The Last Pure Land on Blue Planet, Appointment to Snow Mountain: Notes on Hiking in Aden, Guide to Self guided Tour in Ganzi

 

At the end of April this year we self-drove the G318 to Lhasa. We had planned to visit Daocheng Yading, but the timing wasn’t right: the grass was not yet green and it was still cold, so we gave up.

After returning from Western Sichuan, the “withdrawal” hit hard. Our inner longing for glaciers, rivers, meadows, and alpine lakes surged to a peak. Determined to make up for the miss of Daocheng Yading, we squeezed out five days before the National Day holiday, set off off-peak, and headed to Daocheng Yading.

Daocheng Yading is praised as “the soul of China’s Shangri-La” and “the last pure land on the blue planet.” In imagination, it is far from the secular world and free of noise, holding only the soft chant of autumn wind through treetops, the murmur of streams across stones, and the silent embrace of sunlight over earth.

Only when you witness it with your own eyes do you realize imagination is equally limited: solemn snow peaks, splendid forests, crystal lakes… Here, everything stays in its most original state, together forming a secret realm in mountains and waters, a paradise beyond the mundane, truly “the soul of Shangri-La.”

“Cattle and horses” looking at cattle and horses—no empathy, only envy.

Glacial meltwater rushes down like silver silk meandering across the meadow.

If snow mountains are Yading’s bones, then forests and meadows are Yading’s soul.

It is like a well-aged wine—only when you settle down can you taste the mellow fragrance of years. The setting sun gilds the peak with a faint pink edge. The wind carries scents of grass seeds, the sweet astringency of pine resin, and the warmth of autumn sun.

Branches of fir and spruce interweave, sifting autumn sunlight into mottled gold that falls on ground carpeted with pine needles.

Autumn in Daocheng Yading is alpine lakes bathed in gentle breeze atop the mountains. The ripples no longer bitterly cold; they make the azure softer. The lake calms like glass, soaking in drifting clouds, snowy summits, and golden sunlight—even ripples left by wind shimmer with heart-soothing blue.

Snow mountains “fill the frame,” flooding the entire visual world.

Early autumn on the plateau is not as intense as at low elevations—more like an ink wash gradually diffusing.

We were lucky to see three rainbows.

DAY 0: Shanghai Pudong Airport → Chengdu Tianfu Airport (precious “cattle-and-horse” holiday time, so it’s rushed)
Stay: Chengdu Tianfu Konggang Yuexiang Hotel (great; recommended; details below)

DAY 1: Chengdu Tianfu Airport → Daocheng Airport (off-season, only two flights a day)
Plan: Stroll around Shangri-La Town to acclimatize to altitude
Stay: Daocheng Snowy Garden Hot Spring Hotel (average, but well-located; details below)

DAY 2: Manjushri Wisdom Line (blue) + Guanyin Compassion Line (orange) — commonly called “half long line + short line”
Stay: Daocheng Snowy Garden Hot Spring Hotel

DAY 3: Vajra Challenge Line (pink) — commonly called “the long line”
Stay: Daocheng Snowy Garden Hot Spring Hotel

DAY 4: Return.

Within the two core days inside the scenic area, although the official routes are split into three: the Guanyin Compassion Line, the Manjushri Wisdom Line, and the Vajra Challenge Line, many guides simply divide them into a “long line” and a “short line,” which roughly correspond to:

# Long line = Manjushri Wisdom Line (blue) + Vajra Challenge Line (pink)
# Short line = Guanyin Compassion Line (orange)

On the map, the Manjushri Wisdom Line and the Vajra Challenge Line connect end to end. So separating them into long and short looks fine; but after doing them, I think the official three-route split is more suitable for people with normal fitness.

We spent two full days in Yading, roughly 8am–8pm each day—longer than a workday…

We were mentally prepared: after our Western Sichuan road trip we don’t get carsick, we’re used to mountain roads, and we don’t suffer severe altitude sickness. Even so, high-altitude hiking still sets “high standards” for physical fitness—we were utterly exhausted in the end.

Take the shuttle bus from the Visitor Center to Zhaguanbeng (about 1 hour). Elevation jumps from 3000 m to 3900 m, the whole way is winding mountain road (if you get carsick, take medicine in advance—don’t collapse before starting).

To be safe, on day one we chose a milder plan: morning Manjushri Wisdom Line + afternoon Guanyin Compassion Line—commonly the short line + half of the long line.

This “half long line” is the Manjushri Wisdom Line. It is the best route to view two holy peaks, Xianuoduoji and Yangmaiyong, from afar.

From Zhaguanbeng, walk 500 m uphill to the sightseeing/electric cart station. Using that as the start, hike to Luorong Pasture. The walking trail is about 6.8 km.

 

You’ll pass: Chonggu Meadow – 0.7 km – Sacred Water Gate – 0.5 km – Sacred Water Lake – 6.3 km – Distant View of Sixteen Arhats – Luorong Pasture. The trail is a single path, hard to get lost.

This walkway is almost parallel to the green sightseeing road. The road is slightly higher; the boardwalk sits low, nearly level with lakes, winding through forest—very wild and original—one of the few extremely friendly routes for stamina in Yading.

