Exploring the Beauty of Tibet Along National Highway 318
6/2 Chengdu – Xinduqiao, Kangding Gongga Zong Manor
6/3 Xinduqiao – Shangri-La Town, Daocheng Yading Risong Gongbu Hotel
6/5 Shangri-La Town – Deqin, Jixiashan Meili SUNYATA Resort Hotel
6/7 Deqin – Markam, Markam Songtsam Rumei Lodge
6/8 Markam – Baxoi, Duola Sacred Mountain Hot Spring Hotel
6/9 Baxoi – Bomi, Zangwang Hotel
6/10 Bomi – Mêdog, Gela Dandong Hotel
6/11 Mêdog – Lunang, Gongcuo Town Nyingchi Evergrande Hotel
6/12 Lunang – Nyingchi, Botai Nyingchi Hotel
6/13 Nyingchi – Lhasa, Songtsam Qugong Linka Hotel
Back in the 1980s, when reportage literature was thriving, Huang Zongying’s “The Little Wooden House” was one of those works. Her light, effortless prose and deep emotion etched that determined female forestry scientist and the mysterious, beautiful place called Nyingchi firmly into my forgetful brain. At the time, I thought—when could I ever go there? Later, as tourism flourished, Nyingchi, Bomi, and even Mêdog were often mentioned, but I never put them on my travel list. One reason was fear of the rough journey, another was the difficulty of finding companions, and third, there were simply too many places I wanted to see.
It wasn’t until the May Day holiday that I learned a group of five cars was planning a self-drive trip from Chengdu to Lhasa. A long-hidden little monster deep in my mind suddenly jumped out—the kind that never needs to be remembered yet is never forgotten. However, considering they had planned for a long time, with routes, meals and accommodations all settled, and all being old friends, it felt awkward to barge in, so I pushed the thought back down. One day in mid-May, while chatting with my mother, sister, and son, Tibet came up. My sister said she feared her body couldn’t handle it and dared not go. I said I’d love to go no matter how my body coped. My son said, “You two should join their convoy—it’s such a rare chance!” I really couldn’t control that little monster anymore. I asked my son to check with the convoy leader if we could join. The reply was that we’d need our own car, and ideally find someone else who could drive. I tentatively asked a younger cousin, and her enthusiasm soared. The people problem solved, now the car. SZ and YH agencies were both reliable, each under 7,000 yuan. The daily rental was cheap, but the one-way drop-off fee was steep—half the total. One had a Volkswagen Tiguan with 100,000 km, the other a 4WD Volkswagen T-ROC with 40,000 km. We chose the T-ROC. And so, with absolutely no prior planning, this trip to Nyingchi was hastily set in motion.
Going to high altitude always requires special preparation. I browsed Taobao daily, bought 10 oxygen canisters; fearing a car breakdown, I got a tow rope; the forecast said it snowed or rained every day, so I bought raincoats, shoe covers, and a rain cover for the camera; afraid we might miss meals or can’t stomach local food, I packed self-heating meals and canned fish, and threw in dried fruits and chocolates from home. Oxygen can't fly and the tow rope was heavy, so we couriered these to Chengdu, timing it perfectly—sent on the 28th, both arrived on the 30th. Most importantly, people said you must take the anti-altitude sickness medicine Rhodiola in advance. Going to the hospital for a prescription meant jumping through hoops because of the pandemic—QR scanning, temperature check, filling forms, disinfection. I finally saw a doctor, who said no Rhodiola, but the insurance-covered medicine was Nuodikang. They could prescribe up to five boxes, enough for half a month—but I needed a week in advance plus three weeks on the road! And there were only 12 days left before departure. The doctor helped me figure it out: prescribe four boxes now, then in ten days I could get more. I agreed. Ten days later, after running the gauntlet again, I saw a different doctor. She said Nuodikang was undergoing price adjustment and out of stock; only the self-paid Seventy-herb Pearl Pill was available. After much hesitation, I shelled out nearly 300 yuan for a box.
The convoy departed from Chengdu on June 2, scheduled to reach Lhasa on the 13th. We arrived in Chengdu earlier. Considering location and convenience, I booked a three-bedroom, two-bath apartment near Wuhou Temple. It was spacious for three, but conditions and hygiene were poor—no bottled water or toilet paper provided, though they sent some after we complained. On the morning of the 1st, we went to Heming Teahouse in People’s Park for breakfast. Dozens of snack items on the menu dazzled us; the waiter suggested a 65-yuan set with some twenty varieties, each tiny in portion, lukewarm, tasting as if not freshly made—just average.
