Unlike last year’s trip to Inner Mongolia, I didn’t experience any sort of “post-travel withdrawal” this time. I got home at half past midnight, immediately started doing laundry, spent almost the entire next day unpacking, hosted a spontaneous hairy crab dinner that night, and by the following day I was fully back in work mode — the very definition of a high-energy traveler.

I even thought maybe “the call of the road” no longer stirred me the way it used to. But one day, as I passed by an outdoor billboard, the mountains in the photo suddenly overlapped with my memories — and I realized I’ll never lose my longing for nature, or my curiosity for the unknown. I’ll always crave that feeling of being on the road.

This National Day trip to Gannan and Northwestern Sichuan was another reunion of our “Autumn Chasers” — the same crew from last year’s Inner Mongolia adventure. Before departure, when I asked around who wanted to join, Ray promised it would be a chill, low-altitude trip. But in reality, our daily drives averaged five hours, and several days were spent at nearly 4,000 meters above sea level. I’m not sure if they regretted saying yes — but at this rate, I’m pretty sure we’ll eventually run out of friends willing to come along.

DAY 1 Chengdu → Maerkang

To avoid the crowds, we set off two days early. After landing in Chengdu, we picked up our rental — a Wenjie M7 — and hit the road toward Maerkang. Ray kept saying how much smoother it drove compared to the Tank 300. Along the way, the scenery shifted: first pines and cypresses, then ginkgo and willow trees, and suddenly bursts of goldenrain trees in full bloom — a lively splash of red amidst the green.

The road to Aba was tougher than the ones in Xinjiang. Dozens of tunnels stretched endlessly ahead, and we never knew when the last one would end — or what kind of sky awaited us on the other side: mist and drizzle, or clear and brilliant blue. Yet each time we emerged, the sight of mountains shrouded in drifting clouds made it all worth it.

By the roadside, cosmos flowers swayed freely in the wind stirred up by passing cars. As we climbed higher, autumn began to take hold — yellow and red leaves flickering among the green, the prelude to a forest painted in color. When we passed through Wenchuan, the car’s playlist randomly played “Wish Love No Worries”, and as the soft melody flowed, a wild openness seemed to bloom inside me.

Arriving in Maerkang, we were immediately struck by the sky — an impossibly vivid blue, both bright and deep. No matter how I adjusted my camera settings, the sky always looked overexposed, as if it were shining just a little too brilliantly for the lens to contain.

Maerkang is the capital of Aba Prefecture — and also the hometown setting of the TV drama Dust Settles. From an aerial view, the city stretches along a river valley flanked by mountain ridges on both sides, its streets winding gently with the flow of the water. Wisps of mist drift between the peaks like soft gauze, wrapping the small city in a tender haze. We decided to visit the Xisuo Tibetan Village first. On the way, we passed the Aba SWAT station — a few officers were jogging shirtless nearby, sweat glistening on their muscles under the sun… and, well, I couldn’t help but steal a few extra glances.

Xisuo Village is known as the “living fossil” of the Jiarong Tibetan settlements. Its charm lies in rows of traditional stone houses stacked along the hillside, connected by narrow stone steps that climb upward in a scattered rhythm, while the Suomo River flows quietly at the foot of the village.

A cute orange cat suddenly appeared and ended up leading us through the entire village — past rugged stone walls stacked from slate, vividly painted wooden doors and windows with intricate patterns, and little gardens blooming in front of every home. Even in the quiet corners, wildflowers grew freely. The village isn’t large, not much different in size from many old towns we’ve visited, but the atmosphere here feels truly unhurried and serene.

DAY 2 Maerkang – Seda

After spending one night acclimating, we set off toward Seda, where the altitude climbs even higher. Along National Highway 548, the navigation voice suddenly announced, “You’ve entered a zebra crossing.” I was confused — how could there be a zebra crossing in such a remote area? Then I looked up and realized: ah, it’s the county of Banma — “zebra” in Chinese, literally!

