Tian Chi

            It’s called Tian Chi (Heavenly Lake), and it is situated in the Tian Shan (Heavenly Mountains), and the ‘Heavenly’ superlative is by no means an exaggeration – Tian Chi was paradise. A small alpine lake nestled into a valley at 2000m, it’s emerald waters shone against a backdrop of green slopes and snow-capped mountains. And the difference between Tian Chi and Kanas Lake was that I was not on a Chinese tour and could fully enjoy every inch of ground around the lake. I became acquainted with a Tartar Russian by the name of Marsel at the guesthouse in Urumqi, and I made a quick decision to come with him, after deciding against a brief visit to Shanghai. His voracious appetite for scaling any height he saw coupled with my inadequate fitness (thanks SE Asia) nearly killed me, but proved excellent preparation for possible future expeditions into the Tian Shan. It also proved that I had definitely become a mountain goat, and gave me experiences I will never forget.

 

            The trip to Tian Chi began in a similar vein to the trip to Kanas Lake – on a bus being orally accosted by a female Chinese tour guide who, like all the others, also insisted on singing waveringly into the bus PA system (it must be a job prerequisite). The trip also began with the mandatory Chinese tourist extortion – a ¥50 return ticket to the park, that could not be used as a return other than on the day of purchase, a ¥90 entrance fee, and a ¥20 bus fare up the hill to the lake, along the same road as the entrance, just a different bus. But everything started going right when a tanned Kazakh man quietly stole up to me, slipped me his card entitled ‘Rashit’s Yurts’ and mentioned:

“If you are looking for a yurt to stay, you can stay in mine.”

This was all done so surreptitiously that I hardly noticed, beyond the general annoyance at being approached whilst trying to purchase a ticket up the hill, which was something that I had come to dismiss as the background noise of travelling. That was until my friend mentioned that he was the Rashit of Lonely Planet fame. I took more notice. Rashit took the next bus up the hill and motioned that he would meet us at the top. We caught up to him, and decided to follow him through the throng of tourists and yurt touts along the lake to his yurts. I did not realise until later how fortunate this decision was.

Rashit’s yurts are positioned beyond the road, further along the path that circumnavigates the lake, in a secluded re-entrant facing away from the bustle of the lake entrance. After dumping packs and sitting down to a hearty but simple vegetarian lunch I soon realised I was somewhere special. The waning warm spring sunshine glistening through the spruce trees that whispered through the stillness in the alpine breeze and puffed golden pollen; the sweet smell of the conifers and nectar-laden wildflowers; the emerald lake sparkling down the hill; the lungful of clean air I breathed in: all these things invigorated my soul. With a few hours before dinner and nightfall, Marcel and I decided to explore up the hill behind the yurts. We climbed far, nearly reaching the summit of the peak. With each new level the vista widened before us to accommodate the lake hemmed in on two sides by green slopes sharpening to rocky peaks. At the lake’s mouth the waters disappeared around the bustling tourist centre to cascade down to the barren rocky hills and desert-like plain below. At the lake’s head, a wide moraine of grey stones vanished into the valley that contained the river that fed the lake. And beyond the peaks of this valley, a ridge of snow-capped mountains sneaked into view, shining in the sun against the blue sky. Maybe it wasn’t pure accident that my finger fell on the Tian Shan when I closed my eyes and played Russian roulette with a map. I remembered a David Attenborough documentary that featured a segment on the snow leopard, and I would never forget the amazing footage of the leopard sneaking through rocky precipices in the deadening quiet of a snowfall. Despite the sunshine and verdant scenery, the rocky crags and alpine vegetation and above all the quiet and serenity reminded me of that documentary. This was certainly, despite it’s accessability, the edge of wilderness like I had never experienced. I wondered at what the rest of the Tian Shan and its adjacent ranges would hold. Upon descending I told our host:

“Rashit, you live in paradise.”

 

            Marsel and I had spied a couple of routes that looked plausible and interesting. Foremost was an expedition up the river valley that fed the lake. The next day we decided to attempt the expedition. We started late, Mardel having to head back into the tourist village briefly. The Chinese have a preoccupation with trying to control waterways, and this was no exception. After skirting the lake we came to the wide stony delta that poured into the lake. Bulldozers and trucks shifted loads of stones, and a sorting machine noisily broke the serenity. Making our way upriver we discovered a dam in construction. It was at least being built of local stone and looked more like a medieval fortress defence than the horrid concrete structures that plagued rivers in China, and also seemed to be designed for the purpose of flood control rather than hydroelectricity or water storage. However, its necessity was still a mystery. We weaved our way back and forth across the river for a little while, crossing where we could find stones close enough together to jump across or a fallen tree or log placed for locals to cross. We eventually discovered a clear path with a couple of decent bridges. Rashit had mentioned that it was at least 18 hours to the snow line and back.

