A while ago, the "20-minute park effect" was very popular: even if you don't exercise, just spending 20 minutes in the park every day can make people feel happy. Netizens have practiced - it is said that during that time, in the small park under the office building, there was a migrant worker who took advantage of the lunch break to hide out in a daze on every bench.
However, there comes a time when people who can't be satisfied with the "nearby" turn their attention to the way they can get closer to nature for a longer period of time: hiking. Not long ago, people who returned from the May Day holiday of "100 million people in every attraction" also said that they have entered the next level of travel: city walk, not city, just walk.
In that case, read the walking literature of Robert McFarron, winner of the Edward Stanford Prize for Travel Literature, and take a "cloud trip" in the wilderness to feel the healing power of nature.
01
Travel in the wilderness
The monks used to travel and migrate through the wilderness, looking for unknown destinations. Their deeds provided a precedent for my "map of the wilderness".
After returning from the island of Enly, I found another clue for my subsequent travels: a long Irish poem from the 14th century entitled Buile Suibhne, often translated as "Sweeney the Lost" or "Sweeney, a stranger".
The story goes like this: Sweeny, King of Ulster, offended a Christian priest and was cursed for it. Sweeney was transformed into a "creature of the sky", surviving in the wilderness of Ireland and the west of Scotland. He lived like a wandering bird—a peregrine falcon, far from the human realm, seeking all the remote places he could find.
The poem writes that when the curse of the priesthood befell Sweeny, he suddenly grew tired of all the "known lands", and he began to dream of migration to strange places.
And so he began his long wandering.
He walked through mountains and moors, through canyons and forests, the branches of ivy and juniper swept over his shoulders, and the pebbles of the hillsides creaked beneath his feet. Cold and frosty, and full of wind and snow, he waded across the estuary of the river and climbed over the unsheltered hills, until his whole body was covered in blackened frost. Swim downstream, swim from pond to pond and spend the winter months among wolves.
He also prepared nests for himself to hide, some in the soft swamps, some in the corners of the roots of large trees, and some by waterfalls. Despite the harsh environment, Sweeney found beauty in the midst of suffering, and he knew how to appreciate the rhythm of time and climate in the wilderness.
I found two large-scale maps, marked Sweeney as much as I could, and carefully studied the names of places that appeared in the poem to try to determine where they are today or where they correspond. Da Airy, Altyn Gorge, Kronkill, Isa Rock Island, Bird's Beach, Mount Miss, Ai High Peak, Islay Island...... Together, these names form a poem of wildness.
But today, many of the places where Sweeney has traveled have been lost to history and no longer exist; Others are no longer the wilderness they once were—roads were built on those lands, cities were built.
Despite all the changes, Sweeney's journey and the worldview of this long poem are still striking.
I pinned all of Sweeney's footholds to the pins and connected them with white lines. Soon, a jagged drawing of cotton thread appeared, which marked his journey.
Sweeney's travels in the wilderness, his winters in the wilderness, and his dominance of the heavens and the earth all fascinate and inspire me. There was another thing that made me feel close to him: he was in the wild, and he used to long for a bed, a hot meal, and a soft pillow. Shameful to say, I resonate deeply with these longings.
Sweeney has traveled to many places, the most amazing and the weirdest of which is the Borkane Valley.
I have searched through contemporary documents and found no trace of this valley, but its characteristics are clearly described in the poem: it is a lost valley, with very steep walls on both sides, "the valley is windy, and the echoes are endless". Clumps of watercress grow in the stream, and the solid banks are covered with lush moss. The banks of the river are wide enough to lie down.
I was contemplating the Borcain Valley when I suddenly remembered the most peculiar valley I'd ever been to, the Korushk Valley on the Atlantic coast of the Isle of Skye. So I thought I might as well make it a destination for my next trip.
I'm going to start on the west coast of one igneous island and go to another igneous island – from Enli to Skye.
02
Wilderness World
Glaciers and mountains have always been intimidating and imaginary. But the same ravines, ravines and deep streams shake the mind and reshape the mind, which is rarely recorded in the world.
There are many types of canyons, the most attractive of which is the "sanctuary".
