My earliest impression of China’s far northwest came from classical poetry: the lone plume of smoke over the desert, the round sun sinking into a long river, the north wind bending the white grass, snow arriving in the eighth month beneath a foreign sky. Later, that impression grew broader—grasslands, gobi, basins, deserts, lakes, snow mountains—but for a long time it remained only a distant idea.
What finally stirred a real desire to go was seeing those landscapes unfold through travel footage: mountains, lakes, and vast empty stretches that seemed to open directly before the eyes. Faced with that kind of sky and land, it becomes easier to understand the spirit behind old frontier verses and the fierce resolve they carry. Of all the regions in this immense country, the northwest may be the one most likely to awaken a sudden boldness in a traveler. It is the kind of land that makes you want to go in person, to see it with your own eyes and let the heart breathe out.
Days 1–2: Lanzhou, Kumbum Monastery, and Jinyintan Grassland
On November 17, we left Zunyi and reached Lanzhou after about five hours, arriving a little after one in the morning. By the time we finally got to sleep, it was already around half past two. Even so, excitement outweighed fatigue. I was awake by six and out the door at around 7:30.
Gansu and Qinghai had both seen snow in the previous days. The weather had turned sharply colder, and ice still lingered on the roads, slowing traffic. After more than four hours, we arrived at our first stop: Kumbum Monastery in Qinghai. Winter is the off-season in the northwest, so there were not many visitors, and the ticket price had been reduced by half to 40 yuan. Kumbum is one of the six great monasteries of Tibetan Buddhism and the best-known Buddhist temple in Qinghai.
Inside the monastery, the first thing that caught the eye was the Eight Auspicious Stupas, said to commemorate eight great deeds in the life of Shakyamuni Buddha. Their bases were covered with the monastery’s famous painted decoration, brilliant with color; the bodies of the stupas were capped with snow, while the golden tops shone above it all, giving the whole scene a sacred, solemn stillness.
Because we were waiting for a local friend and did not hire a guide, we missed much of the deeper cultural explanation. After passing the stupas, I never really grasped the monastery’s full layout and mostly wandered at leisure. Since it was the off-season, many halls were closed, so my understanding of the site remained limited.
The part that left the strongest impression was the hall dedicated to Manjushri. It rose five stories high and felt especially grand. Inside stood a gilded image of the bodhisattva roughly as tall as a two-story building, surrounded by arhats and heavenly kings. Every wall was filled with painted Buddhist stories. Draped hangings embroidered with figures and flowers added even more splendor. In that setting, faith felt not abstract but physical—something built into color, space, scale, and ornament.
Kumbum also makes the passage of time visible in its architecture. Many of the older structures are entirely wooden, while newer ones combine brick and timber, and the difference is easy to spot at a glance. Looking around the monastery and later at nearby homes, I noticed how much care Tibetan-style buildings give to their gates. Even ordinary houses lavish attention there, whether through intricate carving or bright painted decoration. It gives the sense that belief is not confined to temples, but carried into daily life.
After leaving the monastery, we found a beef noodle shop nearby. The broth was good, but the noodles themselves were ordinary. A friend remarked that it is hard to find truly authentic beef noodles near tourist sites; the taste is often average, while the prices are not. We ordered a small plate of lamb—barely more than ten slices—and it cost 69 yuan.
From there we continued to Xihai Town. I could not help wondering whether the song Xihai Love Song had anything to do with this place. Whatever the case, Jinyintan Grassland was beautiful even in winter. Snow mountains ringed the grassland on all sides, and from almost any angle there was some combination of peaks and open pasture worth lingering over. We missed the chance to get close to yaks and cattle, though. After taking photos, our group was quickly driven back onto the bus by the fierce northwestern wind.
That evening, we returned to the hotel. Dinner was at a restaurant across the street: a beef hotpot soup that tasted quite good, though the rice, likely because of the altitude, was undercooked and hard to swallow.