Some guides recommend riding the sightseeing cart to Luorong Pasture and walking back towards Zhaguanbeng (i.e., reverse). Reason: Luorong is higher, Zhaguanbeng lower, so walking down is easier and avoids crowds.

Reverse is feasible, but I don’t recommend it.

First, although elevation rises from Zhaguanbeng to Luorong, the boardwalk is gentle—mostly long, shallow slopes with short flights of 3–4 steps. No long steep staircases; no high-knee movements. As long as altitude reaction isn’t severe, it’s manageable.

Second, heading toward Luorong is heading toward Xianuoduoji and Yangmaiyong. The mountains always sit ahead, snow peaks accompanying you—beautiful foregrounds abound—easier than walking with your back to the peaks and needing to look back often.

As the interchange of all three routes, Zhaguanbeng is immediately impressive. Its scenery does not win by vast grandeur, but by opening the mysterious prelude toward the sacred realm—carrying a sense of “transition” and “ritual” between the “modern” and the “holy.”

From the Visitor Center, look up: nearby sits golden-roofed Chonggu Monastery, half-hidden among green shade; above the forest you can glimpse one corner of the massive Xiannairi mountain.

It’s not the full view; the summit is veiled by cloud. Yet this “half-shown” pose only adds solemnity and mystery, instantly igniting desire to explore forward.

Zhaguanbeng is the start of the electric carts and the first stop to tour. The center sells supplies like oxygen bottles, drinking water, snacks, sun-protection and warm clothing for patching up what visitors lack.

Gathered visitors and ample food attract many wild Tibetan macaques to “beg.” Plump wild troops sit along the forest edge by the road, eyeing passersby, waiting to “snatch” food from tourists.

(Tip: put food away at Zhaguanbeng, keep distance from the monkeys, do not tease, touch, or feed them to avoid injury.)

From Zhaguanbeng you can see “horn peaks.” Horn peaks—pyramidal peaks—form under glacial action. The mountain takes a four-sided pointed shape like an Egyptian pyramid, sculpted by glaciers eroding all sides. Xiannairi, Yangmaiyong, and Xianuoduoji are classic examples—natural “pyramids” carved by glaciers.

In short, Zhaguanbeng has a beauty of “held tension,” mixing deep forest, holy temple, rushing stream, and a fleeting glimpse of sacred peaks—forming a prelude to a grand movement. Not the final scene, but a door behind which miracles await our eyes.

A short walk forward is Chonggu Meadow. Perfectly placed, it is the passage to Chonggu Monastery, the foot of Xiannairi, and Luorong Pasture—the junction of three routes. You’ll pass it for sure.

Chonggu Meadow is flat and serves as summer pasture for local Tibetans—called “natural bonsai.” In person, I’d call it a real-life Emerald City.

The meadow is wide-open; even from far you can still see Chonggu Monastery near Zhaguanbeng. White walls and golden roof tucked among swathes of green—feels secluded and hidden in plain sight.

Zooming in with telephoto, Chonggu Monastery looks full of divinity.

Geologically, tens of millions of years ago the eastern Tibetan Plateau rose strongly; climate shifted from arid desert to humid forest, allowing water systems to form.

Glaciers retreated in the warm-humid climate; glacial deposits blocked valleys and formed lakes. As lakes drained, beds exposed and the former lake zones became meadows. Meltwater of the Gongga Silver Gully weaves through, nourishing the grass day and night, shaping today’s landscape.

On sunny days, afternoon light is richest here. The meadow spreads like a giant brocade; streams meander between grasses, water clear and bright.

The whole valley soaks in honeyed halos; even tiniest twigs bathe in it. Even blades of grass are traced with golden outlines.

If lucky to avoid cloud, you can look up to both Xiannairi and Xianuoduoji. If peaks are covered, then look at countless mani piles by the stream; feel wishes in the wind—you can read travelers’ silent hopes placed upon stones.

At the edge of the meadow, the walkways slip into forest, like a natural seam, tracing the stream upstream.

We moved opposite the flow, facing the snow peaks, ears filled with the cool continuous murmur—a cold, uninterrupted background that deepens the woods.

On stony flats off the walkway, you’ll find mani piles of various shapes and heights, made of flat smooth pebbles carved by water. From afar, they look like a silent forest grown from wishes—each a tiny monument stacked with heart—countless strangers’ solidified footprints.

About 90% of the walking sections on the Guanyin and Manjushri routes use iron grating boardwalks—slender bars closely joined into latticed plates.

Though it looks abrupt, the design fits real needs. In highlands the weather varies; winters are long; rain, snow, and hail are common. Latticed iron boardwalks don’t accumulate water or snow, reducing icing and slipping risks.

Wildflowers and grasses below can still get rain and sun, minimizing impact on nature. Metal is sturdier than wood and withstands tourists and wildlife better, easier to maintain.

The only downside: narrow trekking pole tips pierce too easily; they won’t take weight and often get stuck in the lattice holes. Hard to use, adding burden. So if your day is short line + half long, poles (especially sharp-tipped) aren’t recommended.

