As envious as we were of Will's determination to explore his way out of the Nujiang Valley without backtracking, it turned out to be quite fortuitous that we stuck to the conventional out-and-back route. While cycling down the valley the day after we returned from Dulong, Matt suddenly felt a rhythmic bump in his back wheel. Pulling over to inspect it revealed a definitive crack in the rim that caused a concerning bulge the tire. It seemed that we had jinxed ourselves by discussing the likelihood of this happening with Will just a week prior. These were the original wheels from buying the bike four years ago and the brake pads had worn distinctive grooves in the rims over 10,000 miles of riding. 

On the upside, we didn't mind having a good excuse to skip over two days of backtracking to Liuku and readied our bikes and bags to hitch a ride in a truck. Despite being conveniently located next to a routine traffic police checkpoint with the vehicles already stopped, all we got were rejections. I looked up the world's for "broken", "help", and "hitchhike" in our Mandarin phrase book and approached the policeman on duty for assistance. He caught on, except for the hitchhike part, and directed a shared minivan taxi to pick us up. Lashing the bikes to the roof on top of each other was not as damaging as we had imagined, nor was the "efficient" (translation: scary crazy) journey back to Liuku as expensive as we had dreaded. We were also surprised to recognize one of the passengers as a Dulong woman we had partied with in Bapo!

In Liuku, we begrudgingly reunited with the rest of our belongings, but still refused to get rid of any of them. It seems that our obsessions with self-sufficiency, worst-case scenario preparedness, frugality, and not planning the future combine forces to make us overly attached to the ridiculous contents of our panniers. Examples range from scuba dive masks that were once useful in Thailand to thick gloves we bought for trekking in Nepal, but maybe we will go back to the ocean, or maybe we will find winter somewhere again, so...let's just repack them!

From Liuku, we took an all-day bus ride to Kunming, "city of eternal spring", so the saying goes regarding its perfect climate. The first order of business was beginning the frustratingly bureaucratic process of getting ridiculously expensive visas for Vietnam. We will spare you the details, but basically it involved getting three different answers from three different staff each time we asked the same question. The second order of business was heading to Pegasus Cycling, a recommended bike shop with a charismatic owner, Hui Li, who passionate about cycle touring. Also a popular Warm Showers host, we admired Hui's photo display of bicycle travelers who've spent the night in his shop over the last few years. 

After two new wheels were built for Matt's bike, we joined Hui on a weekend ride with his cycling club. Sometimes we feel a little self-conscious about how we dress as cycletourers since we sport more "formal" gear than most. However, with the Chinese cyclists gathering in front of Pegasus that Saturday morning, we fit right in with our helmets, gloves, spandex shorts, and cycle jerseys. In fact, we were the ones that looked laid back in comparison to their full body spandex and sun-shielding face masks. Somehow we navigated through Kunming's traffic and out into the 'burbs under development as a loose peloton of about twenty. The 50-mile ride was not always the most scenic or enjoyable with a decent amount of truck traffic, but the destination of Fuxian Lake was unquestionably a worthwhile reward. 

As a popular weekend getaway for Kunmingers, the lake is lined with beachside restaurants. We took over one of them and spent the afternoon swimming in the refreshing clear water and continuing to socialize with the welcoming and friendly cycle club members. Dinner was a feast of family style dishes interrupted by many toasts of a strong corn-based liquor from a flask so big it required two hands to pour. As hungry cyclists, we did a better than average job of finishing the copious quantities of food typical of Chinese dining. That night we created a tightly-packed tent city amongst parked vehicles in a field next to the restaurant. Our extra-large Hilleberg tent drew a lot of attention and many folks came over just to poke their head inside.

The next day was just like the first day, but in reverse. After munching some watermelon and saying our goodbyes back at Pegasus Cycles, we celebrated our third wedding anniversary a few days after the fact with a splurge for dinner and craft beer at Brooklyn Pizzeria. It was impressively authentic and definitely the best pizza we have had in Asia. Our wedding anniversary also coincided with exactly one year of travel on the Before It's Gone Journey, so it was only appropriate that the bicycle connectivity continued when a young man named Tavish spotted our bikes parked outside of the restaurant and tracked us down. He is the proud owner of a Surly Long Haul Trucker as well, which he has already ridden from Kunming to Lhasa with more trips in the works.

While we waited for our Vietnam visas to be ready, we succumbed to more of the pricey temptations of Kunming's Western food scene. We had eaten local Chinese food continuously for more than a month, so we savored every bite of variety. Our go-to place was Salvador's, where we were in awe of avocados on the menu for the first time on our journey. Sliced avocado on burgers and guacamole with burritos were in order. Their homemade bagels became another staple in our temporarily exotic diet. Another great spot was O'Reilly's Irish Pub, serving Guiness but also specializing in Belgian beers. We got chatting with the owner Tim, who pulled a few Vedett drafts for us on the house when we discovered our mutual Marin County history.

