This undated photo shows snow finches resting on a nest in a spruce tree in Nagqu, southwest China's Xizang Autonomous Region. (Xinhua)

by Xinhua writer Huang Yaoman

LHASA, March 21 (Xinhua) -- When I first arrived in Lhasa, capital of southwest China's Xizang Autonomous Region, for work, I would often hear a story: in northern Xizang's Nagqu, anyone who managed to successfully grow a tree would be rewarded 200,000 yuan (about 29,000 U.S. dollars).

At the time, I did not take it seriously. I even joked -- if that were true, wouldn't people there all be millionaires by now? It was not until I set foot on this land, often described as a "no-go zone for life," that I began to understand what the story really meant.

Nagqu sits at an average altitude of over 4,500 meters, making it the highest prefecture-level city in China. For years, it was the only city without trees. Award-winning author Ma Lihua once wrote in her travel notes that "Nagqu Town has everything, except a tree."

I have been to several counties in Nagqu. The altitude left me with pounding headaches and sleepless nights. Even in summer, a heavy down jacket was not enough to fully ward off the cold. The wind, carrying sand and grit, howled day and night, as if determined to strip the land of any sign of life. It became clearer why people once thought that trees simply could not survive in this environment.

And yet, as my car entered downtown Nagqu, the view surprised me. Along the roads, young trees swayed in the wind but did not fall. Parks and sidewalks across Nagqu are dotted with alpine willow, spruce and sea buckthorn -- shorter than trees in the lowlands, but undeniably green. Against the vast, muted landscape, that green felt almost improbable.

"Don't be fooled by their size," Tashi, who has worked in Nagqu for 22 years, told me. "Every one of these trees represents decades of effort." I asked him whether altitude alone made it so difficult for trees to grow. He shook his head. "The altitude is the least of it," he said. "There are many obstacles, including the cold, the frozen ground and the wind."

Tashi took me to one of the seedling bases. He bent down and pointed to a spruce branch -- about 20 centimeters long, saying: "That's a whole year's growth." He explained that the average annual temperature here is below zero degrees Celsius and the permafrost can extend several meters underground. Plants have a growing season of only about 80 days a year -- too short to store enough nutrients. The soil is rocky and poor, making it hard for roots to take hold. Plus, the wind can dry out any moisture that the seedlings manage to hold onto in no time.

Tashi told me that since 1998, they have introduced saplings from cold places like Liaoning and Inner Mongolia. Most did not survive. "It's hard to describe how it feels," Tashi said. "You planted them with hope, and then you watched them slowly die."

For more than two decades, people in Nagqu have been trying and failing, again and again.

Things began to change in 2017. Researchers and local workers started to experiment with different methods: monitoring climate data, testing tree species, and adjusting how seedlings were protected from cold and sun. Gradually, they found ways to help trees adapt to the plateau environment.

At the same time, Nagqu established trial planting bases, where saplings could be grown in controlled conditions before being gradually introduced to the outdoors. "It's like altitude sickness for people," Tashi said. "Trees have to adapt too." Seedlings are first raised in greenhouses, where they are protected and carefully tended before being transplanted outdoors.

Today, thousands of seedlings raised indoors have been transplanted across the city. Over 100,000 trees have been planted in trial projects, and more than 60,000 seedlings cultivated. Nagqu is no longer a city without trees.

Tashi has witnessed this change firsthand. He told me about a small moment last summer. A snow finch built a nest in a spruce tree outside his office building. One day, a chick fell to the ground, and he picked it up and carefully placed it back in the nest. "There used to be nothing here," he said with a smile. "No birds. Not even a proper branch. Now, things have changed."

When I left Nagqu, the wind was still howling. Yet the trees lining the road stood tall and unwavering. For the first time, they seemed to truly belong there. ■

A staff member of the forestry and grassland bureau of Nagqu prunes saplings at a seedling base in Nagqu, southwest China's Xizang Autonomous Region, April 25, 2025. (Xinhua/Jigme Dorje)

Staff members of the forestry and grassland bureau of Nagqu check the growth of trees planted in Nagqu, southwest China's Xizang Autonomous Region, April 25, 2025. (Xinhua/Jigme Dorje)