That’s the joy of a road trip. I often check the map to see all the places we’ve passed through. Even if I don’t remember their names later, their landscapes blend together in my memory, forming an abstract image — one that stirs up memories of other journeys and distant places.

The scenery along the way was stunning — the kind of deep blue sky and bright white clouds unique to the plateau, with clusters of blooming Gesang flowers and mist swirling between the mountains. At the time, I didn’t realize this breathtaking view would become an everyday sight for the rest of the trip. Driving through valleys and grasslands, the mountain slopes on both sides looked as if they were wrapped in fleece — dotted with clusters of shrubs that seemed both fluffy and prickly. As someone who never gets tired of photographing animals, I unlocked a new “species” this time — yaks, massive in size yet surprisingly nimble, almost dog-like when they run. We even came across wild monkeys that would swarm the cars whenever someone stopped, clinging to windows and tugging at the doors.

We arrived at Dongga Monastery just as the light softened into its most gentle hue. Meaning “White Conch,” the monastery stands quietly in the mountains, facing an endless stretch of open grassland.

When we arrived, there wasn’t another soul in sight. Sunbeams fell on the eaves, scattering into shimmering gold, flowing like water down the outer walls of the building, casting a beautiful interplay of light and shadow. The stillness of the moment gave the monastery an almost divine aura. The weather shifted quickly — moments ago, a faint moon hung in the sky, and soon after, thick dark clouds rolled in. A flock of black birds circled above the temple roof, while a faint rainbow arched across the distant grassland.

At the foot of the mountain, beside a long prayer corridor, stood a small house. A few children called out “Hello!” from afar, but when I walked closer, they shyly hid behind the doorway. Their mother flashed a cheerful peace sign just as she entered my frame.

I don’t know why, but I remember that house and that country road vividly — the children playing ball at the doorstep, a monk riding past on a motorcycle and casually joining their game. On the other side stretched a long earthen wall, and the blue sky and white clouds were mirrored in the puddles along the roadside. Occasionally, a passing car would stir up a cloud of dust. Watching from afar, I felt a strange sense of calm — a raw, unpolished beauty in everyday life.

DAY 3 Seda – Aba County

Because of the National Day holiday, the town had limited bus service to Larung Gar Buddhist Academy — only four departures a day — and the only one that fit our schedule left at 7 a.m. The pink dawn had barely faded when we set out, frost still glistening on the mountain road. The moment we stepped off the bus, we were greeted by a breathtaking sea of clouds.

Larung Gar had always been a place I longed to see since my student days — its remoteness and religious mystique gave it an almost mythical quality, like how Lijiang or Tibet once existed in the imagination of every romantic soul as a place to “cleanse one’s spirit.” But standing here now, I realized how different it was from what I had once imagined. Part of that change came from within me, and part from how the place itself had transformed.

Today, visitors can no longer freely enter the residential quarters or alleyways, so the officially allotted 90-minute visit feels perfectly sufficient.

Though the experience wasn’t quite what I had imagined, the moment I stepped onto the Mandala platform, I was deeply moved. Monks were circumambulating in the mist, turning their prayer wheels under the soft morning light. The sun’s rays glinted off the golden rooftops, bathing everything in a warm, sacred glow. For a brief moment, it all felt surreal — dreamlike, almost beyond reality.

From the nearby viewing platform, I could see the rows upon rows of crimson monk dwellings, stacked like building blocks along the mountainside, with thin wisps of incense smoke drifting lazily into the sky. It was easy to believe, in that instant, that this red kingdom in the sea of clouds was truly the dwelling place of the divine.

The next stop was Aba County. The weather along the way shifted constantly — clouds and sunlight playing chase across the mountains. From afar, the white stones scattered down the slopes looked like shards of unmelted ice, and I took countless photos before realizing, as we got closer, how mistaken I was. Passing through a stretch of steep pine forest, I could’ve sworn I was somewhere in Xinjiang — if not for the occasional Tibetan villages and white stupas dotting the landscape.