We delayed our departure from Kunming as long as possible when Matt came down with a nasty little flu. Fortunately, he was on the mend by the time we took a bus to the Hekou-Lao Cai border crossing with Vietnam. Figuring out the logistics for stamping out of China was a bit of a process, but eventually we walked our bikes across a pedestrian and motorbike bridge and entered a new country, only the sixth one in just over a year travel. That night we took a somewhat decrepit overnight train to Hanoi, getting a few hours of poor sleep by contorting ourselves into creative positions in our shabby seats.

Making our way over to the Old Quarter early in the morning was a calm, peaceful introduction to Hanoi, but trying to check in to a hotel was a bit of a rude awakening. The Old Quarter is quite crowded and cramped; space is at a premium with tiny hotel lobbies and even smaller rooms stacked up in narrow building on the floors above. While everyone was quite polite about it, they were also quite firm that our bicycles would have to stay outside on a crowded sidewalk during the day, only to be brought in when the hotel locked its doors at night. We did not have a kickstand with which we could wedge them between all the mopeds cluttering the sidewalk, and we didn't trust that hired security guards would be quite vigilant enough to deter "interest" in our unique bikes.

After a multi-hour search, we negotiated a solution with our otherwise top choice of lodging called the Hanoi Blue Sky Hotel 2. We wheeled our bikes into an elevator and locked them to the balcony of the dorm room on the sixth floor, not exactly easily accessible, but sufficiently secure. We very rarely take naps, but they were in order that afternoon since we had a social evening ahead of us. First, we met up with a cycle touring couple whom we had connected with through Twitter. Claire and Andre, traveling as Punctures and Panniers, were taking the train to Lao Cai that evening, but we managed to fit in a lively exchange of our experiences over our first mugs of bia hoi, Hanoi's famous fresh beer. 

Our conversation was briefly interrupted when a disgruntled customer began flinging the hefty beer glasses across the restaurant, shrapnel landing all around us. There is an influential phenomenon in Asia known as "face". People will go to great lengths to avoid conflict in order to "save face", but when the line has been crossed and someone has "lost face", then watch out. A whole series of passive-aggressive behaviors may ensue, or some overtly dramatic actions that ultimately result in a further loss of face, such as the event we witnessed. Despite the apparent risks, we chose a different bia hoi joint across the street later that evening to catch up with Kerri, our friend from NatureBridge and our reason for traveling to Hanoi. She had just arrived from Laos for our meet up as well.

The next four days was a thorough exploration of Hanoi with Kerri. On our first day, we didn't stray far from the Old Quarter with so much to take in just within its compact boundaries. As with anyone who arrives in Hanoi as their introduction to Vietnam, we were fascinated with simple scenes of daily life on the streets. Women wearing pajamas and conical hats selling fruit from their bikes, mobile restaurants in baskets hung from yokes balanced across a shoulder blade, barber shops on the sidewalk, offerings to ancestors left in the most unlikely of places, but casually sidestepped with respect. 

Of course, food and drink provided a focal point to our otherwise aimless wandering. First off, we were surprised to find a newly opened nitrogen-based ice cream parlor in the spirit of our beloved Smitten in San Francisco, so that was our mid-morning treat. After that, Vietnamese coffee stole the show at the trendy Cong Cafe where we discovered that yogurt, coconut milk, and even whipped egg are all delicious mixers with potent shots of brew, though not in the same serving, of course.

We strolled around the tranquil Hoan Kiem lake before grabbing a seat on the balcony of Legend Beer specifically to watch the fascinating flow of traffic through one of Hanoi's busiest intersections. It was an absolute free-for-all of primarily motorbikes, but also taxis, busses, cyclos, bicycles, pedestrians, and occasionally a personal car. Somehow it all worked with no collisions or fatalities witnessed within the life span of our pints. 

Next up was another quintessential Hanoi experience: a water puppet show. Not quite sure of what to expect, I was instantly enamored with the antics of wooden puppets splashing about in a pool of water while the puppeteers stood behind a screen and use controls submersed in the water. A series of vignettes set to traditional music depicted everyday rural life with rice planting, riding water buffaloes, and fishing. More fanciful numbers included fireworks spewing sparks from dragons' mouths and phoenixes hatching from eggs.

We ventured further afield the next morning with Kerri on a rented bicycle. We rode across the historical Long Bien Bridge, a local symbol of resistance in the American War, as it is called in Vietnam. The decrepit bridge has a lot of character and provided nice views of the Red River as well. We continued the bike tour around Truc Bach Lake and West Lake, of course fortifying ourselves with food and beverage every couple of miles. We enjoyed snacks and apple-included rice wine at Mau Dich 37, which Lonely Planet perfectly describes as "a unique exercise in nostalgia" since it is "styled after a government-run food shop from the impoverished period after 1976." To counteract the effects of the rice wine, it became imperative to transition a coffee shop if the ride was going to continue. Kerri doesn't normally drink coffee, but she handled a caffeine buzz quite well, even after multiple samples of potent shots of filtered coffee over sweetened condensed milk, the Vietnamese way. It tasted like drinking a chocolate-covered espresso bean! We were instantly hooked and she came pretty close too.

We filled the remaining days with Kerri by visiting some of Hanoi's more formal attractions, such as Bach Ma Temple and the Temple of Literature. All of these demonstrated a strong Chinese presence in Vietnam's history, frequently cited as "a thousand years of Chinese occupation." We also took a cruise by Uncle Ho's resting place, but we had arrived too late in the morning to be admitted into the austere looking mausoleum, an excellent example of Soviet-style architecture.

