I Flew to Inner Mongolia to Find a Poem.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7DWE13jeF3c

Every child has been to the grassland at least once or they have a dream to go.

We go there in first or second grade, standing up in rows, reciting a poem that is older than almost everything we will ever own:

In the Plain of Chile, beneath the Yin Mountains,
The sky resembles a vast yurt, arching over the boundless wilds.
The sky is vast and azure; the plains stretch endlessly;
As the wind blows and the grasses bend low, cattle and sheep come into view.

We chant it the way children chant everything, with the rhythm louder than the meaning. I remember my teacher tapping the beat on her desk with a piece of chalk.I could recite fast.

But I had never seen it.

The Fairy Tale has a Name

The tour was really called that. — “Golden Autumn Inner Mongolia”

I like a trip that makes promises.

On Saturday, September 21, I flew from Pudong Terminal 2 to Hailar: three hours and thirty-five minutes. The plane landed at Hulunbuir Airport at 5:55 in the evening. 

I arrived just in time and the it was just more than charming here in the autumn. 

The autumn breeze sweeps across the Hulunbuir Grasslands, rolling onward through the vast forests of the Greater Khingan Range. A magical dusting of gold transforms the landscape: the emerald grass turns a brilliant golden hue, while the foliage of Dahurian larch and white birch forests takes on the rich, painterly oranges and golds of autumn, creating a magnificent tableau against the backdrop of blue skies and white clouds. 

Meandering rivers trace the gentle contours of the land, and the shifting colors speak to the fleeting, precious nature of the season. The sky is now vast and crystal-clear, the air crisp and fresh, and the sunlight gentle. 

The golden plains contrast strikingly with the boundless azure, creating a scene that uplifts the spirit. 

Occasionally, flocks of wild geese streak across the horizon, their long, resonant calls trailing behind. Stroll through the woods as sunlight filters through the white birches to dapple the thick carpet of fallen leaves;

Arxan National Park

“Arxan” is not the name of a mountain; in Mongolian, it means “hot holy water,” signifying the presence of geothermal activity. Arxan National Park is distinguished by its unique blend of volcanic landscapes and forests. Here, we will walk through the woods, stroll along the shores of various ponds, and observe the diverse geological features left behind by volcanic activity, all while soaking in the romantic atmosphere created by golden birch forests and the reflections of larch trees.

The journey was excited and challenging. First, we made our way up a wooden boardwalk, winding through a sun-dappled forest while breathing in the fragrance of trees and earth; some people like to play upbeat music, while others prefer to savor the “white noise” of nature. Few fail to be struck with wonder when the volcanic crater lake finally comes into view. Encircled by a forest of vibrant colors, the lake acts like a magic mirror on a clear day, reflecting the blue sky, white clouds, and surrounding trees upon its surface.

The sky

The second line is the one I think about most now: “The sky is like a yurt, covering the wild on all four sides.” in the peom I used to read.

A 穹庐 is the dome-shaped felt tent of the nomads, what English calls a yurt and Mongolian calls a ger. The poet looked up and didn’t see “heaven” or “the cosmos.” He saw a roof. His sky was a home that went all the way to the ground in every direction.

One night, somewhere between the grassland and the forest, the group walked out past the last streetlight of a small town. Someone switched off their phone flashlight, and then we all did. The Milky Way came up out of the dark like a spill of salt. For the first time in my life I understood that “covering the four wilds” isn’t poetic exaggeration. It’s measurement.

Then the Fairly Tale Restarted

The second half of the trip climbed into the Greater Khingan Mountains, toward Arxan. This is where the tour’s name finally made sense.

If the grassland was gold, the forest was gold with the volume turned up.

The larches had turned the color of apricot jam. The birches were white-barked and yellow-leaved, so thin and tall that the whole hillside looked like it had been drawn in with a very fine pencil. We walked on boardwalks over black volcanic rock furred with moss, past lakes so still they were basically mirrors with fish in them.

There was a morning, near the end, when frost had whitened every blade of grass by the path and our guide said, very casually, that it might snow within the week. One of the girl on our bus reacted as if he’d announced a celebrity visit.

I kept thinking there should be a poem for this too. Maybe there is. I just wasn’t made to recite it at seven.

Ending

Back at home, I tried to write my own English translation of the song I liked since my childhood. It took me an evening and I’m still not happy with it:

The sky is a yurt that roofs the open land.

The sky so blue, the plains so wide.

The wind bends the grass, and there are the cattle and sheep.

…

It’s fine. It’s accurate. It’s missing the thing I learned standing on that hillside.

Maybe that’s what travel is for, at least for people who grew up memorizing places they’d never been. We carry a sentence around for twenty years like a folded map. And then one afternoon the wind pushes the grass down, and the thing that was hidden inside the words is simply there.

Cattle. Sheep. A sky with a roof on it.

And me, a thousand kilometers from the right grassland, finally seeing it.