Niubei Mountain

In May 2016, two friends and I set out from Chengdu for Niubei Mountain in Sichuan, carrying a full load of camera equipment and hoping to photograph the night sky and the Milky Way.

Among landscape photographers, Niubei Mountain needs little introduction. From the summit, there are sweeping views of the Gongga range, with the possibility of cloud seas, golden light on the peaks and clear night skies. Yet before we had even begun the journey up, the cost of getting there gave us our first surprise.

1. A Six-Hundred-Yuan Ride

At the time, the only way up was in a local driver’s vehicle. The journey was barely three kilometres, yet the fare was two hundred yuan each way. For the three of us, the return trip came to six hundred yuan.

As we climbed into the vehicle, the sky was grey and a fine rain had begun to fall. I remember thinking: two hundred yuan for three kilometres?

Once we started moving, I stopped complaining.

The track was left over from the days when iron ore was mined there. Calling it a road would have been generous. It was a rough trail of mud, boulders and deep potholes. The vehicle lurched so violently that we were thrown from side to side, our insides seemingly shaken along with us.

Only then did I understand. The two hundred yuan was not simply a fare. It was what the driver charged for taking that road.

As we gained altitude, the vehicle passed through a thick bank of cloud. Rain was still falling below us, but above the clouds the sky suddenly opened into blue. Sunlight touched the ridgeline, and the gloom and discomfort of the journey seemed to fall away behind us.

2. Mud, Tents and Dinner on the Summit

The moment we reached the summit, reality returned.

Niubei Mountain had not yet been developed. There was no proper viewing platform and no hotel, only five or six temporary tents scattered across a muddy patch of ground. They had probably been put up for workers to rest or spend the night.

Mud was everywhere, and every step had to be taken carefully. Fortunately, we had contacted someone on the mountain in advance. With his help, the driver brought us to one of the tents.

There was still some daylight left, and we had planned to take our equipment out and look for possible shooting positions. Before we could even unpack the cameras, the weather changed again. The brief patch of blue disappeared, thick fog rolled back over the summit, and visibility dropped to only a few metres.

There was nothing to do but return to the tent and wait.

The night was bitterly cold. Wind pushed through every gap in the canvas. After the long journey, and with no improvement in the weather, disappointment began to set in.

Later that evening, the lady running the place cooked us a simple dinner. There was nothing elaborate, only ordinary home-cooked food. Perhaps we were genuinely hungry, or perhaps we had spent too long in the cold and fog, but that hot meal brought a warmth I can still remember.

After dinner, we continued to watch the weather, unwilling to give up on the Milky Way.

That is the nature of landscape photography. You can prepare for everything within your control, but you cannot decide when the clouds will clear or whether the stars will appear. We waited until midnight. The summit remained buried in fog, with no sign of it lifting.

“You can prepare for everything except the moment itself.”

In the end, we abandoned the night shoot, lay down in our beds and fell asleep to the sound of wind against the tent.

3. A Silent Breakfast

We were up again at four the next morning.

When we lifted the tent flap, the fog seemed slightly thinner. From time to time, a small patch of sky appeared, but cold wind continued to sweep across the summit, carrying the mist with it.

We had hoped to photograph the first light turning the Gongga peaks gold. Instead, the weather kept shifting, the temperature remained low, and the wind stung our faces.

Each new bank of fog took a little more of our hope with it.

We were probably all thinking the same thing: if the fog did not clear soon, we would be going home with nothing.

We waited as daylight slowly crept in.

The lady was preparing breakfast in the kitchen. The three of us sat around the table without speaking. All we could hear was food cooking, the occasional clink of bowls and plates, and the wind outside the tent.

We had just begun discussing what to do next when someone shouted from outside:

“Buddha’s Light! Come out quickly! Come and see!”

The moment we heard those words, we rose from the table. The fatigue and disappointment of the night before vanished at once.

4. Thirty Seconds

I was probably the first person out of the tent.

Years of landscape photography had taught me not to pack everything away while waiting. My camera, lenses and tripod were still within reach. I grabbed the tripod and ran in the direction one of the workers was pointing, towards the edge of the cliff.

When I reached it and looked across the sea of clouds, I was speechless.

I had once seen Buddha’s Light at Mount Emei, but it had been nothing like this. Before me was a complete, sharply defined ring of colour suspended above the clouds. The sun was behind me, and my own shadow stood perfectly in the centre.

For a moment, I could hardly believe what I was seeing.

But a photographer’s instinct is usually straightforward: photograph it first. No one knew how long it would last.

I set the tripod down, switched on the camera, focused, metered the scene and adjusted the aperture and shutter speed. There was no time to think through each step. I simply worked from habit, relying on movements learned through years of shooting.

About thirty seconds later, I pressed the shutter.

Only when I heard the camera fire did I begin to relax. Whatever happened next, I had captured that moment.

5. The Figure in the Light

I had been photographing alone for a minute or two before my two friends arrived, out of breath. They quickly set up their cameras and began shooting.

To our surprise, the phenomenon did not disappear. It remained above the cloud sea long enough for us to try different compositions, switch between horizontal and vertical frames, and work with several focal lengths.

Once we had all taken enough photographs, we finally relaxed.

That was when we noticed something curious. Even when two people stood side by side and looked into the centre of the coloured ring, each could see only his own shadow.

I saw myself. My friend standing beside me saw himself. We were in exactly the same place, yet neither of us could see the other person inside the halo.

The discovery brought out our playful side. We took turns striking different poses, curious to see how the figure in the light would change. No matter how we moved, each of us continued to see only himself. We spent quite some time playing with it and enjoying the moment.

As the sun rose higher, the colours slowly faded.

We returned to the tent with our cameras. The cold, frustration and exhaustion of the previous night no longer seemed to matter. In high spirits, I went over to the stove and fried a few eggs for everyone to celebrate our unexpected good fortune.

There, in a draughty tent more than three thousand metres above sea level, we sat together and ate the eggs while they were still hot.

Even now, I remember them as the best fried eggs I have ever tasted.

Landscape photography is often like that. You travel a long way, endure cold, mud and hours of waiting, and may still return without a single worthwhile photograph. But when the moment finally comes, even if it lasts for only a minute, it can remain with you for the rest of your life.