About the time we were actually able to effectively navigate the Old Quarter, it was time for Kerri to leave for Shanghai. The four days we spent together were a wonderful chance to catch up with her, feel a closer connection to home, and get a thorough introduction to a fascinating city at the same time.

​We stayed in Hanoi for another week, but our focus was "getting stuff done" rather than having fun. I would be soon be leading a No Barriers Youth trip in Beijing and Shanghai, a repeat of the program that determined the start point of Before It's Gone Journey a year prior. Preparation for this included the multi-step process of applying for a new Chinese visa, background reading, a thorough briefing from No Barriers staff on Skype, and storing my bicycle and gear with a Warm Showers host. Meanwhile, Matt was preoccupied with figuring out how he would fill his time in Vietnam while I was gone. Working on the blog, creating videos, fixing up the bikes, and regular life errands filled in the remaining gaps of time. Eating meals became the only time we were actually present in the moment and appreciated the fact that we were in Hanoi. We chowed on all sorts of cheap noodles and frequented many banh mi carts in search of the best. Weeks such as this one used to make us feel guilty that we weren't making the most of every opportunity to travel, but we have come to accept that they are a necessity when your daily life is on the road.

Heading in to the Dulong Valley in the rain, we anticipated the occasional rockfall. What we weren't expecting to encounter was snake-fall! The sizable reptile lost its grip on the slippery face of the road cut and hit the edge of the road just as my wheels passed by. I screeched to a stop--not that I was going that fast up the endless hill--but only managed to get a blurry snapshot before it regained its composure and retreated into a crevice in the rock wall.
 
We had departed Bingzoulao in the upper Nujiang Valley that morning, our efforts to get going earlier than usual thwarted by the temptation of an unexpected street market and saying goodbye to our cycling companion Will over a dumpling breakfast. It was afternoon by the time we made the turnoff and began a gradual 25-mile long climb on an amazingly smooth, newly-paved, but traffic-free road. We weren't even sure if the Dulong Valley was open to foreigners, having heard accounts of restricted access within the last few years. At the only checkpoint we encountered, we ducked under a barricade and waved to the teenage police that we spotted through the open doorway of an adjacent building. They didn't bother to get up from the couches they were lounging on, so we figured we were in the clear.
 

​​ I have mentioned before that it seems there are some people in this world that you are meant to be connected to in some way, shape, or form. Our overlap with Will began before we even met him in person. About a year ago, I was searching for information about the feasibility of putting our bikes on a train to Lhasa. I came across a post on Lonely Planet's Thorn Tree forum asking the same question, but unfortunately without any conclusive responses. I then contacted the travel company we were booking our tour with and was told that they had already unsuccessfully inquired with the train station on behalf of another client. As we would be training it to Lhasa shortly before this other fellow, I offered to share the details of our experience with him.

While we were hanging out in the common area of a hostel in Xining, a blonde guy of Thor-like proportions pushed his bike in, a bit disheveled from an intense ride across far western China. After just a couple responses to the usual introductory questions that travelers tend to swap--names being the last priority--I interrupted him to ask, "You're William Clifford?" To which he relied, "Why yes I am!" with a slightly puzzled look. I explained, "I'm supposed to email you after we take the train to Lhasa." Not only that, but he had also written the post I had seen earlier on the Thorn Tree forum.

We met up with Will a second time in Kathmandu after our respective tours through Tibet. After that, our paths diverged but we kept tabs on his progress through India, Bangladesh, and Burma. While we were heading north in the Yunnan Province of China, he was working out the bureaucratic logistics of crossing from Burma into the Yunnan, despite the widespread belief that this border is closed to foreigners. It appeared that we would be within cycling distance of each other if he successfully crossed the border. He did, making it happen through his stubbornness and creative strategizing, perhaps with a little bit of good luck thrown in too. We were both interested in exploring the Nujiang Valley, so it seemed like the perfect place to meet up.

The Nu river originates from glacial melt on the Tibetan Plateau, descends through the Yunnan, continues into Burma where it is called the Salween, then briefly forms the border with Thailand before emptying in to the Andaman Sea. It is one of the longest free-flowing rivers in the world and one of only two major rivers in China that have not been dammed. Of course, that is soon set to change with the revival of a controversial dam extravaganza proposal in China that had previously been shut down by protests launched by the Chinese environmental movement. Myanmar is moving forward with its own dam(n) plans as well. 

We would be cycling along the section of Nu constrained by a long narrow valley nicknamed "The Grand Canyon of the East" where several of the dreaded dams are scheduled to harness the river's powerful descent. Apparently the gorge is 13,000 feet deep (presumably measured from distant glaciated peaks rather than the immediate summits of hills that hem it in), a product of the same tectonic plate collision that created the Himalayas. The dramatic topography of the region and the associated variation of climates has created incredible biodiversity. Lonely Planet claims that "the gorge holds nearly a quarter of China’s flora and fauna species, and half of China’s endangered species." 

