During a Winter Patrol on the Ali Plateau, We Were Suddenly Caught in an Avalanche — Life and Death on a Knife's Edge
Brothers at the Frontier ■ Mei Shixiong
I
Winter on the Ali Plateau can freeze a person solid as stone.
That January, I accompanied a border defense company on a patrol mission. The target position sat at an elevation of more than 5,800 meters, requiring us to cross a mountain pass the troops called "Guijian Chou" — the Pass That Vexes Even Ghosts. Before we set out, Company Commander Zhao Tiejun's gaze lingered on me for a moment. Beyond the worry in his eyes was a gravity that was hard to put into words: "Are you sure you want to go? Even some of our young soldiers can't hold up out there."
I said: "I'm going."
Zhao Tiejun said nothing more and stuffed an oxygen canister into my arms.
The team numbered eleven in all. The horses had been driven to the transfer point by the company's officers and soldiers the day before, and were now waiting quietly at the foot of the mountain. We rode from the company in vehicles, jolting over a washboard road for more than forty kilometers until our bones felt ready to fall apart. Then came a foot march of more than ten kilometers through snow that came up past our thighs, each step consuming nearly every ounce of strength in our bodies. At the foot of the mountain, the slope grew even steeper. The company commander raised his hand: "Mount up!"
Eleven military horses were led out from a mountain hollow. At the front was Squad Leader Li Weiguo — a man from Shandong, one meter eighty-five, his face bearing the scars of burns from the plateau's ultraviolet rays. The black horse he rode was called "Kunlun" — tall and powerful, its mane dark as ink, the finest warhorse in the company. Behind Li Weiguo rode the young soldier Li Jianjun — the two were blood brothers, serving in the same company. The elder brother was the squad leader; the younger was a soldier.
I had heard their story while reporting at the company. The two brothers had signed up for military service without telling their family and were assigned together to Ali. When their mother found out, she wept for three days. Their father said only one thing: "It's an honor."
A few days before we set out, I passed by the stables and saw Li Weiguo brushing "Kunlun's" coat. As he brushed, he talked to the horse: "Brother, we're heading up the mountain again — you'd better give it your all." The horse seemed to understand; it snorted and nuzzled his face.
The company had arranged for me to ride an old horse — black-bodied with a white head — named "Changfeng." Its coat gleamed, and it was seasoned and experienced, a horse of merit in the company, having taken part in numerous patrols and once saved a soldier who had fallen off a cliff. Li Weiguo patted its neck and said: "You ride 'Changfeng.' Don't worry — it's steadier than I am."
I swung up into the saddle. "Changfeng" moved with great composure, unhurried across the snow, slowing on its own initiative to navigate around patches of ice; when it encountered a steep slope, it bounded up in a few swift strides. Li Jianjun rode behind me on a white horse, occasionally reminding me: "Lean forward — don't pull the reins too tight."
The altitude climbed higher and higher; breathing grew harder and harder. The wind cut at our faces like a blade, and a thick layer of frost formed on our cold-weather face masks. Hooves crunched against the snow with a steady creak-creak-creak.
After nearly four hours of riding, the team stopped to rest on a mountain ridge. Li Weiguo jumped down from his horse, pulled out a compressed biscuit, and broke off half to hand to his brother. Li Jianjun shook his head and pointed at me. Li Weiguo walked over and pressed the biscuit into my hand: "Eat something — don't push yourself too hard."
I handed it back: "You need it more than I do."
"We have more." He smiled and gave me a mock glare, then turned to check "Kunlun's" horseshoes.
"How much farther?" I asked.
"Once we cross that pass up ahead, we're there." Li Weiguo pointed toward the white expanse of ridge in the distance. "Elevation over 5,900 meters — more than a thousand meters higher than our company's garrison."
I looked up. The pass loomed like a wall across the sky.
After ten minutes' rest, we pressed on. The slope grew steeper and steeper, the snow deeper and deeper. "Kunlun" walked at the front, each step planted firmly and heavily. Li Weiguo rode on its back, body leaning forward, like a statue.
After more than another hour of climbing, we finally reached the top of the pass. The wind was fiercer here; a person could barely stand. Li Weiguo ordered everyone to dismount and lead their horses forward in a crouch. Facing into the howling wind, standing in the snow, I felt the warmth draining from my body bit by bit.
II
After crossing the pass, I swung back into the saddle. As we descended a slope of more than sixty degrees, "Changfeng" suddenly slipped, and I was thrown from the saddle, my left shoulder slamming hard against the rock. "Changfeng" stopped immediately and turned its head to nuzzle my face with its nose. I moved around — my shoulder ached sharply, but no bones were broken. Li Weiguo rushed over to help me up: "Are you hurt?" I shook my head: "I'm fine — I can walk and ride." He helped me back into the saddle, tucked my feet into the stirrups, and tightened the straps.
