Part 1: A Rushed Journey

　　Time slipped away, and before I knew it, night had fallen. The main lights in the carriage were off, yet I lay on my berth, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. The train rumbled on under the vast, dark sky, stopping and starting along the way. Finally, on the following morning, we arrived in Lhasa. Aside from a touch of mild altitude sickness when crossing the Tanggula Pass at over 5,000 meters above sea level, the journey had been remarkably smooth.

　　After leaving the train station, we spent another half hour on the road, the four of us dragging our assorted bags and packs, until we finally reached the remote guesthouse we had booked earlier. The moment I collapsed onto the bed, the exhaustion from over twenty hours of travel hit me all at once, wiping out any desire to explore. As much as I longed to wander through Lhasa, to see the Potala Palace, Barkhor Street, and the Jokhang Temple, our energy was simply too low, and the schedule too tight. We could only walk around near the guesthouse, grab a bite to eat, and return to rest. The sights we missed this trip would have to wait for another time.

　　After a fitful night of rest, we woke early and boarded the train to Nyingchi. We didn’t linger there either, immediately taking the pre-booked car Ciqu had arranged at the station entrance, heading straight for Chunbai Village. To make up for missing the sights in Lhasa and Nyingchi, I spent the car ride glued to the window, soaking in the stunning landscapes of southern Tibet. The scenery was breathtaking. I barely had time to blink, and my camera’s shutter clicked almost nonstop. Even the well-traveled Young Master Feng couldn’t help but remark, “This place is a real ‘memory card killer’!”

　　Perhaps it was the lack of proper sleep over the past couple of days, but by the latter half of the drive, I was so drowsy I nearly nodded off, only jerking awake when Mr. Egg exclaimed, “The Yarlung Tsangpo River!”

　　Part 2: Chunbai Village

　　At the roof of the snowy realm, beside the icy path, the Celestial River roared, its force cutting through the mountain ridges. Rounding the great bend at the foot of Namcha Barwa, the turbulent Yarlung Tsangpo River surged southward.

　　As the car reached the mountainside, a vast, magnificent gorge came into full view. Frost-covered forests formed ridges; the long river had carved through the mountains. Millennia of erosion had created this breathtaking spectacle, leaving us exclaiming in awe, utterly intoxicated by nature’s boundless creativity. A shame that thick clouds shrouded the distant Namcha Barwa—otherwise, the view might have been ten times more stunning.

　　“Driver, can we drive along the gorge for a bit?” Mr. Egg asked greedily.

　　“Scenic area ticket is 240. But it’s not easy to drive inside; you’d have to walk,” the driver said, rolling down the window to tap his cigarette ash.

　　“Two-forty?!” Mr. Egg’s eyes went wide. “That’s highway robbery!”

　　“It’s not cheap,” the driver admitted, blowing a smoke ring. “But maintenance costs for the area are high, and the view is absolutely worth it.”

　　“Well…” Mr. Egg hesitated.

　　“Maybe we should go to Chunbai Village first,” I suggested, weighing my wallet. “Better to save our strength before heading into the mountains.”

　　Seeing my worried expression, Ciqu took the initiative. She told the driver to take us to Chunbai Village to settle in first, saying that once Namcha Barwa revealed its true face, she would personally lead us into the gorge for the views.

　　“Great idea!” Young Master Feng immediately agreed. “When the time comes, I’ll cover everyone’s ticket!”

　　“Deal!” Mr. Egg and I exchanged a look, covering our mouths to stifle a laugh.

　　Truth be told, Ciqu’s meaning was clear—she was a local and naturally knew where to go for the best views without buying tickets. When the time came, we’d just follow her and surely enjoy the views for free. Mr. Egg and I both understood this subtext. Only Young Master Feng still loudly offered to buy tickets for everyone, his simple-minded enthusiasm making him look far from a shrewd businessman.

　　Seeing that we had made our decision, the driver stubbed out his cigarette, slammed on the gas, and sped off. As the saying goes, “the mountain is within sight but kills the horse.” On the plateau, with its open vistas, distances that seem short often take a long time to cover. By the time the car wound along the mountain road into Chunbai Village, the sun was nearly setting.

