A Perilous Journey Through Yunnan’s Wild Frontier
The farewell at Yongning Prefecture carried both gratitude and apprehension. My three Han Chinese soldier escorts, who had faithfully accompanied me from Dajianlu (modern-day Kangding), prepared to return home after months of arduous travel through China’s southwestern frontier. These men had become more than guards – sharing their rations, securing shelter each night, and maintaining remarkable cheerfulness despite treacherous mountain paths. Though I compensated them handsomely according to our original agreement, parting left me with lingering guilt that only subsided months later when news confirmed their safe return.
On May 10th, our reconfigured caravan departed Yongning with significantly bolstered numbers. Local officials had warned that the mountains separating Yongning from the Jinsha (Yangtze) River harbored the most dangerous bandit-infested trails in all southwestern China. The Yongning Tusi (local chieftain) generously provided twelve armed escorts – only two professional soldiers among them, the rest untrained civilians who appeared unfamiliar with firearms. This motley security detail would accompany us to the river’s edge, reflecting the complex power dynamics between central Chinese authority and semi-autonomous frontier regions during the late Qing dynasty.
First Glimpse of the Mighty Jinsha
Our morning route wound southwest through cultivated lowlands before ascending densely forested peaks. By early afternoon, we reached the 13,000-foot Ge Wa Pass, where sweeping southern vistas revealed endless forests, while northern views displayed patchwork farmlands shimmering like emerald seas. The descent along the western slope proved treacherous – a 3,000-foot drop through obstructed paths until suddenly, the landscape opened to reveal snow-capped mountains southwest and our first glimpse of the Jinsha’s serpentine course.
The river corridor defied expectations. Despite warnings of uninhabitability, sheer cliffs hosted numerous villages and cultivated terraces. At Lan Ga Lo village, we lunched before continuing to La Ka Shi near the so-called “Silk River,” where our path turned to follow the Jinsha’s left bank. The river here flowed northwest to southeast between walls of rock, the trail maintaining a precarious 200-300 foot elevation above the rushing waters.
Crossing the River of Golden Sand
Ferrying across the Jinsha (“River of Golden Sand”) presented logistical challenges with only one available boat. We prioritized luggage and personnel before attempting the skittish mules. During the second mule transport, panicked animals kicked holes in the vessel, forcing emergency repairs mid-river. The 100-yard crossing at this narrow point required skilled navigation against swift currents, though our drift measured merely 30 yards downstream – far gentler than the Yalong River’s rapids. The boatman warned that summer snowmelt would transform these relatively calm waters into a raging torrent.
Local Han Chinese called this stretch “White Water River” (Paishui Ho), a misnomer for its sediment-laden, chocolate-brown flow from mountain snowmelt. This region’s geography had only become known to Western explorers in the preceding decade, with Frenchman Bonin and British officers Davies and Ryder documenting the dramatic bend where the river turns sharply north, forced by the mountain barriers near Lijiang.
Mysteries of the River Cliffs
South bank ascents revealed fascinating cultural artifacts carved into cliffs – Mosuo burial caves and larger excavations locals identified as primitive gold mining shafts. Our Mosuo muleteer explained that nearby graves belonged to an ancient people whose origins were now forgotten, highlighting the region’s complex ethnic layering. This area marked the border between Yongning’s jurisdiction and Lijiang’s authority, where the Mosuo – once rulers of a small kingdom with Lijiang as capital – now lived under different governance.
We climbed 2,000 feet to the prosperous village of Fen Ke, where hosts offered their finest upper room. Next day’s travel followed valley contours southwestward, revealing spectacular glaciated peaks exceeding 18,000 feet. At a crystalline mountain spring near a small temple, I noted an ideal campsite for future travelers – one of many observations positioning this account within the tradition of Victorian exploratory writing.
Trials of Mountain Travel
Weather proved our greatest adversary. After ascending through thickening clouds, evening rains forced us to construct makeshift shelters from forest branches – a miserable night alleviated only by the storm’s gift of clean drinking water in this otherwise dry landscape. Morning brought intermittent showers before clearing revealed the 15,000-foot Mosuo-named Ge Ka Ya Pass.
Descending through boulder-strewn forests, we reached the basin village of Tuo Ke So, witnessing a bowman hunting pheasant – a fleeting glimpse of local subsistence practices. Camping at forest’s edge near grasslands, we avoided rumored leopards but suffered relentless mosquitoes. Next morning’s travel entered dense jungle approaching the 10,000-foot snow peaks marking the Lijiang plain’s approach.
Gateway to Lijiang
At Ming Yin Chi village, Han Chinese agriculturalists and government tax notices signaled our return to predominantly Han-administered territory. Wooden buildings with tiled roofs housed both Han and minority residents wearing hybrid dress – Han-style clothing adorned with minority jewelry, and notably, unbound feet among women. Posted warnings about rampant banditry revealed ongoing security challenges in these frontier regions.
The final approach to Lijiang traversed breathtaking glacial valleys, their rocky floors testifying to ancient ice flows. Emerging onto the Lijiang plain, we encountered an astonishing sight – endless fields of blooming white opium poppies interspersed with wild roses, their fragrance saturating air beneath towering snow peaks. The jarring contrast between nature’s majesty and human cultivation choices would have struck any contemporary Western observer familiar with the Opium Wars’ legacy.
Lijiang: Crossroads of Cultures
The remarkably broad road into Lijiang – suitable for dog carts, I mused – passed through flower-filled villages like Bai Sha before reaching the city’s cobbled outskirts. Lijiang’s unique position as ancient Mosuo capital and modern multi-ethnic hub revealed itself in its wall-less design, built on defensible terrain near vital river crossings. The bustling market at its heart attracted Tibetan, Mekong, and Yunnan traders, while surrounding waterways and vegetation created an almost garden-like setting beneath administrative buildings housing both prefectural and county magistrates – the Qing bureaucracy’s dual presence in this frontier zone.
Encounters in the Frontier Town
My search for rumored British compatriots in Lijiang yielded unexpected results. Instead of a consular official and railway surveyor, I found French musk trader Gaston Perronne and learned that the “British representative” was actually botanist George Forrest, whose plant-collecting expeditions would later revolutionize European horticulture with Himalayan species. Perronne’s hospitality extended my stay from May 15-18, providing respite before continuing toward Burma. This encounter typified the mix of national interests – commercial, scientific, and political – converging in southwest China during the colonial era.
The journey from Yongning to Lijiang encapsulated southwest China’s early 20th-century transformation – from isolated ethnic kingdoms to contested frontier, from subsistence economies to cash-crop cultivation (notably opium), and from terra incognita to a region drawing foreign explorers, merchants, and imperial attention. The physical challenges of crossing the Jinsha mirrored the cultural crossings occurring throughout this volatile borderland, where ancient traditions confronted modernizing forces in the twilight of the Qing dynasty.