For what it is worth, some sections of Nujiang are included in a complex of fifteen protected areas established in 2003. They are known as The Three Parallel Rivers of Yunnan UNESCO World Heritage Sites. UNESCO cites a criteria of the designation as the belief that it "may be the most biologically diverse temperate region on earth." Until recently, its historical remoteness has protected its cultural diversity as well, with several of the Yunnan's twenty-five ethnic minorities residing there. As with anywhere in China, Han-centric modernization and integration policies are now rapidly altering the cultural make-up and way of life in the valley.

Looking up the valley from its abrupt entrance, we were excited for the many miles that lay ahead. The lowest reaches of the valley were similar to the landscape we had been recently riding through, but now we had the focal point of a tremendous muddy river and the dramatic hillsides that hemmed it in. Agriculturally, this was the land of lychees and mangoes and apparently we were hitting it at the peak of the season. After passing by countless roadside mango stands, we finally stopped to buy a few, but they were so cheap that we ended up with many. Next, we were tempted by lychees. I thought I was getting half of a pre-packaged "bouquet", but through communication challenges I ended up with several kilos worth. Then they threw some free mangoes in to boot. The next stop was an unusual sight for a country where Nescafé is king: a roadside stand offering free samples of locally grown Yunnan coffee! The proprietor ground the beans in a classic manual grinder and brewed the deliciousness up in a contraption reminiscent of chemistry experiment. A new twist on our favorite drink was a dollop of coffee flower blossom honey for a sweet kick. After that, we were handed expertly peeled mangoes and sent off with several more on the house. We were hauling at least fifteen pounds of fruit by then and dared not stop anywhere else for fear of more free mangoes. Yes, there are certainly worse problems to be had out there.

We thought the steps of a roadside monument outside of a village would be a safe spot to actually consume some of the fruit we had accumulated, but within minutes some of the residents spied the random people and came over to investigate. The usual smiles and giggles led to the usual elaborate photo shoot and soon we were offered packets of sticky rice steamed in banana leaves. We learned through the basic translation app we were using to communicate that this was special holiday food prepared for the Dragon Boat Festival. We unwrapped the packets and dipped them in thick molasses that accompanied them, creating a massively gooey mess in our hands as we ate. We let the spontaneous roadside party run its course, but decided to push on despite the late hour of the afternoon. After a long day of riding through rural areas, we were quite caught off guard when approached a collection of tall buildings framed with neon lights. The bustling city of Liuku seemed so out of sync with the rest of the valley. 

We had reached Liuku ahead of Will. We tried to convince him just how "leisurely" we ride, but he was certain he wouldn't close the gap if we kept moving up the valley. Always happy to have an excuse for a rest day, we spent an extra day there to wait for him to catch up. He put in a couple of huge days and rolled into town in the late afternoon. Wearing a bright yellow tunic printed with red elephants, a decomposing leather hat, and sporting a beard that hadn't been tamed since Kolcutta, he had perfected the "vagabond-on-a-bicycle" look since we last saw him. 

Truth be told, we were a little nervous to ride with someone else, wondering if our styles would mesh and our routines would be compatible. We worried that we would be too boring for him after months of adventuring through intense situations. Those concerns evaporated within the first few miles of heading out of Liuku the next morning. Within an hour, we had laughed more than in the past week combined. And all joking aside, Will balanced his laid back flexibility with an ability to also tactfully communicate his priorities as needed. For our part, we did our best to conceal our habitual bickering couple dynamic and enjoyed being social with someone besides each other. 

Upstream of Liuku, the gorge began to narrow and the valley turned greener, a theme that would continue all of the way up the valley. At least one of the three of us was inspired to stop at nearly every new bend in the road, so our collective progress was slow, another theme that would continue for the duration of our time together. But with so much beauty to take in, why rush? On the first day alone, Will flew across the river on a zip line that locals use in lieu of a bridge, we explored a cave containing a Buddhist shrine, we were mesmerized by rapids that would flip any raft in a split second, we watched rockfall on the opposite river bank, and of course we posed for an excessive photo shoot for domestic tourists, including some monks on vacation.

So it was only appropriate that we met a gregarious old woman, whom we later nicknamed Mama, while we were stopped along the stretch of road below her village. She didn't speak a word of English, but it was clear that she wanted us to follow her home. We pushed our bikes to her house at the top of the hillside settlement and were offered a thermos of hot water while sitting on little stools on her porch. This was certainly a nice gesture, but what we really needed was a place to spend the night! Through the universal symbol for sleep, we secured a spare room while her daughters shyly observed us from a distance, trying to figure out exactly how and why we were moving in to their home for a night.

We were soon served dinner from a very basic kitchen, featuring grilled meat and, of course, heaps of rice. When the family gathered in the living room that evening, Mama got the party started by putting on a DVD of traditional dance, presumably of the Lisu people, but we were not knowledgable enough to be certain since there are many ethnic minorities residing in Nujiang Valley. Mama and the least shy daughter began dancing in the middle of the living room, and it wasn't long before the weary bicycle travelers were pulled off the couches as well, no doubt providing amusement at how awkwardly we imitated their steps in the revolving group circle. 

