Zhangye Danxia is a range of desert hills in Gansu province, in northwestern China, striped in diagonal bands of rust-red, cream, yellow and grey-green, and the stripes are so regular and so bright that the hills look painted. They are the floors of ancient lakes. Layers of sand and silt settled while dinosaurs were alive, each in a different chemistry: where the mud held iron that had rusted it baked red and orange, where the iron stayed unoxidised it turned green, grey or cream. The beds were laid flat, then tilted on end when the mountains rose, and the desert wind and rare rain stripped them into ridges that show the stripes running diagonally up their flanks. Boardwalks and stairways climb to viewing platforms on the ridges, and from the edge of the walkway the bands resolve into fine grains of mudstone, each one a slice of lake floor.
The colour depends on the light. In the flat glare of midday the hills are pale and dusty; as the sun drops its low light rakes across the ridges, the red bands deepen to ember while the shadows pick out every layer, and the crowds gather on the sunset platform for the hour when it happens. The best of all is rarer: the short window after a summer storm, when the sun breaks through and strikes the still-wet rock and the reds and greens saturate far beyond any dry afternoon. The park is a geopark, not a World Heritage Site, though it is often called one; the Danxia landform, named after a mountain in southern China, is a Chinese term for red sandstone landscapes, and this is the most colourful of them. The hills stand on the edge of the Hexi Corridor, the old Silk Road route between China and the west, and the city of Zhangye was a stop on it. Zhangye Danxia is a landscape people come to for a single hour of light, and the hills earn it.