As the time to return neared, we finally ascended a hill high up into the valley. Before us lay a mountain that stood at the fork of the river. Two valleys, one on either side of the peak, conjoined beneath us to form the river that flowed to the lake. Remnant snow showed stark white along the river, as well as crowning the peak that loomed above. Behind this high summits of dark rock blanketed in snow jutted into view, proclaiming their superiority over the rest of the mountains in the vicinity. We guessed that one of these peaks was Bogda Mountain, the highest peak in this range. We turned to look back down the valley. The lake glistened in the distance, and through the haze, the rocky hills could be seen flattening into the wide dry lands around Urumqi. It was a spectacular panorama. We eyed jealously the mountain at the confluence of the two rivers, imagining the views from that vantage point, salivating at the challenge of climbing the peak. It was as close as we were going to get to the jagged peaks beyond (which, incidentally had only been conquered in the 1980s not due to their height, but due to their daunting near-vertical rocky slopes). We resolved that if we left early enough in the morning we could make it to the base within a few hours, and have time to climb the peak and return before dinner. The challenge had been set.

 

The next morning we set off early, charging along the horse track we had discovered the previous day. We managed to reach the base of the mountain in just over two hours, rather than the four it had taken us the previous day. We stopped by the river in the sunshine as it crept over the peaks and ate some breakfast. The meal consisted of half a loaf of delicious bread each (a rarity in China) given to us by our hosts and freshly baked in a wood oven the day before, a thermos of hot tea and a few odds and ends like biscuits and salted peanuts we had collected ourselves for trekking. Again, the healthy hiking meal, the sunshine, the melting snow rushing over rocks before us, the green slopes, and the sweet scent of an alpine morning all seemed to culminate in bliss. Finishing, we decided to head for a saddle that we had spied the day before in the valley to the right of the mountain. We found a trail that climbed steeply up the right side of the valley and lead to the saddle. We soon discovered that the saddle was not in fact a saddle, but a lump in a valley that climbed and climbed up around the mountain we wished to summit. We walked upwards hoping that we would find a peak, all the while examining the south slope of the mountain for a possible route to its top. Eventually, we got to a peak that commanded a good view of the mountain’s flank. Before us the valley still rose quite steeply, although a snow-capped peak jutted into view. Any route following the valley seemed too long, although the slope of the mountain that loomed before us seemed very steep, particularly at its apex. We decided to attempt the slope, as we spied a possible route.

The day before I had not fitted my shoes before walking, and I had unfortunately developed some nasty blisters on my heels and toes. I was used to blisters and I had patched them up and tightened my boots that morning, but the walking had aggravated them and they had become very sore. Coupled with my deterioration in fitness over the last months, the ascent began to take its toll. A gap constantly widened between Marsel and myself, and Marsel had to stop for me to catch up. As we ascended to the steepest part of the climb, I soon became exhausted. The top of the hill became rocky, and we had to climb with hands and feet through the precipices. Marsel, more surefooted in this situation, soon disappeared over the top. Eventually I came to a gentler slope and looked up to see Marsel standing on the edge of a sharp precipice that overlooked the valley leading to the lake. I caught up to him, glad of the rest after the ascent. The view down the valley was spectacular. The precipice hung vertically out over the steep descent to the confluence of the two rivers at the base of the mountain. To stand on the top of that cliff felt like you were flying above the mountains and vales below, with the river tumbling and winding down to the emerald waters in the distance, and on to the yellow desert farther towards the hazy horizon. The view behind was more daunting. As Marsel had guessed, the ascent was not the mountain we had viewed the day before, just a small southern crag. The rest of the mountain loomed ominously before us.

Sharp rocky cliffs protruded from the steep slopes, and to avoid these we were forced to skirt back along the northern slope, steadily climbing along the steep slope to a more level hump on the side of the mountain. Marsel once again disappeared from view. Finally I reached the plateau and paused to rest, drink the Coke I had been saving for its sugar, and looked out over the view which expanded with every stage of the ascent. The last stage of the mountain climb had arrived with the bulging hump of the mountain sprouting a plug of jagged rocks through some patches of snow at its apex. I found Marsel waiting just beyond a rise. I was exhausted, and every step felt like my feet were made of lead. I was not short of breath, but could not gather the energy to charge on. We made a pact that if we did not see each other on the ascent, we would wait for each other at our previous resting place. Marsel jettisoned over the hill and I was left stumbling up the slope. I had not felt exhaustion like this for a very long time. I had to pause every few steps to regather my energy. I kept checking my watch: time was passing and I would soon not have time to complete the ascent. I finally made it to the rocky plug that was the crown of the mountain. There was still far to go. I had seen Marsel surmount the apex and disappear into the rocks, waving to him as he vanished.