Then we spent half a day wandering Dufu Thatched Cottage, struggling with the health code at the entrance—now an extra step everywhere. It was Children’s Day, with no school, so many families with kids, and since all indoor spaces were closed, it felt even more crowded. For lunch we had Sichuan hot pot (I forget the restaurant name), a large chain branch with few customers. We ordered the yin-yang pot with spicy and mild broths. The driver who brought us said locals would never go to that kind of place for hot pot. In the afternoon we strolled Chunxi Road. That evening, someone hosted a banquet for the convoy leader, and we all tagged along, getting to know the members: four couples over sixty, one couple under forty, a nearly seventy-year-old Aunt Wang, and a fifty-something man. A couple who had originally signed up didn’t come due to illness, so we filled in neatly—still five cars. We three, all over fifty “old ladies,” were placed as Car No. 2. The leader gave us oxygen cylinders, walkie-talkies, car number stickers, and team uniforms. After dinner, we fetched the car and planned to buy food at the supermarket, but the leader cautioned that they’d prepared everything, no need to buy. We still bought milk, yogurt, bread, and fruit (in the end, none of what we bought or what the leader gave us was finished, because every day we ate so richly, and there were always fruit, yogurt, and desserts in the room, plus anti-altitude medication—we were stuffed every day). Back at the compound, the guard told us to park in the passageway and took our keys, saying they’d need them to move the car if necessary.
On the 2nd, we were supposed to leave at eight. At seven-thirty, we hauled our luggage downstairs—and indeed, a car was blocking ours. We looked for the guard to help move it; the guard pointed at a box of keys behind him and said, “We don’t do that, move it yourself.” So that’s how it worked—beyond imagination. Holding a box of a dozen keys, my head buzzed; no idea which was for that car. I saw it was a Toyota, so I looked for the three-ring emblem. I picked one, tried the door—miraculously, it opened on the first try! Opened the door, tried the ignition—I’d never driven this kind of car, my heart in my throat, terrified of hitting someone’s car. Gingerly, I gave it gas and reversed. The passage was narrow, my car stuck in the middle, pedestrians squeezing sideways on both sides. I managed to get the car moved safely to another passage, and we could go. Sweat almost dripping. We started late, then hit morning rush hour—one intersection took three red lights to get through. My cousin used that time to paste our car number on the back window. Finally, we hit the G5 Beijing–Kunming Expressway; the other cars were already ahead. I gunned it, soon heard voices on the walkie-talkie, then spotted a little convoy with familiar stickers. We smoothly rejoined. Except for Car No. 4, a Grand Cherokee, the other three were six- or eight-cylinder Land Cruisers. Our dinky car looked awfully shabby, but if the car wasn’t impressive, the people were. We quickly earned everyone’s approval, and they stopped worrying about us.
The route basically followed National Highway 318 west, with a southern detour on Provincial Road 217 to Daocheng Yading, then back to 318 via Provincial Road 214.
At noon we reached Luding Bridge, hastily walked across for photos, then ate at a restaurant nearby. My family came here during a trip to western Sichuan in 2004; they’ve since added longitudinal planks to the bridge, making it safer than before. Actually, the scenery here isn’t great—it’s more of a revolutionary historical site. I remember last time we crossed Mount Erlang; now there’s a tunnel. To keep to schedule, the head coordinator decided on a simple meal: each person a bowl of wontons and a bowl of noodles. Unexpectedly, for just over ten yuan you got a huge bowl, and no one could finish. In the afternoon, the sky turned gloomier. At the 4300m Zheduo Pass, it was foggy and biting cold. Here you can gaze at Gongga Snow Mountain, the highest in Sichuan, but not today. We got out for a photo, then pressed on.
By evening we reached Jüli Monastery, rain starting to fall. The leader asked if anyone wanted to visit, and some responded. Five cars snaked in single file along a road barely wide enough for one vehicle—if someone came the other way, one would have to reverse to a wider spot. No other visitors besides us. We braved the cold rain and entered the monks’ living quarters; inside, a stove was burning, very cozy. Each of us bought a butter lamp and a khata to offer in the main hall. Signs said there were centuries-old murals and millennia-old scriptures, but for a “religion illiterate” like me, I couldn’t appreciate much—just going through the motions. Aunt Wang of our group was very devout and did prostrations with deep reverence. When we came out, the rain had stopped, and a patch of blue showed in the center of the sky. Everyone said Aunt Wang’s sincerity moved the heavens. Back on National Highway 318, the roadside was dotted with large hotels and photography bases under construction, mostly two- or three-story Tibetan-style tube-shaped buildings with a dozen or twenty rooms each.
Kangding Gongga Zong Manor, not far from the town center of Xinduqiao, was our first stop. Leaving the highway, a short uphill drive brought us there. Pure Tibetan-style two-story buildings lined the hillside—walking outside meant going up or down slopes, quite a challenge for us who’d just come from Chengdu to over 3,000 meters high. Cars parked below, and a key task for the staff was helping guests with luggage. The manager, Nima, handsome and earnest, would get anxious if we used the wrong cup or sat in the wrong seat; everything had to be arranged by the book. He said the owner was a Tibetan who studied abroad—no wonder the facilities were modern: electric heaters, bathroom heat lamps, flush toilets coexisting with platform beds and low Tibetan tables. The cuisine was modified Sichuan, but served western-style, set meal per person, no ordering but all-you-can-eat with free refills. The scenery around was picture-perfect; on a clear day you could see Gongga Snow Mountain. Every room looked out on something beautiful, and the hotel itself was a view. In the center of the restaurant, a beautiful large stove heated water, a wisp of smoke curling from the chimney on the roof, adding a touch of life and warmth to the vast wilderness. Temperatures were low—heating on indoors, padded jackets needed outside.