These canyons are often secluded, surrounded by high ground or bodies of water, and have a charm that resembles a lost world or a secret garden. Crossing mountain passes, climbing ridges, the ground in front of you suddenly sinks at your feet, and a forbidden and closed world emerges, all of which often excite the traveler who steps into it.
The Annapurna and Nanda Devi gorges in the Himalayas, and the Ngorongoro Crater Gorge in Tanzania are some of the world's most famous hidden valleys. Western expedition notes describe many of these places, and the words reveal the shock and fear of the explorer when he first entered this place.
Great Britain and Ireland also have such canyons, and although they are not comparable in size to the aforementioned Asian and African canyons, I think they are no less attractive. There are hidden valleys in the Exmoor Valley, Mendeep Hills, the Yorkshire Dales and the Ghost Valley near Moffat.
A cousin once told me that in the Ashingt region of north-west Scotland, there was a small, nameless valley in the middle of nowhere. One night, he said, he was sleeping alone under a hanging rock and saw a herd of red deer led into the canyon by an adult stag. The group of deer seemed a little surprised to see the humans appear, but they were not disturbed.
Near the western estuary of the Co River valley there is a vast and complex mountain range, the Bian. Between the first and second mouths of the Bian Mountains there is a valley known as the "Lost Valley". The valley is surrounded on three sides by the black rock walls of Mount Bian, and on the fourth side is a double barrier, a rock slip that forms a blockade at the mouth of the valley, and a river that cannot be crossed during high water periods.
In the late winter of 1939, W. H. Murray stumbled into the Valley of Lost in order to try a new climbing route on Mount Bian. In front of him, a foot of snow had accumulated on the ground, and the white snow made the valley clearer and quieter.
Here, Murray writes, "it is easy for one to be still" and for the human heart to "naturally go up." Entering this valley is "like arriving at the North Pole, where all the sights and sounds of human civilization cease to exist."
Of all the canyons, the most spectacular hidden valley is Korushk. It is located on the southwest coast of the Isle of Skye, with a lake in the valley.
Korushk comes from the Gaelic word Coir'uisge, which means "cauldron of water". The Korushk Valley is a legendary secluded place surrounded by mountains on three sides, with the only opening being Lake Skavaig facing the Atlantic Ocean.
The surrounding mountains are called Black Cooling, and of all the mountains in Britain, they are the coldest and most Gothic. The 55 million-year-old Kulin Mountains, once the source of an ancient volcano, have eroded over time and are now a six-mile stretch of low mountains filled with fragments of basalt and gabbro.
There are only two ways to hike into the Korushsk Gorge, either over the steep passes of Mount Kulin or along the long shores of Lake Skavaig, which traverses the treacherous staircase of the Sterry Peak, a sloping platform with a smooth surface covered with snow and ice that extends twenty feet from the shore, with the verdant waters of Lake Skavaig below.
The Korushk Gorge is not inaccessible, but it does have a lot of defense, which makes it stand on its own.
Korushk has its own weather, its own sky and clouds. The light in the canyon is also unpredictable, and the rocks on both sides of the canyon change color frequently. It is dark grey on cloudy days, toffee at noon, liver red in the evening, and metallic on rainy and sunny days.
At the center of the Korushk Gorge is Lake Korushk, in which the cool water of the river bubbles down from the ridge. The color of the lake is also unpredictable, and the surface of the lake reflects different colors when viewed from different perspectives: from the side of the lake, the water is pitch black; From the mountains, the water is blue; From the lake, the water is charred brown.
There are also deep pools in the Krek Depression, across the lake from the Kulin Ridge, and there are stone arches hidden under the water. In the summer, one can dive into the water and swim among these stone arches, submerging the whole person in the turquoise light.
Certain forms and properties of Korushk have long been the source of the Wilderness Tale.
When Murray first arrived in the Korushk Valley in 1936, he found that "his dreams of wilderness were dwarfed by the reality of wilderness."
Walter Scott, the spokesman of the wild world of Caledonian and visiting Korushk in 1814, described it as a land of "darkness, gloom, wildness, eerieness, and coldness." Such a summary, coming from Scott's mouth, inspired the Romantic and sentimentalist movements of the nineteenth century.