　　I shouldered my pack and stepped into the tiny village nestled at the foot of Namcha Barwa, a strange sense of familiarity washing over me. The setting sun cast long shadows. Chickens clucked, dogs barked, and footpaths crisscrossed the fields. Turning, I saw Tibetan-style courtyards dotted along the field edges. Cooking smoke curled upwards, carrying the scent of food. A few yaks stood idly in front of a house, as if “queuing for dinner.” I stood still, expanding my chest slightly, drawing the rich scent of daily life deep into my lungs. Looking around, the entire village radiated peace and tranquility.

　　“Father!” Ciqu’s eyes welled up as she spread her arms and ran toward the village’s edge.

　　Under the setting sun, father and daughter were reunited. Ciqu trembled in his embrace, crying. Mr. Egg quickly pressed the shutter, capturing the large hands soothing his daughter’s sorrow in light and shadow.

　　“Woof! Woof! Woof!” A large yellow dog came sprinting down the dirt road, tail held high, circling excitedly around the pair. Ciqu bent down, gently stroking the dog. A few last rays of sunlight spilled from the clouds, a golden halo outlining Ciqu’s cheek. Young Master Feng stood there, stunned, his luggage dropping to the ground.

　　“Giving up on the gear already?” Mr. Egg asked, smiling, picking up a satchel and hanging it on Young Master Feng’s shoulder.

　　Snapping out of it, Young Master Feng hurriedly thanked Mr. Egg and slowly crouched down, absentmindedly gathering his belongings. Mr. Egg looked at him, then at Ciqu, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

　　Dusk was falling. At Ciqu’s invitation, the three of us settled into a small guesthouse building run by her father. Out of gratitude, Ciqu’s father absolutely refused payment. Even though we repeatedly explained that the police had actually rescued Ciqu, the hospitable Tibetan uncle would not hear of spending money. Instead, he insisted on treating us to a big meal. Unable to refuse such warm hospitality, we had no choice but to awkwardly accept. Ciqu’s father laughed heartily and showed us to our rooms.

　　The rooms were simple but functional: a wooden bed, a table and chairs, and a wardrobe. Next to the wardrobe hung a beautiful thangka painting. When I turned on the light, my hand accidentally brushed the wooden wall panel, realizing every plank had a thin layer of wax, and the seams were tight and draft-proof—remarkably well-maintained. My room was on the second floor, and the wooden floorboards underfoot were so solid they didn’t even creak. I had stayed in Tibetan-style houses before, but never one kept this tidy.

　　By the staircase leading to the third floor, a row of hunting trophies was neatly stacked—foxes, mountain goats. A few rolls of golden prayer flags hung on the wall. Going up the narrow stairs to the third floor, there was a small tea room. On the rustic wooden tea table sat a uniquely shaped Tibetan teapot and a few teacups. Outside the tea room, facing Namcha Barwa, was a surprisingly spacious balcony. Leaning on the balcony railing, I imagined the pleasure of drinking butter tea at sunrise, facing the sun-gilded mountain. I couldn’t help but use the last bit of daylight to video call Sven. Unfortunately, the signal here was terrible; the call kept cutting in and out. On the tiny screen, Sven was at a shopping mall. Through the connection, she cast an utterly envious look at the scenery on my end, her words full of longing and admiration for Chunbai Village’s peaceful life.

　　“Hinson, are you heading into the mountains tomorrow?”

　　“We’re resting tomorrow. Going in the day after.”

　　Just as I finished speaking, the signal cut out completely. I had to send a text explaining the bad connection and that I’d contact her after the hike.

　　Putting my phone down, the sky had fully darkened. A cool breeze made me shiver. Disappointed, I headed back to my room.

　　Part 3: A Dream of Bygone Years

　　Perhaps it was the strain of rushing the past few days without proper rest. I felt completely drained. I had meant to go to the shared bathroom on the first floor for a shower, but sleepiness overpowered me, and I collapsed onto the bed. When I woke again, a pale light was showing outside the window.