But! Poles help on the Vajra Challenge Line. Though it also has some iron walkways, they’re only ~40%. Most is dirt, mountain paths, real terrain; some sections are under slope-side construction—slippery. The descent is long and steep; having a staff to brace and rest helps a lot.

This segment is truly beautiful; inside it your vision reshapes. At human height looking up, the world is layered—each layer filled by towering fir, spruce, wilderness, massifs, and sky.

In the distance, only mountain tips that break free of forest sketch a rugged skyline;

Up close, tall proud trees weave a deep canopy, sifting flowing, mottled light.

As steps climb, breath grows heavy; vegetation quietly changes. Terrain rises; moisture of the meadow fades; air turns crisp—as if nature silently completed a “transfer of power.”

Broadleaf forest with large leaves gradually gives way to fir and spruce—like silent monks in dark green robes, standing orderly on poorer soils.

Still not the end. Higher up, even this dark green thins. Trees humbly retreat; vast rocks bare their original faces.

After millions of years of weathering, raw browns and grays reflect hard light under harsh sun.

Few visitors walk to Sacred Water Lake; you may not meet a soul even after ten minutes—but journeys are never lonely.
Suddenly, a quick shadow darts under mottled light—likely a glossy squirrel with bold black eyes, round body like a breathing pinecone.

Many little birds travel with you. Small bodies and plumage blend into bark or moss; only when you approach do they burst from shrubs with a “puff.”

Whether leaping squirrels or perching birds, they look plump and sleek, with a wild, lively glow in their eyes.

They seem versed in dealing with two-legged visitors: not shy to come near for a surprise treat, yet ever alert—at the slightest move, they vanish like lightning into deep forest.

Looking up, the needle-leaf forest is like crawling caterpillars.
Whether trees or wildlife—they are the true masters of this pure land.

Sacred Water Lake is another place worth lingering after Chonggu Meadow.

There’s a large rest area and a sightseeing cart stop nearby. Staff said carts mainly only serve the start (Zhaguanbeng) and end (Luorong Pasture); Sacred Water Lake has a stop but most of the time doesn’t board/alight (on national holidays they add transfers as needed).

At the lake’s edge is a small cascade with modest drop but huge flow.

Sacred Water Lake is the largest water body within open areas of Yading—like a tear of Xiannairi mountain dropped on earth (a very big tear!)—or a carefully polished emerald.

It’s not an ancient lake with timeless legends but a classic glacial-dammed lake, born of nature’s grandest force—glacial shaping.

In the distant Quaternary Glaciation, moving ice carved out this hollow; when glaciers retreated, till built a natural dam. Meltwater from Xiannairi and precipitation pooled in the glacially eroded basin.

What makes Sacred Water Lake famous is its “reflection.” With no wind, the mirror-smooth surface perfectly replicates Xianuoduoji’s silhouette and the seasons’ shifting forest palette.

Most intoxicating is the moment when sunlight clearly casts peaks and clouds into the lake, forming an up-down symmetry, a seamless natural composition—OCD-friendly perfection.

Snowy summits sway gently as ripples drift—the boundary of real and unreal blurs—creating a holy symmetric tableau. Almost all visitors linger, seeing the sky, the mountains, and themselves in the reflection.

When a breeze passes, the surface flashes with fine, sparkling scales of light. Sunlight becomes countless golden specks, chasing and playing upon the water.

The colors shift from clear transparency nearshore, to pale green, to lake blue. Minerals in the bed and reflections of vegetation blend into a unique deep blue-green sheen.

Curiously, in this “last Shangri-La,” what gives visitors the strongest “spatial coordinate” isn’t the mountains, lakes, or meadows, but the familiar blue signs with white letters—“I’ll wait for you at XXX.” Like standardized grammar, they are planted at every viewpoint.

Somehow our landscapes got “commandeered” by a unified visual symbol; as if without that sign, the scenery alone can’t tell where we are. As if the openness of Chonggu Meadow and the azure of Sacred Water Lake aren’t enough to mark a unique coordinate.

This feels like a collective syndrome: without such “certification,” even the grandest views seem lacking. We seem to have lost an ancient instinct to converse with heaven and earth, relying instead on a shareable textual coordinate. That sign becomes the laziest answer.

From Sacred Water Lake to Luorong Pasture there is no ascent; views are wide—known by many as “Western Sichuan’s most beautiful snow-mountain trail,” about 2 km, with Xianuoduoji always ahead, guiding the way.

The stream beside us sheds the gentleness it had at Chonggu Meadow—becoming torrential. The riverbed opens; cold meltwater pounds boulders, sounding like a heavy continuous thunder—the only background in this realm.

Here you feel clearly: everything the eye sees—rugged rock, somber woods, quiet grasslands—is nature’s seamless arrangement. Only the man-made trail underfoot—and us walking—are intruders.

Occasionally, electric sightseeing carts drive along the hillside above; the road there is almost parallel to the boardwalk.

More often, all is silent—no one before or behind.

This “few people” is not desolation but abundant quiet returned to nature.

Only horses graze on distant meadow, heads down—so at ease that they seem like souls grown from the grass itself.

