Snow-Dyed Canyon, a Warm Journey Home

Before setting off for Kuitun, a friend said, "Winter snow will turn the canyon at the foot of the Tianshan Mountains into another world." When I took a taxi through the swirling snow and saw the warm light of the Liteng Ruixuan Hotel piercing through the snowy mist, I realized that half of the surprise of this trip was hidden in the wind and snow of the canyon, and the other half was tucked away in the warmth of the hotel. The car stopped in front of the hotel, and the doorman immediately came out holding a large black umbrella. He gently brushed the snowflakes off my down jacket and said, "Sir, please come in quickly, it's warm inside." The moment I stepped into the lobby, the warm breeze carrying the scent of cedar and coffee greeted me. The front desk lady handed me a glass cup with ginger tea steaming gently inside. "You mentioned when booking that you wanted to visit Anjihai and Dushanzi Grand Canyon. We checked the weather for the next two days; the snow will lessen, but the canyon is windy, so we prepared warm packs and windproof gloves for you." As she spoke, she took a small cloth bag from under the counter. The pink warm pack packaging even had the hotel's contact number on it. "If your car gets stuck in the snow, call us anytime." The guest room was on the 4th or 5th floor. The moment I opened the door, my eyes were immediately drawn to the snowy view framed by the floor-to-ceiling window—Kuitun’s streets were smoothed over by white snow, and the distant Tianshan mountain range looked like a giant beast lying in the snow, its outline vague yet majestic. The room’s heating was just right; I didn’t feel stuffy after taking off my coat. The cashmere blanket on the bed felt like a cloud to the touch. On the bedside table was a plate of local almonds and raisins, and a note beside it read, "For tomorrow’s trip to Anjihai, it’s recommended to take the G30 expressway to avoid snow accumulation on the old national road," written in neat handwriting—the front desk lady’s penmanship. I slipped the warm pack into my jacket pocket and suddenly felt confident about this snowy canyon trip. Early the next morning, the hotel chef specially saved me some freshly baked buns and milk tea. "Anjihai is far; eat something to keep your hunger at bay," he advised in Mandarin with a Xinjiang accent. The buns had a crispy crust, and the lamb filling mixed with onion aroma. Paired with the salty and fragrant milk tea, my stomach felt warm and cozy. Shortly after leaving the city, the snow really lessened. The scenery outside the window gradually changed from buildings to desert. When the first streak of reddish rock wall appeared in sight, we had arrived at Anjihai Grand Canyon. After the snow, Anjihai shed the intense colors of a "landscape palette" and gained a touch of elegance. The snow covered the red, green, and yellow interwoven rock layers like a thin veil, softening the natural colors. The ice on the valley floor glowed faintly blue. The wind swept snowflakes through the canyon, making a whistling sound. I walked through ankle-deep snow toward the canyon edge, snapping photos nonstop until my fingers went numb, then remembered the warm pack in my pocket. The moment I applied it, warmth spread from my palm, and I suddenly recalled the front desk lady’s words—this warmth was more comforting than sunlight. In the afternoon, snow began falling again as I headed to Dushanzi Grand Canyon. This canyon was steeper than Anjihai. On the "billion-year wonder" rock walls, snow piled in the crevices, forming white stripes like poems written by nature’s snowy brush. I walked down the wooden plank path; the snow on the boards creaked underfoot. Near the distant viewing platform, several tourists were marveling at the snowy scene. Suddenly, someone shouted, "My phone fell down!" I looked over and saw a phone lying in the snow about two meters from the path. I was about to climb down when a fellow traveler stopped me, saying, "It’s too dangerous. I called the hotel, and they said they have rescue equipment." I didn’t expect the hotel to respond so quickly. An hour later, staff equipped with anti-slip gear arrived, retrieved the phone for the tourist, and handed each of us a cup of hot ginger tea—turns out the front desk lady had worried about us and asked them to bring extra cups. Returning to the hotel at dusk, I headed straight to the restaurant. The head chef saw me covered in snow and immediately brought a bowl of lamb offal soup. "Drink this quickly to warm up." The lamb offal was stewed until tender, the pepper’s spiciness perfectly masked any gamey smell, and the sprinkled cilantro was bright green. One sip sent a warm current from my throat down to my toes. The restaurant was not crowded. At the next table, an elderly couple was asking the waiter about the route to Kuitun River Grand Canyon for the next day. The waiter patiently marked the map, just like when I was first received. The day before leaving Kuitun, I spent the afternoon in the hotel’s book bar. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, the snow was falling heavily again. The simulated fireplace inside glowed warmly. I flipped through a book on Xinjiang geography while the attendant occasionally came by to refill my hot water. "Next time you come to Kuitun, you must see the canyon in summer; the colors are especially vivid," she said, sitting across from me and chatting about Kuitun’s four seasons. "But the canyon in winter is the quietest, like you can hear your own heartbeat." As the car left Kuitun, the snow was still falling. In the rearview mirror, the warm light of Liteng Ruixuan Hotel grew smaller and smaller, yet it looked like a sun fallen onto the snowy ground. This trip—the elegant snow of Anjihai, the majestic snow charm of Dushanzi, and the warmth of Liteng Ruixuan Hotel—was the thread connecting these beautiful scenes. It turns out the best travel isn’t about seeing all the sights, but about always having a warm place waiting for you to return to in the cold wind and snow.