![]()  | 
| A view from Day 1 of the author's Great Wall hike, in the Gubeikou area. | 
“Are we coming back here to sleep?” I asked our guide, Joe Zhang, at the
 beginning of a two-day hike last July along the Great Wall of China, 
which I was making with my husband, Robb Kendrick, a photographer, and 
two teenage sons. 
Joe shook his head and guessed that the pillow belonged to a local 
farmer passing through. When I asked where we were going to camp, he 
pointed out the window to the snaking wall that sliced through lush 
Panlong (Coiling Dragon) Mountain, part of the Yanshan Range, which 
stretches across northern Hebei Province.        
“If we camp tonight, we’ll set up tents inside a watchtower that way,” he said in good English. “If we camp.” 
That “if,” which he felt compelled to repeat, bothered me. My family had
 signed up with the tour operator Great Wall Adventure Club to hike this
 remote part of the Great Wall because I loved the idea of actually 
sleeping on the wall. I envisioned drifting off to the same sounds and 
scents that a Mongol-fighting soldier would have experienced centuries 
ago. I imagined watching the sun burst over peaks crowned by ancient 
crenelated watchtowers in the morning. 
Plenty of tour operators take visitors on half-day tours from Beijing to
 the Badaling or Mutianyu sections of the Great Wall, which are 40 to 50
 miles north of the capital; with travel time from Beijing, that leaves 
about two hours on the wall. But I wanted to escape the crowds and get a
 wilder, deeper experience. On its Web site, the Dallas-based Great Wall
 Adventure Club guaranteed we’d camp on the wall, but in subsequent 
communications, I learned the guarantee held as long as the weather was 
good. As we prepared for our outing, I tried not to think of the 
forecast I’d heard for our first day: chance of thunderstorms, 80 
percent. 
At 8 that morning, Joe — a lively young man who’d studied Great Wall 
history in college and on his own — and a driver picked us up in a van 
at our rented Beijing apartment. After getting through snarls of city 
traffic, we made our way about 90 miles northeast, much of it on a new 
highway that wove through increasingly mountainous terrain, arriving in 
the village of Gubeikou about 10 a.m. When the driver dropped us off at a
 ticket booth where Joe bought our entrance permits, we took only what 
we needed that day — water, sunscreen, cameras — and Joe carried our 
lunch. Our overnight bags stayed in the van with the driver, who would 
meet us at the end of our day’s six-mile hike in the town of 
Jinshanling, a 20-minute drive away. 
Climbing up a steep paved path, we were electrified by the first glimpse
 of the imposing wall above us. A watchtower, poking over the trees, was
 haunting in its deteriorating state. “It must have seemed like a 
skyscraper back then,” my oldest son, Gus Kendrick, 16, said. 
The Great Wall — 5,500 miles by some counts, longer by others — is not 
one wall, but many that were built starting in ancient times, and were 
consolidated and reinforced during the Ming dynasty (1368-1644). The 
purpose: keeping northern raiders from swooping down into the heart of 
China. 
The stretch of wall between Gubeikou and Jinshanling, which we 
hiked on the first day, is considered a prime example of Ming dynasty 
construction, built from 1568 through 1583 on top of a 1,000-year-old 
relic of a wall from the Northern Qi dynasty (550-577). Because the 
Gubeikou area was a strategic passage to Beijing, the more than 40 
watchtowers we passed are closely spaced, and the wall was especially 
strong and well reinforced, constructed of brick up its 23-foot height. 
As we began our hike, I was struck by what felt like an eternal 
loneliness and loveliness; as far as I could see, nothing but that 
golden line careening across the crumpled mountains and standing guard 
alone, whether needed or not, for centuries. 
Early in the hike, Joe pointed out a “character brick,” where the stamp 
of the maker is still visible after almost half a millennium. “You 
couldn’t see that at Badaling,” Joe said, referring to the most visited 
and photographed part of the wall closer to Beijing. The throngs of 
tourists are so thick, he said, that you feel like a “dumpling in a 
pot.” He also said that Badaling was heavily restored and not always 
authentically, part of renovations dating back to the 1950s. The wall 
there is so modernized that much of it has metal handrails.  