“Xianuoduoji” in Tibetan means “Vajrapani,” endowed with vast power to subdue demons—representing Strength.

It is the eastern peak among the three, ~5958 m. In Buddhist iconography it’s a fierce guardian with tiger skin at waist and serpent belt, described like a bat ready to fly with spread wings—the embodiment of thunder in mythology.

Beyond Xianuoduoji, almost everything is encircled by mountains—important members of Yading’s range though unnamed. The smallness of man within nameless mountains is among the trip’s deepest impressions.

Within those nameless arms, a person is as small as a forgotten punctuation mark. They stand and grow in spans of ten-thousand years; our lifetime is but one barely perceptible breath.

Walking here feels like stumbling into a sleeping giants’ realm. Ridges converge from all directions; they need no names—their presence alone fills your senses, compressing “self” into a tiny black dot.

The viewpoint for the “Sixteen Arhats” lies not far from Luorong. Since we walk with our backs to that mountain, we nearly missed it without the roadside sign.

Looking back, giant gray-black cliffs resemble tempered dark iron, with broad red mottling—not uniform coating, but strokes as if deliberately painted. Color patches follow contours and fissures, cleverly outlining wide shoulders, drooping folds, even silent standing forms.

From afar, they look like meditating arhats in faded crimson robes—robes woven of clouds, light, and the essence of rock. This is not man-made cliff carving, but nature’s freehand art.

Color and cliff merge; the figures hide within mountain forms—seeming present yet absent, inspiring imagination. Eternal rock and Zen robes unite, painting a Buddhist scroll of “man, deity, and nature.”

Later research showed “Sixteen Arhats” exists in Yading not just as shapes but in reality: on a cliff foot under Xiannairi are small houses scattered—retreat huts for monks or hermits, called “practice huts.”

Legend says Sixteen Arhats are disciples of Sakyamuni, entrusted to reside in the human world without nirvana, beyond life-death karma, supported by beings, sowing merit for all. Locals combine legend and reality, seeing the cliff-side practitioners as incarnations or followers of the Sixteen Arhats. The huts embedded in the cliff symbolize their presence from afar.

By noon, Luorong Pasture is the end of our half-long line and also the end of the Manjushri Wisdom Line.

Each step feels like a silent covenant with the peaks. The snow summits of Xianuoduoji and Yangmaiyong grow larger and clearer inch by inch—truly embodying “if the mountain won’t come to me, I’ll go to the mountain.”

Closer to the pasture, land becomes gentler and richer. Meadows twine with glacial streams; silver lines run wantonly through green, carving countless shining edges—hard to tell whether meadow spreads over water or water nourishes boundless green.

On the Manjushri Wisdom Line you realize the best scenery isn’t a fixed end, but saturates the entire route—especially the ever-present murmuring streams and endless forests.

Compared with famed autumn, I personally favor late spring to early summer.

Forests then are like a calm painter lavishly blending fresh green and light yellow—creating a subtle transition of life.

Yes, adults “want both,” and here I somehow had newborn vitality and mature abundance at once.

Of course, all this visual feast needs a day of clear light.

Only when sunlight pours through layered leaves, tracing golden edges on each leaf, does the forest sea reach its highlight.

Light dances in woods; streams sing underfoot—then you understand: maybe wisdom hides in this flowing scenery.

Further on, more creatures appear. Yading’s cattle and horses carry a calm bred by mountains and waters. They’re gentle and smart; some “standouts” lean toward the railings and “pay attention” with big wet eyes.

They accept feeding without scrambling—their agile tongues flick and food is gone—elegant eaters.

Once one starts, others gather. Even without getting treats, they never pester—just shake heads and stroll back to the center to continue lunch—composed and dignified, like true children of the snow mountains.

A reminder: enjoy and interact with distance and restraint. Do not touch or tease to avoid stress reactions. At this altitude, any accident can sour a trip.

On social media, most Yading posts use a similar angle for the cover to draw clicks: near, blue-green streams and golden meadow; far, dark green forest; and in the middle distance a towering snowy massif at the photo center.

It captures almost all natural elements in Yading besides lakes; unforgettable once seen—luring Chinese who love pastoral landscapes for life.

This perfect angle is at Luorong—a rare view gained with little effort.

Continue along the path; at the mountain foot on the right you’ll see neatly built wooden huts—our end of the half long line: Luorong Pasture. It’s also the end of the cart line and the start of the Vajra Challenge Line.

“Luorong Pasture” is amusing—it’s called a “cattle pasture,” yet has no cattle—only horses and mules.
Horses graze in near meadows; blue sheep stand on far cliffs—their presence makes heaven and earth vaster.

Compared with sore, breathless human “workhorses,” highland cattle and horses are freedom incarnate—coats glossy, temper calm—sauntering through their own realm.

Here, horses managed by locals are mounts taking visitors toward Gongga Cuo.

We came in off-season; most horses were off-duty, scattered across meadows—ambling or grazing—enjoying quiet “snacks,” seemingly storing energy for the National Day crowds.

When holiday crowds arrive, these scattered units form a mighty “cavalry.” They carry visitors in a long line up the mountain—the endless procession like an army “expedition” toward Yangmaiyong, aiming to “capture” Milk Sea.

