains, like a fair lady in an emerald dress, elegant and unworldly.

Sunrise over Tangra Yumco: the morning sun drew out mist, lightly draping the snow peaks in golden gauze.

We followed a lakeside path searching for lost Zhangzhung ruins. I thought it was those collapsed buildings by the shore, but found nothing and just imagined. Back in Guangzhou, I checked online and learned that the houses with prayer flags halfway up the hill were the ruins—there was even a living Bon tulku there, but we missed it.

Ombu Village has transformed into a tourist spot with new buildings rising. I hope it keeps its charm on my next visit.

Tangqung Co was just a small lake we passed. A temple by the lake was being renovated; a middle-aged lama watched younger ones paint the outer walls in the sun. Elderly women circumambulated; a Tibetan dog, curled tail, dozed in the sun. Everything was so peaceful.

The modest temple and the nearby snow mountains stood like old friends who no longer need words, having walked through endless time together.

The temple under renovation, its dark red walls stark against the blue sky, clouds, and barren mountains. In Tibet, strong colors are used, but never gaudy.

Lines visible above the water were said to mark past water levels; the lake must once have been larger and deeper. Many changes are irreversible—we need to respect nature more.

Tibetan clouds are astonishing—lazing and drifting, forming shapes. I imagine Tibetan kids could spend a whole day just guessing cloud shapes.

Turning onto the northern route, the scenery shifted from various lakes to rivers-plus-lakes. I'm not sure which river's headwaters these were, but the golden meadows, inky water, pale blue sky, and drifting clouds created an intoxicating landscape.

Serling Tso – Tibet's Largest Lake

Perhaps Serling Tso doesn't stand out in pure scenery, lacking a backdrop of snow mountains, but as Tibet's biggest lake, its feature is sheer size. We first drove along its shore, then actually crossed through the lake area, only leaving its expanse after over an hour.

Along Serling Tso, rich grazing lands; sheep flocks leisurely fed and sometimes wandered onto the road—cars had to wait patiently. A few waterbirds basked in the sun, drifting on the ripples; had Tibetan birds also decided to chill out?

Though free and quite famous, Ctrip's attraction address somehow couldn't be found directly.

Sheep grazed quietly, their figures growing plump; the deep blue lake rippled under the plateau's strong wind. Distant peaks already had a dusting of snow—the weather was cooling.

The mountains surrounding Serling Tso are all pale yellow earthen hills, but against the white clouds and varying blues, it was deeply harmonious.

While crossing Serling Tso, suddenly there was unusual bustle at one spot: a narrow sand spit extended into the lake, wide enough for just one or two cars. A crowd had gathered at its tip—what was happening?

Zooming in, I saw two off-road vehicles stuck in the sand at the very end; one white car had its entire wheel submerged. A group was figuring out how to rescue it. I thought about going to help, but given our own limited skills, we backed off.

Bangoin Tso lies adjacent to Serling Tso; they were once one lake, later separated by receding waters. Driving over, they're indeed very close.

Bangoin Tso also seemed rich in salt, with salt flowers floating along the shore and even in the lake.

The main routes of Tibet's north line are now largely paved and in good condition. Perhaps because of new paving, we found the northern route even smoother than the south.

Mount Sapu was the highlight of this trip: triangular snowy cones, accessible glaciers, and two adjacent glacial lakes—a true hidden paradise. Of course, earning the view meant enduring winding mountain roads, narrow cliffside paths, and a Tibetan home with an outdoor latrine. But facing the holy mountain, it was all worth it.

On the road, I wondered if heading to Namtso after so many lakes would cause aesthetic fatigue; plus we'd have to detour from Bangoin, costing an extra day. So we decided to go to Mount Sapu first, then swing by Namtso on the way back via Damxung. But after Sapu, we lost all interest in Namtso and drove 12 hours straight back to Lhasa.

To reach Biru County, you have to cross two passes around 5,000 meters on serpentine roads before Yangxiu Township. There were countless hairpin turns—a serious test for novices. The most challenging was the cliff road from Yangxiu into Sapu: carved into a steep cliff, barely wide enough for one car. Meeting oncoming vehicles is a trial even for pros. When that happened, a convoy of experienced drivers would get out, scout, discuss, and direct—where it's wider, how to reverse, whether to ride the wall... A single cliffside meeting could take half an hour. Luckily, that stretch was only 2 km.

