14/7/25
Sleep was more disturbed. The large group of hikers didn’t embody the etiquette of moving quietly at night. They thumped up the stairs and slammed doors. We didn’t see the King of Sichuan for his sunrise glow. There were more clouds anyhow.
For breakfast the monks ate roasted barley, massaged into yaks milk. With yaks butter. And yaks cheese. A whole lot of yak basically. Instead we mixed hot water with barley to make a similar dough. It was better than the dinner, but not by much. They supposedly ate this every day. Based on their rotundness we doubted it.
The dinner hadn’t agreed with Jonathan’s belly at all. He’d been in the toilet in the middle of the night and again in the morning. Uncooked dough did not agree with his microbiome!
Jonathan saluted Mount Gongga just as it went out of sight. It was sad to leave him behind. His majesty was commanding. We hiked back to the junction where we would head a different way. Immediately we were submersed in woodland. A magical fairytale. It was a slither of a path contouring the valley. We crunched along on dead leaves through what must be primeval forest. The occasional spiritual Tibetan flags adorned the trees. Saplings grew everywhere. The forest floor was alive. Birds chattered all around us. We saw white pheasants blustering away from us.
The woods changed on our way down from gnarly small trees to towering beasts. They were still covered in lichen. We had a break in a small clearing. There was plenty of evidence it was used as a campsite. It was sad to see so much rubbish. When a plastic container is empty, it’s like it doesn’t belong to them anymore.
The woodland went on forever. We weren’t complaining. To walk this far and not leave the trees was a pipe dream at home. There were a couple of small river crossings. Sometimes there was the remnants of a bridge.
The path was still a tiny piece of flat ground on a steep valley side. It was blocked by the odd fallen branch. It didn’t feel like people had walked the path recently. The next river crossing had a substantial flow of water. Three slippery logs formed the bridge. Afterwards we came upon an incredibly beautiful meadow. A sublime place that could be mistaken for heaven. Perfect grass, intermingled with flowers. It was only brought down to earth by the people who tossed their rubbish willy nilly.
We often inspected poo that we found. Hoping for a larger mammal. Strawberry plants littered the edges of the path. Only once we reached an exposed sunny ledge did we start to find fruits. We gobbled the wee strawberries down as fast as we could find them.
We had to cross another river. This time took our shoes and socks off. Afterwards we ascended to another alpine meadow. There were hoards of strawberries there. There was yet another river crossing. Even more ferocious than the last. A mellow yak watched us negotiate the fast moving water. It seemed like nothing could take away from the beauty of the place. Snow draped mountains beamed at us through a valley. The meadow, the valley and the mountains exactly like a postcard.
We were walking out in the open. Fortunately cloud was blocking the Sun. We walked past huge forests of oak or holly, we’re not sure which. We came across old settlements. Rundown houses. We saw prayer flags strung across some of the buildings. Maybe they were still being used, but certainly not in the way they once were.
The view was like something out of Lord of the Rings. Snow capped peaks, the jagged rocky mountains of Mordor below, and the blissfully unaware hobbit town with small trees and flourishing meadows in the foreground. It started to rain. We tried to outrun it. When we crossed over the next hill it didn’t follow us. Instead we had a huge river crossing awaiting us. The toughest yet. Torrents of of water across several channels. Frankie broke her nail. Once on the other side we could see yet more snowy peaks. We stopped for a snack of compressed biscuit.
We had more stunning views of jagged peaks up the valleys. We heard the sound of water ahead and knew we had another river crossing. The sound made us anxious. It looked big when we got there and was flowing fast.
We trudged up and down searching for a good crossing point. We went all the way down to the bottom in the end. It was pointless. We just had to cross with the path. It was the widest point after all. The first part was easy. There were plenty of rocks to balance on. The second section was deep and gushing. A force that nearly toppled us over with our heavy backpacks. The third part was nothing after that. It was like walking through a puddle. Immediately afterwards the sound of the river disappeared. We were back in another meadow. It was surreal. Our hearts were racing.
The path was getting less and less clear. At one point we ended up at someone’s house. Up ahead we saw a herd of yaks. One of them was less than mellow and started to race towards us. We panicked and shouted. We stuck together to appear big. It put him off. Obviously unhappy at being separated from his pals, a straggling yak ran straight down the path towards us. We ducked behind a bush. He ignored us.
We seemed to be only following yak tracks. The river down below was torrential. We’d been crossing mere tributaries all day. This was the main artery. It looked uncrossable. It was uncrossable. We walked down the river and up the river. Nowhere had remotely lesser force. The widest point still had gushing torrents. We threw rocks in to gauge the depth. They hit the water a metre away from where they were thrown. We got further up. Then came back down. It felt futile.
We decided to keep our shoes on. We crossed a fast section to reach the rocks in the middle. Then walked up to find another quieter point. There wasn’t one. We went so far that we climbed the bank and found some alien looking plants. Across the river, at the Moxi Gou campsite we could see people. We hadn’t seen a soul all day. We turned around. There was a point which enabled us to divide the crossing into three. A mega section, an insane section and a tame section.
We took a deep breath and went in. The first section had a gushing torrent that had created a deep hole of water. Jonathan stumbled to the other side. He turned around, found a stable stance in the water and guided Frankie through the last part. It had only just begun. Jonathan went first again. There was no point waiting. We were committed.
The second part was raging even harder. It easily had the force to knock us over. We repeated the same strategy. As Jonathan reached the other side he had to throw himself onto the rocks. Moving slowly wasn’t an option. Momentum was needed. Frankie didn’t know. Jonathan shouted at her to run. She tried. Jonathan grabbed her arm and held on tight. Frankie almost lost her stability. Jonathan pulled her to the other side. In the process she was soaked with the literally glacially cold water. Everything but her bag, fortunately.
The last section of the river was a gentle stream. All in all it was a traumatising experience. It felt like we’d skirted death. Now we knew why we hadn’t seen anyone else all day. No one else was stupid enough to try it. It wasn’t over. The bank where we’d crossed was unassailable. Back down the river, soaked to the core, we clambered up through the bushes and utilised a river bed to join the path.
We reached the campsite and waved hello. We didn’t stop to chat. We quickly pulled off all our wet clothes and put on anything we had dry. Then hastily pitched the tent. It was getting late. Frankie prepared dinner. Cold soaked the oats and dried mushrooms. While they were softening we filtered water. Frankie’s sole had become even more detached. It had been a worry in the morning. After all of the abuse it was troublesome.
We enquired which way the four young Chinese had come and were going. They’d traveled our route for tomorrow without getting wet at all. A relief. They weren’t going our way, unsurprisingly. They’d head down this bank and leave the valley. All day we’d hoped to camp alone. Now we couldn’t be more grateful for the three other tents around us.
We sat outside the tent eating our soft mushroom and oat delight. We’d wondered if we should have brought the stove all day. It would have been a hassle. For dessert it was dried soya milk, goji berries, raisins and the buckwheat we’d been gifted, all the way back in Qiaojia. A few speckles of rain hit us. We retreated to the tent and got ready for bed. The enormity of our stupidity was slowly sinking in. What would you have done?
Surly They Won't Make It 