We emerge from the tents to a gorgeous morning. Slivers of sunlight paint the desolate mountainside. The idyllic setting of our first bivouac has set an auspicious omen for the journey.
After a bowl of morning noodle we're off for Xidatan, which we've all agreed should be today's modest destination. It's only 38 clicks but beyond that is Kunlun Pass, and that would be too much to tackle in one day.
It's just as well, because the road today starts with a bang, turning sharply up from the river valley. Soon we are in view of snowy peaks -- the Kunlun Mountains. Before long we are among them -- they have replaced the brown, barren foothills. Slopes and floors besides these mountains are flowing in various streams and they are green. There are yak and sheep on occasion.
Today's cycling puts yesterday's to shame. There are long stretches of steep uphill, the kind of hill that trucks lumber up, straining in lowest gear. Where's Gong Jianping? He's about an hour behind us. His comrades variously cycle up to us and fall back to wait for him. His eagerness to summit Kunlun Pass within two days of Golmud is seeming all the more laughable today.
Solar exposure is a real concern. Both groups have anticipated the hazard, and are equipped to deal with it in their own way. In Golmud, Brice and I had paid a seamstress to cuff and elasticize a pair of shirtsleeves. We pull these up our forearms to the edge of our cycling jerseys. A straw
After a final, long gradual slope up, the road swings rightward into a new valley. To our right are sand dunes, incredibly. To our left is a wide, sweeping valley. It fronts the tallest of the eastern Kunlun Mountains, all draped in glaciers.
Here is Xidatan, a truck stop town stretched out along this road, which stretches in a line parallel to these mountains, as if to escape their notice. The incline seems gradual but trucks nonetheless strain to get up it. Brice’s altimeter reads 4150 meters. I work this out to be 13,612 feet and remark in my journal of disappointment at this. [In retrospect, it is unclear whether the disappointment is at being too high or not high enough (with respect to the upcoming pass). It is probably the former, since mountain sickness is a worry.]
Dressed like extras from a bad science-fiction film, we stop to speak with a guy at the roadside.
We select one of the few restaurants and plop down for some food, and arrange to sleep on the floor here after-hours.
There's plenty of daylight left so our three Chinese companions set off on foot across the valley toward the mountains. It seems idyllic enough. And yet this May five Chinese mountaineers perished trying to attempt the main summit before us, Yuzufeng. We are at such a high altitude that the glaciers reach right down to the valley's edge across from us.
Brice and I opt to stay put in the Sichuanese restaurant, keen to recuperate from the day's ride and let the bodies acclimate to the altitude, which has increased without relent over both days' cycling. We sit and chat with the two hired staff members, the owner, and his wife.
Hours pass without sign of the guys.
Then Gao Ceng emerges from the valley, his shoes in hand and his pants wet and muddy. "I left the other two back there. We got separated."
A few more hours lapse and there is no sign of Jianping or Fangkun. I've gotten worried. Perhaps they've attempted the glaciers; it would be an understandable urge. But it may also be true that they aren't familiar with glaciers. I explain to Gao Ceng what a crevasse is; it's the first he's heard of them. "As the glacier flows over the uneven mountain surface, it develops wrinkles that open and close. These are usually covered in a thin layer of snow. It's a trap."
I've seen a green army-like jeep driving around the valley every hour or so. It comes and parks in a building just down the road from us. Why don't we go over there and see if they'd be willing to take us out to find the guys? Gao Ceng agrees and we head over to the building.
The jeep belongs to the PLA (People's Liberation Army), assigned to a small unit of national guardsmen (Wu Jin in Chinese) who keep an eye on a gold field in the Kunluns.
Gao Ceng explains the situation. "My friends and I headed to the mountains, we got separated, they haven't been seen since." The officer in charge assigns two soldiers to take us out in the jeep.
These two young soldiers are Sichuanese here on a two-year rotation. Our conversation reveals they miss their home, their food and especially their climate. Tibet is a harsh environment. Lips crack all to hell, skin dries and burns. Sleep can be a rare commodity.
We set off and I can see why Gao Ceng had shown up shoeless and wet. Afternoon runoff from the glaciers has turned the whole flat valley into a wet, muddy mess. The jeep is having a hard time with some of the streams and mud, but the driver is experienced and he knows how to force his way through.
The valley turns out to be dozens of kilometers across. The air is so thin and clear up here that distances are deceptive. You can see much farther than you're used to. What looked like accessible mountains are in fact faraway objects.
Somewhere across the expanse we see two figures, separated by a wide distance, probably not aware of each other, making their way gingerly through the mess. We pick up each man and they are psyched to be spared the trek back home. It's wet and cold now.
The five of us sleep in a neat row across the floor of the Sichuanese restaurant.