The next morning after breakfast, we headed for Daocheng Yading. I’d had a headache all last night and slept poorly, and it hadn’t improved today. Inhaling oxygen didn’t seem to help, and the medicine I’d been taking showed no effect. At least half the group felt unwell, just to varying degrees. I sat in the passenger seat groggy, the weather equally overcast. At the “Eighteen Bends of the Heavenly Road,” stepping out felt like walking on cotton—heart fluttering, short of breath, after all it was over 4,600 meters. Not long after getting back in the car, nausea hit, and I ended up vomiting. To save time at noon, we each ate in the car. The leader had given us two more huge bags of food, mostly snacks, plus coffee to perk up. We ate the bread, sausage, and some fruit snacks we’d bought in Chengdu. I opened a self-heating meal; just as it was ready, the sickness swept over me again. I couldn’t even eat—just the smell made me queasy. Turns out we’d just crossed another mountain over 4,000 meters. In the afternoon, a local Mr. Wang met us at Rabbit Mountain; the sky began to show blue. With a guide, we sped up. We passed Haizi Mountain without stopping and went straight to the airport. A large stone marker reading “4411m” stood in front of the flying-saucer-shaped terminal, marking the world’s highest airport. We felt the strong high-altitude sun. A few days earlier, a big snowstorm had grounded flights; every year after the October peak season, the airport closes until the following spring. The terminal was small. From the airport we drove straight to the Daocheng Yading Risong Gongbu Hotel in Shangri-La Town to rest. By afternoon I felt much better—the creatine phosphate oral liquid Mr. Wang gave might have helped. By dinner, I was back to normal. Mr. Wang said the best remedies for altitude sickness are Gaoyuan’an and creatine phosphate, better than Rhodiola.
After a night’s rest, fully recharged, the hotel’s buffet breakfast was very proper—both Chinese and Western options, everything you could want. Mr. Wang had already prepared a minibus to take us into the scenic area, complete with oxygen, Gaoyuan’an, water, self-heating meals, fruit, chocolates—so thoughtful! The road wound through the mountains; below, you could see the neat Yading Village, its newly built houses utterly generic. The icon and big letters “YADING” in the wheat field were startlingly conspicuous; they say it used to be planted with wheat of different colors, but now it seemed painted on. The bus only went as far as the parking lot below Chonggu Monastery, at under 4,000 meters. We climbed a flight of stone steps to the electric cart terminal; the farthest they go is Luorong Pasture at 4,180 meters. Mr. Wang told us to pick up three small stones along the way, saying we’d know what for later. At a platform, he had us toss the stones onto a small roadside cairn—if all three didn’t roll off, it meant you had a Buddhist connection. The cairn’s top was rounded and smooth, so it was hard to keep them on; only two or three people managed it. I knew I had no such connection, and my stones obligingly fell. Considering the number of older members, our leader declined Mr. Wang’s suggestion to go to Milk Lake or Five-Color Lake (4,400m and 4,800m blocked our path), and we turned back at Luorong Pasture. Mr. Wang was no less disappointed than we were. The morning weather cooperated—blue sky, white clouds, Mount Xiannairi clearly visible. By noon at Luorong Pasture, it clouded over, and Mount Jampelyang refused to show itself. We ate at the rest area, but it stayed hidden, so we gave up. Going down, we split into three groups: some took the electric cart halfway then walked the plank trail; those who went to Chonggu Monastery or returned directly took the cart all the way to the terminal. Just as everyone finished and boarded the minibus, rain started. Halfway back, it stopped, and a double rainbow arched like a two-tier bridge across the valley—absolutely perfect.
In the evening we strolled the little town. It was tiny, with few tourists, shops empty, even the music from a bar couldn’t hide the desolation—the pandemic’s impact this year was immense. There was a “Locke Path,” though I’m not sure when it got the name. Clearly, Locke’s discovery a century ago brought life here; he was destined to be remembered. The famous Shangri-La is a scenic area in Yunnan, confirmed by a provincial investigation in 1997 based on the British novel Lost Horizon. Yet this Shangri-La Town in western Sichuan was the first to bear the name, a fact locals are quite indignant about.
The fourth day was the toughest. Our car had an issue: tire pressure alarm. Several knowledgeable members checked and said there was no real problem, just keep an eye on it while driving. The rental staff had also warned that at high altitude with lower air pressure, false alarms can happen. Today we were heading to Meili Snow Mountain; Mr. Wang planned to take a back road that saved nearly 100 km. We passed an unnamed mountain, bumping along for several kilometers off-road into its interior, then came upon a nameless little lake, perennial, peaceful and green, surrounded by shrubs and wildflowers. Mr. Wang said locals call it “God’s Tear.” There were many locals on the slopes digging for caterpillar fungus; someone in our group bought a few, 30 yuan apiece, though I’ve no idea about the quality.