When the energy for dancing waned, we returned to our stations on the couches. This time a very drunk son-in-law took a particular interest in "conversing" with Will. Each time he said something, unintelligible to us whether he was drunk or sober, Mama would slap my thigh, point at them from across the room, and crack up with hearty cackle, which of course cracked me up too. As tears of laughter streamed down her face, she would lift her shirt up to wipe them away, freely exposing her breasts, thus spurring a few more giggles from our end each time. This sequence repeated itself countless times until she abruptly announced that it was time for bed. While the family fell asleep, we finally changed out of our cycling clothes and found our way to a bucket shower, before settling in on a thin woven matt serving as the mattress on a wooden platform bed.

We slept in long after the family was awake the next morning. They generously cooked up a breakfast quite similar to dinner while we loaded up the bicycles. When we conveyed our gratitude with a modest donation to Mama, she waved it away and implored us to stay longer. While spontaneous homestays are usually fun and inevitably memorable, they are also energy intensive. We were ready to keep moving, but we were all quite tired that day too. We opted to stop rather early in Fugon, a population center with a generic Chinese city feel to it.

The following day we passed by Nujiang's most famous sight, the Stone Moon, which is actually a roundish hole in a rocky ridge line. That evening, it seemed like camping would be an enjoyable option, but Matt and I figured that finding a spot would be a real challenge. Since flat land is so limited in the narrow valley bottom, it seems every inch is utilized for houses, roads, or crops. Even then, corn is planted in crazy and random places, a few stalks squeezed in here and there, right up to the edge of the road. Fortunately, we had a wild camping enthusiast with us who rode ahead to scout out potential sites, focusing on the sandy beaches along the calmer stretches of river. Will found one that looked idyllic across the river, so we crossed a suspension bridge to a village and asked a group of locals if we could camp there. They pointed us down a trail that cut through their property, but it proved to be unfeasible to get our bicycles all the way down to the beach. Conveniently enough, we also passed by an abandoned building on the way, so we took over the porch and overgrown grassy yard, still sleeping within feet of a cornfield of course.

The pattern of hot sunny days had shifted to cool and cloudy weather the following day. As we crossed the suspension bridge to return to the main road, we looked back and noticed that our desired camping beach was mostly underwater! A rainstorm in the night had raised the water level just enough to make us grateful we didn't get down there. 

That afternoon we officially entered the UNESCO protected area and soon after faced a series of steep inclines. The previous days had been surprisingly gradual in their elevation gain as we continually traveled up the valley. The climb afforded us the stunning view of what is referred to as "The First Bend", where the Nu makes a dramatic curve around a peninsula within the deep valley walls below. This complimented the dramatic first look at Bingzoulao laid out on a sloping shelf high above the river yet far below the traces of snowy mountains partially obscured by clouds in the distance.

We settled in to the Road to Tibet Hostel, an accurate name as long as you are a Chinese national, since foreigners can not enter Tibet unless by train or plane along with a prearranged permit. The guesthouse is run by Aluo, an intrepid guy who's a knowledgeable resource for exploring the area. That night we celebrated reaching our "destination" with beers at a cozy restaurant frequented by Tibetans and basketball players, both in their respective forms of typical dress.

Bingzoulao was a pleasant enough base, so we stayed for few of days. After a leisurely morning  involving multiple breakfasts the day after we arrived, we were motivated enough for an afternoon hike to "Peach Blossom Island." As we headed down the road toward the river, we noted a distinctive cycle touring bike parked outside of an upscale hostel. It belonged to a Chinese fellow who had been on the road for a couple of years. Overcoming the usual communication challenges, Will got some long sought after and essential beta from him on new roads heading east out of the upper Nujiang Valley, avoiding the substantial backtrack down to Liuku. The chance meet up confirmed a hunch we had developed from hearing stories of Will's previous adventures in addition to spending a few days traveling with him. Simply summarized, all we can say is, "Where there's a Will, there's a way!" As for us, we had already resigned ourselves to the out and back trip, believed to be the only option by numerous travel sources, since we had left our excess belongings at our odd hotel in Liuku. 

After the route finding connection, Will and the Chinese cyclist were two peas in a pod while he accompanied us as an informal guide through the village on Peach Blossom Island. He returned while we continued on to see The First Bend from river level, finding our way around the hump of land the flowing water encircles. 

The next day we took a day ride further upstream towards the Tibetan border. On the way, we paused in the courtyard of a landmark Catholic Church while locals in both traditional and Western dress arrived for mass. Further along, we were intrigued by a church that seemingly blended Christian and Buddhist iconography and architecture. Missionaries have been hard at work targeting the ethnic minority groups since the late nineteenth century. They even created a script for the Lisu language known as the Fraser Alphabet, involving upside down and backwards Roman letters. A translation of the Bible was their next move, of course. 

We had no choice about our next stop at a police checkpoint where we had to register our passport details in case we tried to sneak in to Tibet. We didn't even make it close, first opting to take a side road up to a random village for a look around. A nice viewpoint back along the main road seemed like a logical turnaround, so we snapped some photos at the furthest point up the Nujiang we would explore, but the adventurous part of the trip was yet to come.