By dusk, we happened to pass the sacred mountain of Nianbaoyuze. There wasn’t time to drive in deeper — the most beautiful golden hour had already arrived. The sunlight poured over the meadows and streams, the distant mountains sharp and austere, a pale moon already rising in the sky. In that vast stillness, both the landscape and we ourselves fell silent. In that moment, I truly felt — sometimes we live just for moments like this. Of course, that poetic serenity didn’t stop us from, well, taking a quick wild pee under the fading light.

During the last stretch of the drive, I was still lost in my thoughts about how wonderful the day had been — only to have the rear right tire puncture, a full 30 kilometers before reaching the county town. The road ahead and behind was utterly desolate. We finally managed to stop near a lonely little car wash and called for roadside assistance. Self-driving lesson learned: always check that your rental has a spare tire. We gave the car wash owner 100 yuan to drive three of us to the hotel, while Ray stayed behind waiting for the rescue truck. It took until 12:30 a.m. before everything was finally sorted out.

DAY 4 Aba County – Lianbaoyuze – Ruoergai County

Lianbaoyuze sits on the other side of the same mountain range as Nianbaoyuze — sharing that same austere, almost forbidding beauty.

Naively, I thought that by this midpoint in our loop, the main crowds wouldn’t have arrived yet. But when we reached the entrance around 10 a.m., there were already more than 800 cars lined up. So, we switched to the park’s shuttle bus to continue in.

Lianbaoyuze feels like a massive geological park, packed with surreal glacial formations. The sharp folds and jagged ridges of the mountains tell stories of billions of years of change. Unlike any landscape I’d seen before, it feels more primitive, raw — like stepping into an otherworldly fantasy.

And right at the center of it all lies Lake Zhagacuo, shimmering faintly under shifting clouds. The light constantly dances — bright one moment, dim the next — making the lake seem alive, breathing with the rhythm of the mountains.

At the 4,520-meter viewing platform, a long wooden walkway stretches ahead, flanked by massive boulders. Ray and I walked all the way to the end, light-footed even at this altitude. We couldn’t help feeling smug — maybe we’re built for high-altitude travel after all; Tibet might not be so daunting next time!

Before leaving, we took one last look at Lake Zhagacuo. Up close, the cliffs towering above the water felt even more magnificent. But what I loved most was the grassy shoreline — the cold, distant mountains, the thick blades of grass, and the countless mani stones stacked across the rocks. The traces of human presence hadn’t erased its wildness or purity.

The road toward Gannan was even more beautiful than the days before. Rain, hail, and sunshine traded places in quick succession: at times, dark clouds pressed down from above, yet in the rearview mirror was a stretch of bright blue sky; at others, beams of light spilled between mountain folds, making it look as if the hills themselves were glowing. We were lucky enough to spot another rainbow, faintly appearing over the lakes and slopes. And the Tibetan sheep — their spiral horns and thick coats — were everywhere. Thanks to the region’s climate, Gannan’s mutton is famously tender and flavorful.

As we fully entered Gannan’s borders, vast wetlands and meadows began to unfurl before us, and suddenly, the world opened wide. It was another unforgettable sunset — the mountains glowing gold, their reflections rippling in the marsh pools. The wetland shimmered in the evening light, turning the whole landscape golden, almost luminescent. It struck me then — the view I missed last year in Erguna had found me here instead. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little wistful — so close to such beauty, yet unable to walk right into it.