Glacial meltwater winds down like a gleaming silver ribbon, slicing boundless grasslands into soft color blocks. The water is a heart-penetrating blue, threading yellow-green meadow and distant dark-brown wetlands. When wind passes, waves ripple across the grass like giant brocade.

The path forks here: left to the visitor hub (cart drop-off) with restrooms, a shop, and the only fast-food (Dicos), plus a trail to Milk Sea and Five-Color Lake;

Right to the riding area at Luorong and another trail to Milk Sea and Five-Color Lake.

Both trails end at the same place with similar length and difficulty, separated by a meltwater river from Yangmaiyong. From above they form a narrow loop—either is fine.

Luorong faces Yangmaiyong; though still far, on clear days the massif is already very distinct.

Yangmaiyong is one of Yading’s three “protectors,” meaning “Manjushri” in Tibetan—an embodiment of wisdom, hence the “Manjushri Wisdom Line.”

Xiannairi, Yangmaiyong, and Xianuoduoji form a “pin” shape. Yangmaiyong’s elevation is 6033 m—slightly higher than Xiannairi.

Yangmaiyong stands front-center, piercing the azure with a lofty geometry; Xianuoduoji at right shows strength—bold and firm, flashing cold light in sunlight; behind, Xiannairi’s broad shadow builds a reliable backdrop like a giant white jade screen.

These three are not fixed scenery; as clouds sweep and light shifts, they converse silently with you.

In view, Luorong is wider than Chonggu—it feels like stepping into a world sealed by mountains.

Two eyes aren’t enough here; cameras even less so. Luorong isn’t a framed painting but an immersive, almost unreal nature experience.

At the fork stands a massive “incense-burning” tower. Huge metal frames fold upward layer by layer, tracing the solemn, holy outline of a Tibetan white stupa.

“Incense burning” is a Tibetan ritual worshiping deities. Devotees burn cypress branches, barley, tsampa, etc., to produce smoke believed to nourish deities, purify the environment, dispel uncleanliness, and carry prayers.

Long strips of five-colored prayer flags cascade like rainbows, driven by faith and mountain wind, layered densely all the way to the top.

They aren’t new ornaments; each weathered cloth is printed densely with scriptures bearing wishes. After years under strong sun and snow, they fade to gray-white toughness like an elder’s bright eyes filled with wrinkles.

In the howling wind you can’t hear human chatter—only the continuous, grand “flapping” as countless flags speak with the sky. Not a lament, but thousands of prayers in dialogue. In fading textures, belief settles heavier and more alive than in fresh color.

From Luorong we took the cart downhill, reaching Zhaguanbeng around 1:30 pm—later than expected. We thought we might miss the short line, but asking people returning from it, they said round-trip 2–4 hours; if we hurry, it’s enough—so we went for it.

The short line has no horse caravan, no carts, no buses. It’s a loop up and down—relying solely on legs.
This is why we recommend resting on the cart back from Luorong; otherwise you fight consecutively—tough on legs.

Start again at Zhaguanbeng. Within 200 m you’ll see the Three Holy Peaks Thangka murals, Living Buddha Stupa, and Water Prayer Wheels. Walk 500 m (~15 min) to Chonggu Monastery and the thousand-year mani piles.

From Chonggu, hike 1.5 km (~1 hour) to Xinbao Lake, then 1 km (~1 hour) to Pearl Lake (a.k.a. Zhuoma Lacuo) for reflections of Xiannairi, and return the same way.

On the map, the point marked “Pearl Lake” is actually Xinbao Lake; “Pearl Lake” is another name for Zhuoma Lacuo. Both lakes are great for viewing Xiannairi.

The Thangka mural and Living Buddha Stupa are not in one place but close, both toward the cart start from Zhaguanbeng. The mural is near the boardwalk; if you walk the road, trees block half the view.

We were climbing the 500 m incline and turned to see the rock mural; to see the full view we would need to walk back to the boardwalk. Considering our limited energy, we gave up.

The Living Buddha Stupa is near a tent measuring blood oxygen and selling oxygen bottles. Follow stream and boardwalk and you’ll pass Water Prayer Wheels—these small sights sit together and are easy to miss, but looping around you’ll find them.

Tibetan Buddhism believes chanting the six-syllable mantra (Om Mani Padme Hum) repeatedly expresses devotion, accrues merit, and seeks freedom from samsara. The more you chant, the more devotion shown and the more likely liberation.

To chant continuously—even among illiterate laypeople—devotees place massive printed mantras inside cylinders. Each turn equals reciting all scriptures inside once—cleverly weaving practice into daily life.

Prayer wheels are common in Tibetan regions; water prayer wheels are rarer. They use flowing water to rotate the wheel, symbolizing nature incessantly chanting and making the act eternal.

Here you can clearly hear gurgling water and the soft friction of turning wheels. Compared with crowded viewpoints, this area is quieter.

Follow the water prayer wheels upward and Chonggu Monastery appears—though this is a side entrance; the main gate lies further in. Most visitors are drawn by the exquisite mural in the porch and walk straight in—main or side hardly matters.