Since then, successive Victorian artists, writers and explorers have worked hard to make it here. Their teams often numbered in the hundreds, either on foot or by boat, often in torrential rains and mosquito bites. When they are resting, they live in tents, caves, or boats moored on Lake Skawaige.
These aesthetes endure all kinds of hardships just to appreciate the scenery here, what a strange group of people!
Among them were the red-haired Victorian poets Algernon Swinburne and J. Brown. M. W. Turner. Turner visited the wilderness described by Scott in 1831 and nearly lost his life while working on a painting. In that painting, the peaks of Mount Kurin are elongated spindle-shaped, and the mountains are not made of rocks but rather like whipped egg whites.
03
A piece of land that has been emptied
One day in August, it was a very hot day, and my old friend Richard and I made our way north along the shores of Lake Skawaiig to Korushk. Richard is my longest-standing friend, and we've climbed hundreds of mountains together over the years.
We walked for hours along a narrow path that clings to the shore of the lake and stretches into the distance, like a neatly cut skirt. The Atlantic Ocean has always been on our left, and as time goes on, the sun sinks and the waters slowly turn brassy.
Cormorants perch on rocks everywhere and gaze out to sea. Some of the cormorants stand still, their wings outstretched, drying themselves in the sun and sea breeze like a pair of iron crosses. The foam is the milky white color of writing paper, clumps of paper, and gathers among the stones.
After four miles along the trail, we passed through a small forest two hundred yards long, with not a single tree more than ten feet tall. The trees all bent eastward, tilting at the same angle as the land beneath them, under the constant blowing of the terrestrial wind from the western sea. We had to bend sideways and pass through the narrow gap between the branches and the hillside.
The trees on the Isle of Skye are getting scarcer, and so are the people. The eviction of other inhabitants by landowners on the Isle of Skye in the 19th century led to a sharp decline in population, and much of the woodland was destroyed by burning and deforestation centuries ago.
The earliest surviving document on the Isle of Skye dates back to 1549, and one passage describes the island as having "many trees, many forests, and many wild deer". Today, the leafy island of yesteryear is gone, and only the remote old trails remain, some of which were originally trodden by woodworkers.
The Isle of Skye's reputation for desolation is a recent phenomenon, and its desolation tells of a sad past. As with much of the wilderness in Scotland, this is more of a cleared land than an empty land. On the Isle of Skye, one comes to mind the word "bleak", which comes from the Old Norse word bleikr, meaning "white" or "shining". The white bones are revealed, which is also expressed by this word.
After passing through the small forest, the road ahead suddenly descended steeply, leading to the bay.
Richard and I stopped there to take a closer look at the gravel beach. There is a mess of garbage everywhere, far more than on the beaches of Enly Island. There are blue plastic baskets for milk bottles, plastic foam cubes with pitted surfaces for furniture, cigarette butts, bottle caps, spray cans, and Tetra Pak boxes with faded letters in multiple languages.
Even here, a remote bay facing the Atlantic Ocean, is not immune to human pollution, and the evidence of environmental destruction is so conclusive that the land is no longer in its own right.
Thousands of tonnes of garbage are washed up on the shores of Great Britain and Ireland every year, and the amount is increasing every year. Not only do they have a visual impact, but they also have devastating consequences. Blockages in the digestive tract caused by ingesting plastic are the cause of mass deaths in creatures such as whales, dolphins and porpoises.
In 2002, a minke whale washed up on the coast of Normandy, and nearly a ton of plastic packaging and shopping bags were found in its stomach. There is also a growing number of seals and seabirds that have been immobilized by crashing into discarded fishing nets floating in the ocean. In addition, oil spills can be caused by marine traffic or offshore drilling, which often coats the surface of seaweed and can also cause poison to seabirds and seals.
I took a closer look at the plastic waste and found a piece of debris in it. It was hard and light under the rubbing of the rocks, like a shell. I rubbed the surface of it with my fingertips, and the rough touch was like a cat's tongue. I picked up a blue and black knot, made of strands of thread, with a staggered diamond-shaped surface, like the pattern on the back of a viper.
Flocks of oystercatchers stand on the shore, as if dressed in collarless tuxedos. Three eider ducks swam leisurely about twenty yards from the shore. Wind and water weave wreaths of heather and other weeds along the tidal lines for miles. On the sloping ridges on the shore, the sea has sorted the stones into sizes and sizes, with the lighter stones being lifted higher up the ridge and the heavier stones lined up closer to the water.
