Travelling by e-bike conferred one advantage over motor vehicles: I could ride on ‘closed’ roads, like the one from Longyangxia to Gonghe. When I was checking out, the hotel manager told me that because of construction work I would need to take a 30 kilometres detour to get into the nearest town, but I decided to take my chances and the gamble paid off.
The road followed the shoreline of Longyang reservoir and went through some of the most barren sandstone hills and ‘desert’ terrain that I had seen so far. There were barrels blocking the road at the official entrance to the ‘Longyang Scenic Area’, but the security guard waved me through without a word when I told him I was heading towards Gonghe.
The newly-built scenic highway ran through narrow cuttings that had been excavated from the brown sandstone hills. In some places the flat sides were almost vertical and extended for tens of metres above me. In other areas the road took wide detours around hills and sandy river beds. The only constant was the almost complete lack of vegetation in the brown surroundings.
It was an eerie and lonely ride because of the lack of traffic, and I was glad to reach the more fertile inhabited area on the outskirts of Gonghe. This was still part of the Longyang holiday zone, with signposts for homestays and ‘fishing areas’.
It was here that I also saw the first of many Tibetan-style ‘camping sites’. Unlike their western counterparts, these did not require you to bring your own equipment: they were areas of grassland where a variety of tents and shelters had already been set up. There were Tibetan-style white marquees, bell tents, flysheets strung over hammocks, and even Mongolian yurt-style circular shelters. All the sites seemed to have beds, cookers and barbecue facilities already provided.
Gonghe seemed like a big city after the backwaters of Longyang and Kanbula. It was major junction for the highways that radiated westward from Xining to Yushu (玉树), 600 kilometres away on the Tibetan border, and into the vast expanses of Qinghai and beyond to Xinjiang. A bit rough around its Tibetan edges, the town’s fancy shops and cafes seemed at odds with its remote location on the highland plateau near Qinghai Lake.
My ride along the closed road from Longyangxia had brought me into town by lunchtime and because it was too early to check into a hotel I unashamedly popped into a KFC when I saw one. Soon I was sipping a coffee and scoffing a Zinger burger while being watched inquisitively by the two Tibetan girls working for Colonel Sanders.
I looked at the map for the next day’s route. This would take me along the main highway from Gonghe to the south across grasslands and a small mountain range, and then a turnoff to a town called Xinghai. It was 130 kilometres away and this meant I would not have enough battery to get there in one day. I looked for smaller towns en route, but there was only a small truckstop at 70 kilometres called Heka (河卡). Even on the most detailed Chinese map app this appeared to have only a couple of restaurants and a guesthouse that looked dirty and run down on the review photos. But other than camping by the roadside, this was my only option.
Back on the street it had started to rain and I noticed how cold it was in Gonghe. It was 3200 metres in altitude and the wind blowing in from across the Qinghai plateau seemed to cut through me. The other thing that I noticed when I checked into my hotel was that everything was bilingual in Chinese and Tibetan - even the lift buttons.
I spent the rest of the afternoon doing some maintenance on my bike and stocking up on supplies for the long road trip the next day - I had to assume there would be no shops on the road.
I made an early start the next morning, just after daybreak. It was around the time of the longest day of the year and I was on the road back out of Gonghe by 7.30am, shivering from apprehension about what might lay ahead, and also from cold.
Even though it was an overcast day, I was hoping to see something of the extensive solar energy project that was along today’s route. As well as claiming to have the largest solar power capacity in the world, there was also a novel “molten salt light tower”. Like something out of a sci-fi movie, this sat in a circle of thousands of mirrors that focused the sun’s rays on a glowing photothermal device at the top.
Beyond the outskirts of the town I entered a moorland-like landscape of rough gravelly grassland with flocks of grazing sheep. The wind was gusting hard from the side and there were still a few drops of rain from passing showers. The first few kilometres were uphill to a point where the regular highway joined up with the new motorway, which ran alongside to a toll station and checkpoint. This is where I became unstuck.
As I stopped in the shelter of one of the buildings to check my map I noticed two traffic cops flagging down passing cars and trucks to check their licenses. When I remounted my bike I tried to give them a wide berth when I pedalled past them, but the younger one of them stepped toward me and held up his hand.
“Ni hao. Deng yi xia” (Hello. Wait a moment) … then he asked me politely where I was going.
My heart sank. I wasn’t sure if this was official or whether he was like many Chinese and just wanted to chat.
I told him I was cycling towards Xinghai and then blurted out my back story about following the Yellow River. His older colleague came over and they both complimented me on my good health and how tough I was to do such a trip. They asked the same questions that everyone else asked me on this trip: where I was from, how old I was, how was I able to speak such good Chinese?
They seemed satisfied with my answers but the older one started giving me a lecture about the road ahead.
“The weather conditions are very bad today, it’s not safe to be cycling on the high altitude highway. There is snow on the mountains and the wind is strong enough to blow you over!” he told me.
