318: Bold and Beautiful Landscapes, You Deserve It~
In 2022, work wasn’t going well, so I decided to quit. I wanted to use this break to truly see the outside world. In a rush, I decided to travel the Sichuan-Tibet route to the sacred place in my heart. I quickly booked a travel agency online, bought my flight tickets, hastily prepared, and then waited to set off. But before departure, unexpected things kept happening: my booked flight was canceled, and the pandemic in Chengdu was worsening, which made me hesitate. Once I confirmed I could travel, I resolutely bought a high-speed train ticket from Shenzhen to Chengdu and set off as planned.
The next day, after meeting up with our guide, we picked up two lovely travel companions: a young woman fresh out of university and an older sister born in ’85. Though we all came from different corners of the country, the moment we opened the car door and exchanged our personal details, we quickly became acquainted. Laughter and cheerful chatter filled the journey; trust and mutual help dissolved any awkwardness of being strangers. We forged ahead together.
The itinerary was set: our destination was Lhasa. On the first day, we arrived in Ya’an and raced along the Dadu River. The Dadu River, spanned by the Luding Bridge, surged torrentially—it was easy to understand the Red Army's hardship in forcing a crossing. One misstep and you’d likely be swept away, never to be found. A river where so many Red Army soldiers perished led us to Moxi Ancient Town, where we spent the night at the foot of Hailuogou Glacier. Moxi Ancient Town was a town that had grown entirely due to the Hailuogou scenic area. Most buildings were relatively new, with dining and accommodation as the main businesses.
On the second day, my companions and I entered the Hailuogou scenic area to see the King of Sichuan Mountains, Mount Gongga. I felt the chill of the glacier for the first time and also sensed the primal forest’s awe of life. Once inside, you have to take a shuttle bus to the main spots. The winding roads and ancient forest made me feel as if my presence was an intrusion on nature. The clean, deep blue sky, pure white clouds, and mist that shrouded the snow mountain like ethereal energy, shifting and revealing its face. Snowmelt from the mountain roared through the valleys. Even under a blazing sun, a gentle breeze persisted—nature’s gift. In the afternoon, we reached Yanzigou Red Stone Beach. Here, life feels tiny but can still be spectacular. Thousands upon thousands of red stones were piled in the river valley, amid streams, and along the hillsides. If Hailuogou were a song, the red stones would be its notes, composing a breathtaking melody together. That splash of red, set against the mountain streams, towering firs and spruces, and the green landscape, created a stunning, picture-perfect scene. The red stones host a primitive, incredibly resilient algae species. It requires an exceptionally clean environment; once removed from Hailuogou, the red stones would turn black. That shows just how pristine the environment there is.
Climbing up along the winding mountain road, the zigzag journey began. At the summit, clouds and mist curled around us, the sky overcast, and the temperature slowly dropped. The wind here was wild and fierce, almost as if in its loneliness it wanted to sweep away everything and everyone passing by. We passed through the town of Kangding, the hometown of love songs, where the Kangding River surged with waves, rushing downward. Then we crossed Zheduo Mountain, the first great pass in Kham, where the lonely Kangding Airport sits atop the peak—only one flight to Chengdu a day, they say. We arrived at Xinduqiao, a photographers’ paradise, but the cold forced us into our hotel, and we turned in early.
On the third day, without even getting a proper look at Xinduqiao, we set off again. That’s travel—every place is just a stop along the way, even destinations are temporary. This small town would likely only exist in our memories as a name. The weather that day was terrible; as soon as we stepped out, a fine, drizzly rain began. We had planned to gallop across grasslands and had dressed in skirts, only to end up shivering all the way. To make matters more interesting, an unexpected mishap occurred: our guide’s health code turned yellow. Despite the gloomy weather, we saw many cyclists and backpackers along the road. National Highway 318 is a challenge even for motorists, let alone cyclists. They might not even make it over a mountain before dark, so they had to carefully plan their daily supplies. At noon, we arrived in Litang, the hometown of Dingzhen and known as the “City in the Sky.” Like Xinduqiao, the weather reduced it to just another memory. After lunch and a Covid test, we continued toward Shangri-La Town in Daocheng County. Our guide, however, had to stay in quarantine in the City of the Sky because of the yellow code. We picked up a new companion in Litang. The weather greatly diminished the scenery on the 318. In the evening, we paused briefly at a local’s doorstep; feeling the cold, the Tibetan family invited us in for butter tea. They were very warm, offered us yak jerky, and told us about their lives. After warming up, we pressed on.