On the way back, we thought it would be cool to ride on what is purportedly a section of the historical Tea-Horse Road. In the same vein as the Silk Road, it was network of trade routes between Tibet and the lowlands to facilitate the trade of horses for tea, among other items. We crossed a modest bridge and cautiously began down a trail that had been chiseled out of a vertical cliff face. Will crouched over his handle bars to fit under the overhanging rock and I ducked too, but simply out of instinct rather than necessity. The trail narrowed to single track with an adrenaline-inducing drop off straight into the river below. I had no qualms about getting off my bike and walking a few sections, but the boys rode all of it. In less than a mile, the trail dropped us into the scenic village of Wuli, so picture-perfect that it might even be preserved as is by the Chinese government as a token example of traditional life. Less desirable villages have been rebuilt with more modern and quite uniform houses throughout the valley, giving communities a strangely suburban housing development look frequently see in the States, but a bit more modest.

Not much was going on in the village as we rode through it, but leaving on a different trail connecting to another bridge downstream proved to be the most adventurous part of our outing. After riding on the edge of a terraced cornfield, only once crumbling underneath me causing a minor crash into some stalks, the trail became too steep and narrow to ride. Then it plunged down toward the river with a series of wooden ladders and makeshift ledges built across sections of mass erosion. We were so close to the bridge that we opted to carry our bikes down the ladders instead of backtracking, although I'm sure it took more time and effort in the end. So much for an easy rest day!

After one more true rest day in Bingzoulao involving writing, bike maintenance, and even a movie night, we parted ways with Will. We failed to convince him to come with us to the Dulong Valley, a side trip to this side trip in a more remote valley accessed from Nujiang. He had his exploratory route heading east over the mountains to Lijiang to tackle; the Dulong was a week-long distraction to the west. While our respective journeys would later take us to some of the same places, it would no longer be at the same time. 

It had been a week made memorable by both the excellent company and the specialness of the place. Developing a firsthand connection to Nujiang makes its uncertain future all the more worrisome. Whether by dams or the valley's inevitable discovery by masses of domestic tourists, biodiversity will suffer. Which is not to say that the river is in pristine condition now. Eddies were routinely filled with swirling chunks of styrofoam and partially burned garbage overflowed containment pits along the river banks. As if seeing this wasn't painful enough, we witnessed employees of a local hospital unloading bag after bag of bloody medical waste from a beat up ambulance and tossing it straight into the water. Yep, in broad daylight. 
​
It is times like this when travel is a reminder of just how disempowering it is to be an outsider. What could we do but watch? If the Chinese government wants those dams built, who in this world can stop them? While travelers may be disempowered to intentionally create change in the places they briefly pass through, the process of travel is ultimately empowering. Awareness is more acute, knowledge is more impactful, inspiration is more lasting. Call it what you will, but travel's potential to effect change is best fulfilled in whatever place the traveler happens to call home. As for us, while we didn't exactly have access the incredible biodiversity of Nujiang, we at least got to see its overall beauty before it's gone.

It was one of those border crossings where we felt suddenly transported to another world, not just another country, although China had already spilt over to the Laos side of the border with a cluster of generic gambling hotels and a luxury mega-resort in the works. Although we were forewarned by this bizarre Chinese vacation enclave known as Boten, it was still a bit of a shock to roll in to a highly-developed city just across the border, well, at least compared to Laos. Being our second time to enter China, everything felt so different and so familiar at the same time.

We left the next morning with a new driver and a new guide, who had not been informed that we would be wrangling two bicycles into the back of the minivan. The explanation for having a new driver was that is was "the busy season," whereas our first guide had to report in person to the police for a previous driving citation or risk losing his license. Our new guide, Nawang, looked like he was about fourteen, but claimed to be nineteen. Regardless, his texting habits and general cell phone attachment were on par with his American peers.

Our drive roughly southward brought us to viewpoints of Yamdrok Lake, another holy lake that is shaped like a scorpion from a Google Earth perspective. After traveling along its shores, we stopped for lunch and tried the infamous yak butter tea. We were pleasantly surprised at how drinkable the slightly thickened concoction of black tea, salt, and of course yak butter was. It reminded me a little of plain yogurt mixed with salty soup broth, and it was easy to understand how this is comforting sustenance to Tibetans in such a harsh environment. 

In the afternoon we visited an unique religious structure called a stupa in the city of Gyantse. Imagine a giant white tiered wedding cake, where pilgrims and tourists can walk around each layer, pausing to peer in to small dark rooms holding shrines to deities. This Kumbum stupa is the largest remaining in Tibet with an imposing fortress perched on a nearby hilltop and guard walls snaking along the length of the ridge line. 

Onwards to Shigatse in the evening light, we stayed at an ornately decorated palace-like hotel where confusion surrounding our request for a queen room once again resulted in a nice upgrade. We didn't have much time to enjoy it though as we had arrived late and still had to seek out dinner, successfully keeping with the Tibetan theme. Patronizing only Tibetan-owned restaurants while in Tibet helps their survival in the face of increasing competition from Chinese-owned businesses, as well as raising the percentage of locally produced food in our meals. Besides, we had definitely had enough Chinese food for a while.