The porch murals are beautiful, following Tibetan monastic tradition.

On both sides stand the Four Heavenly Kings guarding the temple; behind is the Wheel of Life portraying Buddhist cosmology. Above sit three figures—likely Padmasambhava, Tsongkhapa, and disciple—overlooking those who enter, symbolizing Dharma lineage.

Colors are vivid—likely mineral pigments—which under harsh sun look extraordinarily bright. Jewels, robes, ritual objects, and offerings are depicted exquisitely.

Just a ten-meter porch, yet its murals instantly lift people from secular to sacred.

The old hall looks somewhat worn—not as gilded or grand as Potala—and far smaller.

No photos in the main hall; shoes, sunglasses, and hats off to enter. We found it troublesome, so we wandered the small square and took a photo beside the “check-in” sign—as a token visit.

“Chonggu” in Tibetan means “temple at the source of lakes,” linked to the tertön Chöjé Gonggyal Gyatso.

Legend says when he venerated Xiannairi, he chose to build a temple here but demons disrupted the work. With supreme power he finally subdued them and succeeded.

At ~3880 m, in Yading’s core, it’s a must-pass to the sacred lake Zhuoma Lacuo at Xiannairi’s foot.

With its superb location, in the past it was a station for practitioners; today nearby Zhaguanbeng is the transit hub for tourists starting the three routes.

Guides claim you can view all three peaks—Xiannairi, Xianuoduoji, Yangmaiyong—from Chonggu, but when we arrived sunlight hit the golden roof and dazzled our eyes—we missed the chance.

The roofs are mostly flat, adorned with gilded Dharma wheels, deer, and banners—gleaming under sun—contrasting sacredly with peaks and sky behind.

In open areas around the monastery, especially facing peaks and valley, lies a grand field of mani piles—regarded as a thousand-year faith wonder.

“Thousand-year” does not mean each slab is millennia old, but that this ritual tradition has continued here for a thousand years. Generations of monks and pilgrims add stones, making the field grow layer upon layer to today’s scale.

Mani piles vary in shape and height, composing a gorgeous scene with Chonggu behind, snow peaks afar, and meadows and streams underfoot—voicing silent reverence and faith toward the sacred mountains across centuries.

Even in corners shaded by vegetation, mani piles appear.

Leaving Chonggu we met locals soliciting guiding services—shortcuts to Xiannairi viewing deck, talk about Yading’s history, carry bags to save energy and oxygen—charging 100–200 RMB.

The short line isn’t long; viewpoints are concentrated. But with many visitors and iron boardwalks almost throughout, you must climb stairs constantly—heart rate spikes; breathing grows labored; legs fatigue quickly.

It felt even harder than the 7 km Manjushri boardwalk. But if altitude symptoms aren’t severe (headache, numb legs, or breathlessness), taking steps slowly with pauses, even low-energy folks can manage.

The focus here is Xiannairi. At 6032 m, it represents Avalokiteshvara in Chinese—hence the “Guanyin Compassion Line.”

Xiannairi is Sichuan’s fifth-highest peak and the chief of the three protectors. Guides say its shape resembles a reclining Buddha—but I lack imagination, so I gave up trying.

Unlike many scenic areas where you must go deep to see the “main role,” Xiannairi is extraordinarily high and among the few 6000 m peaks easily viewed up close by ordinary visitors (rare indeed).

How high? In clear weather you can see its tip near Zhaguanbeng—or even near the park entrance (key prerequisite: clear sky)—truly “surveying all mountains.”

“Only in this mountain, clouds thick—unknown where”—no idle words from ancients.

Most of the massif is blocked by near forests; only above the snow line can the tip appear above the cloud sea.

The upward short line is crossing forest, approaching Xiannairi’s body—feeling the pressure of a giant and experiencing mountain worship.

As you climb, fir and spruce fade into a dark green wall; at first you look up, later you look level.

You are wrapped by ancient woods and murmuring water; the loudest sound is your own heavy breath.

Then in a moment of panting look-up, Xiannairi “disappears”—not vanished, but its massive body fills the entire vision—no longer “scenery” but a sky-high wall. Glacial-cut rock is its wrinkles; wind-whirled snow its breath.

Under pure physical oppression, a thought arises: I am walking upon the chest of a sleeping giant god.

Every rolling stone underfoot seems to disturb its sleep. The air hums silently—not sound, but the weight of the mountain pressing directly upon senses.

It’s obvious why locals worship it—you cannot conquer such existence; you only pass humbly at its feet—like a believer entering a sacred hall.

Most guides omit Xinbao Lake—likely because it sits near Pearl Lake so the two get mixed.

Xinbao Lake is small—you can scan it in one glance—water clean and clear, shifting blue-green with light—very pretty.

Around alpine lakes grow plants like sedge—low, tufted—well adapted to high cold, damp, poor soils—seem weak but strong.

Portrait tip: wear bright colors for punchy shots, but avoid neon (in harsh sun neon overexposes and looks like separate layers from the background).

Two-person shot—one orange, one light green—which pops more is obvious.

Zhuoma Lacuo’s huge surface is like an uncut blue-green gem, quietly set amid the forest at Xiannairi’s foot.