In a small ditch there was a seagull that had just died, its wet wings hanging outside. Although it does not appear to have died of oil pollution, the feathers of its wings also have traces of oil stains, in parallel wavy lines. Its eyes were clouded with mist, like a polished sea glass. I leaned down and retracted its wings to its chest.
After that, we continue towards the entrance to the canyon, which is guarded by black boulders.
04
A cottage in Wonderland
At dusk, we came to the entrance to the Korushk Gorge.
On one side is a cliff and on the other side is a waterfall stone wall. The sky was pitch black, reaching out to sea, and somewhere on the edge of the horizon, a storm was brewing.
As I stepped into the canyon, I had a strong feeling as if I had stepped through a door.
I recall an experience my grandfather told me about the fact that he grew up in Switzerland and once entered the mysterious Susanford Gorge deep in the mountains. To enter the canyon, you need to climb a stone platform above the waterfall. The end of the platform seemed to disappear in mid-air, but it actually led to another, wider platform, which led to the valley.
He said that this secret passage was the gateway to a wonderland filled with abundant asters and edelweiss.
At the point where Lake Korushk joins Lake Skawaige, where fresh water meets seawater, just above the meeting point of the two currents, we find a hut.
It was Richard who saw it first, and he shouted in surprise. The hut was tucked away behind a thirty-foot-high basalt cliff. It faces the Atlantic Ocean and is barely visible in the twilight. In the leeward part of the cliffs, the air is calm, and the mosquitoes gather in swarms, flying like clouds, and from time to time they fall on our faces and hands, which is maddening.
Inside, a pine board was nailed to the fireplace, and according to the records on the board, the cottage was built in 1952 at the expense of an elderly couple who had died one winter while climbing the tower ridge of Mount Beneves. The board also says that they built the hut in memory of their children and to "give a helping hand to those who have placed their adventure, courage and friendship in the mountains."
Around nine o'clock, the ice-blue twilight disappeared and was replaced by a violent storm. Showers of rain hit the windows, like someone throwing stones at the glass. I walked to the window on the west side of the hut, put my hands to my eyes, and looked out, only to see the raindrops on the glass like small silver mounds, forming a miniature landscape.
Outside the glass window, there was a complete, indistinguishable darkness. Except for the noisy wind and rain, our hut seems to be speeding through the depths of the universe.
I found a guest book on the windowsill that recorded the comments left by people who had been attracted to Korushk for decades. People of all stripes – fishermen, hikers, wilderness pilgrims, painters and hermits – came from all over the world to leave these words behind.
People from the Mensa Mountaineering Club said they couldn't figure out how to open the hut door at first. On April 21, 2001, there was a message that read: "Major Lick was in the water pipe and almost burned. There is no explanation as to how Major Lick fell into it, nor how to get him out, but it is clear that the water supply problem has been satisfactorily resolved.
A team of people from Cornwall described their experiences with phosphorescent in the guestbook. One clear night, they saw a green glow in the bay. They all walked to the shore and threw stones at the bay, seeing a fountain of emerald green spring up in the dark water.
Reading these descriptions, I was filled with envy, remembering the phosphorescent light I had seen on the island of Enli, and silently making a wish to witness the fleeting miracle of light again.
05
The scenery is already here, witnessing our arrival
When we woke up the next morning, the storm had subsided. There was a faint stream of sunlight on the floor. Outside, clouds rise above the sea like white walls, and the blue sky is sandwiched between the white clouds. The seagull hovers deftly, sparkling through pillars of light.
Lake Skawaig is quiet and the storm has been forgotten. The only sounds were the whispers of the waves drifting in the wind, and the lazy clanging of mast ropes.
The sound of the rope crashing came from a yacht parked in the bay. It must have been driven in from the open water at night to escape the storm. Seals lie on their stomachs on rocks basking in the sun, unconcerned about everything around them.
We left the hut and continued our walk deeper into the canyon.
We plan to cross the land between the cliff base and the lake to explore the long coastline of northern Korushk. After that, we will start at the end of the lake and climb over the mountains to the summit of the Red Peak, which is known as the "unreachable peak".
