As the plane soared over Tibet, an endless expanse of snow-capped mountains unfolded beneath the window, their silver peaks stretching like frozen waves beneath the clouds. The moment I stepped off the plane, a wave of dizziness washed over me, and my legs felt as if they were treading on cotton—this was Lhasa’s first “greeting” at over 3,000 meters above sea level. I had initially thought the altitude would be no cause for concern, but I soon learned that the rules of breathing on the plateau are never defined by numbers alone.
The next day at the hotel, my nose felt dry and my throat ached—a reminder that the arid climate was an even more persistent “resident” than altitude sickness. We asked the front desk for plenty of water and began hydrating frantically. Professor Su had yet to arrive, so we had a day to rest and acclimatize. I decided to visit the Potala Palace with my senior colleague Xiao Ai and Yang Ziyi. Halfway up the hill, Xiao Ai said his heart rate was too high and he wasn’t feeling well, so he turned back to the hotel, leaving Yang Ziyi and me to continue. The sight inside the palace was breathtaking: golden statues glowed under the light of butter lamps, and countless small Buddha relics were enshrined in glass cases. The stupas of the Dalai Lamas, crafted from pure gold and studded with turquoise and red coral, stood tall—the more illustrious the lama, the grander the stupa. A sweet fragrance of milk and honey seeped from the walls—legend has it that the plaster was mixed with fresh milk and honey. The dazzling splendor before me was a treasure of Chinese culture, yet it also reminded me of the exploited serfs in history books. Beneath the gilded glory lay countless untold folds of suffering.
When Professor Su arrived in the afternoon, he was in worse shape than any of us, suffering severe altitude sickness. We brought him rhodiola and glucose. On the third day, we set off for Namtso Lake, but Professor Su had to leave early for other commitments. We rented a Tank 300, but as we climbed to 4,000 meters, Xiao Ai’s condition worsened, and he struggled to breathe. The driver rushed him to the hospital, where the doctor advised him to leave Tibet immediately. That night, he returned to Lhasa and booked a flight back to Beijing, leaving only Yang Ziyi, the driver, and me to continue the journey.
Sampling at Namtso Lake remains etched in my memory. There are only two months each year when boats can venture onto the lake, but the high winds made it too risky, so we had to work along the shore. As luck would have it, the weather turned against us—no sooner had we set up our equipment than a blizzard descended, the wind howling and the temperature plunging to -10°C, the cold air cutting like knives. Every five minutes, we had to retreat to the car to warm up. The biggest challenge was collecting mud: the dredger was useless in the shallow water, so we resorted to scooping it out by hand, plunging our fingers into the icy water until they went numb. But when I looked up, I was met with a miracle—the Nyenchen Tanglha Mountains on the opposite shore were bathed in golden light, their snow-capped peaks gleaming like silver mirrors inlaid with gold foil. Sadly, my frozen fingers couldn’t manage a photo, and the memory remains a bittersweet regret.
On the way to Serling Lake, we encountered herds of Tibetan gazelles leaping across the grasslands, but soon another snowstorm struck. Visibility in the uninhabited area dropped to less than five meters, and the driver, hesitant to proceed, slowed to a crawl. Fortunately, the snow stopped after an hour, and we made it through safely. That night, we stayed in the world’s highest-altitude county town (I can’t recall the name). At the hotel, both of us felt chilled and feverish, and my chest tightened with dizziness—was this the effect of 5,000 meters? Yang Ziyi relied on oxygen to cope, while I, in slightly better shape, abstained. We drank copious amounts of hot water and gradually felt better. The next morning, the air was still painfully dry, and my nostrils were lined with blood. Sampling at Serling Lake went smoothly, though hauling the equipment a kilometer to the shore through thick snow was no small feat. Compared to Namtso’s blizzard, this felt like a stroke of luck.
Our final stop was Yamdrok Lake. On the way to Shigatse, we passed the 3A-rated Karola Glacier and paused at the Yarlung Zangbo River Valley to take photos with Tibetan mastiffs. Herds of yaks grazed on the snow-dusted meadows, and the turquoise lake lay like scattered gemstones across the land. Sampling day at Yamdrok Lake was blessed with clear skies, and we drove straight to the shore—everything went smoothly, as if to prove that all beginnings are hard, but persistence brings ease.
And so, the Tibet journey came to an end. I’m deeply grateful for the opportunity to have experienced it. Though there were hardships—numb fingers in the snow, throbbing temples from altitude sickness, and blood-crusted nostrils—they became medals of honor after witnessing Tibet’s unparalleled beauty. This trip taught me that the greatest wonders of the world are never found on smooth paths. Only by enduring thin air and biting winds can one touch the pristine sanctity of nature.