“What's that? Are those poachers coming after us?" I sprang to my feet, scanning the distance like an alert groundhog.

　　"Impossible! Hinson, stop being so jumpy!" Mr. Egg said.

　　"Let's run!" I tugged at Mr. Egg to run away. Unexpectedly, the roaring sound continued one after another, startling me so much I nearly fell over.

　　"My god! Will they wipe out all living things in the Qinling Mountains?" I exclaimed.

　　"This sound definitely isn't explosives!" Mr. Egg decisively overturned his previous judgment. (It's even more violent than a mountain blast!)

　　"If it wasn't the sound of explosives, then what was it?" I asked him.

　　"It's the wind!" He looked around and fixed his gaze on a snow-white mountaintop. "Hinson, look, that mountain pass there! The sound of strong gusts rushing through the pass!"

　　"Wind? How strong must it be!" Before I had finished speaking, there was another blast from the direction of the pass. The tall coniferous forest started rippling like the invisible footsteps of a giant. The countless trees rustled, making our skin crawl.

　　"Well, it's no surprise for the Qinling Mountains to have such strong winds!" Mr. Egg raised his head and said matter-of-factly.

　　"A few days ago, I took some friends to the Taibai Mountain scenic spot. We were blown back halfway there. Later, I heard from tourists coming down that even one of the wind turbine blades got blown off on the other side of Daya Sea. Tell me, how strong must that wind have been?" Mr. Egg told me.

　　"Ah..." At this, I had nothing more to say.

　　Indeed, I had long known of the fierce winter winds in the Qinling Mountains, but never imagined their intensity. As China's iconic north-south divide, its 3,000-meter peaks block cold fronts sweeping southward, triggering violent local storms. Clear skies can morph into howling snow squalls in minutes. Get caught on an exposed ridge during a gale, and you might literally be swept off your feet—skyward for a "cloud excursion"! With winds escalating around us, we trudged along the path until the forest lay behind.

　　As afternoon approached, we found a resting spot below the ridgeline and grabbed a quick meal.

　　"Look!" Mr. Egg set down his half-eaten chocolate pie, jerking his chin toward the sky.

　　I craned my neck. Countless ice crystals streaked overhead, etching the wind's passage across the heavens.

　　"[Ground blizzard!]" Mr. Egg mutely pulled out our hardshell jackets.

　　"[Get your hard shell on. We'll scout the ridge. If it's too exposed, we camp lower down.]"

　　"Got it!" I meticulously zipped every seal on my jacket, bracing for the ground blizzard's assault.

　　Trudging through knee-deep snow, Mr. Egg first reached the ridge "gateway." He braced against a boulder, waiting for me.

　　I followed—only to be [slammed flat] by a sudden gale! [Frost-brittle grass stalks whipped my cheeks] while [needle-sharp ice pellets needled their way down my collar], rapidly freezing my neck stiff.

　　"Hinson, you okay?" Mr. Egg's shout fragmented in the wind.

　　How could I be?

　　The wind [pinned me like a concrete wall], [its icy fingers probing mercilessly beneath my layers—it seemed determined to freeze the life out of me].

　　Helpless, I could only shiver in the snow, [utterly at the mercy of the elements, grinding me into the snow like a pestle crushing herbs].

　　After countless expeditions, I finally understood "fate rests in heaven, not mankind"... Despair numbed my panic. My sole thought: reach my teammate's warmth.

　　But despite my [frantic struggling], the crosswind [nailed me to the ground]—I couldn't even lift an arm!

　　[My overloaded pack turned me into an overturned tortoise], utterly stranded.

　　The veteran Mr. Egg instantly assessed my plight. "Don't panic!" he roared. "Wait out this gust before moving!"

　　"One... Two... Three..." I lay facedown, glaring at my watch. Each second [crawled like an eternity].

　　I prayed relentlessly: Make it stop.

　　[Backpack straps slapped rhythmically against my jacket, drumming an eager tattoo for eight full seconds].

　　When the wind finally [subsided to survivable levels], I scrambled up. Bracing against the face-stinging gale, I [staggered toward my teammate's refuge].

　　“Thrilling?” Mr. Egg chuckled, brushing grass stems from my gear.

　　“Hell yeah!” I stomped my boots, ripped open my zipper, and shook out the ice shards like a dog shaking off water.

　　“Get it now? The teeth of a ground blizzard!

　　Mark my words—leave one tiny gap in your clothes, and snow grit'll worm its way in. It melts against your skin, soaking through to guarantee you'll get hypothermia in no time!”

　　I absorbed every word, mimicking how he wedged a quick-dry towel around his collar.