As we fully entered the Gannan region, vast stretches of wetlands and grasslands slowly unfolded before us, and suddenly the view opened wide. It was another sunset I’ll never forget — the golden light of the sun dipped across the mountains, their reflections shimmering in the ponds scattered across the plains. In the evening glow, the wetlands turned even richer in color, the whole world bathed in a golden light, as if it were glowing from within. I hadn’t expected to find here the scenery I missed last year in Erguna. Yet even as I admired it

I couldn’t help but feel a trace of regret — to be so close to something so beautiful, and still not be able to walk right into it. As we drove further, a pale moon rose above the horizon, hazy like a wisp of smoke. I watched as it slowly grew bright and clear. By the time we parked the car, the last of the sunset had faded, and right before us stood Niangma Monastery and the world’s largest prayer wheel, framed by the mist-wrapped mountains behind them.

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DAY 5 Ruoergai County – Labrang Monastery

Congratulations to us — we discovered a new species! On a hillside full of tiny burrows, we spotted pika! Those little creatures are irresistibly cute, and the moment you see one, you just know what it is — unmistakably mouse-like and rabbit-like all at once.

After nearly five hours of driving, we arrived at Labrang Monastery, in a county with an equally beautiful name — Xiahe. For the past few months, Ray had been reading books on Tibetan Buddhism, and Labrang was one of the places he’d longed to visit. Often called the “World’s Academy of Tibetan Studies,” it wasn’t quite the secluded sanctuary I’d imagined. Instead, it felt like a living, breathing monastic campus — most non-restricted areas were open to visitors, and right outside the entrance stood a bustling food street, just like the ones near any university. Tourists and monks brushed past each other in the same alleys, where the sacred and the worldly coexist in the most natural way.

In the late afternoon, around 5 p.m., the monks gathered for their daily debating session. Before it began, dozens of them stood in a circle, clapping their hands in rhythm and chanting in unison, as the sun dipped behind the mountains. From where I stood, looking against the light, they seemed surrounded by a divine glow. When I stepped out of the main hall, the crisp air carried away the heavy, creamy scent of butter tea. Along the 3-kilometer prayer corridor, devoted pilgrims continued their rounds, one after another, tireless in their faith.

I was captivated by the colors and symmetry of the architecture here. The monks’ quarters were built with dark yellow rammed-earth walls, while the combination of red brick bases and white walls was reserved for higher temples. Every black-framed, carved wooden window was draped with bright, fluttering fabric curtains that rippled softly in the mountain breeze.

I had thought about trying on a set of traditional Tibetan clothes here, but those ornate, overdone tourist costumes couldn’t compare to the way my own outfit blended effortlessly into this place. Sometimes I wonder if, somewhere deep in my genes, there’s a trace of this vast and ancient northwest land.

DAY 6: Labrang Monastery – Rock’s Road – Zhagana

The route we took today, known as Rock’s Road, winds through forests, grasslands, gorges, and snow-capped mountains—earning it the nickname “Little Duku Highway.” As the mountain road climbed higher and higher, the scenery outside began to take on that vast, rugged “Xinjiang” kind of grandeur.

One thing that really struck me on this road trip: the whole northwest Sichuan–Gannan region feels like an endless chain of Zheduo Mountains. Every time we crossed a pass, we had to twist and turn through dozens—sometimes hundreds—of bends. It’s the only part that wasn’t exactly pleasant.

As the altitude approached 4,000 meters, we found ourselves driving inside the clouds. It was a surreal experience—the surroundings veiled in mist, as if suspended between dreaming and waking. Descending into the valley, we saw just a few scattered homes across a vast meadow, with a winding little river meandering through.

Hidden deep among the mountains, Zhagana is another world of wonder. In Tibetan, its name means “stone box,” and it’s made up of four villages encircled by towering rock walls that act as natural fortresses. When we arrived, the entire place was still wrapped in fog—so we turned and headed deeper into the mountains.

Runwu Gorge is the top hiking spot here, and it truly lives up to its reputation. The canyon roars with rushing water, its air thick with moisture, and a wooden trail winds through the forest toward a waterfall hidden in the depths. Every glance back offers another stunning view.

