Hiking Tibet
The Yunnan-Tibet Hiking Route: Dali → Lijiang → Shangri-La → Feilaisi → Yubeng Village → Yanjing → Markam → Zogang → Bangda → Baxoi → Rawu → Bomi → Bayi → Dazi → Lhasa
Time: Around 2 months
A traveler once said, “We always have many excuses for not going to Tibet, but in truth there’s only one reason: you’re just not yearning for it enough.” But my journey to Tibet was as resolute as if I were enchanted. I’ve always wondered, what kind of powerful spell could make my love for it grow deeper and deeper, year after year, fermenting like fine wine, becoming richer and more fragrant. Back then, I was just a child, not very sensible, yet I remembered its name so vividly, and then sank into this dream, never wanting to wake up. I think it’s precisely because of this intense longing that I was able to press on through hardships, heading westward, using this special journey to complete the most important transformation of my life.
I remember someone on the road telling me that Chengdu to Lhasa is just a matter of a short flight of a few hours. It was you who chose this extremely arduous path. Yes, I spent a whole month persuading my mother, planning my hiking route, and then another two full months to reach the holy city in my heart. I knew very well that what I wanted to gain was not just a simple answer like “arriving in Tibet.”
After ten years of waiting, what I wanted was a journey that would not betray these ten years of anticipation, and the emotion I would give myself.
All the hardships we endure along the way, all our perseverance, are for the sake of seeing the scenery we long for up ahead. But often, the most beautiful scenery is not at the destination, but along the journey we walk, within the process of our persistence.
Unexpected Incidents on the Journey
Colliding with a Car, Right Arm Dislocated
Dali was the first stop of my hiking plan. On the second day after arriving in Dali, I had arranged with a companion to rent a bike and cycle from the ancient town to Shuanglang. Unexpectedly, after renting the bike, she realized she didn’t know how to ride, so I set off on my own.
Traveling alone on the road from Dali to Lijiang, I unexpectedly collided with a Toyota that had suddenly stopped on the ramp, having a deadly close encounter with the ground. I landed clumsily on the roadside, unable to move for a full fifteen minutes. Many people passed by, but no one came to help me up. The Toyota drove off without a backward glance after I fell. Suddenly I felt a bit wronged, but I held back my tears. My right palm was covered in tiny gravel, deeply embedded in the flesh, the entire hand completely numb, my right wrist throbbing with pain, and my right leg completely powerless. The wound on my knee was shockingly bloody, the small pebbles having torn through my pants and stuck to the injured skin—I didn’t even have the courage to look directly at the wound. And the completely mangled skin above my knee made me completely overlook the more serious injury on my right wrist.
I got up alone, cleaned the wounds alone. At that moment, I didn’t cry, I didn’t complain, nor did I regret anything. When you’re alone, you’re always strong. I understood deeply that from the moment I chose this path, I had to keep falling and getting back up.
There were still over ten kilometers to Shuanglang. I sat on the grass thinking for a long time—should I go forward or turn back? I really didn’t want to choose to turn back, but I knew my injury wouldn’t give me any other choice. Helplessly, I pushed the bike with one hand and walked back. With every step, the pain spread throughout my body. Thinking back now, what kind of courage did it take for me to cycle over 30 kilometers back to the ancient town with my right arm dislocated? I found a rural medical clinic, and the doctor was also shocked by my injuries. She disinfected the wound with hydrogen peroxide, used tweezers to remove the gravel from my right palm, bandaged my knee—I’ll probably never forget that pain.
I hadn’t even completed a ride of less than 50 kilometers, and I felt ashamed. On the way back, I refused to take a vehicle and rode back to the ancient town with all my injuries. Finally, before nightfall, I arrived at the inn. Only after the stubborn determination on the road faded did I begin to realize just how painful my right wrist was—it was excruciatingly painful. My friend took one look at my right hand and exclaimed, “Why is your wrist so swollen?” I then noticed that the bone on my right wrist was sticking out quite high, and my mood instantly plummeted. My first thought was: What should I do? It’s already like this before I’ve even started—has my journey been ruined?
My friend quickly took me to the hospital in the ancient town at night, where I got emergency treatment and an X-ray. The conclusion was: right wrist dislocation, unable to exert force for at least a month, otherwise there would be lifelong complications.
I didn’t dare tell my mom—she would definitely make me go home if she knew. In Dali, I recuperated with my arm in a cast. I never once thought about giving up, even though Dali’s continuous rainy days tormented my dislocated right wrist every day. A week later, I set off on the journey again with my arm in a cast, ignoring the doctor’s advice, bringing along a few medicated plasters.
