In its lower reaches, the Yellow River meets the sea on the Shandong coast, but it wasn’t always so. Over the years, the river has changed course many times due to being blocked by accumulation of silt and flooding. Until the 19th century the river ran further south, emptying into the Yellow Sea south of the Shandong peninsula. But in 1855 there was a flood-driven breakage known as an ‘avulsion’, which saw the Yellow River’s course shift dramatically, creating a new outlet 400 kilometres away to the north of the peninsula, into the Bohai (渤海) Sea.
It was at this estuary that I arrived in April 2025 to start my bike journey along the Yellow River. The nearest town was Dongying (东营), some 70 kilometres from the coast, to which I travelled by train from Weihai, changing at a town called Zibo (淄博).
Dongying was an unremarkable petroleum industry town that sat on top of the second largest oil field in China. After a night in a cheap hotel I put my folding bike into the back of a taxi and told the driver to take me to the closest place to the river outlet that I could find on the map: the Yellow River Estuary Ecological Zone.
After an hour’s driving across a flat plain of marshland and canals, the taxi dropped me off outside a large new visitor centre. Like many of China’s natural sightseeing spots, the Yellow River estuary zone has been turned into a tightly regulated tourism operation in which visitors are required to buy a ticket and then transported on shuttle buses along a set path of sightseeing stops.
This put paid to my plans of starting my bike ride at the exact spot where the Yellow River empties into the sea. When I wheeled my bike up to the park entrance barrier to ask if I could cycle through to the mouth of the river, the security guard shook his head and pointed me in the direction of the ticket office. I would have to travel the first nine kilometres of the Yellow River like everyone else, on a shuttle bus. At least I got a half price ticket because I was over 60.
So I chained up my bike in the carpark and climbed aboard an electric buggy that carried me and two other passengers along a service road over a treeless plain of wetland mud intersected by canals. There was plenty of birdlife to see along the way: pheasants, ducks, gulls and storks nesting on top of telephone poles, but the river remained elusively out of sight.
A strong breeze was blowing over the estuary and I was almost shivering by the time the bus driver announced: ‘xia che!’ [下车, ‘get off’] at the last stop. A modernist glass cube building that was the ‘estuary zone management centre’ stood alone in an otherwise featureless flat landscape.
I leaned into the wind and walked over to a concrete platform that provided a view over the final stages of the Yellow River. It was disappointing to find that even here it was not possible to ‘see the sea’. The river was a few hundred metres wide at this point and flowed off into the distance between low banks lined with grass and bushes. The Bohai Sea was somewhere over the horizon.
The white-capped waters of the river were a creamy brown colour, reflecting its high silt content. The sediment had been carried here from far inland China, where erosion of the loess plateau deposited fine particles of sand and clay into the river. Over time huge amounts of this silt had washed up on the sides of the river and accumulated to form embankments. When the river levels rose in spring and overflowed these dykes, the subsequent flooding caused devastation across the surrounding plains, hence the river being known as ‘China’s Sorrow’.
At the end of the viewing platform was a jetty where a couple of motor launches were bobbing vigorously on the choppy waters. They were offering sightseeing tours along the river, but I decided this was far enough for me. The handful of other visitors must have shared my reluctance because we were all soon getting back on to the waiting electric buggy to trundle back to the park entrance.
With a day’s cycling ahead of me I also opted to skip the Bird Museum at the visitor centre, and at the exit I was relieved to see that my bike was still where I’d left it in the car park. It was now joined by two other touring bikes with panniers. The riders were a pair of older Chinese guys who told me they’d just arrived at the estuary as part of the long-distance trip they were making down the coast from their home in north-east China. When I told them I was aiming to cycle along the length of the Yellow River, they looked at my folding bike with scepticism and said: “Too small!”
I responded by saying I was confident the Dahon should at least be good enough to get me across the plains of northern China, as far as Xi’an. Once there, I could reassess what kind of bike I would use for the more challenging route up into Inner Mongolia.
After an obligatory selfie and adding each other as contacts on WeChat, they gave me the thumbs up and wished me: “Yi Lu Shun Feng!” (一路顺风, ‘have a nice trip!’). And so, with a feeling of trepidation, I set out on the first part of my Yellow River cycle tour. With a wave from the security guard, I exited the car park onto a long straight road heading back in the direction of Dongying.
It was a chilly spring day and I was pleased to note that I had the wind on my back, coming off the sea. I was also glad that I’d brought warmer clothes with me from Guilin. The route initially took me down a long straight treeless road through reedy marshland. There was little other traffic on the road and I was able to continue my bird spotting with sightings of avocets and hoopoe, which were common here but rare species by UK standards.
After a few kilometres the bike route diverted away from that of my earlier taxi journey, down a minor road that my map showed would run alongside the Yellow River. In reality, I only got occasional glimpses of the river because it was hidden beyond rough farmland, with the view blocked by dykes and lines of trees.