The walk itself was easygoing, surrounded by lush plants and tiny moss-covered landscapes. I couldn’t help wishing there were a botanist with us—but even without knowing the names, we still marveled at every detail. Soon we reached the narrowest part of the canyon, where the cliffs pressed in so close that it felt like walking through the line “at first so narrow, just enough for one person to pass.” Beyond the walls roared a massive waterfall, its spray turning into a fine rain. We stopped there, drenched and awestruck.

When we emerged from the gorge, the weather had worsened, so we headed straight back to our guesthouse. It happened to be Ray’s birthday, yet there we were—huddled in a pitch-dark courtyard, eating self-heating hotpot, laughing at the absurdity of it all. The host invited us to see his home: a single open room of about sixty square meters, where the stove and the bed shared the same space. You could wake up and start cooking right away—it felt so cozy, so content.

He told us that most villagers here make a living growing barley, earning very little. Because their village lies lower in the valley, it’s not the top choice for tourists, so even the busy travel season doesn’t last long for them. Nights in the village are cold—so cold it makes you feel a bit desolate—but once you slip under an electric blanket, everything suddenly feels forgivable.

DAY 7: Zhagana – Jiuzhaigou

We wanted to chase a sunrise.

A little after six, when the sky was still dim, we set out for the Dari Viewing Platform. Along the way, bundles of barley were laid out to dry, and the mountains were still shrouded in mist—it felt like walking through Silent Hill. Yet in that chill and fog, there was a strange kind of calm.

I thought, no one could possibly be more eager for the sunrise than us. But when we arrived, the parking lot was already full. We waited, crouched in the cold until 7:30, but the thick fog refused to lift. In the end, we gave up and went next door for a bowl of beef noodles instead.

If it were two years ago, I’d probably be really frustrated. But now, I seem to have learned to accept it. When nature doesn’t wish to welcome you at this moment, there’s simply nothing you can do. Back at the guesthouse, someone was burning sang in the courtyard, and the pines and cypresses behind the house appeared as soft silhouettes in the thick mist. “Just another ordinary day,” I thought. But ordinary is good.

Once we left Zhagana, the weather finally cleared up.The scenery along Jiuruo Road looked a bit like Xinjiang, yet also like Switzerland. Wild sea buckthorn berries grew thick in the forests on both sides, and autumn was painting everything in soft gradients—greens fading to gold, reds flickering among the hills. Once again, we crossed high mountains, driving from the clouds down to the streams at the valley floor.

When the views weren’t particularly stunning, I amused myself by checking the map and navigation. The village names were often simple yet delightful—Old House Village, Lantern-Fixing Village, Buddha Cave, Chicken Slope, Three Pines… Just reading them was enough to imagine a hundred little stories.

By the time we reached Jiuzhaigou, we felt like refugees returning to civilization.We went straight to a restaurant and ordered a steaming pot of yak meat. I love this feeling—the kind that comes after a long day on the road, grabbing quick bites along the way, and then finally sitting down for a hearty dinner. The moment you dig in, all the fatigue melts away. Afterwards, you stroll slowly back to the hotel, bliss maxed out.

Writing this now, I can’t help but think of those post-dinner walks in Dunhuang, Genhe, Kashgar, and Xiahe—heads buzzing with carbs, streetlights casting a soft yellow glow, everyone bundled up against the cold, yet feeling only the gentleness of the night.

DAY 8: Jiuzhaigou

Here, we once again felt the full force of peak-season crowds. But Jiuzhaigou’s management is truly impressive—“coordinating forty thousand people in fifteen minutes” isn’t much of an exaggeration.

The scenic area is laid out in a Y-shape. Many travel guides mention that the park buses stop at Nuorilang, the midpoint of the three routes—but that’s not entirely accurate. Each bus adjusts its route based on crowd flow. For example, we were first dropped off near Shuzheng Waterfall, though transferring between lines was thankfully quite easy.