I told them about my backup plan to go to Heka and find somewhere to stay there. The older cop then informed me that the local guesthouses did not accept foreigners and it was too risky to be on my own in this area in case I got lost. He then told me again to “wait a moment” and stepped away to call someone on his phone.
After a couple of minutes he returned and told me:
“The road to Xinghai is closed temporarily. You should go back to Gonghe and rest there. You can visit Qinghai Lake (靑海湖) and the Chaka Salt Lake (茶卡盐湖), these are very nice places.”
Their demeanour was friendly but firm. It was clear I wasn’t going to get past them.
“It’s safer for you,” the younger one kept repeating.
Reluctantly I turned around and headed back towards Gonghe.
[I later learned a possible alternative reason for the road closure. Just a month earlier in April 2025 the Qinghai government announced that construction work was to begin on a new dam at Tsiha Gorge (茨哈峡, Cihaxia) which was located between Xinghai and Tongde. This had caused an outcry among Tibetan exiles who protested that it would involve the relocation of farmers from 20 villages in the area. It may have been sensitivity about this project that led the police to block my travel along a route that would take me on the road to the dam construction site on the road between Xinghai and Tongde.]
On the way back I thought through my options. Other than going all the way back to Guide via Longyangxia and the mountains, this was the only road to Xinghai. I could have another rest day in Gonghe and try again on this road tomorrow. Or I could do as the cops suggested, and go have a rest at Qinghai Lake. It was only 40 kilometres away - and since it was still early in the day, that is what I decided to do.
Back in Gonghe I stopped for a late breakfast of baozi (包子, steamed meat buns) before setting out for the lake. My map showed a direct road to the lake, but it ran over some hills. The major highway was a longer 100 kilometres journey. I chose the direct route.
Heading north out of Gonghe I passed through a whole ‘new town’ district of huge government buildings on long avenues. And then suddenly after crossing the motorway, I was out in rural farmland. It was more sheltered here than out on the plain, and there were orchards and clusters of beehives.
The road was pretty basic, little more than a farm track, and while pedalling through some ploughed fields I had one of those frustrating ‘missed photo opportunity’ moments. Coming towards me driving a tractor was an older Muslim woman in the usual black headcovering, and sat next to her was a Tibetan woman wearing the traditional chuba and headscarf wrapped round her face to keep out the cold. It was a perfect visual representation of the two communities living and working together, but I was cycling and didn’t have my phone camera handy to get the photo.
As the road approached more farm settlements I was also worried about dogs. Experience from my previous trips to Tibetan areas had taught me to be very wary of the mastiffs that were widely kept and used as guard dogs by Tibetan farmers. They looked like longer haired rottweilers and they could be aggressively territorial. They were often kept on a chain to guard the entrance to a house or farm, from where they would launch themselves out in a sudden frenzy of barking as you passed by. The more scary ones would roam around the property, sometimes in packs, and chase down any intruders.
I could hear barking ahead of me as I approached one group of farms, and sure enough, a snarling dog leapt out at me, straining against its chain. I upped the power and pedalled away as quickly as I could, now hypervigilant for other possible dog ambush locations. About a kilometre further on I approached a road junction at the edge of a small settlement. My heart sank when I saw three black and brown dogs sitting on the road there. I stopped to pick up some rocks and then slowly pushed the bike towards them - they did not react, and I was able to enter the village. At its centre was a large Tibetan Buddhist monastery, painted yellow and with a golden roof. There was nobody around as I propped up my bike and went through the gateway to have a look.
From across the empty courtyard I could hear the sound of chanting from the main hall. I crossed over to take a look and found a caretaker on the steps who gestured in sign language that I should remove my shoes before going any further. I did so and peered through the doorway into the dark interior.
The ornately decorated prayer hall was dominated by a golden Buddha statue, beneath which two rows of monks sat opposite each other on the wooden floor, chanting prayers under the supervision of two more senior lamas. They paid no attention to me as they swayed back and forth, ringing bells and repeating the mantras from the prayer books in their laps. On the altar beneath the Buddha was a photo of the 10th Panchen Lama - the one who had been born in the town of Xunhua that I had passed through just days earlier.
After observing this scene for a few minutes I returned to my bike and resumed my ride, passing more groups of dogs sitting around on the road. Two of them jumped up and began to chase me, but backed off and ran away when I dismounted and held up a rock as if to throw it. Fearing further such dog encounters, I picked up a long stick from nearby bushes and tucked it into the pannier straps for quick access.
The road now led towards the grassy hills beyond the village, running across deep gullies with sections that were so steep I had to get off the bike and push. As the broken concrete trail continued over rough paddocks I began to doubt if this was the ‘main road’ and stopped to check my map. It showed an abrupt 90 degree turn ahead, which thankfully proved to be a more substantial highway with more regular traffic. This road was not so steep and a Tibetan sheep herder waved as I passed by further along the way. I stopped to confirm that this was the right road to Qinghai Lake, and he nodded, giving me a detailed description of the route. Speaking in clear Mandarin, he asked me my age and praised my good health when it turned out we were almost the same age.