From Yangxiu to Sapu, the road conditions, the mountain's full view, the glacier, the Milky Way, the sunrise—I'll summarize.

Some might say, everywhere in Tibet seems to have holy mountains; what's special about Sapu? Its highest peak is 6,556 m, one of the Bon sacred mountains, king of the local deities, with two world-rare perfect triangular snow cones. On the way, we saw two groups of Tibetans doing full-body prostrations, advancing toward Sapu. Dusty and disheveled, but their eyes held unwavering faith. Vehicles slowed to a crawl passing them, for fear of disturbing their mindset.

Yet the legend of Sapu is a bit bizarre: it's said the Sapu peaks consist of family members—from left to right: Sapu's wife, the illegitimate son from the wife's affair, the second son, the eldest son, and the daughter. Could this area have been matriarchal?

At the foot, meltwater forms two connected lakes. The first is milky white with icebergs floating year-round; in winter, it freezes, allowing you to walk right up to the glacier. The second lake is clear, blue-green, linked by a log bridge.

Driving through the valley, when we rounded a bend and caught the first glimpse of Sapu, we were ecstatic.

The lake behind Sapu—the road up to here was decent, just some dirt and small creek crossings. By the lake stood a wooden hut, prayer flags fluttering in the wind saluting the mountain. The wind was strong, the flags tattered; hopefully their power wasn't affected.

At noon, the sun blazed; the lake glittered, reflecting Sapu. By the shore, fellow travelers set up simple tables and chairs, sipping tea or coffee facing the holy mountain, listening to music or dozing—life at its best.

The leftmost peak (Sapu's wife) stands a bit apart from her family, perhaps so her peerless beauty can be seen more clearly?

To reach the front lake, you had to cross a small hill (only about 100 m elevation) on a narrow, steep cliffside track—4WD needed then. While cars met on that track, I quickly snapped a photo to calm my nerves.

The rightmost snow peak (the daughter, I think) has a yellow lama temple in front of it. Though a single hall, against blue sky, white snow, and clouds, it stood out vividly. It's said a lama has practiced here for 40 years, from his twenties to now sixties—the power of faith is immense.

When the clouds blew away, the daughter appeared even more noble. I wanted to visit the temple and meet the lama, but our homestay owner said he was out. And seeing that steep path, which the owner said takes them two hours round trip, we'd need three or more, so we gave up.

On the way to the glacier, a large stone carved with scriptures, topped with a few stacked stones, expressed deep reverence for the mountain.

Two fellow guests from Guangdong at our homestay said their guide was taking them up the glacier, so we tagged along. It was only 4 km round trip, but we had to follow a ridge, cross glacier-melt streams, and climb a hill about 100 m high. It took me two hours to reach the glacier; my friend and another lady didn't make it. Back at the homestay, we were completely exhausted—serious physical work.

The third peak from the left (Sapu's second son) had a nearly perfect isosceles triangle front—unbelievable beauty, beyond words.

We climbed up the neighboring ridge onto the glacier, then looked down at the ice lake below. Gasping for breath, but feeling heroic. Sapu's glacier seemed different—grainier, like refrozen melt.

Perhaps its low elevation makes it more susceptible to environmental dust; it looked cloudy, not very transparent. Higher up might be purer. But standing beside it, feeling its chill, was still deeply pleasant.

The glacier creeps downward; chunks of ice calve into the lake with loud booms. In winter, when the lake freezes, you can walk right up to it—much easier and more impressive. I've read in winter the ice is transparent, revealing objects 1–2 meters below.

Ice chunks, warmed by the sun, shrank from large to small and drifted shoreward. The lake's rare black sand beach made the ice appear especially crystalline.

Staying in a Tibetan-style house by Sapu's glacial lake, far from light pollution, is great for shooting the stars and Milky Way. But the owner warned us about nearby bears, so we didn't venture far. At 1 a.m., bleary-eyed, forced awake by the alarm, it was about 0°C outside. Dressed in my warmest gear, I fumbled with my gear and took a few perfunctory shots of the Milky Way.

Sapu lies to the west, so sunrise means alpenglow. As the sun climbed, golden light touched the summit. The snow on the peak turned gold, while thin clouds wrapped around—a vision of sanctity.

The morning light also reflected onto the glacial lake, shimmering golden; chunks of ice of all sizes floated there. All around was still quiet, only the occasional crash of ice calving into the water—what a lovely morning!

The ice chunks on the lake were like jade, translucent and pure.