The pyramidal peak (horn) pierces the heavens—sharp, solemn, inviolable. Sunlight spreads; rock walls and snowfields display distinct yet soft tones—white snow and brown rock interlace, tracing powerful lines.

Time is still. No wind disturbs. Above the lake is the real world—the tip covered in white snow under blue sky—clear, holy, majestic.

Below the surface lies a dream—everything replicated perfectly. The pyramidal tip forms an equally sharp, symmetric cone in water—joining with the real peak seamlessly—like the dome of a complete underwater palace.

Every wrinkle and snow mark of the mountain casts clearly into water, forming a giant up-down symmetric scroll. The blue-green tint adds cool azure to the reflection—Xiannairi looks both real and ethereal.

The two best places to photograph Xiannairi are Chonggu Monastery and Zhuoma Lacuo.
“Zhuoma Lacuo” means “Fairy Lake” or “Tara Lake,” commonly called Pearl Lake, lying in dense forest on the northwest side of Xiannairi at ~4100 m.

Legend says Pearl Lake formed from a pearl dropped by Xiannairi’s goddess while dressing; in Tibetan Buddhism it is seen as Xiannairi’s mirror or the soul lake of White Tara—thus revered.

Geographically, it is a glacial erosional lake fed by Xiannairi’s meltwater, ~0.1 km². A circular trail lets you view it from multiple angles.

Dense forest frames the lake—like a natural picture frame.

At spring’s end and autumn’s start, foliage isn’t fully colored; brilliant yellow, dark green, and bright red aren’t at peak. Yet green alone already shows its palette—tender, grass, dark, with hints of yellow—faithfully recorded by the lake—ringing it like a splendid hada offered to the sacred mountains.

All is silent; only occasional birds chirp from distant woods—highlighting the stillness. This is not mere “scenery,” but a dialogue between heaven/earth and reflection—the boundary of real and unreal dissolves—one holds breath lest ripples disturb this beauty and the mountains’ peace.

Just one look explains why Tibetans revere mountains.

Circling Pearl Lake, we accidentally took the “shortcut” the freelance guide mentioned—doing an impromptu reverse traverse.

Starting from Chonggu, the “wild path/shortcut” seems to lie near the monastery complex: pass the main gate, see a prayer-flag tower by the museum, and continue forward.

The ground is laid with long round logs—like locally sourced trunks pressed into soil over time—this is the “shortcut” the guide mentioned.

Few tourists take it. We used it returning from Xiannairi—indeed faster than iron boardwalks—but uneven with loose stones—very primitive mountain path. If rainy, logs get slippery; twisting ankles is easy—choose between shortcut and regular route by conditions.

This wild path and the tidy metal boardwalk feel like two faces of the world.

It seems long untended; gravel and layered leaves carpet the path, crunching underfoot with a soft, thick sound only nature can mix. Pinecones scatter like little towers; unknown fruits lie burst underfoot—purple or ochre juices painting the path with wild strokes.

Cleaner than regular trails? No. But walking it gifts full wildness. Dense shade blocks the sky, dyeing all in dark green; the air is cool yet rich with soil and humus.

For a moment, human voices and cars vanish; I feel I’m no modern tourist but stepping into an ancient, undisturbed forest.

Sunlight goes down with us, slanting onto slopes, gilding vast yellow-green woods.

Light looks strong but is already spent; warmth is faint; highland winds intensify—goosebumps rise on exposed skin.

We joked with my partner: once sun sets, it gets cold fast. Luckily we timed it right—no wandering in dark and cold (only to be slapped by the Vajra Challenge the next day…)

Day one we smoothly did Manjushri and Guanyin. Reviewing, we felt legs and lungs okay; we even bathed and strolled the town for dinner.

At dinner I explained the next day’s plan and said we had finished 2/3—only 1/3 left. Though the elevation was higher, we probably wouldn’t need to “reach the gate”…

Well, I spoke too soon… (Start early on the Vajra Challenge!)

To be fair, we left only 30 minutes later than day one. Black car 15 min to park, shuttle bus 1 hour to Zhaguanbeng, buy round-trip cart tickets and 20 minutes straight to Luorong.

From Luorong we set off on horseback just after 9:30—about 2 hours earlier than most guides recommend. Even with no queues or jams, those initial 30 minutes still aren’t saved—you must leave ample time for high-altitude hiking.

The route roughly: Gongga Cuo → (2.2 km) Qujiuzhaga → (1.1 km) Sacrifice Cliff → (0.3 km) Milk Sea → Five-Color Lake.

About buying cart tickets at Zhaguanbeng:

You can buy round-trip or one-way to Luorong. One-way return from Luorong can only be bought at Luorong, not at Zhaguanbeng.

Carts seat three per row—small, but roads are narrow. Space is just enough; with thick clothing and oxygen pillows it feels crowded—but the ride is only ~20 minutes—fine.

The experienced drivers carve the curves like racing—rare braking—only the accelerator exists.

Tip: the front passenger seat can be taken—better for Vlog shots—try to “claim” it or wait for the next cart.