![]()  | 
| Ascending 102 steps on an unrestored  section, approaching Second Valley.  | 
The wall around Gubeikou has been untouched (except for spot repairs on 
unsafe areas), and part of the thrill is to see this man-made section 
surviving the war that nature has been waging against it for hundreds of
 years. Weeds have taken over much of what was once a 13-foot-wide 
surface, with only a narrow path in places formed by hikers before us. 
While many watchtowers were merely ghostly shells with window holes, 
some were surprisingly intact. On several we saw artful brickwork 
surrounding the arched windows; one tower had a complete domed ceiling. 
After a scramble up a rubble-strewn incline, we rested in a large 
watchtower, each sitting on a sill of one of the several windows. Joe 
explained that, according to one theory, the first floor is where 
weapons were stored. Then he took us behind a wall to a narrow steep 
staircase; I climbed it on all fours and exited onto the second floor, 
where Joe said the soldiers might have slept (and, I thought, where I 
hoped we’d sleep). 
The garrisons stationed here — possibly up to 100 soldiers in some 
watchtowers — were mainly on surveillance duty, and sentries regularly 
paced the wall. If an enemy was spotted, fires were lighted in the 
separate beacon towers (the Gubeikou section of the wall had 14 of them)
 to send a warning in code to other soldiers along the wall, who would 
then pass the alert through other beacon towers. 
Then the soldiers went into fighting mode. Arrows could be shot from 
windows and slots in the towers. In places where the parapets were still
 intact we saw what are called loop holes — square spaces, also for 
archers — and lower down, we found half-moon openings through which 
rocks were rolled onto enemies. The boys squinted out of the slots as if
 looking for invaders and pretended to bend imaginary bows. The defense 
system worked until 1644 when the Manchus finally crossed the wall and 
took Beijing, ushering in the Qing dynasty. 
![]()  | 
| The author, right, and a woman who  lives nearby whom she met on the way.  | 
About an hour into our hike, we came across evidence of another attack 
launched from Manchuria: a large gap in the wall, partly claimed by 
brush, that had been made by a cannonball in 1933. In the run-up to 
World War II, Japanese invaders marched down from their base in 
Manchuria, hoping to expand their territory, and the old wall proved 
useful once more — allowing the Chinese to hold them off temporarily. I 
had read somewhere beforehand that this battle was the last time the 
wall had been used for military purposes, but what we came across next 
belied that assertion. 
In a watchtower, over a simple picnic lunch of bread, bananas, sausage 
and a Chinese version of Lay’s potato chips, Joe told us we were coming 
to a forbidden section: a part of the wall we couldn’t walk on because 
it was still used today as the northern boundary of an army compound. 
Along the top of a two-mile stretch of wall, timeworn brick met shiny 
razor wire. In the distance, Joe pointed out a modern concrete 
watchtower, woefully artless compared with its ancient counterparts. Joe
 said that the base’s purpose was a mystery, but guessed it was an 
ammunition depot. I later read that it could be an outpost for military 
exercises. 
But no matter what goes on at the base, we hiked the next 90 minutes in 
the brush below the wall to avoid it — passing by farmers’ cornfields, 
pear trees and irrigation canals, by old cottages surrounded by 
bluebells and tiger lilies. Then we spent the rest of the day back on 
top, not getting down again until we came to Jinshanling, which means 
Gold Mountain Ridge, having seen only two other groups of hikers the 
entire day. The stretch of wall in Jinshanling has a wonderful variety 
of architectural styles and has been restored to what it might have 
looked like 500 years ago — at once elegant and forbidding. 
If the weather had been good, our driver would have taken us back to the
 area around Gubeikou to camp and then returned us to the same spot in 
the morning to continue on. But I noticed clouds moving in while we 
walked the half-mile down into Jinshanling, a farming area that has 
fully embraced Great Wall tourism. The town has been spiffed up with 
restaurants and shops, including a gallery displaying impressive photos 
of the wall in all seasons. My husband and I drank beer at an outdoor 
picnic table as our boys browsed the stores and Joe consulted with the 
tour company to decide if we were going to camp.  