Day 3: Qinghai Lake and Chaka Salt Lake
On November 19, the day’s main stops were Qinghai Lake and Chaka Salt Lake. Everyone was up early, full of enthusiasm. After breakfast, we gathered to leave—but the Qinghai cold had other ideas. The bus had frozen up and would not start. Our driver, Master Xu, had to pour hot water over the fuel line to thaw it, costing us about half an hour.
During the delay, people chatted about the previous two days, praising what we had seen and talking eagerly about what was still ahead.
Qinghai Lake, the largest saltwater lake in China, fully lives up to its reputation. Our bus drove along its edge for nearly an hour before we reached the core scenic area of Erlangjian. After about ten minutes on foot, the water came into view: a vast blue surface like an enormous sapphire, set off by snowy peaks in the distance. There were very few visitors, and only a scattering of staff. The moored and shuttered pleasure boats hinted at the crowds that must fill the place in summer. Only flocks of birds on the lake seemed to be there to greet us.
Yet Qinghai Lake’s beauty does not depend on season. Every camera in our group was raised again and again, each person trying to find a new angle for the same unchanging magnificence.
If Qinghai Lake was all moving blue water, Chaka Salt Lake was its opposite. It had already frozen over. Under sunlight, the broad lake surface gleamed like a mirror, reflecting distant mountains and the slanting light of the setting sun. The name “Mirror of the Sky” felt well earned.
The railway stretching toward the center of the lake draws the eye outward and deeper into the scene. Standing on the boardwalks to either side, the view becomes even more expansive. Under the blue sky and white clouds, the air felt clean, cold, and quiet. Human beings, sky, and lake seemed briefly to dissolve into one another. It was the kind of place where you could believe the old phrase about wandering inside a painting—and also becoming part of it.
That night we stayed in Delingha, a place I had only heard of for the first time on this trip. On the bus, the guide told us a story about the poet Haizi, saying that after pursuing a woman all the way to Delingha, he chose to let go and later wrote the poem Sister, Tonight I Am in Delingha.
Day 4: Across Dangjin Mountain to Dunhuang
On November 20, the route led over Dangjin Mountain toward Dunhuang, with a stop on the way at Kuluk Lake.
Kuluk Lake is relatively small. Together with Tosu Lake, it is known as the “Lover’s Lakes,” and it is rated as a 3A scenic site. In winter, the ticket cost only 5 yuan.
When we arrived at the entrance, we saw a bus coming back out, and its driver told us the site was closed for the day. Spirits dropped immediately. Fortunately, our guide insisted on checking, and there was still one staff member inside who opened the gate for us. Everyone perked up and went in happily.
The site itself is small, though it has quite a few entertainment facilities—none of them operating in winter, of course. We stood at the dock, took a few photos of the frozen lake, and headed back.
Dangjin Mountain rises to over 3,700 meters. Our coach crawled upward, and once we crossed the pass, there was a long descent. At the bottom was a checkpoint where all descending vehicles had to stop for forty minutes before continuing. During the break, we wandered around nearby. Not far away lay the abandoned old site of Aksay Kazakh Autonomous County, now deserted and used as a filming location for a number of movies, including Chronicles of the Ghostly Tribe and Wind Blast.
Once inside Dunhuang territory, the landscape opened into miles of gobi. Wind turbines stood across the distance. Wind and solar power are highly developed in the western region, and seeing them there gave this ancient city a distinctly modern pulse.
That evening, on the guide’s recommendation, we tried a Dunhuang-style desert feast. The flavors were unfamiliar to me, but interesting in their own way, and the meal still felt like part of the experience.
Day 5: Yangguan, Yumen Pass, and the Yardangs
November 21 was one of the richest days of the trip. We visited Yangguan, Yumen Pass, and the Yadan National Geopark, often called Devil City.
Compared with many historic sites, Yangguan has been developed into a relatively complete scenic area and includes the Yangguan Museum. In front of the imposing gate tower stood old-style siege equipment such as assault carts and stone-throwers. Following the guide, we entered an exhibition hall displaying artifacts excavated from the area.
As an ancient military frontier, the site naturally yielded weapons of all kinds: bows and crossbows, short arms, long arms, heavy weapons, and even farming tools used by soldiers in quieter periods. They were all arranged in glass cases, making it easy to imagine Yangguan not as a line in a poem but as a functioning border world of war, labor, and endurance.