Close to noon we reached Xiangcheng, where an 800-year-old bodhi tree stood quietly in the village. Legend says in the 12th century, the Great Karmapa came to Qingde to spread the teachings. Once, the string of his prayer beads broke, scattering beads everywhere. People helped search but two were missing. The Karmapa said those two beads had an affinity with this place. Later, two female bodhi trees grew here—the Tibetan name “Chachen,” meaning “prayer beads in hand,” is how Xiangcheng got its name. The other tree vanished, but this one’s bodhi beads are deeply revered by Tibetans, needing no consecration. This small village left a lovely impression: clean streets, lush flowers and plants around every house, a gentle stream flowing by, an old house redesigned into a beautiful inn-restaurant called Guiyuan—the food light and tasty. It made you want to stay. And this area is a highland valley, relatively lower in altitude, with vast farmlands unfurling along S217—so pleasing to the eye.
After lunch we continued, but an hour later the road ahead was broken; we had to turn back to the provincial road. Mr. Wang saw us off at the fork. Following navigation, we came to a tunnel—blocked by construction—so we backtracked to the old road. That old road, plagued by multiple landslides and years of neglect, was terrible; 20 km/h was fast. We crossed mountain after mountain, still in Sichuan, as darkness fell. The leader said if we couldn’t reach Deqin today, we’d stay in Benzilan Town. Luckily, my son and his wife had driven from Yunnan to Deqin ahead of us to wait; they said once on S214 it would be smooth. It was after nine when we reached Benzilan, crossed the Jinsha River bridge into Yunnan, and onto S214.
True enough, no more bad roads. By moonlight and the reflection off Baima Snow Mountain, we smoothly reached Deqin. My son met us at a fork and led us to the hotel. Scanning health codes and entering ID info again took ages; we got to our room well past 11pm. This Jixiashan Meili SUNYATA Resort Hotel is the work of a designer who studied in Japan. It has Japanese-style understated simplicity, lots of white space, large rooms with floor-to-ceiling windows. The third-floor common area has broad views; on clear days you can see Meili Snow Mountain. Downside: no elevator. Breakfast was similar in model, fewer varieties but still thoughtful. Dinner required reservation—you’d tell them if you wanted chicken, duck, or beef, and they’d buy accordingly, though not always what you asked; they’d adjust, so ordering was more of a suggestion. 100 yuan per person, all-you-can-eat, much like that first manor. We booked dinner for the next day: main dishes were roast duck and stewed chicken, plus several stir-fries, all very tasty. Overall, the staff tried hard. In the room, a handwritten welcome card on the coffee table—the delicate penmanship won me over instantly. But over 2,000 yuan a night felt a bit steep.
On the fifth morning, I went up to the third floor hoping for a view, but it was all mist—nothing visible. The small village below flickered in and out of the clouds.
The weather was poor, so the leader decided on a later start to visit Feilai Temple. The platform in front of the temple overlooks Deqin town and in the distance, Meili Snow Mountain—but neither was visible. We moved to a better, larger platform further on. After parking and taking pictures, someone came to collect a fee and register IDs—about 20 yuan per person. Though Kawagarbo Peak was utterly hidden in mist, nearby snow mountains could still be seen. Everyone posed in all sorts of combinations. My camera bag zipper wasn’t closed properly, and my lens cap fell down. My son went into the bushes to search—he found several, one looking very similar, but after washing and trying it, it wasn’t the right one.
At noon we ate at a nearby yak meat hot pot restaurant. The yak meat was tender with no gamey taste; the radish stewed with it was even better, melting in the mouth. Everyone praised it profusely. Paired with our own white spirits and peanuts, this meal was the most unforgettable of the whole trip. After, my son and his wife went with me to Mingyong Glacier; others went to see Baima Snow Mountain. We reached the glacier gate past three, bought tickets and electric cart ticket (total 102 yuan). The cart saved us six kilometers. The driver dropped us at a small pavilion, saying be back by five at the latest for the ride down, or we’d be stranded. We climbed the wooden boardwalk; though only just over 2,000 meters, we still panted heavily. The first section had dense, tall forest blocking the sky; higher up near the slope edge, trees thinned, flowers multiplied in delicate bloom, and you could see several small glaciers on the opposite mountain. After a gentler and partly broken stretch, we reached a mani pile and saw the funnel-shaped glacier plunging from Kawagarbo’s main peak. With bad weather, peak and sky merged into grey murk. Time was short, so we turned back—supposedly no better scenery lay ahead anyway. We encountered just two groups, five visitors total. Waiting for the cart by the pavilion, several pack mules and workers rested there; the mules’ coats were patchy, some lame, some with broken skin, all listless—pitiful, a stark contrast to the splendid, carefree large rams on the mountain. That evening, the two families dined together back at the hotel.
Day six marked the second half of our journey—entering Tibet via S214. The Millennium Salt Fields lie here, down a very narrow lane with no parking; a dozen cars squeezing in drew locals out to stare. A local guide directed vehicles one by one across two planks as a “bridge” to a relatively flat clearing. We walked to the riverside salt sheds. The guide told us this was where King Gesar and the local Naxi people fought over territory and resources. King Gesar won but generously gave the salt fields to the Naxi; hence today it’s a Naxi autonomous county in Tibet. Salt comes as red or white; white undergoes more processing for eating, red used for bath salts or foot soaks. But discerning folk now buy commercial salt, so the salt fields are increasingly tourism-oriented.
