Chapter 16. Entering Gansu: loess is more 中卫 - 景泰 - 白银 - 兰州

It was the 6th of June, but my D-Day landing in Gansu province did not go quite according to plan. 

Cycling across the Yellow River bridge in Zhongwei, I was faced with a daunting wall of loess cliffs and crags ahead of me. At the junction to the road that led up into these hills and beyond across the plateau, I stopped at a sign saying that the route was closed due to construction work. Below it were instructions for a detour via an alternative highway that ran to the southeast, which would add an additional 100 kilometres to the day’s journey to Xingren (兴仁) and the country town of Jingyuan (靖远). 

I had no choice but to turn around and take the Tengger desert highway to the west. After a quick bit of roadside research on my phone, I found that I could possibly get to a town called Jingtai (景泰) within a day, along a slightly longer route towards Lanzhou.

After backtracking through Zhongwei, I got on to the road that passed the Shapotou desert park. This was at a bend in the Yellow River where the road and river diverged: I would not get to see the next section, known as the Black Mountain Gorge (黑山峡, Heishan Xia).

This ‘trackless’ section of the Yellow River that I would be missing twisted for 200 kilometres through the remote low hills of the loess plateau south of Zhongwei. It was an arid and sparsely populated area with little rainfall, poor vegetation, and intersected by steep ravines. There were a few farming settlements along the banks of the river that dated from the times when traders riding goatskin rafts used them as stopping places on their journeys from Lanzhou to Yinchuan. 

The villagers also used to fish in the river for a species of carp known locally as ‘pigeon fish’ because of its narrow head and pointed mouth. However, in recent times, the numbers of this copperfish had been in decline because of pollution and because of the building of dams that prevented the migration for spawning.

The desert road diversion that I took towards Jingtai was not like the flat, straight desert highway that I had ridden along two days before towards Wuhai. The first part was a hazardous twisting route through low hills alongside a rail track. The road was choked with heavy trucks, and there was no shoulder on which I could avoid them.  Even worse, much of the road had a crash barrier that prevented me from pulling off the road whenever I saw trucks coming up behind me. It was extremely risky, and I was tempted to turn back if the situation did not improve within a few kilometres.

After a nerve-wracking half an hour, the road widened at a junction where long lines of slow-moving trucks were backed up. From here I began a long, gradual ascent that took me all morning to reach a small truckstop village called Gantan (甘塘). I chose to have lunch at one of the shacks that had a sign denoting it was a Sichuan restaurant. The manager greeted me in halting English and told me he had studied for a term in Melbourne. He insisted on speaking English throughout my stay, which I prolonged by an hour to charge my battery.

I had been feeling a bit depressed and anxious on the long climb up to Gantan: the landscape was bleak, and I had little idea what lay ahead towards Jingtai. My spirits were raised when I saw another cyclist ahead of me, paused by the roadside, and taking a selfie. He waved me to stop and introduced himself as Lun Hui, an amateur cyclist who was on a week-long excursion from his home in Wuzhong towards Lanzhou. 

He was a cheerful and down-to-earth character who mocked my elaborate e-bike and panniers, pointing to his simple pedal bike and saying: “What do you need all that stuff for?” He had only one bottle of water and a flimsy windproof jacket over his lycra cycling gear. We cycled together for a while, until after Gantan when I left him behind because my e-bike was so much faster than his pedal bike. We exchanged WeChat details and pledged to meet up again in Jingtai.

After Gantan, the road levelled out and continued across a highland plateau of scrubland, ringed by brown rocky crags. A rail line straddled the landscape some distance away and I could see passenger trains that hauled slowly across looked like something on a train set. I wished I was on the train instead of pedalling.

Eventually, the road inclined downhill and, after another desolate truckstop, I crossed the border from Ningxia into Gansu.

Late in the day, I reached a junction where the left-hand option took me down into a greener landscape with trees. I was physically and mentally exhausted by the time I arrived on the main street of Jingtai. It was a small town with a mostly Muslim population, and I got a few stares after I left my hotel and walked the streets looking for somewhere to eat. I wasn’t having much luck until I got a message from Lun Hui on my phone. He had arrived and was just ordering some dishes at a nearby restaurant - would I care to join him? 