Day four, the sky was still overcast, and we finally arrived at the long-dreamed-of Daocheng Yading. You might wonder, what exactly is Daocheng Yading? Many think it’s one place. In fact, Daocheng is a county, and Yading is a village within it. The Yading scenic area spans 145,750 hectares and is made up of three sacred mountains—Xiannairi, Yangmaiyong, and Xianuoduoji—as well as surrounding rivers, lakes, and alpine meadows. The three sacred mountains are the soul of Daocheng Yading, also known as the “Soul of Shangri-La.” Whether you want a leisurely visit or an in-depth trek, the sacred mountains are accessible. So, clearly, a trip to Daocheng Yading is a journey to encounter sacred peaks. Below each mountain lies a sacred lake, like Milk Lake and Pearl Lake. The plateau lakes are always best complemented by blue skies and white clouds.
‘Eyes in heaven, body in hell’ is how people describe it. On the plateau, the weather is capricious—persistent drizzle, muddy paths, thin air. Step by difficult step, we trudged upward only to see two small pools with clear water. If you miss seeing the best of Daocheng Yading, you might regret it, but you probably wouldn’t go a second time. After all, in Tibet, there are so many beautiful lakes.
Day five, we bid farewell to Daocheng Yading and drove along a little-traversed road, where fallen rocks from the mountains were commonplace. The sun gradually peeked through the clouds, and our spirits lifted. The rubble acted like roadblocks, and eventually, we were completely blocked. We had to turn around and take a longer route. At noon, we stopped in a small town where the toilets were filthy and restaurants were full of flies. Maybe because we were traveling, we were more focused on the scenery; despite the flies, we still ate with relish. In the afternoon, we passed a beautiful grassland, but the persistent drizzle and dark sky made us wistful. Just as we were about to get into the car and leave, the clouds parted unexpectedly, and the sun fully emerged. We ran across the grassland, jumped, chased yaks, our jackets flapping in the wind, relishing the clean, wondrous natural beauty. This was perhaps the best interpretation of youth and freedom. No restraints, no pressure, just boundless beauty. How I wished I could stay there forever, following yaks every day, or idly chasing them. But we didn’t belong there, not to that grassland. Reluctantly, we turned and left. That’s the resignation of adulthood: you simply like something, but when you can’t take it with you, you give it up without hesitation. It’s not that you don’t love it; it’s just that life goes on, and the journey continues. Later, we saw the Jinsha River, squeezed between towering mountains on both sides. I felt the trip was truly worth it—those names I’d only known in memory now appeared vividly before my eyes. If you never leave home, you’ll only ever imagine and yearn. But once you step out, you discover how small the world is, as everything unfolds in front of you, and you realize you can touch and feel it after all.
It was already late when we arrived in Mangkang County. After dinner, we couldn’t bear to just go to sleep. The Tibetan region is so close to the sky that even the stars seemed near. We drove up a hill and decided to photograph the starry sky together. It was a rare experience: each of us clutching a phone, tilting our heads back and furiously pressing the shutter button. It didn’t matter if the photos came out well; what mattered was having a warm group of companions under a foreign sky—an unforgettable moment.
Day six, crossing the Jinsha River Bridge, we entered Tibet with excitement. Tibet was no longer just a distant word; it now unfolded as vivid scenes before my eyes. There was a bit of traffic, and many checkpoints along the road where IDs were checked. The mountains on both sides seemed to welcome us like a guard of honor. In this province with an average altitude over 3,000 meters, we became more and more accustomed to the thin air. Just after entering Tibet, only majestic mountains and winding roads were in sight, and we began to feel a bit of landscape fatigue. Whether it was the Yajiang Tianlu 18 Bends or the Nujiang 72 Turns, entering Tibet is never easy. The 318 remains a formidable natural barrier; we always maintain reverence for nature. At the foot of a mountain not far away, we stumbled upon a gathering of Tibetan compatriots. We didn’t know what they were celebrating, but their singing and dancing were infectious, and we couldn’t help but blend into the cheerful, relaxed atmosphere. The Tibetan children became the darlings of our cameras, cooperating sweetly, and in return, they might get snacks and toys they normally wouldn’t have.
Day seven, our task was simply to have fun. Ranwu Lake, a place brimming with scenery, means ‘lake like goat’s milk’ in Tibetan and is often called the ‘Jade Pool of the Western Paradise.’ Its milky white waters give it the name Goat’s Milk Lake. It lies in Ranwu Township, Baxoi County, Chamdo, Tibet, and is the main source of the Parlung Tsangpo, a tributary of the Yarlung Tsangpo River. Glaciers and lakes are everywhere here, probably due to the many ice mountains and abundant water. Just any random lake here is stunningly beautiful. Following directions from locals, we reached a wild glacier. Locals charged 50 yuan per person to let you in. It was beautiful—waterways spread beneath the glacier, horses grazed happily on the grassland. The glacier looked close, but after walking and driving, we found it was far away. Bitter winds howled below the glacier; the altitude was high and the temperature low. If you can’t endure the cold, don’t get too close. You’d expect the glacier to be pure white, but its surface was actually black with many rocks. It was sharp and rough underfoot. Thinking about the over 40-degree heat back in the city, and here I was, trekking on a glacier in western China. Nature’s gifts nourish the entire land of China. The whole country is interconnected; Sichuan is rich in hydropower, yet wind power is transmitted to eastern cities while Sichuan itself sometimes suffers from power shortages. Humans are all connected; we must learn gratitude.