Towering above the Korushk ridge, the peak is hundreds of feet high and is made of black rocks shaped like shark fins. In my opinion, this should be one of the most wild places in the world.
Along the north shore, we pass through a moist swamp where the ground is covered with deep sinkholes. To our left, the terrain is steep, with mosaic-like brown rocks and weeds in the crevices, with longitudinal water marks left by the previous night's storm.
The slope of the mountain wall and the sloping of the light are angled at the right angle to make each wet rock face sparkle – for a moment, thousands of rock faces are lit up at the same time, like an array of light.
The sinkholes in the swamp were filled with rainwater. Because the rock contains trace amounts of iron, the water along the edge of the cave is dyed red, and from a distance it looks like a pool of glowing blood. Only the faint footprints of the wild deer show us a safe path.
The air is humid and smells of swamp and soft mud. The ground is lush with vegetation, including one of the oldest living plants, cedar leaf algae, and another plant with dark green leaves that I can't name. I reached out and picked up a leaf, feeling it heavy and soft, like an old parchment map, hanging loosely from my palm.
The weather is unpredictable and takes us in the middle of it. First the sun was blazing, then the rain was pouring down, and then the hail was falling suddenly.
After trekking three miles through the swamps, we came to the end of the lake and entered a landscape made of hard rock. At the foot are flat patches of gabbro, each about a quarter of an acre, with holes in the surface.
Tens of thousands of years ago, glaciers leveled the ground and polished away the edges and corners of the rocks. I found that at the bottom of each hole there was a stone that was perfectly embedded in it and fit like a countersunk screw.
We started the ascent at the end of the lake. All around us, ravens flapped their wings and circled, seemingly using the unpredictable winds of Mount Kulin to hone their flying skills—stalling, rollover, backflip, Inmaiman flip.
Their shrill chirps echoed up and down the cliffs, like steel balls hitting tin cans. Between the rocks, sturdy rowan trees grow, their coiled roots bindling the damp gravel slopes together.
The climb was difficult, and Richard and I stopped to rest on a flat rock.
Three thick clumps of moss hang from the edge of the rock, shaped like a weaver's nest. The spring flows through the stone face, and the water is so smooth that it is almost made of plastic, smooth and flawless, like a man-made object. I reached beneath the surface of the water and watched as the water passed through my fingers, wrapping and forming into my translucent second skin.
Looking up, the peak of the red peak comes into view. The mountain wind was strong, and the white clouds were torn to shreds and hung above the pitch-black mountain rocks. I suddenly felt a pang of fear, remembering an earlier mountaineer's description of the peak of Red Peak: "The ridge is like a knife's edge, with one side of the cliff hanging in the air as far as the eye can see, and the other side is the same cliff, even steeper and longer." ”
We continued to climb, gradually entering the clouds, and the temperature plummeted. A layer of mist fell on the rocks, making them look very smooth.
We came to a pass, a narrow notch in the ridge between the two peaks, from which we climbed to the lower secondary peak of the Red Peak, and descended the steep steps, all the way through overlapping barsalt piles, to the foot of the main peak.
There is a small circular stone pile here, like a simple sheepfold, which allows us to take a break from the cold. Richard and I curled up in it for a few minutes and shared a bar of chocolate, neither of us saying a word. Looking up, the peaks were hundreds of feet high, and the pitch-black peaks slanted into the flowing white clouds.
I stood up, walked to the beginning of the sloping peak, and reached out to touch the rock.
It was so cold that it instantly sucked the temperature out of my skin. But it occurred to me that this hard rock was once able to flow. Billions of years ago, it was flowing, dripping, splashing magma.
On both sides of the peak, there is an abyss. I took a few steps up the ridge and suddenly felt a wave of fear hit me, as if I was standing on the edge of time and space, trying to keep my balance.
At that moment, the only thought in my mind was to get down the ridge and back to the valley as soon as possible. We have made many plans for climbing to the summit and have ropes for it. But at this moment, it suddenly dawned on me that there was no point in doing so, and there was no possibility of success.
It's a little reckless and irreverent, and it's bound to be dangerous.
We then retreated along the ridge, again past the rough basalt rock face of dragon scales, and returned to the previous pass.