The First Time I Was Abandoned
That day was the first official day of our hiking trip. There was light rain in the morning, but it didn’t affect my determination to move forward—I’m the type of person who acts immediately once I’ve made up my mind. My bandaged hand made packing unusually slow, and both my friend and I were novices at outdoor hiking, especially clueless when it came to packing tents, sleeping bags, and the like. By the time we finished packing, it was already 3 PM, but fortunately, the weather cooperated and the rain stopped.
Accompanied by clouds and fields, the little bells hanging on us jingled crisply and rhythmically the whole way—this wouldn’t be a lonely journey. You’d never know that what kept us going was actually the kilometer markers by the roadside. We walked one hundred meters at a time, counted one kilometer after another, had a short destination, then kept reaching it, which kept our motivation high.
We walked very slowly. By 7 PM, we had only covered a dozen or so kilometers. We found a village, set up the tent, and after eating, it was already past 10 PM. As I was hunched over the table (our tent was set up in a village meeting hall) writing my travel diary intently, my companion suddenly said her feet hurt and she couldn’t walk anymore, wanting to take a bus to Lijiang the next day. I was suddenly at a loss—the passionate excitement I had felt from the villagers’ warmth just moments ago instantly cooled. Before coming, she had repeatedly begged me to take her along. I had repeatedly told her about the hardships and dangers ahead, yet she still stubbornly insisted on coming, so I didn’t bother asking on Douban for another companion. Now, on the first night of the hike, she told me she was going to abandon me and go on her own. I can’t describe how I felt at that moment. This companion I had gone through several provinces and cities to pick up specially from Hubei, after just a dozen or so kilometers of hiking, was ready to give up. But I still respected her decision. I said okay, then you can have fun in Lijiang while waiting for me...
The next day, I said goodbye to her at the village entrance. She waited at the entrance for a bus, and I continued on my unknown journey alone. The double tent, the moisture-proof mat, and some items that were originally for shared use were now all in my backpack, significantly increasing the load. Many vehicles voluntarily stopped to offer me a ride, but I declined them all. So I silently told myself, it’s okay, it’s okay—there are so many cycling friends on the road, such kind drivers, and good-hearted villagers, I won’t be alone.
The First Time I Cried
After parting with me that day, my companion took a bus to Lijiang. When I finally hiked to Lijiang, it was several days after she had arrived. I asked her again if she wanted to continue the journey to Tibet with me. Perhaps slightly rested, she felt she had the strength to rejoin, and agreed to hike with me again. But unexpectedly, after making that easy promise, she broke it again, buying a train ticket home that very afternoon, preparing to head back.
I was abandoned by her once again—this time, completely. I no longer wanted to delay my journey for her. The next day, I set off alone on the road from Lijiang to Shangri-La. Carrying a 25-kilogram travel backpack, I hiked 12 kilometers alone, and finally couldn’t help but squat on the side of the road and cry my heart out. At that moment, I felt like a truly strange girl. Originally, I had planned to go on the road alone, but when you get used to having someone with you, and then suddenly you’re all alone, you instantly feel like something has collapsed. That’s when I realized that growing up is truly so difficult. And being strong is only temporary. No one can stand firmly without ever crying. Then I squatted by the rapeseed field, called my mom, and cried uncontrollably. Until my mom said with concern, “Then come home!” I suddenly stopped crying. The belief in my heart was so firm—it would never allow me to give up. Even if there was the slightest hesitation, it wouldn’t agree. I suddenly remembered a saying—being strong doesn’t mean not crying, but choosing to persevere even after crying.
The joy of traveling is that whenever you feel hopeless, there’s always an unknown surprise waiting for you up ahead. When God closes a door, He will surely open another window for you.
My hiking journey truly reached Tibet, carrying stories about growth and dreams. What the journey taught me were things I couldn’t learn anywhere else in twenty years. Maybe I once harbored resentment toward the companion who left me behind, but when I truly completed the entire journey, I realized all choices are worthy of respect. Everyone has a different way of life, and I simply refuse to live according to someone else’s way.
And so, I walked all the way to Tibet.
TIPS: Getting to Know Hiking Shoes
Composition: Mainly includes the upper, inner sole, and outsole (sole).
Categories:
Low-cut hiking shoes: Designed for fast, long strides, suitable for walking on flat rural roads or mountain trails with light loads.
Mid-cut hiking boots: The upper wraps around the ankle, and the sole is more durable, allowing vertical flex to accommodate extended walking. These boots are sufficient for hiking the Yunnan-Tibet route.
High-cut hiking boots: When the route is complex and the load approaches 30% of your body weight, high-cut hiking boots should be your first choice.
Trying on shoes: It’s best to wear thick socks to check whether the arch and the ball of the foot fit well with the shoe. The toes should not press against the toe cap, leaving a bit of room for slight movement.
Usage: Brand-new shoes are not suitable for long-distance travel; it’s best to wear them for two weeks before setting off.