A Personal Journey to the Heavenly Mountains

The early morning in Urumqi was slightly chilly, and the streets were so quiet they felt almost empty. Carrying my backpack, I stepped out of the IU Hotel and walked toward the railway station meeting point, ready to join a one-day tour to Tianchi Lake in the Heavenly Mountains.

This was a solo trip. Not my first, and certainly not my last, but it carried a certain weight.

Over the past few years, I’ve tried to live freely and strongly, traveling to many places and witnessing countless landscapes. Yet, there’s always been an emptiness in my heart that I couldn’t fill.

The first stop was the Grand Canyon of the Heavenly Mountains. The towering cliffs, like a tear in the fabric of the earth, reached into the sky. The red rock walls, illuminated by sunlight, seemed to be ablaze.

As I walked through the canyon, I felt a sense of calm—not because the pain was gone, but because I had learned not to let every gust of wind or every stone bring me to tears.

She’s been gone for several years now.

In the early years, I couldn’t ask, couldn’t mention, couldn’t even think about her. Every time I did, my emotions would flood like a broken dam—uncontrollable, overwhelming, suffocating. Every night felt like an endless abyss of dreams, where even breathing was a luxury.

But now, I can quietly remember her on the bus, think of her smile in the canyon breeze, and walk into the depths of Tianchi Lake to gently let her go—not to forget, but to finally coexist in peace.

In the afternoon, I arrived at Tianchi Lake. The alpine lake was both cold and beautiful, its surface like a deep blue mirror reflecting the Bogda Snow Mountain, as if it were a gateway between reality and the heavens.

I slowly walked to the Queen Mother of the West Temple by the lake, lit an incense stick before the statue, and closed my eyes. In that moment of wishing, I silently said:

"I hope everything is well for you in heaven."

I didn’t cry, nor did I hold back tears. I simply stood there quietly for a while.

Time hasn’t made me forget her. It has only moved her from the edges of my emotions to the deepest part of my heart.

There, she stays quietly—not disturbing me, yet never leaving. Occasionally, she emerges, like during a sleepless night or in the sudden beauty of a mountain or lake during a journey.

In those moments, I feel low, I lose sleep, I fall silent. But isn’t that what longing looks like?

On the way back in the evening, the setting sun painted Tianchi Lake in gentle shades of gold and red, like a letter written to heaven. Leaning against the bus window, I watched the distant mountains fade into the horizon, feeling an unexpected sense of peace.

Traveling alone may be lonely and silent. But because of that, I’ve finally learned to converse with myself in the quiet and reconcile with my memories through the scenery.