　　Repacking my gear, I gazed up at the serpentine ridge. The crosswind howled like a starving beast, its snow-choked breath swallowing our view and plunging the world into primordial chaos.

　　Even our sheltering boulder now trembled like a pebble in a torrent. Whirlwinds snatched at our palm-sized haven—if we delayed, we'd be signing our death certificates.

　　“Mr. Egg! Fall back to treeline!” My shout fought the gale.

　　“Say again?”

　　“Retreat! Downhill!”

　　“Roger!” His gloved hand flashed an OK.

　　But the wind redoubled its fury. To reach safety required abandoning the rock and traversing that wind-lashed choke point.

　　I edged a hand beyond our shelter—and slammed into what felt like concrete. Ice pellets machine-gunned my sleeve, the crackling impact stealing my breath.

　　“Rope up!” Mr. Egg’s command tore through the white noise.

　　He shrugged off his pack, wrestling out a coil of dyneema cord in the blinding scrum.

　　No time to lose. I seized the rope, lashing us together. Shoulder to frozen ground, we belly-crawled toward the pass, jackets bellied out like overstrained sails.

　　"The wind on the ridge was savage. Though roped together, the gale still pinned us to the snow, completely immobilized..."

　　In the school study room, I typed my Qinling travelogue. Each time the memories surfaced, an involuntary shiver would rack me as I muttered: "That Mr. Egg and his death traps he lures me into!"

　　The universe has wicked timing. The moment I clicked the chat icon, Mr. Egg's photo popped up: Peaks like torches, glowing with snow-fire. Instantly familiar.

　　"Namcha Barwa?" Spotting the watermark, I banged out resentfully: "Trying to bait me into another climb?"

　　He ignored me, dumping more photos.

　　"I only do trekking—no alpine-style ascents!"

　　"Same here!" he shot back.

　　"Then why blast Namcha Barwa pics?"

　　"Just admit it's gorgeous!"

　　"Damn right! Who'd deny that?" I appended an eye-roll emoji.

　　"Then join me for a front-row view!" His grinning emoji followed.

　　"As if!" I could practically see his shameless smirk through the screen.

　　For the closest view of Namcha Barwa, the Pai-Mêdog trek reigns supreme. But that route snakes through the Dogxung Valley—where thousands of leeches cling to every branch, their questing heads waving to latch onto passing flesh. Pure nightmare fuel.

　　"Go if you enjoy bloodsuckers! I'd rather die than trek to Mêdog!"

　　"Who said Mêdog?" His reply came under a second—as predicted.

　　"Meaning?"

　　"Grow some spine, kid!" he fired back. "Let's pioneer a new route!" A 3D map snapshot instantly flooded my screen.

　　On the map, Namcha Barwa coiled like a white dragon at the center. A red line snaked from Chunbai Village (3,000m) on the southern foothills, ascending to a 5,000m+ pass east of Namucuo Lake, then plunged headlong to 4,000m into the headwaters of Yanglang Zangbo Valley. Frankly, any route this extreme would deter 80% of trekkers. Yet that deranged red line shot southward up a 4,500m col, passed two 3,900m high-altitude lakes (海子), vaulted another 4,600m+ pass, and dove into the Dogxung Valley!

　　"I'll be a damned dog if I hike with you again!" Seeing a route only a madman could devise, I nearly blacklisted him.

　　"Don't be hasty! Hinson, remember how close I am with your dean... next year's graduation defense—"

　　"You—!" Though knowing Mr. Egg wasn't truly vile, I still typed a string of unprintable expletives, fuming at him using my graduation defense as leverage—how despicable!

　　After a deep breath, my rage oddly dissipated. Rereading his route, a longed-for vision surfaced: beneath snow-capped giants, traversing a glacier-flanked valley carpeted with alpine rhododendrons, the blinding white ice line gleaming ahead...

　　My fingers flew over backspace, erasing the profanity.

　　"Route needs tweaking. Talk later." That bland phrase hid my thrill at confronting an Alpine Grade IV route—though I'd imagined Friendship Peak's White Lake as my first major objective, not pioneering a virgin trail.

　　"Hah! Smart lad! I'll refine the route and circle back!"

　　"Mm."

　　I shut my laptop. Outside, leaden clouds hung low. A lightning bolt split the sky in half. I automatically counted seconds to gauge the storm's distance.

　　"KABOOM!" Seventeen seconds later, thunder rolled. At the library entrance, rain cascaded off the eaves like silver curtains. My rummaging through my bag confirmed it: no umbrella.

　　Maybe finish the travelogue? The thought vanished as a clear, sweet voice called from behind me.