At noon we lunched at a Naxi influencer’s farmhouse restaurant, famous for its noodles, with a gimmick: anyone who could eat 50 bowls in one sitting would get the meal free. A bowl of small stones sat on the table—place one in front of you for each bowl eaten as tally. A “bowl” was really just a chopstick’s worth; women could down six or seven without trouble, nine with effort; men, twelve or thirteen no big deal. I ate seven bowls. The tables were coffee-table height; guests sat face-to-face on long, hard sofas. Every table was laden with dishes—ham from Tibetan-style pork, yak meat, and various stir-fries. As we finished, the landlady came specially to sing and offer toasts.
In the afternoon, we crossed the 4,448-meter Hongla Pass into Markam County. I never expected the county seat to be so pretty—shopping mall, theater, schools, stadium all complete. Perhaps newly built or due to the pandemic, the streets were empty of people and vehicles. A couple of fellow travelers and scattered primary school students in uniforms returning to school were all we saw; rural students board, Sunday afternoon they head back early.
This trip to Sichuan-Tibet strongly impressed on me how much living standards in Tibetan areas have risen compared to a dozen years ago. Roads are far better, ease of travel broadening horizons. Houses are rebuilt, food, clothing, housing, transport all improved. Education levels are higher, people more worldly, the young embracing modern lifestyles. The Tibetan driver who once drove us now owns several hotels, and his daughter studied at a university in Beijing. Continuing forward to Rumei Town, we checked into the famed Songtsam Lodge. Songtsam has multiple hotels in Yunnan and Tibet—Tibetan-style packaging with Western amenities, locations chosen not for downtown but for views framed by windows. In recent years, this formula has won favor. Rooms are wood-framed, copper washbasins, separate shower and toilet compartments. Breakfast mixed Chinese and Western, plus tsampa and Tibetan touches. For dinner we chose Western: appetizers, two mains, dessert—color, aroma, flavor all spot on. Pity I couldn’t dare eat freely at dinner.
Day seven was relatively easy, visiting a newly developed grassland—the visitor center still under construction. We drove a short off-road stretch to a boardwalk, climbed the railing onto it. The view was wide open: green grass, black cattle, streams at our feet, snowy peaks in the distance, blue sky overhead—all colors impossibly pure.
Originally we planned to stay at Ranwu Lake, but locals from Qamdo advised sleeping at lower-altitude Baxoi, saying it’s best to sleep below 3,000 meters at night. Baxoi Duola Sacred Mountain Hot Spring Hotel, right by the Nu River, might be the best in this small county, but felt like an old-style guesthouse—facilities and hygiene lacking, though each room had a large oxygen cylinder, safety well handled.
Dinner was a lavish Sichuan spread. From then on, most meals were Sichuan: heavy on meat and chili, oily and salty, but always plenty of vegetables and fruit, plus local yogurt. I hadn’t expected that. Sichuan, Yunnan, and Qamdo Tibetans belong to the Khampa subgroup—so-called Khampa men, tall and handsome, fiercely proud of their ethnicity. Rumors say Japanese women once flocked to give birth here to improve their offspring. But not all locals I saw were tall and handsome; maybe newcomers?
Day eight, we set off for Ranwu Lake. Under an overcast sky, the lake’s beauty was much diminished. Luckily, there’s a well-designed resort that added some artificial charm. Wandering, I heard raucous music—a girl filming five “veteran guys” and five big motorcycles. The bikes all had vanity plates like Yu K00000, likely livestreamers. After lunch, on the coordinator’s idea, we bought tea and coffee and enjoyed an afternoon tea with our own dried fruits and snacks.
Fed and watered, we rushed to Bomi. Midway, we passed Midui Glacier, far gentler terrain than Mingyong. We took the electric cart in; few tourists. At the cart terminus, locals still had stalls; some in our group bought trinkets to “alleviate poverty.” The cart could go further, but the government reserves that stretch for local horse-riding tours at 100 yuan a pop. With few customers, households rotate; now it’s halted entirely. We didn’t hike, just snapped photos and returned.
Bomi immediately looked like an established tourist town: streets lined with shops and hotels, buildings showing some age. The Parlung Zangbo River runs through it, snow mountains ringing all around. We stayed at the Zangwang Hotel; locals arranged our next day’s trip to Mêdog—a destination beyond our original plan. Not that we didn’t want to, we just never dared imagine it.
Mêdog, China’s last county connected by road, has a sole link to the outside world in poor condition, prone to landslides, operating on odd-even-day one-way system: odd days in, even days out. They say a new western highway from Nyingchi is under construction. The morning we left, clouds and mist swirled, rain coming and going. Here we used local cars and drivers; our driver, a tall, handsome, bashful young man named Xiangba Duoji, always with a calm expression, never flustered, not talkative—answer a question only when asked, sometimes needing two or three prompts. He played pop songs, many in Cantonese, all the way. After a while, we saw a tall, slim waterfall, with “Yarlung Tsangpo Grand Canyon National Nature Reserve” carved on a rock below. Further, we reached the Galongla Tunnel. Duoji said before the tunnel, you had to snake around the mountain, and once it snowed, you were stuck. After the tunnel, the road descended steadily, vegetation turning tropical, humidity rising—we could have been in Hainan. Duoji said it was too hot for him here; every time he came, he couldn’t stand it and couldn’t wait to flee. Several landslides had broken the road; we had to drive over rubble or through puddles. A new bridge was under construction nearby, soon to bypass all this.