The original Yangguan site was buried long ago by windblown sand, and the present city structure has been rebuilt on the historical location. Passing through the gate, we came upon a statue of Wang Wei, with his famous poem Weicheng Qu carved before it. To the right stood a tavern, and behind it a barracks set used in filming for Detective Di Renjie.
From beside the barracks, we took a sightseeing vehicle straight to the foot of Yangguan’s lone surviving beacon tower. Standing on the sandy slope there, with a chain of mountains in the distance and a boundless wilderness spread before the eyes, it became instantly clear why the ancients built a stronghold here.
If Yangguan felt substantial, Yumen Pass was starkly simple. There was only the earthen ruin of a square fort built from rammed yellow soil, standing alone in the immense gobi. Looking as far as the eye could reach, all was desolation. Standing there, one could not avoid a feeling of loneliness and bleakness. In such a place, old frontier poetry no longer seems literary. It feels like a direct response to the land itself.
The beauty of the landscape is there, but at Yumen Pass it is buried beneath windblown grit, hardship, and the silence of history. The thought comes naturally: glory is always built on bones, and in the end even the great become dust.
The roads across the gobi are astonishingly straight. Simply standing on one to take a photo gives a sense of endless extension. On the way to the yardangs, our guide saw that everyone wanted pictures on the highway, so he chose a suitable stretch and helped us take a group photo.
Yadan is a distinctive landform, and against the black gobi it looks like islands rising from a dark sea. At the fourth viewing platform, we watched the sun set and saw the famous formation known as the “Western Sea Fleet.” The long, narrow ridges resembled giant warships cruising in formation across a black ocean. The sight was striking enough to stir the imagination.
By the time we got back to Dunhuang, it was already night. We ate something simple and went to bed early, saving our energy for the next day.
Day 6: Mogao Caves and the Singing Sands
On November 22, we visited Mogao Caves in the morning and Mingsha Mountain and Crescent Spring in the afternoon.
Mogao is one of the world’s great cultural sites and has an influence far beyond China. As soon as we entered the scenic area, it was obvious how different this place was from the others we had seen. Even in winter, visitors were everywhere.
It was also here that I watched a dome-screen film for the first time. The immersive experience offered views of the murals from multiple angles, making it possible to feel something of their grandeur. After more than a thousand years, the colors still remain astonishingly vivid. The lifelike sculptures and richly painted walls together reveal the breadth of ancient skill, the depth of religious devotion, and the persistence required to create such a place.
To carve so many grottoes into a cliff face using ancient tools, and to fill them with such a range of murals and sculptures, required far more than money, materials, and labor. It required continuity, shared purpose, and generations willing to carry the work forward. Without that collective effort, it would have been impossible for so many people over such a long span of history to create something so magnificent. Standing there, one cannot help feeling the force of religion as a civilizational power.
There are hundreds of caves at Mogao. Some have been damaged for various reasons, and many artifacts have long since been moved elsewhere, so what remains to be studied on site are primarily the murals and Buddhist sculptures. Led by a guide, we visited twelve caves and saw how different dynasties imagined the Buddha and expressed those ideas through different artistic styles.
The most astonishing of all was the great Buddha inside the Nine-Story Building, over 35 meters tall. Full and rounded in form, it reflects a particular understanding of beauty and well-being. Faced with such scale, one cannot help but lift the eyes upward, and with that upward glance comes a kind of spontaneous reverence.
If Mogao felt weighty and profound, Mingsha Mountain and Crescent Spring offered pure delight. The finest desert scenery of the entire trip was here. Walking on the sand brought an immediate sense of joy. Elderly travelers in their seventies and eighties, and children only five or six years old, all seemed equally happy.
Some people chose camel rides. I wanted to experience the desert more directly, so I went on foot. After seeing both the mountain and Crescent Spring, I spent most of my time on the real entertainment: climbing the nearby dune.
