Crossing the Threshold Into Tibetan Lands
The journey began on April 15th when I departed from Dajianlu (modern-day Kangding), the traditional gateway between Han Chinese and Tibetan territories. My expedition party included three pack mules carrying silver and supplies, two riding mules for myself and my servant, and four local guides who also served as guards. Silver coins functioned as the universal currency throughout southwestern China, accepted even in the most remote regions.
Just half a mile beyond Dajianlu, we crossed a stone bridge that locals considered the official boundary between Han and Tibetan lands. The landscape immediately changed as the trail ascended steadily, gaining 2,250 feet in elevation before reaching Cheduo village, situated at 10,650 feet above sea level. This small settlement marked our entry point to the important trade route connecting Litang and Batang, where we observed numerous merchant caravans transporting goods toward Dajianlu. The sight of four dead yaks along the roadside served as a sobering reminder of the harsh conditions we would face.
Confronting the Mighty Zheduo Mountain Pass
Leaving the relative comfort of Cheduo village, our path veered into more desolate territory. For an entire day’s travel, we encountered only a single dwelling and a melancholy woman riding a multicolored yak. The landscape transformed dramatically as we ascended through snow-covered valleys along the left bank of a major river. By afternoon, we faced the formidable Zheduo Mountain Pass at 17,400 feet – a double challenge requiring traversal of two massive snow peaks separated by an ancient glacial valley.
The descent proved more treacherous than the climb. In places, the snow reached depths that could swallow mules whole, with sections where a misstep might trap a man permanently. Emerging from this white wilderness, we discovered a fertile river valley where the elevation dropped by 3,000 feet. Signs of human habitation reappeared – grazing yaks, cultivated fields, and eventually the village of Ade, where we took shelter in a traditional two-story Tibetan home.
Life on the Tibetan Plateau: Sustenance and Survival
For weeks, our journey followed this pattern of arduous climbs and descents through snow-capped mountains and dense forests. Our provisions were simple and practical: tsampa (roasted barley flour) mixed with butter tea formed our staple diet, occasionally supplemented by wild pheasants I shot or live sheep purchased for two or three silver coins. The Tibetan method of consuming tsampa – kneading it into a paste with butter tea using one’s fingers – initially seemed peculiar but proved both nutritious and practical for travel.
Villages became increasingly sparse, sometimes separated by full days of travel. When we did encounter settlements, the stone houses featured small windows (due to scarce paper for window coverings) and dark interiors blackened by open hearth fires. Traditional Tibetan architecture often concealed surprising spatial arrangements – what appeared as two-story homes from outside frequently contained ground floors for livestock and upper levels for storage, with the family living quarters squeezed between.
Cultural Encounters in Remote Valleys
Communication proved challenging despite my servant’s partial Tibetan heritage. Villagers spoke distinct dialects that varied remarkably between valleys, sometimes making neighboring communities nearly unintelligible to one another. My European appearance and command over my dog Jim (who could perform tricks) occasionally led locals to regard me with a mixture of awe and suspicion – some children even burst into tears at the sight of me.
The hospitality we received nonetheless remained extraordinary. Villagers consistently offered their best provisions at prices that seemed embarrassingly low. Women worked tirelessly to prepare butter tea, churning it in large containers before serving it in individual bowls. This hearty beverage, made from coarse tea leaves and generous amounts of yak butter, sustained us through the coldest nights.
Architectural Marvels: The Mysterious Octagonal Towers
As we progressed, distinctive stone towers began appearing in the landscape. These octagonal structures, which I first encountered in the Dartsedo region, served multiple purposes – as watchtowers, defensive strongholds, and sometimes storage facilities. Their strategic placement on high ground with commanding views suggested their original military function, though most now stood abandoned or repurposed.
British explorer William Gill had previously speculated these might be water towers, but my observations confirmed their defensive nature. Villagers could drive livestock into the lower levels while defenders rained stones on attackers from above through narrow windows – a design principle remarkably similar to Scottish tower houses. These towers disappeared west of the Yalong River, marking a distinct cultural boundary.
Perilous Mountain Passes and Changing Landscapes
Our route took us through a series of breathtaking but dangerous mountain passes. The climb to Djidjula Pass at 17,500 feet tested our endurance, with mules needing to rest every hundred yards in the thin air. Snowdrifts often reached over our heads, forcing us to carve pathways through the frozen obstacles. Each pass featured mani stone piles left by generations of travelers – my Tibetan companions would joyfully add stones or prayer flags to these spiritual markers.
Descending from these heights, we entered dramatically different ecosystems. The transition from snowfields to subtropical valleys sometimes occurred within a single day’s journey. Near the Yalong River at 7,700 feet, we found bamboo groves and flowering plants that seemed worlds away from the frozen passes we’d recently traversed.
Reflections on the Tibetan Wilderness
The journey provided unparalleled opportunities to observe Tibet’s extraordinary biodiversity. Musk deer and various wild goats populated the forests, while wolves, foxes, bears, and even leopards lurked in more remote areas. The changing vegetation told its own story – from coniferous forests at higher elevations to mixed hardwoods and eventually subtropical species near river valleys.
Human impact on this fragile environment became increasingly apparent. Slash-and-burn agriculture had destroyed vast tracts of forest, while parasitic plants were slowly strangling surviving stands. Local explanations for forest fires ranged from careless travelers to supernatural causes, though I suspected the desiccated remains of parasite-killed trees might contribute through spontaneous combustion.
Arrival at the Yalong River and Beyond
After eleven grueling days from Dajianlu, we finally reached the Yalong River at Pawurong village. The settlement’s 2,000 inhabitants represented the most prosperous community we’d encountered since beginning our journey. Here, armed guards examined our travel documents and required me to fire my rifle as a traditional signal of peaceful intent – a custom designed to distinguish visitors from bandits who frequently preyed upon this relatively wealthy village.
Standing at 7,700 feet with the Yalong just 200 feet below, Pawurong marked our transition from the Tibetan highlands toward Yunnan. The snow-capped peaks we’d traversed remained visible in the distance, their beauty undiminished by our hardships. As John Ruskin and other observers of mountain landscapes have noted, these sublime vistas inspire a near-religious awe that transcends language or cultural boundaries. The memory of those sacred white peaks, whether bathed in sunlight or silhouetted against the night sky, would remain with me forever.
This account covers only the first third of my journey from Dajianlu to Yunnan – eleven days to the Yalong River, followed by seven days to the Muli monastery, and finally three days into northwestern Yunnan. Each stage revealed new wonders and challenges in this extraordinary corner of the world, where ancient traditions endure amidst some of Earth’s most spectacular landscapes.