The cart winds along the hillside like an aerial corridor. High up, views open; the boardwalk and green meadows we walked earlier unfold below—fantastic angle!

I decided to ride from the start—partly novelty, mostly to save precious energy and time—day two we had at most 80% battery.

Horse fee is 200 RMB per person—not cheap but acceptable. Process is simple: buy a ticket at the hut—just a casual handwritten note with a queue number. By chance someone returned tickets due to altitude sickness, and we “inherited” their numbers.

Holding the lucky slip, we walked to the horses. Amid the crowd, someone shouted “Number 13!” I looked at my note—it matched.

I raised my hand: “13! Here!” A Tibetan handler urged in accented Mandarin: “Been calling long! Go to the first spot!”
I froze—how long? How am I first?

The mounting area is clever: visitors queue atop a half-person-high earthen mound; handlers line horses opposite. Standing high makes getting on safe and easy—better than stools or ground mounts.

That handwritten number is your order—listen for the call and mount the mound. With the returned tickets we accidentally “cut in”—perfect timing for my OCD.

The horseback route ends at Xinbao Lake, ~20 minutes. One person per horse; handlers lead in single file. No galloping—very safe.

The horses aren’t fat but sturdy; little odor—acceptably clean. (Reminder: don’t wear skirts; if you do, wear thick leggings.)

Perhaps because the path is narrow and away from crowds, we saw many wild animals.

Blue sheep, marmots, deer—some graze, some chase and play, some stop and watch us with interest—close enough to see clearly—an experience walking cannot match.

The horse path intersects the boardwalk a few times but largely runs parallel.

Twice we saw returning horse trains led by locals—galloping swiftly—natural coolness from nature itself—eye-catching.

After ~20 minutes, horses reached the end.

Guides say the end is at Gongga Cuo, but in reality the end is flexible—not the lake-on-arrival I imagined. It’s a messy construction site with no clear sign—I thought we stopped wrong—then saw hikers converging here.

So, “no road—many walking—becomes road.”

From here the high-altitude hike truly begins!

Along the rough dirt path toward Gongga Cuo we stumbled upon an unmentioned scene: a white tower half-hidden in dense forest.

Closer, there’s a man-made opening through the brush; stones and broken logs laid in shallow puddles cobble a rough path—inviting curious travelers to bow in and explore. We waded in—indeed “after darkness, another village.”

The white tower revealed—standing quietly by a stream—wrapped in layered prayer flags—silently praying.

Geographically this seems a transition zone in a high-mountain valley. Countless white stones pave a broad gentle gravel flat.

Yangmaiyong’s meltwater trickles through; years of polishing make every stone smooth and round. They lie quietly in the clear bed, making the whole stream crystalline and glowing.

Even under strong sun the water is bone-chilling. Get close and feel it, but don’t remove shoes (slippery), and don’t drink directly (protect your stomach). Many mani piles dot the shore—whether by locals or travelers—we added a few with delight.

After returning I scoured the web for mentions of this flat—found nothing—pity.

Though not vast, the view is very open. Forest encircles yet the sky above is boundless; Yangmaiyong’s rock folds and a long icefall are clear—seemingly within reach.

The white-stone flat has a calming magic. I could sit all afternoon watching water and stones—not bored. But schedule urged us; we ate snacks, took oxygen, and set off again.

It’s a perfect mid-route rest—just remember: leave nothing but photos and memories. Take all trash and keep this serendipity for others.

“Gongga Cuo” is straightforward: in Tibetan, “Gongga” means snow mountain, “Cuo” means lake—together “the lake under the snow mountain.” Honest and to the point.

The scenery surpasses the simple name. Gongga Cuo moves you with a painting of softness and strength—lake and Yangmaiyong together.

Yangmaiyong is the extreme of stern beauty. Its ridge is like an unsheathed sword, stabbing the sky—sharp and proud—aloof and keen.

Gongga Cuo is the extreme of softness—like a gentle companion nestled at the foot. The lake is quiet and lustrous—like giant dark-green velvet—embracing every contour of the snow peak. The sharp and the soft balance perfectly.

Like Sacred Water Lake, Gongga Cuo has a broad viewing deck. Almost everyone is nailed in place, waiting for calm reflections.

I feel the same excitement, but suggest not staying too long here, for three reasons:

First, to avoid crowds: the longer you stay, the more people pile up even in off-season—queues at the “Gongga Cuo” stone reduce experience.

Second, return is the same route—you’ll pass again. Around 4:30–5:00 pm it’s almost empty—you can “own” the lake.

We reached at 5 pm; staff were urging the last stragglers—several girls slumped asking “how far?”—hearing “at least an hour,” they resignedly rose. Someone asked about the rescue motorbike—“300 RMB”—everyone chose to dig deeper instead.

Third, leave ample time for the grueling climb to Milk Sea and Five-Color Lake—else you may be cleared out before reaching them.

Also, Gongga Cuo is squirrel heaven. They move like lightning; my attempts yielded only yellow blurs. Unlike the slightly aggressive monkeys near Zhaguanbeng, these timid gluttons are cuter—they snatch snacks then hide to feast—wave your hand and they flee—fun and safe.