I continued up to a pass that opened out into a grassy plateau of sheep grazing country with a few scattered huts belonging to Tibetan herders. With the stiff breeze and rainy overcast low cloud weather it reminded me of the Yorkshire moors. I threw away my stick and pedalled on past a small reservoir, across the plateau until I eventually reached the Luohe (洛合) pass that led down to the plain on the other side of the hills.
The sign told me it was 3740 metres, but I no longer felt any altitude sickness symptoms. Just below the pass there was a cairn of stones bearing Tibetan inscriptions, intertwined with colourful scarves and some orange-like fruit offerings to the gods. Qinghai Lake now came into view, its grey waters stretching to the horizon like a sea.
The road descended steeply, with a couple of viewing points further down that were crowded with sightseers. When I stopped to take my own photos I was almost mobbed as the visitors asked me where I’d cycled from and requested group photos with me. One of them even filmed with his drone buzzing overhead as I resumed cycling down the road, amid flocks of sheep and goats.
From the lowest viewing point I could see the road led to a lakeside collection of concrete buildings that looked like hotels and shops, with a pier jutting out into the water. When I reached this ‘tourist centre’’ it was like a seaside resort, thronging with visitors arriving by coach and car. The ‘front’ was a parade of restaurants and gift shops, outside each of which was a tout waving a menu and urging passers by to come inside to try the local fish or Tibetan lamb hotpot.
The shops also offered local specialities such as yak milk yoghurt and dried yak beef jerky. At the rear was a motley collection of guesthouses, bars and travel agencies again with touts outside chanting their own mantra of “chifan, zhusu” (吃饭, 住宿, “something to eat, somewhere to stay”). The whole place had a tawdry carnival atmosphere, with fairground rides and pushy local Tibetans offering rides on horses, or the opportunity to dress up in Tibetan garb and pose for photos with yaks.
Some of the hotels were recently built Tibetan-style boutique homestays with prices that were way beyond my maximum budget of 250 yuan per night. When I inquired at the more regular places they all brusquely told me they didn’t accept foreigners. After a few such rejections I sought hotel advice from the ‘tourist police’ cops who were touring the village in electric buggies. They told me there were international hotels in the next village about five kilometres down the road.
A new four-lane dual carriageway ran along the edge of the lake and It had a cycle lane that I followed to the next turnoff where I found a much more low-key street of hotels. The Pastoral Inn looked nice and the manager greeted me enthusiastically when he saw my bike, telling me that he was a keen cyclist and had once cycled all the way to Lhasa and back from his hometown of Shandong.
The weather on the plain was much better than in the hills: by mid afternoon I was enjoying sunny skies with distant banks clouds hanging over the low hills surrounding the lake. Its waters now reflected the clear skies and in some directions the vistas of deep blue water, green grass, white clouds and blue skies had a perfect simplicity and could have been a computer screensaver.
The grassy shores of the lake looked inviting but access was blocked by barbed wire fencing with ‘no parking’ signs telling visitors to use the official scenic viewing areas back at the tourist village some five kilometres away. I found a track behind a farmhouse and parked my bike there to walk across marshy grass down a small area of beach along the lake shore. It was an idyllic setting, with birdlife in abundance. I wished I'd brought my binoculars to better identify the many types of ducks and terns that I could see at a distance. The water was pristine and clear, and I could imagine it being a great place for kayaking and fishing.
Back at the road, I noticed there were a few cyclists coming along the cycle lane. Some had touring bikes but others were riding on the hire bikes that I had seen advertised for rent outside hotels and travel agencies - the 360 kilometre circuit of the lake was a popular five day itinerary. I thought about doing the circuit myself until I saw on the map that its route passed through the ‘Atomic City’ (中国原子城) at Xihai (西海) where China’s first nuclear weapons development had been based. It was still off limits to foreigners.
At the hotel, the manager suggested that I visit the famous Chaka Salt Lake, which was about halfway round the lake. He pointed out the route on a large map of the region that he had on the wall of the reception. I was more drawn to another route that I saw on the map: a series of roads highlighted in red that led down from Qinghai to the First Bend of the Yellow River in Gansu. This would take me to the apex of the backward loop in the river where it changes direction on the border with Sichuan province.
Going direct to this ‘first bend’ would mean bypassing sections of the Yellow River loop in Qinghai - but I reasoned that most of them were inaccessible by bike anyway. Apart from a crossing of the Yellow River between Xinghai and Tongde, there was no way to follow the river through the 100 kilometres of canyon country in the Tsiha (Cihaxia) Gorge in Qinghai until reaching a place called Ragya (Lajia, 拉加). I had previously visited Ragya by bus in 2012 and seen the remote nature of the Yellow River there: a dirt road led further upriver through remote mountains but there were no towns and certainly no hotels until a place called Maqu (玛曲), which was near the ‘First Bend’.
When I mulled my options over a local Qinghai Lake craft beer, I decided to go the direct route to the First Bend, with my goal being a town called Tangke where there was a “First Bend Scenic Area.”
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