Having experienced the near-emptiness of Xiaoqikong, my first impression of Jiuzhaigou wasn’t exactly awe.The turquoise lakes and rushing waterfalls—I’d seen them before. You can never truly relive that “first glance” feeling, and perhaps that’s its own kind of melancholy.

More than pure water, I prefer landscapes where mountains and rivers intertwine with depth and layers. The 3-kilometer hike through the Primeval Forest on the right route was exactly what I’d been hoping for.

Walking toward Caohai, the path was lined with dense spruce forests.A soft layer of lichen blanketed the ground, with moss and mushrooms everywhere—my eyes didn’t know where to land. In the latter half of the trail, vast stretches of aquatic meadows opened up, lush and green. Looking back, mist floated between the mountains—it was as if we had wandered into an autumn fairytale.

And the scenery beneath the water was even more enchanting. The crystal-clear lake blurred the boundary between above and below: the swaying water grass formed an underwater forest, the feathery plants looked like fuzzy transmission towers rising among mountains, and the fallen trees resembled quiet paths winding through a submerged woodland. It was like a mirrored world, peacefully existing beneath the untouched surface.

The second most beautiful spot was Wuhua Lake.Even though it was crowded with people along the banks, the beauty of it remained untouched. It felt as if all the colors of Jiuzhaigou’s lakes had gathered here. Fallen leaves and tiny fish occasionally stirred gentle ripples across the surface. Because of the calcium deposits that separate layers of the lake, fallen logs never rot—instead, they seem to bloom with a new kind of vitality underwater. A family of otters lives by the shore, and if you’re lucky, you might just catch them out for a little “swim.”

On the left route lies the most vividly colored lake of all—Wuse Lake.Its blue is mysterious and profound, but before you can see it, you’ll first have to spend a good ten minutes staring at a sea of bobbing heads.

We didn’t manage to see both routes in full, and before we knew it, the day was over. The planned light hike around Reed Lake never happened. I once thought I’d never return here, yet while sorting through the photos from these days, I finally understood Jiuzhaigou’s beauty. If there’s ever a next time, I hope it’ll be during the season of autumn colors.

DAY 9: Jiuzhaigou – Sanxingdui – Chengdu

We caught the newly opened Jiumian Expressway, which made the journey back to Chengdu much shorter. On the way, we listened to episode 880 of The Big Talk, all about Sanxingdui. A few hours later, the stories we had just heard—those ancient imaginations—appeared right before my eyes.

The three hours we set aside were barely enough for a quick walk-through, yet the Sanxingdui civilization is so unique and avant-garde that every detail feels fascinating.

Beyond the iconic sacred trees, towering figures, and countless masks, their pottery, wine vessels, ornaments, and everyday objects all reveal an extraordinary sense of beauty. The intricate bronze altars—layer upon layer, stacked together like pieces of Lego—are especially stunning, works of such precision that you can’t help but linger.

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This was our fourth road trip together, and both Ray and I have become utterly addicted to this way of traveling—so much so that we instinctively reserve every long holiday for it. Many people describe this kind of trip as “your eyes in heaven, your body in hell,” but I’ve never felt that way. (Perhaps that’s because I’m not the one driving.)

For me, this is one of the rare moments when I can completely detach from a life wrapped in anxiety. There’s no need to worry about anyone or anything—the only things that matter are the day’s weather and the condition of the road. Life becomes beautifully simple: a hot meal and a warm shower are enough to bring you instantly back to yourself. The scenery, too, never fails to surprise—but more often than not, it’s not the planned destinations that move you. It’s those unrepeatable, unexpected moments along the way.

Sometimes I think back to the very first article I ever posted on my public account. The cover photo was of the Kanglex Grasslands—it used to be my favorite photo, without question. Looking at it now, it feels rather ordinary. Back then, I didn’t know that future me would go on to see landscapes far more breathtaking. It might sound like I’m too easily satisfied, but perhaps that’s exactly why I now feel so much more joy—and gratitude.