I hate not completing a challenge, and that mountain will probably haunt me to my grave, but I knew in that moment, looking at my watch, gasping for some sort of sustenance, that the mountain had defeated me. At the rate at which I was climbing, the summit would have been at least another hour away, and I knew I would struggle to find the energy to climb it, and that we would need to turn back soon to reach the yurts before dark. I decided to press on for a little more time, climbing steadily as I circled around the south side of the peak to get a better look at the snowy mountains beyond. At that height, there was little sound except the occasional gust of wind whistling through the rocks, the trickling of melting snow descending down unseen streams, and the sound of rocks crunching and slipping under my footsteps. An almost imperceptible sound made me turn my head and look a little way up the slope. Suddenly with a crash of slipping stones a large deer-like animal revealed itself amongst the rocks and bounded out of sight. It scared me as much it seemed to have been startled, as I certainly wasn’t expecting anything beyond the grass line. Finally the clock ticked past three o’clock in the afternoon. I knew it was time to descend. I had spied a gentler descent along the valley in which we had begun our ascent of the mountain, and decided to try to intercept Marsel before he made it to our meeting point. I looked around one last time, took a deep breath of the clean, thin alpine air, and backtracked to the slope Marsel had ascended.

I managed to catch up to Marsel, and we descended by the different route. It proved much easier than the way we had climbed the peak, though a less direct route. Looking back occasionally at the mountain, frustration flared a little inside me. I cursed my recent inactivity and the sores that hampered my gait, but took the episode as good training for future forays. Once again, bounding down the mountain amongst green slopes speckled with wildflowers, strolling through the dappled sunshine amongst scented conifers and remnant patches of snow, I could think of no place I would rather be in those moments.

Returning to the yurts, I was shattered. I sat down to the evening meal, which we gulped down greedily, and struggled to rise again. The previous two evenings, Marsel and I had jumped into the freezing waters of the lake to wash off the sweat of the day. The lake was icy, and dark was approaching, but we decided to bathe again. It was the perfect ending to the day, as the sun set on the slopes opposite Rashit’s camp, to refresh after such a long day, and feel healthy again after the grime of Urumqi. Lying down in the beautifully decorated yurt, I quickly fell asleep.

 

The next day Marsel and I took things easy, and decided on completing the loop around the lake. It was still not the easiest of walks – many steps rose and fell over the uneven lake’s edge. We came to a Taoist temple towards the lake’s entrance. Chinese tourists thronged to the temple, taking speed boats from the entrance that occasionally destroyed the tranquillity of the lake. The Chinese are innately lazy, wishing neither to think nor expend any effort if it can be helped, and we were alone on our circumnavigation of the lake. We were eyed with a little curiosity as we stood at the temple entrance, having obviously walked to the tourist spot, not caught the boat across. I wanted to see the interior of the temple, and told Marsel I would meet him at the topmost building. I was not allowed to take photos of the interior, as tourists came in droves to pay money and have their futures read by waiting monks and burn giant incense sticks two metres high. I hung around, trying to observe proceedings, but soon lost interest. It didn’t quite have the same authenticity as my experiences in Yushu!

I climbed the many steps to the topmost building. It was a pavilion that housed a grotto and a Taoist statue. I searched around the building for Marsel, but he was nowhere to be seen. I was puzzled, wondering where he could be, and whether he had descended again to the temple entrance. Looking up at the mountain, this intrigued me, as Marsel and descend are not words I would often use together. I cursed half-heartedly, I knew where Marsel had gone. I began to climb along the slope behind the temple. I soon spied him about halfway up the mountain. We climbed the hill, but like most mountains dicsovered there was more mountain, and that what appeared an apex from below was in fact just the side of the mountain. We followed the slope of the mountain along to a pavilion that overlooked the entrance to the park, resting to take in the panorama looking south, with the lake to our left, the entrance below, and the dry plains stretching to our right.

The stairs in China are a phenomena in themselves. They appear to be constructed by different people, all in the space of ten steps. Their depth and height vary every few steps. Often they are so small, that you struggle to be able to get a foothold on the tread, and find yourself tip-toeing like a ballerina up or down the path. The descent form the pagoda consisted of many steps, and these exemplified my exasperation. Coupled with the fact that no one seemed to use the steps, and hence they remained relatively unmaintained with loose rocks strewn across the steps in some parts as the result of small landslides, the descent down the constructed path felt like the most dangerous thing I had done so far!

 

Returning to the yurts with the waning afternoon, I felt sad to have to leave the next day. With the help of Rashit, we managed to take the local bus back to Fukang, a town about halfway between Tian Chi and Urumqi, and then another bus back to Urumqi. I felt refreshed, but frustrated at having to return to the city, and back to the waiting game for my visas!