Mêdog slopes from north to south, dropping over 7,000 meters from Namcha Barwa Peak to the border, creating China’s most complete vertical climate spectrum, nurturing flora from frigid to tropical zones, including many rare species. In Mêdog, Tibetans are a minority; the main groups are Monba and Lhoba. Over the past decade-plus, the government has poured in efforts, connecting electricity, telecom, TV signals, and roads, building schools and hospitals, developing tourism—lifting Mêdog out of poverty. The Gela Dandong Hotel looked decent, glass facade, small rooms, simple decor, but considering how hard transport must be, reaching this level was no small feat. Not far, a park with a small lake added a touch of grace; at just over 1,100 meters altitude, it felt comfortable. The locality produces a special stone used for pots since the Stone Age, giving rise to the famous Mêdog stone pot and its signature dish, stone-pot chicken. Supposedly this soapstone is soft, non-stick, heat-retentive, quick-heating, rich in trace minerals. The pots are straight-tub shaped, grayish-white, weighty—prices start at just over 1,000 yuan and go up to several thousand. After lunch we headed uphill to Rinchenphug Monastery; the road got even worse, workers expanding it, all kinds of construction vehicles busy; we had to wait when they couldn’t make way. After much hardship, we reached the monastery, and I was let down: the gate was shabby, paint peeling, the interior even more dilapidated and messy, the main building neither grand nor ornate. Yet Duoji and our escort Pemu both insisted this monastery is the most efficacious in all Nyingchi, holding supreme status, and they considered a visit a great blessing. It’s said “Rinchen” means treasure and “phug” means plenty—I understood it as a treasure trove. From above, the surrounding mountains encircle this one like a lotus, hence it’s also called the Lotus Holy Land. There really was a treasure inside: a thousand-year-old copper-gilt pagoda, older than the monastery itself, origin unknown, about 20 centimeters tall, its top removable to reveal an exquisite Buddha figure. The current building was rebuilt in 1983 after earthquake damage—a single structure, three stories from the outside but two within, a square base with projections on each side like four door porches, creating twelve corners, delicate and clever. The main deity is Guru Rinpoche in a wrathful form, which baffled me. Locals explained this is one of his eight manifestations—while benefiting sentient beings, he also subdues demons. He once meditated in charnel grounds for years, perhaps setting him apart from other monastics. Guru Rinpoche, learned and powerful, brought Buddhism from India to Tibet in the 8th century, built Samye Monastery; one could say all Tibetan sangha are his disciples.
Descending, we continued south along the sole road to the Guoguotang Big Bend. This bend had a charming, delicate feel—elegant, lush, perfectly sculpted—though lacking a certain grandeur. The viewing platform was ugly and crudely built. Crossing a river, we saw a refined rattan bridge nearby, likely no longer in use.
Back on the roadside, there was a local specialty shop selling rattan wares, stone pots, etc. We browsed but bought little—prices a bit high. At night, we found a restaurant for stone-pot chicken. The dish included “palm ginseng,” which intrigued everyone—it really looked like a tiny palm, powdery in texture with a hint of medicinal taste. Pemu had somehow got a bucket of “chicken-feet wine”—not made from chicken feet, but from a local grain called chicken-feet rice.
On the morning of day ten, with decent weather, we retruned to Bomi without stopping and pressed on to Lunang. Rain resumed; we arrived in the rain at the Gongcuo Town Nyingchi Evergrande Hotel. Despite terrible visibility, the town’s beauty still shone through.
This is a collaborative project between Guangdong and Nyingchi from a few years back, blending poverty alleviation with tourism. Evergrande, Poly, and Zhujiang, three major developers, jointly built this small area beside Gongcuo Lake—hotels, dining, entertainment, shopping, even an art gallery, melding modern concepts and high-end facilities with top-notch scenery. It’s hard to leave, my favorite spot. Shops were all shuttered, only two or three restaurants open. This pandemic! How many lives it’s disrupted. The weather wasn’t great; this season is when warm, moist Indian Ocean airflow prevails—Mêdog bears the brunt, humid and rainy, and via the Yarlung Tsangpo canyon, Nyingchi is the same: May to October is the rainy season, the other half dry. The best times to visit are April and October, when spring blossoms or autumn colors peak, while minimizing rain. That evening we had stone-pot chicken again, far more refined in presentation and cookware than Mêdog’s version.
On day eleven, we left the hotel early for Lunang Forest. It must have rained all night—heavy morning rain, umbrellas to breakfast. Luckily it stopped after, but thick clouds hung, turning the forest into a dark, shadowy mass. We stopped at a viewing platform by the highway to take a few lackluster photos—just “been there.” Going down would require an electric cart and time; no one thought it worthwhile.
