Two winters ago, I took a long, lonely walk through the highlands of a prefecture on the edge of the Tibetan Plateau in north-western China. Vivid memories still linger: the spearmint-fresh air in my lungs, the sky rinsed of clouds, streams braiding through valleys, ice crystals forming at their rims. For hours, I saw no one; just yaks and sheep grazing the slopes. Each hill crest led onto another, in an endless roll of frost-yellowed grassland that was meditative in its monotony.
兩年前的冬天，我獨自在中國西北部、橫亙在青藏高原邊緣的一座州的高地上，走了一段漫長而寂寞的路。至今仍記憶猶新：薄荷般清冽的空氣灌滿肺腑，天空被洗凈了云朵，溪流在山谷間交織，冰晶在水邊凝結。幾個小時里，我一個人也沒遇見；只有牦牛和綿羊在山坡上吃草。每翻過一個山脊，前方又是一個，起伏不盡、被寒霜染黃的草地延綿不絕，在單調中自有冥想般的沉靜。
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