Western Sichuan: The Wrinkles of Time in a Snowy Scroll

In the early morning at Kangding Airport, the window is covered with frost. As the door opens, the highland wind, carrying the scent of pine needles and prayer flags, rushes in like a thangka that has been stored for a thousand years, suddenly shaking off the dust to reveal its colorful base. In the morning mist of Xinduqiao, a herd of yaks tramples the silver grassland. Tibetan-style watchtowers stretch out in the halo, and the copper bells on the eaves cut the sunlight into rhombus-shaped fragments. The sound of the bells echoes the camel bells of the ancient Tea Horse Road. I suddenly understand why photographers always say that the air here has its own filter - the six-syllable mantra on the Mani stone piles is soaked in morning dew, and every carved groove is breathing in the morning light. When we reach the foot of Yala Snow Mountain, the clouds are tying khatas around the snow peaks. The glacial meltwater meanders through the prayer flag array, and a lama in a maroon robe bends down to scoop water, with the chanting of the Seventh Dalai Lama echoing in the ripples. The copper axis of the prayer wheel emits a low hum, resonating with the fluttering sound of the wind horse flags, like the long breath in the chest of the sacred mountain. On the Tagong Grassland, we meet a nomadic Khampa man, with grass seeds embedded in his bronze palm lines. As the butter tea boils in the iron pot, he points to the distance and says, "Do you see the rhododendrons below the snow line? They have been accumulating for twenty years, just to bloom for the sacred mountain." The golden roof of Tagong Monastery suddenly dazzles in the twilight, as the setting sun forges the entire grassland into flowing gold foil. The starry sky in Litang is so low that it makes one's heart race, with the Milky Way pouring over the golden roof of Changqingchunke'er Monastery. A night watch monk, holding a butter lamp, passes through the corridor, and the flickering flame illuminates the faded Tara on the mural. Those eyes, ground from lapis lazuli, still gaze at Tsangyang Gyatso, who came here on a pilgrimage four hundred years ago. When the Five-Color Sea unveils its veil at an altitude of 4,600 meters, I suddenly understand the Tibetan allegory that "the lake is the mirror left by the gods." The thousand-year-old glacier casts a reflection in the center of the lake, and as the clouds pass by, it seems as if a transparent scripture is slowly unfolding at the bottom of the water. The yak hoofprints on the tundra by the lake meander into mysterious symbols, forming lines of ancient poetry older than oracle bone script. As the plane takes off on the return journey, the Hengduan Mountains outside the window turn into indigo ripples. Those prayer flags dancing with eagles, the morning light guarded by Mani stone piles, and the legends resting in the wrinkles of herdsmen, all become the gold powder in the long scroll of time. With a gentle shake, a galaxy of stars falls.