At noon we drove into Nyingchi proper and checked into Botai Nyingchi Hotel. In the afternoon, under clear, boundless blue sky, we went to Nanyi Gully—a place I’d never heard of. It’s said to have snow mountains, clear waters, green trees, and flowers, missing nothing. After a stretch of airport expressway, then ordinary roads, then rural lanes, we finally stopped. From the car, we saw the leader deep in discussion with a guide; eventually they announced, “We won’t go in.” Puzzled, but luckily there was a vast, tender green meadow right by the road; the guide suggested walking the boardwalk loop. A shallow, clear stream wound aimlessly to who-knows-where, oddly shaped trees scattered about, flowers I’d never seen blooming or fading quietly by the path—this nameless meadow gave us relaxation and delight.
Back in town, we visited the Cypress King Garden to pay respects to the world’s largest giant cypress, over 3,000 years old. Standing at 3,040 meters elevation, with a girth of 14-plus meters and height of 50 meters, it’s likely indisputably the world’s largest. The garden holds many other cypresses aged two to three millennia.
Instead of dining with the group back at the hotel, the three of us headed out to the river valley. Passing earlier, I’d thought it looked beautiful and wanted photos before sunset. Nyingchi spreads along the Nyang River, which merges with the Yarlung Tsangpo not far away. The downstream stretch has many shoals. It took effort to get off the highway and find a dirt trail into the riverbed; that trail soon vanished. Underfoot, wild grass and flowers, small puddles; distant green hills and snowy peaks. Only the clouds were too thick—a bit thinner would have been perfect. I’d wanted to reach the river, but with no path, rough going, and fading light, we feared getting lost and turned back.
That evening, everyone went to the market. Tibet has many medicine sellers—not just local herbs but from Sichuan, Yunnan, Xinjiang, even Iran, priced dearly. Quite a few bought palm ginseng, prices from 100-200 to 400-500 yuan per jin. A fellow traveler asked about fritillary bulb; the vendor named a very high price and said, “Try it, it’s special.” He did, and it was so bitter he hopped about, exclaiming “Too bitter!” over ten times. I was curious just how bitter, having heard of a colleague once leaping from spicy chicken wings. Such extreme tastes I rarely seek—I don’t want to put myself through that misery, but maybe I miss some life’s quirks.
On day twelve, I rose early and walked alone to Fujian Park near the hotel. Pavilions and terraces dotted a lake, there was a stone boat, a duck family idling contentedly, mandarin ducks playing—a spot with strong Jiangnan flavor. Only the distant snow mountains and the khata-like clouds around their waists betrayed its true location.
After breakfast we departed for the final stop: Lhasa. The Nyingchi–Lhasa Expressway was recently built, smooth and straight; a 120 km/h speed swept away days of pent-up mountain driving frustration. To make it to Lhasa by lunch, the lead car picked up speed, and we had to keep up. Two days later, we got a text from the rental company about a traffic violation. They gave ten days to resolve it; after ten days, they charged over 2,300 yuan as a deposit, refundable if I handled it promptly. Despite rushing, we still reached Lhasa well past one. We had hot pot at a large restaurant—even seafood sashimi appeared! Today’s Tibet is nothing like the past. Then we drove up the mountain on the south bank to check into Songtsam Qugong Linka Hotel. Ten two- or three-story buildings hugged the hillside; lobby and restaurant in a separate building—beautiful but exhausting, climbing up and down, no elevator, even meals were a hike. Rooms were large suites, said to be styled after Lhasa noble houses, with diffuse oxygen supply. From the room, you could glimpse the Potala Palace, albeit tiny. Our stay coincided with the weekend, so the hotel gifted us an opera performance and afternoon tea. Four performers: two instrumentalists, two singers. The tunes were monotonous, lacking the high, piercing quality of Tibetan music, more like even-keeled Beijing drums. They offered no explanation, just sang piece after piece with simple hand-swinging steps, said to tell tales of scholars and beauties. This opera form emerged after Princess Wencheng’s arrival, likely related to Han opera, mainly for noble entertainment. What really wowed me was the afternoon tea—Western pastries executed flawlessly. I ate several, almost embarrassed. Evening, we celebrated our safe arrival with a dinner at the hotel. Aunt Wang’s husband flew in specially to join. The cuisine was Chinese food with Western presentation; the main course was steak. Our leader brought out a precious whisky saved for the journey, plus baijiu and wine—toasts all around, mutual thanks, deep emotions. These people were once movers and shakers in their day; now retired, they still refuse to admit age, determined to self-drive the snowy plateau before seventy. Having done it, they deserved pride.
Day thirteen morning: visiting the Potala Palace. Only a tiny section was open, mainly the Red Palace; you had to follow a guide, back in just over an hour. This was the most crowded place on the trip; we often got separated from our guide by other groups, and even when nearby, noise made her inaudible. Chaotically, we saw a sandalwood Guanyin statue (where monks gave us khatas), stupa halls, mandala halls—many halls, getting lost, no photography allowed for later reference, so I’ve forgotten most. What stuck: the Fifth Dalai Lama’s stupa with the world’s largest diamond, and the natural sandalwood Guanyin, uncarved yet too small, too far, in a glass case—barely visible. The Red Palace’s outer wall is unique: Baima grass wall, made from a small tree through a complex process, lightweight, insulating, and able to catch arrows. The Potala holds countless artifacts, statues, thangkas, murals, scriptures, and stupas—as the saying goes, gold is the cheapest thing inside.