At last, we reached the boundary marker.
I reached out and touched that cold stone. The two characters reading "China" (中国) had been worn somewhat faded by wind and snow, but remained clearly visible. They were carved into the stone — and branded even more deeply into the hearts of every officer and soldier who had measured out this border line with their own flesh and blood.
In that moment, I suddenly understood what it meant to say "the ground beneath your feet is China" (脚下站立的地方是中国).
It was not a slogan. It was this land, this boundary marker, this snow-covered mountain — real, tangible existence. And those who guarded them were the young people standing before me, their bodies coated in frost, lips cracked and dry, fingers red with cold.
Li Weiguo reached into his coat and pulled out a national flag, planting it beside the boundary marker. In the wind and snow, the red flag snapped and crackled.
He led the soldiers to face the flag and raised his right fist.
"I swear —"
The voices of eleven people echoed through the wind and snow. They were not loud, but they struck my heart like a hammer, blow after blow.
The oath complete, we began the return journey.
The descent went smoothly enough at first. Less than an hour in, leaden gray clouds massed on the horizon. Li Weiguo looked up and frowned: "Move fast — the weather's turning."
The words had barely left his mouth when the wind surged suddenly, snow flew sideways, and visibility dropped to less than ten meters. Li Weiguo had everyone tie themselves together at the waist with pack ropes and link the horses in a single line to prevent anyone from getting separated.
We felt our way downward. Then, from directly above, came a deep, muffled boom — rolling across the ridge like a thunderclap.
"Avalanche!" Li Weiguo's voice tore through the wind and snow. "Run right! Go! Now!"
Everyone scrambled desperately to the right. I threw my arms around "Changfeng's" neck; it drove all four hooves into the ground and leapt hard to the right. From behind came a scream — the soldier at the rear of the column, Xiao Liu, and his horse were swept away directly by the wall of snow. The horse Xiao Liu had been riding was a chestnut called "Zhuifeng" — only four years old, raised by Xiao Liu's own hand. He used to say "Zhuifeng" ran as fast as the wind.
"Xiao Liu! 'Zhuifeng'!" Li Weiguo screamed.
The avalanche passed quickly. We lay face-down in the snow, shaking all over. "Changfeng" stood beside me, blowing white vapor from its nostrils, its front legs trembling slightly. Li Weiguo scrambled to his feet and charged like a madman toward the spot where Xiao Liu had disappeared. We followed, digging frantically through the snow with our bare hands.
After more than ten minutes of digging, the upper half of Xiao Liu's body emerged. His face was deathly pale; his left leg was pinned under a rock, his trouser leg soaked in blood. He had lost consciousness. Everyone worked together to pull him free, and Li Weiguo applied emergency bandaging.
"Where's 'Zhuifeng'?" someone called out.
We kept digging. Minutes later, the chestnut horse emerged — its neck had been struck by a massive boulder, and it was no longer breathing. Xiao Liu's leg had been pinned beneath it; the horse had used its own body to block that stone, shielding Xiao Liu from a fatal blow.
Li Weiguo crouched down and touched "Zhuifeng's" neck. It was ice cold. He removed his military cap and bowed his head in silence. Everyone followed and removed their caps.
The wind moaned — as if in farewell.
III
"Move the horse to the side." Li Weiguo stood up, his voice hoarse. "We keep moving."
"Squad Leader, Xiao Liu's injuries are this serious — shouldn't we set up camp and call for rescue first?" one soldier said.
Li Weiguo looked at the unconscious Xiao Liu, then looked out at the vast white expanse of snow.
"Zhaxi Dunzhu, you and Ciluobu have the most strength — carry Xiao Liu down the mountain. Signalman, get on the satellite phone and call for rescue immediately. Everyone else, follow me. We have to get down as fast as possible."
The team continued its return. Li Weiguo walked at the front, his steps heavier than before, each one as if he meant to punch through the snow.
Then Li Jianjun collapsed. His face was deathly pale, his lips purple, his breathing rapid.
Li Weiguo crouched down and felt his brother's forehead — it was burning. Without a word, he took out the oxygen canister and pressed the mask over his brother's face.
"Brother, you —" Li Jianjun tried to say something.
"Shut up and breathe." Li Weiguo's voice was calm, but I could see his hands were shaking.
Li Jianjun took a few breaths of oxygen and his color improved slightly. Li Weiguo helped him up, let him lean against his own shoulder, and kept walking.
After a few steps, Li Weiguo suddenly stopped and reached into his coat to pull out a photograph — a family portrait. Their parents sat in the center; the two brothers stood behind them in uniform. He looked at it for a moment, then tucked it into Li Jianjun's pocket: "Keep it. Mom and Dad are both watching over us."
