A gentle breeze brushes through the mountains, each gentle slope covered with a thick green carpet. Countless tiny wildflowers embroider themselves into colorful patterns, casually adorning this beautiful alpine meadow. Spherical green trees, like nests built by some birds, are firmly rooted in the earth, forming a village where birds live together. Under the gloomy sky, gray clouds hang heavy, as if about to fall. The grassland, shaded by the clouds, appears somewhat dim. Past mid-afternoon, the sun finally dispels the thick clouds that have lingered for hours, casting its light across the vast, boundless meadow.

Cangshan has nineteen peaks and eighteen streams. We know very little about it, having climbed only one or two of its peaks. I cannot describe how much primitive life and primal fear are hidden deep within Cangshan. Over the past ten years, we have taken hundreds of photos of Cangshan, witnessing almost every moment of its constancy and change. Like an old friend who visits often but soon leaves, it always appears seven kilometers away with an unfathomable mystery.

Passing through the ancient and eerie primeval forest of the Tianchi Nature Reserve, the bright green grassland of Dalangba finally leaks out from the narrow gaps between trees along the road, lazily stretching under a large white cloud that blocks the setting sun, listening to the endless murmuring streams at the edge of the grassland. The pine forest at the edge of the grassland is exactly as seen in pictures—sparse, twisted, and distinct. Only when the clouds hovering above slowly shift and drift to other areas does the pine forest gradually bathe in the gentle evening sunlight, exuding a clear and gentle atmosphere.

At ten o'clock in the evening, the ancient town should be empty of tourists, with deserted and chilly streets. Most shops have long been closed, except for a bar where the sound of guitar playing and guests' murmurs drift out, and one or two hot pot or snack shops still serving late-night diners. Here, there are loud, excited conversations, even incoherent arguments. People spend the last two hours of the day in long meals and idle chats, then move to another place to pass the first two hours of the next day, finally welcoming the dawn after a brief sleep, returning to daily work and life.

Zhemo Mountain seems to be the sole purpose of this old national road between Dali and Weishan, at least for those who enjoy climbing high and looking far. If the sky hadn't been so pure and striking that day, I think we would have taken a shortcut through the tunnel inside the mountain to go home, instead of turning onto this dusty winding mountain road, following the stone path to the wind turbines at the summit to climb Zhemo Mountain again, and take a look at the mountains and rivers where autumn has not yet truly arrived.

After more than ten consecutive days of uninterrupted rain, the mountains and fields have absorbed ample moisture, quietly becoming lush and verdant. In just one month, the most beautiful meadow in Weishan, Qingyun Grassland, has completely shed its yellow hue and entered its peak season of luxuriant growth. Countless wildflowers in yellow, white, and purple bloom among the grass, like fish chasing waves, frolicking and celebrating the return of this wonderful moment. The sky resembles a scene outside a meadow window, constantly drifting and changing. At this moment, the window view is a deep blue washed clean by the rain, spotless, with light clouds floating leisurely and carefree.