The terrain was completely flat, and I got my first real experience of how the Dahon e-bike performed in long distance use. In theory, a fully charged battery would provide a range of up to 80 kilometres according to the manufacturer’s manual. But my previous experience with e-bikes made me sceptical of any such claim. A more realistic daily range would be about 60 kilometres on one battery, I guessed. And with plans to cycle up to 100 kilometres a day, that meant I’d have to find ways of conserving battery power, especially for when I really needed it, such as on hills.
On the flat I was able to coast along at 25 km/hour using the lowest ‘economy’ mode of the bike’s power levels. And with the wind still behind me, I found I could pedal quite easily at around 20 km/hour without any power assist. This was when travelling light with just a couple of panniers on the back of the Dahon, carrying what I considered to be the minimal amount of kit needed for a bike tour when staying in hotels rather than camping.
For clothing I was using what had worked well for me on my previous China bike trip in Yunnan. Over a base layer of a T-shirt I wore a lightweight long-sleeve hiking shirt that was baggy and had plenty of vents. The ‘loose and lightweight’ philosophy also applied to my trekking pants and a pair of old Scarpa walking shoes.
For an outer layer I had a windproof Fjallraven Skogso jacket. It wasn’t waterproof, but previous experience had taught me that Gore-Tex 'breathable’ waterproof shells were just too sweaty and uncomfortable for cycling. Since I’d be cycling in dry weather most of the time, I brought a waterproof cycling cape to use in the rain.
I didn’t have a cycling helmet but instead wore a broad-brimmed hat because I worried more about the sun than a skull fracture. Being from Australia, I was all too well aware of the risks of exposure to UV rays (having had two suspected melanomas excised from my skin) and hence I also covered my face with a neck muffler. I would later add a pair of gloves after the backs of my exposed hands turned deep brown within the first week of cycling.
This first day on the road saw me adopt a variety of techniques for bike travel that would become a routine for the next three months. For navigation I used the Gaode Map (高德地图) app, on which I set Dongying as my destination and selected the ‘cycling’ option. The app showed me a couple of route options, with details of the distance, uphill and downhill sections, and also highlighting features such as tunnels and bridge crossings. I had the phone mounted on the handlebars and once I’d selected my preferred route it was simply a case of following the route on a GPS-type display. It was so easy and convenient it felt like cheating.
After an hour or so of pedalling alongside irrigation channels and empty fields, I stopped at a small village to find a restaurant that offered a bowl of beef noodle soup for 12 yuan. Back on the road, I became nervous when I realised I was passing an army compound, inside which soldiers were drilling in formation and yelling out “sha!” (杀! ‘kill!) slogans. I pulled my scarf up to cover my face and hastened my pace in case someone suspected me of being a foreign spy.
There were a couple of long concrete road bridges that spanned the Yellow River before I eventually reached the outskirts of Dongying. Suddenly the road merged with another and became busy with traffic and I had to pay attention to the cars and vans now rushing past me.
At a third bridge I turned south and headed away from the river, towards the centre of Dongying. It was a raw industrial town with the local economy based on oil extraction and processing. A huge oil refinery covered several blocks and filled the air with acrid sickly fumes. Beyond it I came across the first of many backyard ‘pumpjack’ oil installation stations that I’d later see dotted about the region. Located incongruously in front of an apartment block, the pump’s horsehead beam was bobbing slowly up and down like a dinosaur bird pecking at the ground.
By late afternoon I was pulling back up to the door of the Jufeng Hotel, where the reception staff welcomed me back like an old friend.
“We don’t see many foreigners in Dongying, you are our first foreign guest,” beamed the young manager. “If you need anything let me know,” he added, giving me his business card.
After my bad experience with the e-bike-hating hostel manager in Weihai I was careful not to draw attention to it at this hotel. I simply folded it up and carried it as discreetly as possible to the lift and up to my room.
When I started to charge the battery in the room, I was startled by a sudden knock at the door. In a panic I pushed the charger out of sight under the bed, before opening the door a fraction. Outside in the corridor stood a female hotel clerk, smiling and proffering a bowl of fruit. “Ni hao - compliments of the manager,” she said.
I sighed with relief and hoped the rest of my tour would be as easy as this.