Already our seventh day in Tibet, we barely managed to eek out a breakfast at the buffet overrun with Chinese tourists beginning their extended national holiday break. One man piled his plate high with rolls, leaving just one behind. He turned to Matt, pointed at the lone roll, and said "Enough," clearly intended to imply that he was not being greedy because he left one for us to share. Incredible...

Despite the hungry start to our day, we enjoyed walking around yet another monastery. While many elements are the same, the specific history, context, and atmosphere of each one keeps it interesting while experiencing its unique "personality." Our guide was busy getting yet another government permit for us, this one with the lovely name of "Alien Travel Permit," so we were left to simply observe and take in the Tashi Lhumpo monastery on our own. 

Without a guide to focus on, our attention gravitated to the devoted worshippers who dutifully poured more yak butter into already overflowing vats with rows of lit wicks embedded in to them. A monk would dutifully scoop out the excess yak butter into a plastic container, leaving a cavity for the next worshipper to fill. Prostrations and offerings of bills in minuscule denominations, ironically all with Chairman Mao's portrait on them, were also made in front of key statues. It appears that the main occupation of the monks present in the chapels was counting money, secondary only to controlling yak butter levels in the lamps. Most pilgrims whipped through each room at a breakneck pace with so many deities to visit, but their speed conveyed a sense of purpose rather than ambivalence or disregard. More than anything else that we witnessed, these acts of pure and genuine devotion gave me hope for the survival of Tibet in some form, whose religion is inseparable from every other aspect of its culture.

The Tashi Lhumpo monastery was the historical residence of the Panchen Lama, the second most important spiritual figure after the Dalai Lama. Since the invasion, the Chinese government has installed their choice of Panchen Lama successors, of course disregarding the traditional process where the Dalai Lama conducts a thorough search for the reincarnation of the previous Panchen Lama. When the tenth Panchen Lama died under suspect circumstances, having been Chinese-groomed but evolving into a vocal advocate for Tibet, the Dalai Lama identified a six-year old boy as the correct successor. The Chinese government instead bestowed on him the honor of becoming the world's youngest political prisoner and forced the hand of Tashi Lhumpo's lamas to promote the Chinese-approved son of Communist Party members as the next Panchen Lama. The Dalai Lama-appointed boy and his family have not been seen since...so...will the real Panchen Lama please stand up!?!

After some drive time and lunch break, we visited--you guessed it--another monastery! This one was memorable for its immense library; the high-ceilinged corridor felt like it was lifted straight out of Hogwarts. This feeling was enhanced by the fact that the sacred texts do not look anything like a regular book. They are long rectangular bricks of pages sandwiched between a thick wood cover and wrapped in brightly colored cloth. 

Regional clouds rolled in as we finished our visit at Sakya monastery, thus obscuring what would otherwise be our first views of the Himalaya and Mt. Everest as we crossed over a 5400 meter (17,700 feet) pass and headed to the highway strip of Shegar to overnight before heading toward Everest Base Camp early the next morning.

Leaving with the first morning light did not equate with an early arrival at EBC, as the majority of the 100 kilometers (62 miles) were along a rough bumpy road in a vehicle less than ideal for the trip. We were informed that the four wheel drive vehicles had all been rented by Chinese tourists at highly inflated prices, so travel agencies put foreign tourists in all the leftover vehicles, since they are generally unwilling to pay any more for their already expensive tour. 

The vehicle turned out to be the least important thing we were competing with the Chinese tourists for. When we finally arrived at Tent Camp, a collection of 40 or so black tents set up in an inward-facing rectangle on a barren rocky field, we discovered that the alleged reservation we had for beds in a tent was supposedly outbid by Chinese tourists. Our guide and driver seemed at a loss for what to do, but eventually began timidly poking their heads into a few other tents, coming back to report that all of them were full. Here we forcefully suggested to our guide that if the Chinese were "stealing" reservations, then he simply needed to pay more than what they offered to re-secure our reservation. After some more time wandering around, we don't know how he did it since communication was not his strong point, we ended up in a tent with a beautiful and friendly hostess. 

After a quick but less than filling lunch of instant ramen, we walked the remaining four kilometers up to the official Everest Base Camp. When we arrived, the all-important peak was hidden by clouds. We decided to wait for an opening from the viewpoint bedecked with mounds of prayer flags, perhaps due more to a few persistent prayer flag salesmen pestering the tourists than actually being a location of great spiritual value to Tibetans. Combatting the biting wind with only a light jacket and scarf wrapped around his head like a ninja, our guide quickly got too cold and opted for a bus ride back to tent camp while we huddled in a windbreak. Our patience paid off and the panorama of white colossal mountains soon cleared of clouds for longer than our dropping body temperatures allowed us to remain stationary. We warmed up quickly though on our brisk walk back down to tent camp, peering back often at Qomolangma, the Tibetan name for the highest mountain on Earth, meaning "Goddess Mother of the Universe."

