A car with a Zhejiang A plate breaks down on the Sichuan–Tibet Highway at Dongda La (5,130 m) – where is everyone, and it’s Spring Festival?

It was the third day of the Chinese New Year. After passing Zogong, probably in the early afternoon, I didn’t stop in the town and started climbing. Dongda La is the highest pass on the Sichuan–Tibet Highway, at 5,130 metres. Leaving the town behind, the road climbed steadily. So far there’d been no snow, just a little black ice here and there – all very much what I’d expected.

But about two thirds of the way up, a vast white blanket of snow suddenly appeared in front of me. I figured there would be around 30 kilometres of snowy road ahead, and that guess turned out to be more or less right. Just before reaching the summit, I spotted a white hatchback sitting behind a red warning triangle. Stopping in the snow is the last thing you want to do, but I pulled over anyway. Since it was stranded, I wanted to see if anyone needed help.

However, when I stopped, there was no one in the car. So we pressed on. It was slow going – a crawling 30 km/h through the snow. But I was in high spirits. I shot a lot of short videos and recorded some tips about snow driving: how to find a safe path, why you should avoid stopping on uphill slopes, using second gear or a light throttle when starting after a stop, why it’s a good idea to wear sunglasses, how to stay calm, when and how to put on snow chains, what kind to use, and so on. I even got out of the car and let myself be transported back to my childhood – the snowy scene brought back a memory from my middle-school days.

Seeing snow always makes me want to have a slide around, a game we played a lot as kids. That’s probably why northern kids have a much better sense of balance on snow and ice than their southern counterparts – we grew up playing these games all the time. The story that came back to me was this: there was a girl from the next village, a classmate in middle school. She was beautiful, kind-hearted, and I really liked her. She was stylish and sat in front of me. She had a pen name that I once happened to see, and later we started writing letters to each other.

There were three girls from that village, all my classmates. When it snowed, they would walk to school together – sliding along the way, backpacks bouncing, laughing and giggling all the way to the school gate. I always saw this scene as I rode past on my bicycle. Words like beautiful, memory, imagination, youth all rushed into my mind. That’s my memory of youth, and a story with a girl.

So I stopped my car on that snowy road and had a go at skidding on my shoes – you take a short run-up, then slide on the soles, letting the momentum carry you forward over the snow. A familiar game, soaking in nostalgia, a truly touching moment.

A long stretch of that road, maybe more than 30 kilometres, was snow-covered. Beyond it, we drove on toward Markam. Before reaching Markam, about 90 kilometres out, there was a small village where I saw a young couple waving down cars. I stopped. They told me what had happened, and I offered them a lift to Markam.

Just then, a Tibetan villager also asked me to take someone. Three people in the back seat seemed fine, but then it turned out to be a woman with two small children. That put me in an awkward spot – my passenger seat and front footwell were full of junk, and clearing them would have taken ages. I asked if they could all squeeze into the back, and they said yes.

So off we went. Later I learned that the young couple were from Shanghai. They enjoy cycling, and hadn’t expected such heavy snow in Tibet. Their car probably hadn’t broken down, or maybe it was just a minor issue. But what they were feeling now wasn’t so much mechanical trouble as sheer dread of the road ahead. They were too scared to keep driving.

They’d originally arranged a guide from Chengdu, but for various reasons ended up going without. They drove as far as Zogong, where all vehicles bound for Tibet were being turned back – theirs, too. So they started to return. That blizzard on Dongda La had boxed them in: desperate to get home but too afraid to drive. They put up the warning triangle and prepared to hitch a ride to Markam, find a hotel, and wait for the Chengdu guide they’d reconnected with, who’d promised to tow their car.

But first they needed a place to stay. Dongda La is in the middle of nowhere, and the only way to meet the guide was to head toward Chengdu. So we chatted the whole way.

Here came the nerve-wracking part. Leaving Zogong, my plan had been to refuel only when I reached Markam. If I’d been alone, that would have been fine – no extra weight. But now I had five extra passengers, adults and children. Climbing Anjula Pass, I watched the fuel gauge drop: two bars, then one, then empty. All the way I was on edge, terrified we’d be stranded.

Thankfully, after Anjula Pass, as the gauge showed empty, the long downhill meant I barely had to touch the accelerator. With a mix of worry and anxiety, I got them to Markam. Maybe I rushed a bit, driving faster than usual. Maybe the little boy, crammed in the back, got carsick because he rarely rides in cars. Whatever the reason, he started feeling queasy on the way down. We had to pull over while he was sick – it took a good ten or fifteen minutes.

And yes, he threw up in my car. The funny thing was, when everyone got out and I cleaned up, I didn’t feel even a flicker of disgust, no gagging at all. That surprised me. Normally, wouldn’t anyone struggle to deal with that? I suppose I do have my good points after all. Ahem.

Once in Markam, I dropped them all off and went to refuel. I told the young couple which hotel had oxygen, and they checked in. They thanked me again and again as they got out, and later sent me a 200-yuan red packet. The Tibetan woman had her little girl ask me, “Uncle, how much money do you want?” I said, “Just forget it. Happy New Year to you.”

In 2020, the Tibetan New Year and our Spring Festival were only two days apart, so they were celebrating the new year too. As I looked at the little girl, her eyes bright with what I can only call a sparkle, I could tell she was in school and could understand us. In Tibet, it’s often the children who translate for the adults, since many older people don’t speak Mandarin. I felt she understood what we talked about along the way. There was an expectation in her gaze – I’m not sure what it was. Maybe a hunger for knowledge, or maybe I represented a faraway world she dreamed of.

Alright, enough sentimentality. Time to hit the road again!