Yunnan

We leave Tiger Leaping Gorge wide-eyed and roused, a standing ovation accompanied by the sound of demonic energy erupting from dark fathoms below. Gawping tourists precariously perch on saturated wooden walkways only meters above the iconic cascade, each hoping to catch a glimpse of what lies under. Nothing dares step in its path.

Our sleek black sedan pulls away from the reaming torrents and hooting tourists, swooping from valley floor to snowy peaks as if a dragon waking from slumber.

Passing fresh-faced and eager cyclists we start our own ascent to the heavens, our Dragon’s wings beating slowly as we crawl up roads so old we narrowly miss debris tumbling down the steep valley sides. Up we climb, passing through dark and humid tunnels, navigating rocky outcrops, periodically waving to our cycling compatriots who are now panting hard and peddling harder. Salt burns their eyes, the sun their arms.

As we reach the cloud line where aggressive nebulae cluster with untold urgency, merging and clotting in hues of charcoal and slate. Powerful, adolescent sun beams smash through the mobilizing vapor, setting the moist air ablaze and tempting out shy beads of water from the now thinning air. Bulbous water droplets pummel the saturated cyclists making their ascent an adventure to be told for generations.

Ever upwards we push, our obsidian basilisk leading the relentless charge. We peer through thick mist yet nothing seems real, shapes extruded and elongated beyond recognition. Seemingly trapped in this event horizon for an eternity we suddenly emerge victorious, punching an exit through the swirling ceiling of this no man’s land.

We wave once again to our cycling entourage, their spirits lifting as the wet, grey veil falls far below. Finally we cast our eyes on the ice-capped peaks and lush green valleys of Shangri-La.

Gently lolloping emerald hills bump and merge seamlessly into one another as if boundaries were meaningless. A home to royally-kept farmland toned in an infinite array of viridian and amber, this palette of perfection is occasionally disrupted by jet-black forests mystically peppering the Panavision landscape.

Majestic wood-smoke hazily fills the crisp mountain air, settling nonchalantly above petite farming villages nestled snugly in valley creases. Azure glacial rivers meander from peak to platter, leisurely conversing with wise, old leathery trees company only to the cattle who graze quietly along the water’s edge.

Snaking our way through this paradise on earth we pass distinctly Tibetan architecture, old wisened yaks tending well-worked fields, bright-yellow wicker hats set amongst a sea of green vegetation. Reds and blues and yellows and wood and grass and hay and sunlight laid out for all to witness in the auspicious royalty of Shangri-La’s summer.