Land Beyond the Clouds

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Chains of snowy mountains towered over one another like terraces climbing to the clouds. in vain i tried to discern the hem of the horizon; my view had been blocked for many days by the snow-crested tops. But the landscape did not seem monotonous; on the contrary, it was varied and diverse. Landscapes, vegetation zones and seasons alternated as if in a kaleidoscope. At one moment my eyes were feasting on majestic alpine scenery of high gorges, steep and rugged mountain ridges and the emerald green expanse of the foothills. Then suddenly we found ourselves in valleys of sparse alpine grassland and marshes. Then the wonderful vista before us became an irregular line of dense coniferous forests, accompanied by the roar of the torrents gushing through the forges.

The Tibetan Plateau filled me with amazement and admiration for its immensity. Everything here had a fantastic shape or size, everything was spectacular: the uproar of the falls of the rivers, the clouds floating far below, the huge eagles with their two-meter wingspan.

Were it not for the highway itself, this grandeur would make the traveler feel his own insignificance. However, at each new mountain pass i thought that the conquest of these high mountains showed man's persistence in his battle against nature. Can you imagine a truck laboring its way above the clouds? For one must ascend to these heights on the way to Tibet.

When the car zigzagged its way to the pass looming at 5000 meters above sea level, when through the dense mass of white-blue clouds if observed far below the tiny loops of the road along which we were driving just short time ago, when even the engines were "short of breath" and the water was boiling in the radiator at 80 Celsius degree. i could only think of those who had built this highway. in earlier days, a trip from the central provinces to Tibet required three to four months ride by yak or mule along caravan routes.

On the approach to Tibet, the lines of her mountain ranges and the chasms of her many rivers stretch from the north to the south. And the highway stretches from the west to the east-across 14 mountain passes.

Then we came to a post with a sign: "Summit. Check brakes before descending." i saw a heap of stones on top of which were planted poles decorated with flags printed with Buddhist scriptures. The wind fluttered in the faded folds of these sutra-banners. it was a prayer cairn, and invariable attribute of every mountain pass.

When we reached the top of the mountain, the rarefied air made it felt even when i sat motionless in the car. i kept yawning and wanting to take a deep breath. And when we made yet another stop, this time i didn't bother to fuss with my camera as before but stayed in my seat and kept silent.

I suffered the whims of the Tibetan climate even during the warmer part of the day. The sun blazed hot, but as soon as i stepped into the shade if started shivering with the cold. Such was the interaction of the extremely rarefied air and the strong sunlight at the 30th parallel.

In the mornings, after the night frosts, our driver could not start the engine unless he warmed it up with an oil torch. We started on our way breaking through patches of icy mist that were creeping down from above. And when the sun came out from behind the ridges it seemed as if its rays, reflected by the snow, were biting cold instead of warm and soothing.

However a few hours later, when we crossed another mountain range, if felt that my sheepskin coat was getting too heavy. And when we stopped for a meal, if wanted to splash in the stream and enjoy the sunshine. But then towards evening Tibet's notorious winds started blowing again, the sky was overcast with lead-gray clouds, and when we reached the campsite where we were to stay for the night, we were all chilled to the marrow.

The sun was sinking behind the mountain range. its last rays lit up the silhouette of the mountains we were to cross the next day, for we were heading westwards.

Waves of haze rolled over the valley, the last sounds of day were dying. Only the river ran on incessantly, but the din of the water, to which one soon became accustomed like the ticking of the clock, only added to the picture of night tranquility.

On the last night of our three-week journey if didn't get a wink of sleep. i could not believe that soon i would see the holy city, the cherished dream of many a traveler.

Our camp came to life long before dawn. There were no mountains in sight, and our jeep sped forward like a horse in anticipation of arriving home.

We were entering the valley of the Kyichu River. Split by pebble islets into silvery branches and arms, it flowed among meadows and fields of ripening qingke.

During the final kilometers before Lhasa, dozens of pilgrims were walking along roadside, past the enormous statues of Buddha carved into the mountainside. The mountains, forming two rows, stood as if on guard, as if to warn the traveler that he would soon see a solemn and majestic sight. Excited, i looked into the distance. The setting sun was hidden behind a lead-gray cloud. Only a small shaft of light fell onto the golden roofs that all of a sudden swung into view as if leaping out of the mountain. The Potala Palace! Against the background of the valley shrouded in dusk, the palace of the Dalai Lama rose up in and aureole of light which it seemed to be emanating itself.

We could see the steel struts of the bridge spanning the Kyichu River. White buildings were visible on the opposite bank. i was finally entering Lhasa.

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