Although the end point of a hike is always set at the summit, this time it was only the second successful attempt in over forty days. Due to unfamiliarity with the mountain routes, I had often stopped in the chaotic primeval forests, sighing at the forest ridges and low sky so close yet unreachable, returning empty-handed. But it wasn't entirely fruitless; every time I threw myself into the wilderness, I gained a deeper understanding of it, and each attempt prepared me better for the next successful summit.
When I looked back at the mountains I had traversed from another distant place, I realized that many times I had been very close to the summit—less than an hour away. The closest time, the straight-line distance was no more than three hundred meters. The pasture at the top was completely hidden by dense forest, and the highly deceptive mountain path filled me with caution. The desire for the summit is like a bird's relentless pursuit of the sky. The moment I reached the top, it was a brief moment when a mortal body could soar freely, stirring my heart with excitement.
The advantage of staying in the village is that you can start the climb after just an hour or two of easy walking on the mountain path, without wasting much time on unnecessary travel. Walking on a rarely used mountain path in winter is very interesting. Although the shady spots are extremely cold, with white frost freezing the ground like snowfall, the cinquefoil flowers mostly bloom in spring and summer. At this time, their bright yellow flowers are covered with a layer of transparent ice, as if they have been frozen for months, yet they remain fresh and undecayed. When the sun shines on the flowers, I wonder if the ice will quietly melt, allowing the flowers to continue blooming unharmed. The farmland fenced off by the roadside is still in the shadow of the mountains, but the farmers go out early, wielding their hoes to dig the ground. When the cold sweeps across the wilderness, it cannot penetrate the farmers' bodies, where infinite heat surges, like any tiny life on the earth, full of vitality and vigor.
Climbing from the sloping grassy slope to the summit, the initial mountain path was sparse with trees and easy to walk. The fallen leaves covered the slope, and when stepped on, the dry leaves made a cheerful crunching sound, as if they had finally witnessed or encountered something after a long wait. They began to fall silent in autumn or earlier in late summer, only occasionally seen by the sun, and the cold-averse cattle had left the mountains a month ago, so they would remain silent even longer. The higher I climbed, the more difficult it became, and I couldn't find the path. The cattle probably didn't use this slope; there were no hoof prints or dung. But this time the navigation was reliable. I realized I had gone the wrong direction on a slope where I could see the village, and my position showed that I was only two hundred meters in a straight line from the summit pasture. As long as there was no dense forest blocking the way, any upward direction was a path. Hiking to this summit pasture in the Yunling Mountains lets both body and soul soar together.
The moment I reached the summit, the world instantly fell silent. No more cheerful crunching of dead leaves, no chirping birds hiding among the branches, and even the wind gently slid over the grass tips, afraid to disturb their afternoon nap in the sun. Apart from the rolling mountains stretching as far as the eye could see, the leisurely clouds in the sky, and the barren earth beneath my feet, there was nothing else. I ran from one end of the narrow meadow to the other, then turned back, standing at the southernmost edge of the meadow, the transition zone between forest and grassland, in the huge shadow of a cloud, waiting for my own silhouette to drift out of it and fall onto the withered yellow grass.
Half of the grass blades had turned yellow, and the remaining green seemed ready to give up, gradually retreating into the earth. Soon, they would be completely withered, but they would hold firm underground throughout the harsh winter. The language of the gentian flower should be resilience, flying against the wind. The summit is so harsh, especially on cloudy, rainy days and pitch-black nights when temperatures drop unimaginably low, yet they bloom resolutely in this season, guarding the cold silence, completing the flight of life.
Lying beside the gentian flowers, I saw a horse come into view from another slope, followed by two more. No one was around; they had come up on their own to forage. I walked forward to get closer, but they kept retreating, avoiding me. I watched their long manes flowing in the wind like brown clouds; they were the untamed masters of this wilderness.
I descended through another valley, the one where I had gone the wrong way and could see the village. There were many hoof prints there, and the path was obvious. In the shade, there was some residual snow on the roadside, probably from the night before. Following the cattle path down for an hour, I arrived at a grassy slope that looked familiar. I had been here not long ago, sitting on the slope resting for a long time, regretting that I couldn't see through the autumn colors on the slope.