Food-wise, Lhasa and Shigatse offer plenty of choice, with most mainstream Chinese cuisines available. We had two authentic Tibetan meals there, flavors somewhat similar to Sichuan but more refined, very tasty. In Ali, Sichuan food dominated. At Sapu, we also had yak meat boiled plain by our homestay host—it was delicious. The only thing we couldn't quite get used to was butter tea; it was okay hot, but once cold, it had a greasy smell.

Tibet's top specialty is probably yak meat. A friend gave us two packs that we finished on the road; we also bought several flavored yak jerky to mail back to the office—quite popular.

In Shigatse, we went to a highly rated Tibetan restaurant next to Tashilhunpo, and the food was indeed good. The décor was distinctive, with various Tibetan instruments and vessels, a stage in the middle, and song and dance performances.

I remember a radish soup; the vessel was rather quaint.

Potato buns filled with mashed potato, crispy outside and soft inside.

Yak stew with radish: nice hot, but a bit gamy when cold.

The restaurant displayed Tibetan musical instruments—no idea what they're called.

In Barkhor, we saw some kind of meat sausage.

On the road to Sapu, yaks stared at you, looking ready to charge.

Accommodation has much improved from the past. Lhasa has the widest range, from budget to luxury; Tibetan-style hotels are comfy and atmospheric. Only in Pagjiang (Zabuye) and by Sapu's glacial lake did we stay two nights in basic Tibetan homes with no toilets or outdoor pit latrines; the rest were standard rooms.

Pagjiang: 100 yuan per bed, room with just two beds. Toilet was an open pit out back.

Sapu's "tourist guesthouse" also 100 yuan per bed, two large rooms, adjacent to the dining area and the owner's family quarters. That's where we ate the plain boiled yak.

It was basically a dorm-style room with six sofa beds around the walls, a coal stove in the middle for heating. I don't know how long it'd been since the blankets were washed, but they didn't smell strong; pillows had disposable covers. Toilet was outside, a fenced pit—about waist high.

The last night before flying back, we finally stayed in a luxury Tibetan hotel. Three stories, a courtyard inside, right next to Barkhor. Everywhere were Tibetan patterns—perhaps how Tibetan nobility once lived?

The hotel was adorned with exquisite Tibetan motifs and carvings, utterly luxurious.

Talking about traveling to Tibet, people from the interior probably worry most about altitude sickness and whether to take preventive medicine beforehand. I think individual differences are huge, and it doesn't seem closely related to physical fitness. I react mildly; taking Rhodiola capsules a few days early and avoiding strenuous activity upon arrival in Lhasa worked for me—I later felt almost no symptoms, even a light-headed euphoria. But you really should take it easy at first, reduce heavy exertion, and acclimatize. In a taxi in Lhasa, I met a girl from the mainland who'd packed her schedule; she started touring right after landing and ended up in the hospital on day two.

Cost-wise, being self-drive, transport took about 70%, including round-trip flights, car rental, fuel, and repairs—but the joy of driving was unbeatable. (If you have a small group, joining a tour in Lhasa is also a good option.) Accommodation and meals each accounted for 11%, about 300 yuan per day, a bit higher during the National Day holiday, and we stayed in a few nicer places, but overall acceptable.

I'd brought over 1,000 yuan cash expecting some remote areas to need it, but I only ended up using a few tens of yuan for temple donations. Even the Tibetan hosts in Pagjiang and Sapu produced WeChat payment QR codes for me. So the excuse that "there's no signal, I can't check email or work" no longer holds for us travelers.

My first time in Tibet was via the Sichuan-Tibet Highway; this second time, I traveled the non-typical Ali Small North Route. One month after returning, the landscapes of Tibet and Ali still linger in my mind. Now and then, I unfold the western self-drive map I brought back and realize I've only covered a few sections. There are still the Yunnan-Tibet, Xinjiang-Tibet, and Qinghai-Tibet highways unexplored. Everest, Mount Kailash, the Ghost Lake, Shiquanhe, Mêdog, Bomê—they're all calling. Where to next? I'll plan it properly when I have time.

Travel Directory

1. Itinerary

2. Lhasa – Tibet's Center

3. Shigatse – Tsang's Religious Center

4. Lake After Lake – Pearls Scattered in Paradise

5. Mount Sapu

6. Food & Accommodation

7. Miscellaneous & Postscript

Travel Information

Hotel Index

Guide Index

Flight Index