After the Potala, we went to Jokhang Temple. Under renovation, we entered through a back door. A monk guided us, clearly intimate with every corner; his narration was animated, eloquent, pouring out treasures, with rich body language. Our leader urged him several times to move on and keep it brief—I felt without restraint he’d talk for three days. He said so much, I forgot most. The temple has statues of Songtsen Gampo, Princess Wencheng, and many high lamas, each with stories. In the afternoon, we revisited Norbulingka. Somehow it felt smaller than last time—puzzling. Maybe because previously I’d arrived early with no one else, and the close encounter with a Tibetan mastiff had scared me and skewed my memory.
That evening, a local friend hosted us at a unique little bar. This “Fuyou Bar” is run by a Beijing guy, Binzi. He cycled to Lhasa 17 years ago and never left—drinking, smoking, singing, wisecracking, living simply and joyfully. He chatted casually: his mom used to beat him as a kid, which drove him to Tibet. Authentic Beijing dialect with a slurred accent made it feel like a Beijing hutong.
On day fourteen, we set off alone for Namtso Lake. A short stretch of road washed out, otherwise fine. Near noon we reached the gate, paid 120 yuan. Public toilets had no water, filthy. Driving in to the lakeside took over an hour. Namtso is so vast, different spots reveal different lake faces—like blind men feeling an elephant. After eating our packed lunch, we reached the main site, marked by a big rock carved with “Namtso.” From the parking lot to the shore was a gentle slope; many people walked clutching oxygen cylinders, helping each other, some just gripping rails to rest—4,718 meters is no joke. With perfect blue sky and white clouds as backdrop, Namtso looked enchanting. White yaks, decked out lavishly for photos, were led into the water and hauled back to shore, endlessly posed. Do they envy the birds gliding freely between sky and water? Or the scruffy black yaks and grey sheep wandering and munching endlessly? Sometimes beauty is a curse! We lingered a while; when dark clouds rolled in, we started back.
A shower hit on the return. Worst was entering Lhasa: a checkpoint. Cars queued for kilometers. Finally at the post, after showing IDs, we were waved aside to park—because we came from Beijing, where new COVID cases appeared on the 11th. Police had us scan code after code, fill endless info; after ages, two of us passed, but the third couldn’t, even with police help. Finally, he waved us through.
Day fifteen, a group beauty’s cousin came to play guide; we all went to Yamdrok Lake. He graduated inland and now works in Shannan, knows the area well, making things easy. He drove up to level ground on a hill and parked—turns out the whole section has time-limited speed control; you can’t arrive too soon. If we’d known, we’d have taken it slow. While waiting, we saw a man singing and playing guitar—seemed semi-pro, photos or videos cost money. We chatted; he’s from Shandong, pandemic left him idle, so he took his wife and daughter on the road, singing as he goes, selling scarves and shawls from the car. Life’s hard, but there’s always a way to find joy. Yamdrok cost 60 yuan; again, yak photos and also Tibetan mastiffs. The mastiffs were docile as big dogs—completely unlike the one I’d met. The beauty and the big dogs took many shots. Sky was darkly overcast, dimming the scenery.
In the afternoon we headed straight for the airport. Speed limits were 30–60 km/h; we crawled, cars streaming past. I dared not speed up, scared of another fine. We returned the car; the rental folks drove us to the terminal. Pemu had already arranged our check-in. To save money, we flew via Xining—there, no health code check to enter, no bag re-check, straight upstairs to board, all smooth. Back to Beijing, where the pandemic had flared again.
On this trip I experienced two hotel types: standard starred hotels and ethnic-themed design hotels. Standards varied by location—Baxoi and Mêdog were upgraded guesthouses; Nyingchi and Shangri-La reached four-star, well-equipped, clean, spacious public areas. Design hotels were a first for me, a small revelation. Aesthetic appeal is paramount—interiors and outdoor views carefully arranged, seats placed at prime spots to sit and savor. Personalized, warm service is another hallmark: no uniforms, service not standardized but homey—little pastries, pretty drinks, slippers laid out at night, staff chatting with you, meals feeling like “what’s at home,” making you less bothered by unprofessional or imperfect details, even finding them endearing. But some people aren’t comfortable—no cozy sofa, no writing desk, furniture wrong height, etc. One thing irked me: room keys were huge, copper, hung with a tangle of ornaments, felt like hundreds of grams, a burden to carry daily. Maybe traditional Tibetan homes are like that.
In so many eyes, Tibet is a land of mystery, sanctity, myth—leaving lifelong regret if unvisited, and many return again and again. To me, these days were full of snow mountains, barren peaks, forests, rivers, lakes, meadows, wilderness, winding mountain roads—found elsewhere too. Why does this land endlessly draw people? I think it’s the difficulty that ignites passion: arduous roads, fickle weather, thin air—all challenging humanity, and we’ve never lacked a desire to conquer nature.
Back from Tibet, I found “The Little Wooden House” online and reread it. That forestry scientist, Xu Fengxiang, under such tough conditions back then, ventured into Tibet over a dozen times for research, devoting her life to trees and flowers.