We took a break in the leeward of the ridge, and I sat quietly, trying to figure out what had just happened. Where does that sudden fear come from? It's not just physical fragility, it's not just a momentary vertigo for fear of heights - although that's part of it.
I can be sure that I felt a wildness, but unlike the almost beautiful wildness of Enli, the wildness here is fierce, chaotic and cold.
The clouds on the west side of the pass move rapidly, unpredictable, like sliding panes, sometimes parting to reveal the view over the Atlantic, sometimes closing.
Looking out through a gap in the clouds, I saw the long, low coastline of Lamu Island, and beyond the Outer Hebrides, stretching from Barra Island to Lewis Island in the north. The clouds opened another gap, and I caught another glimpse of the scenery in the canyon below.
I think the earliest glaciers on the Isle of Skye probably formed at these passes – by the Pleistocene 2.5 million years ago, the island's glaciers began to melt and chisel open the earth little by little to form this huge valley. It wasn't until about 14,700 years ago that the last glacier finally disappeared from the Isle of Skye, leaving behind the spectacular Krushk Gorge.
Just as a river begins with a drop of water on a hillside, a glacier begins with a snowflake falling in a shallow pit.
The snowflakes turn into snowdrifts, which condense into ice under their own weight, and the ice accumulates thicker and thicker, overflowing into shallow craters and gaining momentum, and then glides along ridges and gravel slopes in pursuit of surface runoff channels, widening the original channel.
At the peak of the last glacial period, the entire valley was filled with ice, and only a few of the highest peaks were able to emerge from the surface, including the "unreachable peaks". They resemble nunataks, spire rocks jutting out of the snow and ice of Greenland and the Poles.
It occurred to me at this moment that Fowles believed that "ancient nature" could only be found in places like Korushk and Kulin, and he was right.
If the wilderness is on the verge of extinction, its last bastions will be the mountains and the valleys they shelter. These places still largely retain their own patterns and rhythms, creating their own sky and light.
But there are also signs of danger in such pure and tenacious dreams – the striking plastic litter on the beach, the aquatic weeds and the oil-covered seabirds are all evidence of invasion and change. Other warnings are more subtle and absent: the valley is empty, and the hillsides are devoid of trees.
Later that day, we returned to the valley and stopped to swim in the wide indigo river along the way. The river brings together the water that flows down from the mountains and eventually flows into Lake Korushk.
Richard found a good place: a smooth, narrow stone ditch about ten yards long, where the river would flow before pouring into a deep pool of clear water below. It was a perfect pool!
I think Roger will love it here. My dad would love it too, he was always swimming in the wilderness, whether it was a pool at the bottom of a waterfall, a rapids under a stone bridge, or a bay.
As a child, I drove with my father from my home in the Midlands to the Scottish Highlands almost every summer. No matter what the weather, he would always stop somewhere on the west shore of Loch Lomond and jump into the water for a while. When he came up, he was dripping with water, with a smile on his face, and full of energy. He got back into the car and continued north.
Richard and I threw our arms up and jumped into the gully, letting the current wash us down into the pool. The splash broke the calm of the pool, and the mosquitoes flew around us, but if they didn't move for a few seconds, they would fall and bite.
The river is covered with a dense layer of moss that reminds me of Sweeney's beloved Borkane Valley. But I thought, Sweeney, you've never mentioned this mosquito......
We walked the last few miles along the lake, with droplets of water on our skin, the faint sunlight churning and jumping in it, and the river around us bursting with sparkling waves.
Looking down on the valley below, a rainbow bridge connects the two ends of the valley. We walked towards the rainbow, we went further, and the rainbow took a step back, keeping the same distance.
I remembered a quote from my notebook that I copied out of nowhere: "The landscape exists before our dreams, it is already here, witnessing our arrival." ”
06
Time is presented in light and shadow
On the morning of the end of the trip, the sky was a pure and unblemished blue.
Before leaving, we had one last swim in Lake Korushk. We took off our clothes, laid ourselves on the rocks to dry, and then stepped on a hot-slung rock on the shore and slid into the lake. The water of the lake is still cool at night, calm as stone, with a peaty color, and it also gives my skin a golden sheen, like an ancient coin.