He sent me the address via WeChat, and I was soon tucking into a delicious bowl of braised beef and peppers, the local specialty. Lun Hui started a livestream to show his wife and kids some video of his new foreign friend, and we both raised a can of beer to the camera to toast our safe arrival and for the road ahead.

Studying my route map in the Jingtai hotel room, I saw an opportunity for the next day to get a glimpse of the Yellow River where it runs through the Black Mountain Gorge. A spur road from the main highway south to the next major town of Baiyin (白银) went to a place called the ‘Yellow River Stone Forest (黄河石林) Geological Park’. This was at a bend in the Yellow River where the loess pinnacles are particularly dramatic. It had recently been developed as a tourist attraction and now had a visitor centre and even some hotels. 

The unique landscape had made it a popular place for filming Chinese movies, but the Stone Forest also had a more tragic recent history. In May 2021, a sudden severe hail storm hit runners taking part in a 100 kilometres  ultramarathon being staged in the hills of the Stone Forest.  The hail and gale-force winds caused temperatures to plummet rapidly, leading to fatal hypothermia for 21 of the runners who were lightly dressed and running in darkness in a remote area where there was no shelter and no phone signal.

Zhongwei to Jingtai looking west, showing the intended route in blue (click on image to enlarge)

I checked the weather forecast before I set out from Jingtai, and it predicted a fair day with no rain. I did have to battle with a strong side wind as I headed across the loess plateau. I was alone again, having parted ways with Lun Hui, who had opted to take the slightly longer but higher-quality major highway route to Lanzhou. The minor road I took towards Baiyin was empty of traffic and an eerie experience. 

There were a few villages along the way, but they appeared deserted, and their brown brick structures merged into the similar muted colours of the bare rocky hills in the background. The wind picked up in strength, and I found that I was having to pedal hard even while heading downhill. I wavered with uncertainty at the turnoff for the Stone Forest, but was urged on by the local shopkeeper who told me it was an ‘easy’ 24 kilometres to the river along a good road.

My apprehension appeared justified when about a third of the way along the road, I realised my rear wheel had a slow puncture. I struggled against the wind by the roadside to pump up the tyre, hoping it would last another 15 kilometres, and continued on through an increasingly remote and barren landscape. The road undulated up and over a series of low hills, and there was little other traffic. I was very much looking forward to getting to the comfort and amenities of the Stone Village tourist centre where I had pre-booked a room at the hotel. 

When I finally pedalled down the last couple of kilometres to the ‘Geological Zone’ entrance, I had a sense of foreboding when I saw that the large car park was almost empty. At the almost deserted visitor centre I paid 88 yuan for an ‘seniors’ entrance ticket, but was then denied access to the park by the guards at the road barrier. 

The guards insisted that no bikes were allowed in the scenic village area, and I could only enter by using the shuttle bus. When I remonstrated that I had booked a hotel in the park, they insisted that I leave the bike overnight in the car park. That would mean I’d have to remove all my bulky bags and heavy batteries and carry them on a bus to the hotel, about a kilometre away down a hill. 

I could not be bothered to argue with them. I was tired, hungry and had a flat tyre to repair. This isolated and unwelcoming place seemed to be jinxed. Even the ‘restaurant’ sold only instant noodles. After fixing the puncture, I decided I just couldn’t face being without my bike, and decided to abandon my visit to the Stone Forest. Before departing I made a quick visit to the viewing platform where I could look down and see a small section of the Yellow River, far below.

That would have to be enough of a view, I told myself. I got my ticket refunded and gladly left the Stone Forest, its unwelcoming staff and bad atmosphere in my rearview mirror.

There was plenty more bleak terrain to pedal across that afternoon, but at least it was mostly downhill to Baiyin after I regained the highway. There was something about the empty brown hills that induced a sense of doom and despair in me, and I looked forward to getting away from them when, hopefully, I arrived in Lanzhou the next day. 