Day eight, the 7th day of the 7th lunar month, the day Niulang and Zhinü meet—China’s traditional Qixi Festival. We moved our schedule up a day and arrived in Lhasa early. Departing from Ranwu, we passed through Nyingchi, a city famous for peach blossoms and known as the ‘Jiangnan’ (fertile riverland) beyond the frontier. We stopped at Lulang Town and sampled the famous local dish, stone-pot chicken, brimming with medicinal herbs gifted by the local mountains. The Namcha Barwa peak, which requires luck to catch a glimpse of, we barely missed seeing the most beautiful mountain in Tibet. Niyang River, revered by locals as the tears of the goddess, revealed at the confluence where the waters appeared distinctly separate—a spectacle how many ever get to witness? At 10 p.m., we finally reached the dream city of Lhasa, fulfilling a small dream of mine. The moment I saw the Potala Palace, my heart surged with emotion; no words could capture that feeling. I could only say that all the hardships were worthwhile. The Potala Palace overlooks the entire city of Lhasa like a gentle mother guarding her children. How I wished to step inside that palace and see what it truly holds.
Day nine, I woke up in a guesthouse in Lhasa. So many things felt unbelievable, but I still believed I was in the holy city. Snagging Potala Palace tickets was the top priority, and luckily, our whole group got them. Today’s mission was to visit Yamdrok Lake, one of Tibet’s three sacred lakes. The guide first took us to a temple that looked similar to the Potala Palace, perched high on a mountain. Tibetans have to overcome great hardships to reach the summit. At the source of the Yarlung Tsangpo River, the temple was hosting the Tibetan Wanguo Festival, a pre-harvest celebration before cutting the highland barley. People threw tsampa (roasted barley flour) and butter into a ritual vessel, and thick smoke billowed from the stupa. They circled the prayer wheels in worship and then shared the food they had brought. These simple Tibetans, though living in tough conditions, were blessed by their faith and seemed happy. Beside Yamdrok Lake, we each had a cup of instant noodles, then encountered the lake’s most beautiful vista from the mountaintop. Standing between the peaks, blue sky, and clouds, gazing at Yamdrok Lake, time seemed to stop; you’d even forget to breathe. It felt like soaring through millennia, merging into the lake’s waters. Tick-tock went time, and you’d forget the wind brushing past and the beautiful women you once met. No words are adequate for Yamdrok Lake; it’s as if a patch of deep azure was scattered between heaven and earth—clear like the eyes of a goddess, pure like a sacred gem.
Yamdrok Lake is so vast that we only glimpsed a corner of it before hurrying away. Before dark, we headed to the square in front of the Potala Palace to capture its reflection. Prices in Tibet are high—a bottle of water cost 5 yuan in the square, but no one minded; the ground was always wet. As tourists, we wouldn’t miss a chance to take photos with the Potala Palace. The few bottles of water we poured barely made a difference, so we queued up to use water left by others. After photos, we found a restaurant to eat. Unexpectedly, a hailstorm broke out midway. So many peculiar experiences kept enriching my life. I’d never seen hailstorm in the city, but here on the July plateau, I witnessed it—how strange! After dinner, we picked an internet café to experience Lhasa’s nightlife, the “cannon capital.” Lhasa is perhaps a city that never sleeps, with bars bustling with tourists from all over. Here, no one talks about work, only stories and feelings. It’s a place to vent emotions; everyone arrives with stories and leaves with them.
Day ten, as a complete tourist, I performed my final homage to Lhasa. On Barkhor Street, I encountered the most enchanting aspects of Tibetan culture. There were more tourists taking photos than locals, but I also saw many devout Tibetans circumambulating the Jokhang Temple in pilgrimage. The red and white buildings, prayer flags on rooftops, all spoke of this plateau city’s faith. People’s Liberation Army soldiers were stationed in corners of the square and streets, safeguarding safety. At noon, I climbed the Red Palace of the Potala Palace and visited the stupas of successive Dalai Lamas of Tibet. Though not a part of my own heritage, I could truly feel the deep reverence Tibetans have for their lamas. In the afternoon, I did a photoshoot in the square in front of the Potala Palace, and in the evening, watched the live performance of Princess Wencheng. My day as a tourist—and the entire Sichuan-Tibet journey—thus came to an end.
The beginning of a journey also means its end. But the end isn’t truly the end. In the future, there are many more paths I need to walk; Lhasa is just a brief chapter. What the future holds is unknown, and whether I’ll return to Lhasa is uncertain. Everything is filled with hope, and hope fuels motivation. If possible, I would pour my tears into Lhasa, into Yamdrok Lake, and tell them: I still want to see you.