About a hundred yards away from the lake, there is a small island. In fact, it was just a slightly uplifted black bare rock, smoothed by the glaciers that once flowed through it, and the highest point of the island was less than a foot above the water. It resembles the back of a whale and reminds me of the similar silhouette of the beech forests of my hometown.
I swam over, climbed up to the island, and stood there wet. The rocks underfoot are rough and warm with the sun. I lay on my back with my hands behind my head and looked at the sky.
Three or four minutes later, a strong wave of vertigo swept over me, and I seemed to be hanging upside down and "falling" into the sky.
There was nothing in the sky, and there was neither a hint of time and space, nor a ruler of depth. The lake gently lapped against the rock, and there was no other sound. I lay there, not seeing any human signs except my own eye sockets.
I felt a silence that dates back to the Ice Age.
In the Korushk Valley, I began to imagine time in a different way, or at least experience it in a different way. Time is no longer measured in hours and minutes, but in light, shadow and texture.
Even though only a few days have passed, I find it hard to imagine life beyond the Korushk Gorge – a world full of shops, universities, cars. I can't imagine the hustle and bustle, the urgency, not even my family, my hometown, and my garden, when the apple tree in the garden should already be full of fruit.
The Korushk Basin has many different kinds of time, not all of which are slow. I've seen the swiftness there, too: flying crows swooping, rivers diverging around rocks, damselflies sweeping like darts, and midges being born, flying, and dying in a single day.
What really struck me, however, was the great process of glacier formation, the aimless movement of ice towards the sea, slowly descending the slope of time.
In the Korushk Basin, even a brief pause can make one realize how narrow human perception is, and how short-sighted the human vision of the world is.
In such a place, the customary units of time—hundreds, lifetimes, decades, years, days, heartbeats—become almost unrecognizable. At the same time, your every move, every thought—a hand or a stroke, a hint of anger, a thought—becomes swift. Wars, civilizations, and epochs are the most important events in the human world.
Time in the Korushk Valley is incomprehensible, it is too fast, it is too slow, it cares nothing about the human system of time.
The Korushk Valley sustains the time of the wilderness.
In such an ancient canyon, you have to abandon the timekeeping methods you are accustomed to, and the markers and scales that are used to maintain normal life.
Time is no longer recorded in a clock or diary, but is shaped by ore and air. Human objects are fragile and insignificant, and you'll want to leave them behind for a while—place your diary at the entrance to the canyon and turn your watch to the inside of your arm.
There will always be a chance to re-enable these timing methods in the future, you comfort yourself.
Birds flew across the empty sky above me. At first, they looked like just black spots, but gradually, my eyes were able to make out their species. Seagulls hover low altitudes, wingtips stretched; Above them, three crows chirped loudly; At the top, there is a bird, spreading its wings and flying.
Suddenly, the sky became layered and unfathomable. Korushk itself has changed its meaning: this land, so foreign to me, has always been home to these birds, where they forage, play, live.
I swam back to shore. Near the mouth of the lake, where the water was only eight or nine feet deep, I dived to the bottom of the lake, grabbed a black fin-shaped boulder, and let my body and feet float vertically, swaying gently with the current, like an aquatic weed. The oxygen ran out, so I let go of my hand and floated to the surface and returned to the bright air.
We left Korushk on an ancient forest trail that followed the stream and crossed the lowest pass to the southern end of the valley.
About a hundred feet from the pass, there was a large rocky landmark, and there, I found a small rocky beach. Washed by the flowing water, the rocky beaches are white and shiny, as if they have become the glaciers that shape them.
I picked up a stone and put it in the pile, and I picked up another stone and put it in my mouth to quench my thirst. The stone churned in my mouth, crashing against my teeth, making an even, clicking, clicking sound.
The stone pile marks the exit to the wonderland. I stopped by the pile and looked around.
To the north-east, the now bare Sligheen Valley, the ruins of the winding river have long been covered in weeds and moss. Looking to the west, you can see the tip of the Red Peak standing proudly, casting sharp and heavy shadows. Beneath the peaks is the sparkling Korushk Lake, which is slightly sloping and smooth as a mirror.
We set off on our way down into the Slim Valley, and the whole world behind us saw us leave.