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| Route map: Yellow River Estuary to Dongying (click on image to enlarge) |
第3章: 三角洲启程：抽油机与飞鸟
黄河下游在山东境内入海，但情况并非历来如此。由于泥沙淤积和洪水泛滥，这条河流曾多次改道。19世纪前，黄河原本在山东半岛以南注入黄海。但1855年一场洪水引发的"决口"，使黄河河道剧烈北移400公里，在半岛以北形成了新的渤海入海口。
2025年4月，我抵达这片冲积平原准备开启黄河骑行之旅。距离海岸线70公里的东营市是最近的城镇，我从威海乘火车至此，途中在淄博换乘。这座依托中国第二大油田的石油工业城市平淡无奇。在廉价旅馆住了一晚后，我将折叠自行车塞进出租车，让司机载我到地图上标注的最近河口——黄河口生态旅游区。
车辆在沼泽与运河交织的平原行驶一小时后，停在一座崭新的游客中心前。与中国众多自然景区一样，黄河口已被改造成严格管理的旅游区，游客需购票乘坐观光车按固定路线游览。这彻底打乱了我从黄河精准入海口开始骑行的计划。当我推车到景区闸口询问能否骑车前往河口时，保安摇头指向售票处——前九公里必须和其他人一样坐观光车。好在60岁以上可享半价票优惠。
把自行车锁在停车场后，我登上一辆电动观光车。车辆沿着服务道路穿越没有树木的湿地平原，窗外可见野鸡、野鸭、海鸥和栖息在电线杆顶的鹳鸟，但黄河始终隐匿在视野之外。强劲的河口风吹得我浑身发抖，直到司机喊出"下车！"——终点站是孤零零矗立在平坦荒原上的现代玻璃立方体"河口管理中心"。
顶着风走到混凝土观景台，眼前是黄河最后的旅程。令人失望的是，在这里依然看不见大海。此时河面宽数百米，在低矮的草丛灌木间流向远方，渤海还在更远的地平线之外。泛着白浪的河水呈现奶油般的棕黄色，显示其富含从遥远内陆带来的泥沙——黄土高原侵蚀产生的细沙黏土颗粒经年累月在河道两侧堆积形成堤坝。每当春季水位上涨漫过堤岸，洪水就会肆虐周边平原，因此黄河被称为"中华之忧"。
观景台尽头的码头停着几艘随湍流剧烈晃动的摩托艇，虽然提供河道观光服务，但我觉得到此为止已足够。其他游客似乎也持相同看法，很快都回到了返程的观光车上。考虑到当天还有骑行计划，我同样跳过了游客中心的鸟类博物馆。出口处欣慰地发现自行车仍锁在原地，旁边新增了两辆挂着驮包的山地车。车主是两位中国老年骑友，他们刚从东北沿海南下抵达河口。当听说我要全程骑行黄河时，他们怀疑地打量着我的折叠车："太小了！"
我回应说大行自行车至少能支撑我穿越华北平原到西安，届时再根据情况调整内蒙古路段的装备。在例行自拍和微信互加好友后，他们竖起大拇指祝福我"一路顺风！"带着忐忑的心情，我在保安挥手目送下驶出停车场，踏上东营方向的笔直公路。
春寒料峭的日子里，庆幸海风是从背后推着我前进，也庆幸从桂林带来的厚实衣物。初始路段是穿越芦苇沼泽的漫长直道，车流稀少，让我能继续观鸟——反嘴鹬和戴胜在这里很常见，但在英国算稀有品种。骑行几公里后，路线偏离了来时的出租车轨迹，转入地图显示沿黄河延伸的乡道。实际上由于农田、堤坝和防护林的遮挡，只能偶尔瞥见河影。
完全平坦的地形让我首次真正检验大行电动车的长途性能。虽然说明书宣称满电可续航80公里，但根据以往经验，我认为实际续航约60公里更可信。若计划日行百公里，就必须节省电力，尤其要为爬坡路段预留电量。在无助力模式下，顺风时我能轻松保持20公里/小时时速；开启最低档"经济模式"则可巡航25公里/小时。驮包里只装了酒店住宿所需的轻量化装备，这让我骑行更为轻松。
服装延续了云南骑行的配置：透气速干T恤打底，外罩宽松多通风口的登山长袖衬衫，搭配轻薄徒步裤和旧款斯卡帕登山鞋。防风外套选用北极狐Skogso夹克——虽然不防水，但实践证明戈尔特克斯面料太闷热。考虑到多数时间天气干燥，我只备了件骑行雨披。没戴头盔而选择宽檐帽，因为比起颅骨骨折我更担心晒伤（作为澳大利亚人，我深知紫外线危害，此前已切除过两个疑似黑色素瘤）。后来发现手背一周就晒成深褐色，又添置了手套。
首日骑行确立的习惯将延续整个旅程：导航使用高德地图APP，设定东营为目的地并选择"骑行"模式。软件提供多条路线详情，包括距离、坡度及隧道桥梁等特征。手机固定在车把上，只需跟随GPS路线显示即可——便捷得简直像作弊。
沿着灌溉渠穿过空旷田野骑行约一小时后，我在小村庄停下觅食，找到一家售卖12元牛肉面的饭馆。重新上路时，途经某部队大院让我骤然紧张——院内士兵正列队操练，喊着"杀！杀！"的口号。我慌忙拉高围巾遮脸，加快蹬踏速度，生怕被当作外国间谍。
驶入东营郊区前，接连经过几座横跨黄河的混凝土公路长桥。道路突然与其他干道交汇，车流顿时密集起来，不得不提防身旁呼啸而过的卡车轿车。在第三座桥梁处转向南行，暂时告别黄河直奔东营市中心。这座粗犷的工业城镇以石油开采加工为命脉，占地数个街区的巨型炼油厂散发着刺鼻烟雾。厂区后方，我第一次见到后院式"磕头机"采油站——这种后来遍布油田的装置，其马头梁在公寓楼前不合时宜地缓缓摆动，宛如啄食的机械恐龙。
日暮时分回到巨丰酒店，前台像迎接老友般热情洋溢。"东营难得见到外国人，您是我们首位外宾，"年轻经理笑着递来名片，"有任何需求随时吩咐。
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