The devotion of a journey spanning a thousand li, settling into the winds of the frontier and into the shared vigil of two people

Gazing Across Wind and Snow

■ Liao Jilong, Zhu Haitao; illustrated by Chen Lei

The morning light of southern Tibet spills over the unbroken snow peaks, and the wind, carrying a thin chill, sweeps across the garrison of an Air Force unit. Ling Ziyan steps down from the vehicle and spots Xia Yuhang in the crowd at once — he has been waiting a long time. In that moment, the longing that had accumulated across more than 2,000 kilometers finally settled, solidly, to the ground.

Ling Ziyan is a bank employee in Ziyang, Sichuan, living a steady, ordinary life. Her husband, Xia Yuhang, is stationed at a radar station at an altitude of more than 4,000 meters, keeping company with wind and snow year-round. Most of the time, they can only see each other through a phone screen.

A video call just before the Dragon Boat Festival planted in Ling Ziyan's mind the idea of going up to the plateau. On the screen, her husband said that duty assignments had been heavy lately and that, once again, he would not be able to come home. His tone was calm; his face carried the weariness of a soldier just off watch. Ling Ziyan ended the call and sat on the sofa for a long time. A thought gradually took shape: "If he can't come back, then I'll go to him."

The journey west was harder than she had imagined. She flew from Chengdu to Lhasa, then switched to a car, and from Shannan City boarded a military vehicle — more than 300 kilometers that took six hours. At first the scenery outside the window was still green; gradually the trees gave way to alpine meadows hugging the ground, and finally even the meadows disappeared, leaving only bare rock and yellow earth. The mountain road wound upward in loop after loop. Past 4,000 meters, Ling Ziyan's temples began to throb, her chest felt as though a stone had been pressed onto it, and every breath required effort. Cresting one mountain pass, the driver caught her pallor in the rearview mirror and stopped the vehicle to let her rest.

Ling Ziyan got out. The mountain wind hit her full in the face, cold enough to make her shudder. It was the height of summer, yet the wind carried grains of snow that stung her cheeks. She pulled her jacket tight and leaned against the car door, eyes closed, picturing his face — that face roughened by the plateau sun, lips perpetually cracked. He had traveled this road back and forth for years, every leave, every return to duty, enduring this same jolting journey. Yet he had never said a word about how hard the road was. Every time, on the phone, he only said, "Everything's fine" and "I'm used to it."

The vehicle finally drove into the garrison. The officers and soldiers stood in neat formation, and their loud, repeated calls of "Welcome, sister-in-law!" blew away all the fatigue she had carried on the road. Xia Yuhang came striding toward her, holding a bunch of wildflowers. He stood before Ling Ziyan, looked at the limp oxygen bag, and his eyes immediately reddened: "More than 2,000 kilometers, all that way — you've worked hard."

Ling Ziyan took the flowers and smiled: "I walked the road you walk every day, I saw the snow mountains you see every day. Consider it standing watch with you once. It doesn't feel so hard anymore."

A comrade nearby jumped in: "Sister-in-law, the platoon leader keeps your photo under his pillow every day!" Xia Yuhang cut him off immediately, saying quietly, "Don't talk nonsense." But the corners of his eyes could not hide his smile. In that moment, Ling Ziyan understood all the more clearly that warm, unspoken longing of Xia Yuhang's — a man who does not easily put feelings into words.

Only when she actually settled in did Ling Ziyan truly feel the weight of the two characters "guarding the border" (戍边). The temperature here is low year-round; the wind cuts at the face like a knife; the air is so thin that even walking quickly leaves one gasping. Patrolling the mountains, standing watch, and making emergency repairs to equipment — this is the daily life of Xia Yuhang and his comrades. Once, she rode along on a supply vehicle to the radar station. A comrade traveling with her pointed at a steep slope outside the window and said: "Sister-in-law, last winter the road was blocked by heavy snow and supplies couldn't get through. Your Lao Xia led a group of men down the mountain and, pack after pack on their backs, hauled every bit of it up. By the time they reached camp, his hands were so frozen he couldn't hold chopsticks." Ling Ziyan listened, her gaze falling on that snow-covered slope, staring at it for a long time.

Inside the cramped space of the radar shelter, equipment hummed steadily. Xia Yuhang stared at the screen without moving. Ling Ziyan waited for him from a distance, and it suddenly occurred to her: every time they video-called, Xia Yuhang was always cheerful. All those days, he had kept watch over the equipment like this, kept watch over the border line like this, quietly tucking his longing for home into the wind and snow.

During the days his wife was visiting the unit, Xia Yuhang trained as usual and maintained combat readiness as usual. Ling Ziyan was not idle either. She washed her husband's clothes, prepared hot meals, and put the small room in the family quarters in perfect order. In her free time, she joined the soldiers in breaking ground on an open plot beside the garrison. The soil was frozen solid; a single swing of the pickaxe left only a white mark, and several people took turns hacking for half a day before turning over a small patch. She scattered grass seeds she had brought from home, then crouched beside the plot and stared for a long time, hoping: if only something green could truly grow on this plateau, how wonderful that would be.

After one duty shift ended, Xia Yuhang shed his full kit and sat down with Ling Ziyan in the courtyard, arm in arm. The plateau night was so low it seemed you could reach up and touch the stars. The Milky Way poured down from overhead, spreading across the entire snowfield. Ling Ziyan tilted her head back and looked on in silence, her heart softening. Xia Yuhang turned to look at her and said quietly: "Before, I could only show you this sky through the phone, and I always worried the photos couldn't do it justice. Every time I saw this stretch of Milky Way, I couldn't help thinking of you. Now, finally, I can watch the stars with you. I feel very happy — very complete."

The mountains and rivers lay still; the river of stars kept them company. The bitter cold of the frontier seemed to recede, leaving only the calm and quiet of two people together.

Time together always passes in a flash. On the evening before her departure, Xia Yuhang took Ling Ziyan up to a high point to look out over the mountains and rivers he guards day and night. Cradled among snow peaks, a lake lay quietly, its surface dyed pale gold by the setting sun. Xia Yuhang said everyone calls it "Lovesick Lake" (相思湖) — the officers and soldiers, stationed on the plateau year-round and unable to go home, come to sit by the lake when they miss home and tell their troubles to the water. Over the years, the lake has come to seem as though it holds the longing of the entire garrison, year after year bearing witness to the steadfast vigil of generation after generation of border guards.

Early the next morning, the two walked side by side along the road. The distant mountains stood majestic; a sea of clouds surged; the morning light rimmed the snow peaks with a soft glow.

"Ziyan," Xia Yuhang called to her softly, "you came all this way, thousands of li — do you feel wronged?"

Ling Ziyan leaned against his shoulder, gazing at the unbroken snow mountains, her voice gentle but certain: "Wronged? You said you would guard our country's frontier. I said I would be your steadfast support forever. Neither of us has broken our word. A reunion like this is worth it."

Xia Yuhang tightened his grip on her hand — his palm rough, but warm: "Next time I'm on leave, I'll go back to your hometown with you and make up for all the time together I owe you."

"I'll wait for you."

The morning light was clear; the snow mountains were silent; the mountains and rivers bore witness. This devotion, carried across a thousand li, settled into the winds of the frontier — and into the shared vigil of two people.