我一直喜欢看越野自驾类的视频。可自从习惯了打工的生活，这类视频反倒看得越来越少了。直到有一天，我看到新东方的俞敏洪老师开始自驾去黄河源头，我才悄悄对女儿说：“有一天，爸爸也会带你去看看那些大山大河。”年幼的女儿只是随口应了一句“哦”，没太大反应，而我却把这件事默默记在了心里。

不久后，夏天来临，关税大战闹得人心惶惶。公司也赶时髦裁了一波员，我顺势“毕业”，暂时赋闲在家。每天和女儿一起玩了，再 Vibe coding 一番，倒也其乐融融。只是，看着她也快要毕业，我那想自驾的念头又悄悄冒了出来。自驾嘛，对我这个曾经热爱户外的人来说，又不是什么难事。转眼一个多月过去了，我唯一准备好的，就是这个想法。

“你的电动车适合长途自驾吗？” “没问题，现在充电很方便。” 半夜我躺在床上，没啥底气地回答身边的老婆。后来又光着膀子起身，打开电脑继续琢磨。 “要不就简单点，搞个追寻文明之旅？”

我自言自语地盘算着：从汕头到厦门，再去武夷山，然后安徽，北上少林、太行，也就那几个地方嘛。对我来说，曾经一天能从广东开到川西，这点路不算啥。细细查地图，海上丝绸之路有了，瓷都徽商也可以去看看，黄河、三国、蜀道之难也……

没想到，这一晚成了开端，接下来几天我就一直在琢磨路线。女儿上舞蹈课，我在一旁整理攻略；她在旁边看书，我还在查资料；晚上她催我睡觉，我还是在查攻略。

我设想了一条路线：海丝——闽越——瓷都——徽商——三国——黄河——赵魏——蜀道——古蜀。路线虽好，但想想大夏天，七岁的女儿可能吃不消吧？于是我又重新规划。折腾了无数遍，最后终于定下了“从海上丝路到巴蜀古国——中华历史文化成长之旅”。

我忍不住问大模型：“这两条路线，哪条更专业？” 模型挺聪明，告诉我： 海丝路线重在“开放、商贸、跨国、多元”，适合体验中华与世界的对话。科技、移民、外来文化、港口气质、海洋童趣是主线。 内陆山川线更强调“纵深、融合、坚韧、历史的厚重”，适合深入了解中华文明的演变与民族多样性。诗词精神、群山大河、民族融合、文物之旅、家国情怀是亮点。 海丝路线更适合轻快、滨海、现代与传统融合的体验；山川路线则适合沉浸式、动手、攀登、深度结合文化与历史，更能锻炼孩子的意志，拓宽视野。

好吧，两条都不偏不倚。你选哪条，就是最好的选择。

说实话，我内心还是更喜欢郴州、凤凰、内陆这一线。毕竟楚汉大地曾是农耕时代的经济要道。从文天祥的伶仃洋到屈原、杜甫，这些地方都是中华文明的重要组成。苗寨秀美，张家界壮丽。南岭、武陵山脉、太行绝壁、黄河高原，让人能一览中国地貌的多样。亚热带海岸虽美，但我们天天生活在广东，还是更想去看看南国竹林和黄土高原。

楚辞、汉帛、编钟、岳阳楼记、三国英雄…… 这些故事和文化，在我心里始终是中华文明的主旋律。生在这片土地，总要带孩子去好好看看。历史上的南北朝更替、汉唐精神、三晋文化、三国传说，你我虽然说起来不如诗人那样信手拈来，但终究要亲身体验一番。希望这趟旅程，能让女儿真正感受到中华腹地的广阔与历史的厚重。

这个开篇到这儿就快结束了。标题虽然宏大，目标却很简单。读史使人明智，做父母的，就应该从小培养孩子的眼界。打着这样的旗号，正好带着孩子出去走一走。

Chasing Civilization: A Father-Daughter Road Trip Dream

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I’ve always loved watching overlanding and off-road adventure videos. There’s just something about the open road, rugged trails, and wild scenery that stirs my soul. But ever since I settled into the rhythm of a nine-to-five job, those videos started gathering dust in my “watch later” queue. Routine gradually replaced my longing for the open road.

That all changed one day when I stumbled across a livestream: Yu Minhong, a well-known entrepreneur and educator in China, was documenting his journey to the source of the Yellow River. Something about it reignited that dormant spark. I turned to my young daughter and quietly promised, “Someday, I’ll take you to see those great mountains and rivers.” She just replied with a casual “Oh,” not really paying attention. But I tucked that promise away in my heart. It mattered to me.