I was also looking forward to having an extended break there and having the opportunity to get some better tyres that would be more puncture-resistant than the ones that had now failed me several times.

Baiyin was a welcome oasis of urban civilisation after the long ride through the brown loess wilderness. I was comforted and reassured by the sight of mundane but familiar things such as a municipal bus and people out jogging. The hotel provided me with crisp white sheets and pillows, and the supermarket next door had Kronenbourg Blond beer for 17 yuan a bottle.

The Yellow River southeast of Baiyin was the location of one of the lesser-known but key episodes of the Long March: the start of a doomed ‘go west’ march of the Fourth Front Army after a major military and political split. It was in late 1936 at Jingyuan that about 22,000 Communist soldiers - who became known as the West Route Army - crossed the river after breaking away from other Long Marchers who had decided to go north to Yan’an.

The ‘western route’ was the strategy of a powerful Long March leader called Zhang Guotao, who at the time was the main rival to Mao. Zhang had a much stronger military force than that of Mao’s group when they met in northern Sichuan in 1935. At that time, Zhang proposed that the Communist forces move west to establish a new revolutionary base. 

Mao disagreed and argued that his much-depleted First Route Army would continue northwards towards Shaanxi, to join up with an existing Communist revolutionary base in the remote loess landscape around Yan’an.

Mao avoided a showdown with the more powerful Zhang by slipping away, taking the party leadership with him across the grasslands into Gansu and towards Shaanxi.

Zhang continued with his ‘go west’ strategy, which floundered. After trying and failing to set up a base in western Sichuan, he then attempted a move towards Xinjiang, via Gansu and Qinghai.

Zhang tried to move his army across the Yellow River near Baiyin, but the crossing was disrupted by attacks from Republican forces. The Communist soldiers who made it across to the west bank became known as the Western Route Army. They won their first battle at nearby Wujiachuan, and passed through Jingtai, where I had recently been enjoying noodles. After that, they moved into an area called the Hexi Corridor where they became the target of superior local forces led by Muslim warlord Ma Bufang, who was allied to the Republican government. 

Over the next few months the marchers were worn down by attrition in a series of battles against the skilled cavalry of Ma Bufang. When they eventually ran out of ammunition and food in the Qilaing mountains, almost all were killed or captured. Ultimately, only a few hundred  Western Route Army soldiers made it to Xinjiang.

The fate of an all-female regiment in the Western Route Army was especially grim. Captured  by Ma Bufang in the Qilian Mountains the female troops were treated as war spoils, and forced to become personal concubines, domestic slaves or to be subject to abuse in labour camps in Qinghai.

The annihilation of his column meant that Zhang lost not just military power but also his power and influence in the Party. After he arrived in Shaanxi he was purged by Mao and eventually defected to the Republican side. Later in life he fled to Hong Kong and ultimately moved to Canada, where he converted to Christianity and died in Toronto in 1979.

Jingtai to Baiyin

The next morning I started out on the final leg of this stage of the Yellow River trip, which took me from Baiyin up into more brown loess hills and through a ‘pass’ before descending to a fertile plain around Gaolan County (皋兰县). There was still little traffic on the road except for a few trucks, and I listened to podcasts to pass the long hours in the saddle. The bike got another flat tyre and I used my last spare inner tube to repair the puncture by the roadside. There was just one more hill to conquer before a long descent into Lanzhou. I hoped the new innertube would last, and it did for almost all of the way. 

 As if to give me a final reminder of the challenges I’d faced on the desert road, my bike developed a puncture just as I arrived on the outskirts of Lanzhou. I pulled off the road outside a BMW car dealership to pump up the tyre. The staff came out and offered to help, but I told them I had made it this far and was determined to continue even if it meant pushing the bike the last eight kilometres into the city. Fortunately, my hand pump did the trick, and I arrived at Lanzhou’s bridge over the Yellow River by late afternoon. I had completed the ‘ji curve’ to Inner Mongolia and back again.

Baiyin to Lanzhou