The return journey was harder going. Li Jianjun's condition grew worse and worse; his whole body went limp as mud. Li Weiguo hoisted him onto his back and inched forward step by step. The snow came up past their knees; the wind was so fierce it was impossible to keep one's eyes open. His body swayed, but his feet never stopped.
"Kunlun" followed behind him, occasionally nudging his back with its head — as if to say: Brother, I'm still here.
"Changfeng's" steps remained steady as ever, turning its head from time to time to look back at me, as if confirming I was still in the saddle. I stroked its neck; it gave a soft snort.
I walked behind Li Weiguo and watched the veins stand out on his neck, watched the beads of sweat fall from his forehead — that he could sweat in such extreme cold meant he had pushed himself to the absolute limit. He clenched his teeth, the muscles of his jaw drawn into hard lines; every step landed heavily, as if he were driving all his strength, all his will, into this frozen earth — for the sake of the brother bound to him by blood who lay on his back.
"Brother, put me down… go on without me…" Li Jianjun murmured from Li Weiguo's back.
"You shut your mouth!" Li Weiguo gasped. "Remember this — we came together, and we go back together. Mom and Dad are waiting for us."
"Brother, I'm cold…"
"Hold tight around my neck." Li Weiguo said. "Think about Mom's dumplings. Think about Dad's little cup of baijiu. Think about that old scholar tree in front of our house. Don't fall asleep — do you hear me? Don't fall asleep!"
The soldier Old Zhu came up from behind, unwound his own scarf, and wrapped it around Li Jianjun's neck. Another soldier, Xiao Zhao, passed over the last half-thermos of hot water: "Squad Leader, give Jianjun a sip."
Li Weiguo took it and fed it to his brother, a little at a time.
After nearly four more hours of walking, we finally reached the point where the rescue vehicles could drive in. The ambulance dispatched by the company was already waiting there.
Li Jianjun was lifted into one vehicle; Xiao Liu was lifted into another. Li Weiguo stood outside the vehicle door and looked at his brother once.
"Brother, get in too — your altitude sickness isn't mild either." Li Jianjun called from inside the vehicle.
Li Weiguo shook his head: "We still have to proceed to another position and continue the patrol."
"Brother!"
"Stop fussing." Li Weiguo turned away, his voice slightly unsteady. His back was to the vehicle door; his shoulders rose slightly, then straightened again at once.
The door closed. I could see clearly: Li Weiguo's eyes had reddened, but not a single tear fell.
IV
Li Weiguo walked over to "Kunlun" and patted its neck: "Brother, one more position to patrol and then we go home."
The horse seemed to understand. It threw back its head and let out a long whinny that echoed through the valley.
I led "Changfeng" and followed behind him.
"Aren't you afraid something will happen to you?" I asked.
"I am," he said. "But I'm more afraid something will happen to my brother."
Li Weiguo stopped walking and tilted his head back to look at the snow falling thick across the sky.
"Xiao Liu's life was saved, but 'Zhuifeng' is gone. A horse that was with us for four years — closer than a blood brother. It blocked that rock for Xiao Liu…"
He was silent for a long time.
"You ask what we soldiers are in it for. It's for this. For this land, for this boundary marker, for the people to live their lives in peace and security. 'Zhuifeng' is gone, but it was our comrade-in-arms too."
My nose stung, and I nearly wept.
By the time we returned to the company, it was past midnight the next day. Li Jianjun and Xiao Liu had been sent to the hospital down the mountain; both were out of danger. Xiao Liu's left leg was saved — the doctor said that half an hour later, amputation might have been necessary.
After returning, Li Weiguo did not rest. He went straight to the stables. He put fresh fodder out for "Kunlun," then fetched a bucket of warm water and carefully brushed down the horse's back. No words were spoken — only warm breath, gentle touch, and the soft rasping of the brush across the coat, flowing through the quiet of the stable.
I stood outside the stable and watched his back. "Changfeng" was quietly chewing its fodder in the adjacent stall, occasionally lifting its head to look at me.
I suddenly recalled something Li Weiguo had once said: "This horse has been with me for five years — closer than a blood brother."
No — it was not only the horses who were brothers. On the Ali Plateau, on one wind-and-snow-swept pass after another, there were many more brothers bound by life and death. Brothers were those young men who wore the same uniform and guarded the same snow-covered mountain; brothers were the comrades who had climbed "Guijian Chou" together through the wind and snow; brothers were a horse named "Zhuifeng"…
They were brothers, they were comrades-in-arms — forged in life-and-death solidarity into the hardest bones of this nation. Those bones were fused with loyalty, with duty, with wordless sacrifice, and with the most unadorned love of homeland (家国情怀).
And I was only a person fortunate enough to record their story.
My brothers at the frontier — I think of you every single moment.