At nine o'clock in the morning, Pika climbed from the Monkey Bridge Sujiang River to the mountain on the border, through the villages where cooking smoke rose, only to see the faint sunlight of the winter morning, as if summoned, sprinkled on the distant snow peaks, a peaceful.
Not long after driving along the river, we came to the Guyong Forest Farm, took a piece of air-dried bacon under the eaves, cut and fried, and a plate of steaming home-cooked bacon was ready. The sun shone on the eaves of the forest farm, and the snow began to melt, turning into water ticking and dripping, and Cai Guogang's pickup truck gradually disappeared into a snow white.
There are four seasons in a mountain, ten miles of different days, the pickup truck is not far away, and the snow begins to drift again. The trails are potholed and gravel-strewn, and many of the sections are sheep gut trails that hover over the mountainsides of clouds and mist, with knives and axes chopping on one side and bottomless cliffs on the other. The pickup truck swayed slowly, "breathlessly", sometimes like a wild horse that had lost its reins, and sometimes like a flat boat in the rough waves.
In the distance, the mountains are stacked, and the misty is shrouded in a soft milky white. The dwarf bamboo that had lost its leaves was covered with fluffy, heavy snowballs.
Deep in the mountains, it was getting dark early, dusk was already cold, and twilight was quietly approaching from the distant mountains covered with snow under the evening sun, and the fir forest in the mountain pass had become a black press.
Source: Tengchong Cultural Creation