Climbing sand is nothing like climbing stone. It feels like taking three steps up and sliding one back. After making it only about one-fifth of the way, my legs were already weak. Luckily, the route I had chosen had a rope ladder along one side, so I would shift over to it to rest, then return to the sand and keep climbing. In the end, I still could not make it all the way on the dune itself. Halfway up, I gave in and relied on the rope ladder for the rest.
Those farther away on slopes without ladders had it even harder: some sat halfway up to recover, while others simply turned back. Mountain climbing is difficult enough; dune climbing is harder still.
From the top, with the wind roaring past, looking down at Crescent Spring had a special flavor of its own. I lay on the sand for a while to rest, then gave myself over to simple amusements—writing in the sand, shooting videos, taking all kinds of photos for my wife.
The route I chose on the way up was relatively gentle. Going down, I intentionally picked the steepest slope and rushed downward almost as if flying, full of the reckless spirit of an old martial hero. It was exhilarating. That exhilaration lasted only so long, though. Once I got back on the bus, my legs were completely sore. It was joy and suffering together.
Day 7: Jiayuguan and the Western End of the Great Wall
On November 23, we left Dunhuang for Jiayuguan. Known as “the First and Greatest Pass Under Heaven,” Jiayuguan is the western starting point of the Great Wall and a World Cultural Heritage site.
Inside the scenic area, the guide told stories and historical anecdotes as we walked, urging us not to rush our photos and to save them for the return. He led us from east to west through the pass. After stepping outside the fortress and turning back from beside a stone monument, we could see the gate towers aligned in a single line—three pavilions rising in sequence, a truly imposing sight.
Along one side of the pass, the old wall stretched into the distance. It was easy to imagine how crucial Jiayuguan once was as a strategic western stronghold.
Climbing the gate tower made the difficulty of its construction even more palpable. In such a barren place, the ancients built a fortress of this scale. The soldiers who guarded the frontier and opened territory—whether in ancient times or later—deserve admiration. They left home for distant places and risked their lives so that others might live in peace.
Walking half a circuit along the wall, looking both inward and outward, I found myself thinking about past and present together. If the Chinese nation has endured through so many centuries, it is inseparable from a willingness to endure hardship, to work patiently, to survive harsh landscapes and resist outside threats. That spirit is part of what made later prosperity possible.
The Jiayuguan ticket also covered two nearby sites: the Overhanging Great Wall and the First Beacon Tower of the Great Wall. My first impression of the Overhanging Great Wall was that it felt somewhat artificial, and I did not find it especially engaging. The First Beacon Tower, by contrast, marks the western starting point of the Wall system connected with Jiayuguan and stands on the edge of a cliff.
There is also an exhibition hall there, likewise built near the cliff edge. From the glass walkway, you can look down at the scenery below. With mountain winds sweeping across it, the experience is enough to make anyone’s nerves tighten.
Days 8–10: Zhangye, Back to Lanzhou, and the Journey’s End
On November 24, we had only one stop: Zhangye’s Rainbow Danxia. It is a famous site in China, but to be honest, it did not impress me much. Perhaps I simply came at the wrong time. It was nowhere near as vivid as the promotional photos suggest, and even the sunset view—supposedly the highlight—did not feel particularly stunning.
On November 25, we drove back from Zhangye to Lanzhou. The driver handled the road steadily, the weather was good, and we were not delayed, arriving at around 2:30 in the afternoon. With time to spare, I walked around the city a bit.
The first place I visited was Xihu Park, which felt fairly ordinary. From there I followed the Yellow River to Zhongshan Bridge, a cast-iron bridge more than a century old, built by Germans. Across from it lies Baita Mountain Park. At the top stands a white pagoda, while the mountainside below is dotted with pavilions and terraces. Under evening lighting, it became much more beautiful than it appeared by day.
November 26 was the day the trip truly ended. We left Lanzhou and returned to our separate homes.
Looking back on this journey through the northwest, there were certainly regrets, but beauty far outweighed them. Having now visited places once known only through poems, I understand them more deeply than before. Historical ruins, natural scenery, local customs—none of these can really be captured in a few brief lines. They have to be experienced on the ground.
Only when you stand in such places yourself do they become real.