![]()  | 
| Jeb Kendrick, 14, takes a photo of a  crumbling archway in a watchtower.  | 
Finally the word came down: No. “You don’t want to be in a watchtower 
during a thunderstorm,” Joe said. I maintained that we would be 
sheltered from the rain and I didn’t mind getting wet in any case, but 
Joe was firm. I felt the company might be copping out. Maybe some 
attempt at permission had been unsuccessful or setting up tents would 
have been too much of a headache. 
I sulked while we drove to the nearby town of Ba Ke Shi Ying to spend 
the night at a farmer’s house. This was a smart farmer who had built a 
strip of rooms on his property (and called it Kang Da Homestay) to take 
advantage of the newly prosperous Beijingers flocking there on weekends 
as a refuge from the city. “Tourists from other parts of China go to 
Badaling; foreign tourists go to Mutianyu, but people from the city come
 here,” Joe told me. He estimated that a farmer could earn 100,000 
renminbi, or $16,700 at 6 renminbi to the dollar, a year renting rooms, 
on top of the 10,000 renminbi he might make farming. 
Our very basic rooms — hard twin beds, bare floors, scratchy towels — 
faced a dense garden bursting with eggplant, kale, cucumbers and green 
beans, and our disappointment at not camping was assuaged by the 
exquisite meal we ate outside under an awning as the rain and thunder 
began. A seemingly nonstop parade of heaping plates arrived — beans and 
pork, squash and egg, hot pots of potatoes and peppers — all homemade 
with the ingredients growing right in front of us. 
By the morning, the rain was gone, replaced by humidity and fog. After a
 short drive to Jinshanling, we walked back up to the wall to go onward 
over three tough roller-coaster miles (on one uphill my sons counted 102
 steps); the wall became more deteriorated as we approached what’s known
 as Second Valley — our adventure’s ending point. Along the way we met a
 perky Chinese woman with decent English who called herself a Mongol and
 seemed to insist on accompanying me, grabbing my hand on inclines, 
fanning me after climbs and chatting about her life. 
Joe later explained that people who live north of the wall — an area the
 invading Mongols once occupied — often use that term in jest and that 
she was probably a displaced farmer from an area near the Simatai 
section of the wall informally offering her services as a guide in hopes
 of a tip. 
In June 2010, the Chinese government closed the wall in Simatai to build
 an upscale resort (said to contain a golf course and horse track), 
which is scheduled to open later this year. In the process, many farmers
 have been moved off their land; presumably some will end up working in 
tourism. At the end of the day, we would drive by gray apartment 
buildings where Joe reported that farmers from the Simatai area were 
being relocated — not too happily. (I ended up buying a fan from the 
woman and tipping her.) 
![]()  | 
| Map The Great Wall Of China | 
Back on the wall that morning, we marveled at the eerie splendor the fog
 brought to the ruins. Clouds swallowed the wall at the top of ridges. 
At one watchtower, Joe told us a legend of Hei Gu (Black Girl), who came
 with her father, a Ming dynasty general, to take care of him as he 
worked. “One day this tower was hit by lightning, and she died in the 
fire trying to save it.” 
I half-suspected Joe’s story was a justification of the decision not to 
camp until I noticed a plaque that confirmed the legend’s details. I 
then saw another sign that warned people to get off the wall during 
thunderstorms. The wall, it said, was the highest point on the ridges 
and, as such, was especially vulnerable to lightning strikes.  
Not camping on the wall, I thought — that was the best idea of the whole trip.        
IF YOU GO        
The Great Wall Adventure Club arranges hikes from one 
to 12 days, mostly along remote sections of the wall. (There might be up
 to eight travelers in a group, but we were lucky to be just the four of
 us.) Some inclines are steep, and the trails are often over stone 
rubble with drop-offs to either side, but the hike shouldn’t be 
difficult if you’re in average physical condition and wearing decent 
shoes — even without someone to hold your hand or fan you. 
The two-day hike from Gubeikou to Second Valley includes an 
English-speaking guide, pickup and return to your Beijing hotel, two 
lunches, a dinner and a breakfast (and sleeping in a tent in a 
watchtower, if the weather cooperates; sleeping bags and tents 
provided); $399 per person, based on double occupancy; greatwalladventure.com; (800) 347-9981.        











