Bikepacking West Sichuan: Part 1 - Into the mountains
West Sichuan. Not the most well-known destination for cycle touring. But in August 2022, 10 days traversing the wild beauty of the edge of the Tibetan plateau turned out to be one of my most memorable and most surreal ever trips.
So why was I there? In preparation for my planned China to the UK trip, I decided I needed to get some real practice under my belt. West Sichuan ticked all the boxes. It has areas above 4,500m just like the upper reaches of the Pamir Highway that I planned to cross on my way back to the UK. It was somewhere I had never been before, simulating the challenge of going into the unknown as I planned to do a year in the future when leaving China. And it looked beautiful.
In true fashion however, I had picked the hardest time possible to go. China was still in the depths of zero-Covid policy. In the days of 24-hour Covid tests being required to enter any public places or even to pass the many police roadblocks, to navigate my way around Sichuan as a foreigner was going to be difficult. Very difficult. But the difficulty I would experience operating anywhere near civilization would turn out to be the key factor in making this trip memorable beyond anything I could have imagined. I was forced away from cities, towns and even roads of any discernable nature. High above all of that, on the windswept plateaus and on the dirt tracks traversing the Kanding mountain ranges, I was to experience some of the best bike touring, and warmest local hospitality imaginable.
I set out from the city of Leshan, a 12 hour high speed train ride from Shanghai, with the intention of doing a 1200km route through Sichuan to Lijiang, a beautiful city nestled in the mountains of neighbouring Yunnan. The two provinces are known for their mountain scenery and varied minorities. Bordering Tibet, they are even considered to be some of the most authentic places to experience real Tibetan culture, as government control has made visiting the real Tibet challenging for foreigners.
The first day was relatively uneventful, as full of energy after the long rest on the train, I sped through semi-rural areas towards Kangding on national roads. Ending my day in a non-descript town called Tianquan, I was happy that while I might not yet have reached the mountains I was seeking, everything had gone smoothly. I had found the only hotel that currently accepted foreigners and checked in with my Covid Test from the train station, had managed 150km of mostly uphill cycling and still felt good despite the heat. Most importantly, I was still close enough to larger cities to not yet stand out too much to the locals and was able to find another Covid testing centre to keep my Health Code green for another day. As I watched a classic Chinese display of fountains and lights by the river as I strolled around in the evening, I was feeling confident about the rest of the trip. How misplaced this confidence would prove to be.
Classic Chinese city scenes even in the depths of Sichuan
After 70km of relentless climbing the next day I hit my first major roadblock. Descending down the other side of the pass, I saw the police tents at the side of the road and the cars queuing to have their documents checked. Stupidly, I decided I didn’t want to stop and deal with another round of the beaucracy that our lives under China’s zero-Covid policy had become, and zoomed straight past. It was a steep, smooth descent on good roads, and I was moving fast, thinking that I had got clean through. However, as the road levelled out 5km further down the valley, I saw the ominous picture of blue flashing lights as a police car sped up behind me. I tried to continue, arguing my case as the car pulled up alongside me and a policeman leaned out, but he was having none of it. I was forced to turn around and cycle back up the hill to the roadblock. Cycling uphill is hard enough at the best of times - when the reward is a run in with the Covid authorities rather than a great view and exhilarating descent, it is the pits. I was asked to show my Covid test result, which took hours of waiting around because the testing centre in Tianquan had not yet processed it, and then I was told I couldn’t continue on to Kangding. There had been a Covid case (that’s right, one case…) and the whole place was being shut down. Frustrated beyond belief, I rolled 20km down to a town that was the proud host of the only hotel within 50km allowed to accept foreigners, where hopefully the rest and access to wifi would allow me to plan an alternative route. Tired, sunburnt and depressed from the days frustrations, I found myself being turned away from said hotel, as local police restrictions apparently required foreigners to register at accommodation before 4pm, a deadline which had just passed. At the end of my tether, I refused to move from the hotel lobby, telling the staff the police would have to come decide where I was going to stay, as I doubted they wanted a strange foreigner sleeping on the streets of their esteemed town. When the police arrived, they saw my point of view, and told the hotel to check me in. I was tired but happy that I had gained this small victory. That night, I replanned my route, and started to get excited again. I could take an off-road route, up gravel tracks and over a 4,500m mountain pass into a more secluded valley, follow a small road south for 150km and then take another off-road mountain pass into Yunnan Province. What could possibly go wrong?
“Up gravel tracks and over a 4,500m mountain pass. What could possibly go wrong?”