　　I rubbed my bleary eyes, hearing cheerful barks from outside. Following the sound, I saw a ragged Tibetan man half-crouched on the ground, hugging the guardian black dog, tears and mucus streaming down his face. Who knew what hardships he had endured—the only intact item on his person was a filthy water-skin hanging from his waist.

　　I walked toward him. My footsteps made him alert.

　　“Who are you? Where are you from? What are you doing in my house?” His exhausted, weak body straightened instantly, firing off a string of questions. Strangely, even though I understood barely any Tibetan, I comprehended him perfectly.

　　“Hello! My surname is Lin. I’m a paleontology teacher from Annan Forestry College, here on a research trip.”

　　Huh? What’s going on? Why am I also speaking Tibetan? And… Annan Forestry College? Is that a branch of Mr. Egg’s university?

　　“A teacher? From outside? The village arranged for you to stay here?”

　　“Yes!” I nodded. “The village head said you had a spare room, so he let me stay temporarily. Of course, I’m not staying for free! Paying daily, and with food coupons!”

　　Food coupons? From what era? What am I saying? What’s happening?

　　The man looked skeptical, as if doubting my words.

　　Just then, a Tibetan woman from the adjacent room emerged, holding the hand of a boy around ten. They both threw themselves into the man’s arms, wailing. The woman cried, “Rendoje! Rendoje! Why did it take you so long to come back!”

　　Tears streamed down the man’s face as he gently comforted the woman and child in his arms. Only when they had calmed somewhat did he turn his face back to me and ask what I was really doing there.

　　“Researching paleontology. That is, studying ancient… big bugs and such things…”

　　“Bugs!” A sudden glimmer of light appeared in the man’s tired eyes. “Quick, look at this bug! Can it be traded for money?”

　　He gently released the woman and child, trembling hands opening the water-skin. Using his finger as a filter, he poured out the water. Soon, a strange hard-shelled bug was struggling in his palm. I looked closely, and my mind exploded, as if all the blood in my body rushed to my head.

　　“A trilobite?! Alive!!” I almost couldn’t control my voice. My shriek startled the dog beside me into leaping up. Immediately, a wave of inexplicable dizziness hit me. I fell off the edge of the bed with a thud, my head aching—it turned out the whole scene had been a dream.

　　“Hinson, get up! Time for leftovers!” No sooner had I crashed to the floor than I heard Mr. Egg banging on the door outside.

　　Groaning, I got up. The moment I opened the door, a thermometer gun was pressed against my forehead.

　　“Oh, 98.2°F, no fever!” Mr. Egg said with a mischievous grin, the green light from the gun’s screen tinting his round face an eerie shade.

　　“You’re the one with a fever! Can’t you let people sleep properly?” I glared at him irritably through a yawn.

　　“Sleep at this hour? We called you for dinner earlier and you didn’t make a sound. Ciqu was worried you’d died from altitude sickness, insisted I check if you were still alive!”

　　“Dinner? Oh, sorry. I was sleeping like a log, didn’t hear a thing.”

　　“And ‘didn’t hear a thing’ is all you have to say?” Mr. Egg looked at me disdainfully. “Do you know how much exciting stuff you missed? Now the professor has to give you a private make-up lesson!”

　　I said I just missed dinner. What exciting stuff could there be? Did Mr. Egg do a striptease?

　　“Pah! Hinson, you wish! A mortal like you isn’t worthy of seeing this professor’s striptease!” Mr. Egg pushed the door open, stepped in, closed it behind him, and said mysteriously, “Do you know who just showed up?”

　　I said of course I didn’t!

　　Mr. Egg lowered his voice. “Ciqu’s grandfather. Uncle Rendoje!”

　　“Who?” I thought. If Mr. Egg was being this secretive, the visitor must be someone notable. But I’d never heard of… Wait, Rendoje? Hmm, Rendoje… Why does that sound familiar?

　　“Hinson, there’s a line of poetry: ‘returning home, I seem the woodcutter of the rotten axe-handle.’ Do you know the story behind ‘the woodcutter of the rotten axe-handle’?”