Not long after, summer arrived. The world felt tense with all the trade war news, and my company joined the layoff trend. I found myself suddenly “graduated” and at home, unexpectedly free. My days were filled with playing with my daughter and a little “vibe coding” on the side. Life was simple but sweet. As her own end-of-term “graduation” approached, the road again started calling to me—quietly at first, then louder. For a former outdoors lover, planning a road trip shouldn’t have felt daunting, but weeks slipped by and, embarrassingly, all I’d done was nurture the idea.

One evening, I lay in bed, pondering aloud to my wife, “Is our electric car really up for a long road trip?” She asked, a little skeptical. “No problem,” I replied, maybe too quickly. “Charging is easy these days.” Still feeling uncertain, I climbed out of bed, opened my laptop, and started mapping out possible routes. “Maybe we keep it simple,” I mused, “and make it a journey to trace our civilization’s roots?”

I started plotting: Shantou to Xiamen, on to the mystical Wuyi Mountains, then up through Anhui, north to the Shaolin Temple and the rugged Taihang Mountains. It didn’t seem so intimidating. After all, I’d once driven from Guangdong to western Sichuan in a single day, hadn’t I? As I pored over maps, ideas blossomed: a tour along the Maritime Silk Road, a visit to China’s porcelain capital, a journey to the lands of the legendary Huizhou merchants, the mighty Yellow River, the Three Kingdoms, the treacherous ancient Shu Roads…

That brainstorming session became the beginning of my obsession. For days, I was deep in research—while my daughter was at dance class, I was jotting down itineraries; while she read next to me, I was still comparing routes; even at night, when she urged me to turn out the lights, I was glued to my screen, lost in travel guides.

I mapped out an ambitious route: Maritime Silk Road → Minyue Kingdom → Porcelain Capital → Huizhou Merchants → Three Kingdoms → Yellow River → States of Zhao and Wei → Shu Roads → Ancient Shu. It sounded epic, but the summer heat nagged at me. Could my seven-year-old handle it? I reworked the plans, again and again, until finally, one idea stuck: “From the Maritime Silk Road to the Ancient State of Shu—a Journey of Chinese History and Culture.”

Curious, I turned to a large language model for advice: “Which of these two routes is more meaningful?” The model’s answer was surprisingly nuanced:

The Maritime Silk Road route emphasizes openness, commerce, cross-cultural exchange, and diversity. It’s about technology, migration, foreign cultures, the spirit of port cities, and the wonder of the sea. This route is perfect for experiencing China’s dialogue with the wider world. The Inland Mountains route focuses on depth, integration, resilience, and historical weight. It’s about the poetic spirit, the grandeur of mountains and rivers, ethnic fusion, ancient artifacts, and a deep sense of national identity. The verdict? The coastal route offers a lively blend of tradition and the modern, perfect for a lighthearted, seaside experience. The inland route, on the other hand, is immersive and hands-on—ideal for climbing, exploring, and truly connecting with China’s history and culture. It’s a path that builds character and broadens horizons.

In the end, the best choice is simply the one you choose.

If I’m honest, my heart leans toward the inland route—through Chenzhou, Fenghuang, and the interior. The lands of Chu and Han were once the economic heart of agrarian China. These are the places that inspired poets like Qu Yuan and Du Fu, and where Wen Tianxiang wrote his laments. The beauty of Miao villages, the awe of Zhangjiajie, the varied landscapes from the Nanling and Wuling Mountains to the cliffs of the Taihang and the Loess Plateau—these are the sights I truly want to share with my daughter. The subtropical coast is lovely, but we live in Guangdong already. What I long for are the bamboo forests of the south and the yellow earth of the north.

The Songs of Chu, Han dynasty silks, ancient chime bells, the “Memorial to Yueyang Tower,” the heroes of the Three Kingdoms—these are the melodies of Chinese civilization that have always played in my heart. Born on this land, I feel a duty to show my child its wonders. The rise and fall of dynasties, the spirit of Han and Tang, the culture of the Central Plains, the legends of the Three Kingdoms—maybe I can’t recite them like a poet, but we can experience them together. My greatest hope is that this journey will help my daughter feel, firsthand, the vastness of our homeland and the profound weight of our history.

So that’s the start of our story. The title of our journey may sound grand, but the goal is simple: history makes us wise, and as parents, it’s our job to broaden our children’s minds from an early age. Under that noble banner, I’ve found the perfect excuse to take my daughter out and see the world—one great mountain and river at a time.