The tent was cozy from the wood burning stove, as well as six Czech cyclists who we talked with enviously. The twenty days it would take to cycle the same route we were doing in a week was simply out of range for our travel budget. Since the guide and driver would still be required to follow slowly in a vehicle behind us, our environmental impact would have been greater as well. We could have at least cycled from tent camp up to the viewpoint, but we did not want to deal with the hassle of getting the bicycles out of the van. Ironically, when we returned on foot, our driver made us unload everything so he could rescue a fellow driver and passengers from a vehicle breakdown along the rough road. Wedging the eight panniers into every nook and cranny of the tent certainly added to its coziness as well. 

Our two beds were really one long narrow ledge, which really didn't work with our one Big Agnes double sleeping bag. Meanwhile a perfect double bed sat empty, reserved for some Chinese tourists who never showed up. Perhaps from altitude, but more likely from the uncomfortable bed situation, we were awake in the middle of the night to witness the bizarre police patrol that silently entered the tent, shined bright flashlights on all the sleeping folks as well as us, then left. Apparently, they visit each tent every night to ensure that no one is over their quota of guests in order to keep the profits equitable among all tents. It seemed unnecessary this particular night as every bed in tent camp was full. This is the work that occupies police at the highest police station in the world, and by police station I do mean police tent. On the other hand, the highest post office (tent) in the world was a happening place, with nonstop postcard selling and stamping, thus sending hand-scribbled musings of the novelty of it all 'round the world.

The next morning dawned cold and clear, with a dusting of snow covering the ground as well as our bicycles locked up just outside of our tent. Throngs of people wandered out across the open expanse beyond tent camp to photograph Everest in the early golden light. Even more throngs of people were lined up to take the shuttle bus up to base camp; you could feel the tension in the air as people calculated how many bus loads were ahead of them and would they miss the morning light? Would they beat the clouds? We were relieved that we had visited the afternoon before at our leisurely pace of walking both ways.

Surprisingly, our driver returned from his overnight rescue mission right on time. We reloaded the van with our bicycles and gear and mentally prepared for another long day of sitting in the vehicle. Except for a brief visit to Rongbuk Monastery, the highest in the world (of course), the only other sightseeing stops were for roadside photos and more roadside time-killing before reaching the speed checkpoints. Amazingly, in one day we descended from EBC at approximately 5,200 meters (17,000 feet) to lush, humid forest with waterfalls cascading down every slope at the Tibet-Nepal border, hovering around 2,700 meters (8,850 feet). We literally drove to the edge of the Tibetan Plateau and nose-dived down the steep side of it until we reached Zhangmu, a border town that looks and feels a whole lot more like China than Tibet.

That evening we shared a really nice dinner with our guide and driver, as well as a few beers. Ironically, this farewell evening held the best conversation of the whole trip as they seemed to suddenly open up as well as take a personal interest in us for the first time. I am sure the beers had something to do with it. The conversation did hit a standstill when I asked what they think foreigners can do to help Tibet. Some words were exchanged between them, but nothing got translated back to us. It was a question we had been pondering on our tour, and one with no easy answers of course. While the thought of Tibet regaining its political sovereignty seems far-fetched after so many decades of occupation, there is still a cultural and spiritual Tibet worth fighting for the preservation of. "Free Tibet!" is not yet an irrelevant slogan of the past.

One of the Chinese government's main justifications for its behavior in Tibet is that it is bringing economic prosperity and development to the region. While to a certain degree this is the case, Tibetans largely remain excluded from well-paid and/or powerful positions and have to compete with highly-networked Chinese businesses on all fronts. For example, in the tourism sector, there are many Chinese companies that provide a mass tourism experience at a cheaper cost. A simple but powerful choice that foreign tourists should definitely make is to book a tour with a Tibetan-owned and operated company, especially one that is listed on the excellent website Tibet Ecotravel Collective. These companies not only give Tibetans employment that encourages them to take pride in sharing their culture, but they pledge environmental and social responsibility as well. For example, we chose Explore Tibet who gives ten percent of its profits to assist rural communities in improvement projects requested by members of the community itself. This in turn helps maintain the integrity of a traditional lifestyle and provides resilience against influences such as the urban migration of young people. The funds donated by these responsible companies are lifelines to Tibetans in need since international NGOs are generally banned from working there by Big Brother.

The other important lesson learned from our visit to Tibet was this: go to Tibet, support Tibetans, but whatever you do, do not go to Tibet any time close to the Chinese national holiday that officially begins on October 1st, but in reality seems to begin two weeks prior. The code words for this time are "peak season" and the real meaning is that foreign tourists get the leftovers of everything from vehicles to hotel reservations. Because many ex-pats working in Beijing and Shanghai also use the holiday to travel to Tibet and are still required to have a guide, this period also results in a shortage of quality guides. Even the least talented and experienced ones will be picked up for tours just so companies can cover their bases.

The next morning we went through the tedium of a busy border crossing, waiting in line for over an hour while being thoroughly entertained by the most ridiculous Chinese propaganda video imaginable, then getting our many bags trampled (by Chinese tourists) after we were required to unhook them from our bikes and put them through the security X-ray machine. We said goodbye to Nawang and Tashi, farewell and good luck to Tibet, and see you later to China. Then we pushed our bikes across the Friendship Bridge into Nepal, looking forward to a new country and getting back to our preferred travel style: on our bikes and on our own.