It felt great to pedal quickly away from civilization the next day. After passing one early road block, I started on the gravel track, and spent a tough but rewarding day climbing 3,000m of elevation up a gravel track. However, as I approached I realized that I had swapped the mental difficulties of negotiating with police and officials for the very real physical difficulties that the high mountains bring. I had intended to reach a small Tibetan village at the foot of the mountain pass at the end of that day, but to reach it I had to ride around the side of a lake that stood before it. At a campsite I reached just before it, I was told that the lake had flooded and become close to impassable, as in its flooded form it now covered all the land between two steep-sided mountains. Apparently, it was possible to wade through the water on one side of the lake, but with my bike and camping gear to carry, it certainly wasn’t going to be easy work. With 10km still to go to reach the lake and night closing in, I knew it wasn’t something I could face until the next day, so aimed simply to camp as close to the lake as possible. Even with this imminent challenge weighing heavily on my mind, that 10km was enjoyable - secluded hiking trails where I could enjoy riding for pure fun and carrying or pushing the bike when the going became too tough. Trepidation did begin to creep in when I reached the lake in semi-darkness however. The people at the camp hadn’t been exaggerating - the lake was very flooded and I couldn’t even see the other side. Signs denoting the local wildlife to watch out for - mountain lions - did nothing to encourage me, and I put my tent up as quickly as possible.
The next morning I got up early, eager to get my date with the icy cold waters of the lake over with. I quickly packed my tent, and divided my luggage into three parts that I could feasibly carry through the lake in one trip. Taking the lightest first, I plunged into the lake and started wading. As the water quickly swelled up around my knees and then over my waist I briefly considered the sanity of my situation - what was I doing wading head first into an unknown lake, hoping it wouldn’t get deep enough that I would have to drop my luggage and swim, hours away from any possible human help? But I had come too far to consider going back, and the thought of the police roadblocks back the way I came decided it for me - there was no question, I wanted to continue. Going carefully, I skirted through what I assumed must be the shallowest water, and after 500m or so of heart-in-the-mouth stress, the water got shallower and shallower and I reached dry land. I was shivering but elated. If I could make it through once, I could make it twice more. I dumped my luggage and retraced my steps. The second trip was quicker, as I knew where I was going, and although I was getting colder and colder in the icy glacier water, I was moving quickly and determined. But the third trip was trickier. Carrying my bike this time, I stepped off the track that had been submerged by the floodwater and suddenly found myself up to the top of my chest in the lake. Arms screaming from trying to hold the bike up, I tried not to panic. I slowly felt around with my feet, dreading the possibility of taking another wrong step and going out of my depth. Slowly I inched back to higher ground, and as the water became slightly less deep I felt waves of gratitude flood over me. I concentrated as hard as I could to find the original way through, and continued cautiously through to the other side. As relieved as I was to make it out unscathed, I was really suffering. My hands were shaking with cold, and it took huge effort and concentration to tie my luggage back on my bike. A combination of the morning’s efforts and the fact that I had been travelling light and hadn’t had any food since the previous afternoon had left me feeling completely empty. It would be another 10km to the Tibetan village I had been aiming at, and I really needed to catch a break there. If I couldn’t find something to eat soon I would be in real trouble.
It took an hour to battle my way along the trails to the village, but when it finally came into view it was a beautiful sight. I got lucky - the wary and aggressive attitudes that I had experienced towards me by local police and hotel staff in the larger towns was nowhere to be found here. A Tibetan family invited me into their home, allowed me to warm myself by the fire, and plied me with snacks and hot, milky tea. The father told me he sometimes acted as a guide to intrepid Chinese hikers, and impressed by my route so far, happily gave me more food for my journey.
Crisis averted, I set off up to the mountain pass. It was a lung-bursting effort, 15km on a gravel climb from 3000m altitude up to 4,500m and it took me nearly three hours. But I was rewarded not just with the views, but by finding out later that day that I had taken the Strava crown on the climb… first of three people ever to do it😂.
That night felt great. I found a small Tibetan homestay in the next valley and enjoyed a home cooked meal with the host family. They had a teenage son, and he and his friends happily tested out my bike, fighting over whose turn it was. But mainly I felt great because I was just happy to have made it through. Wading through the lake had been a frightening experience, but one that left me feeling like nothing could stop me reaching Yunnan Province. How wrong I was.
Finding out that travel isn’t always bliss… navigating the alleyways of the Marrakech Medina, with a surpise around every corner.