The autumn scenery of Yading is undeniable. When the three holy mountains are rimmed with gold in the morning sun, when the reflection of the sunlit golden peaks is as clear as a mirror in the lake, a camera can easily capture breathtaking images. However, immersed in this magnificence, my heart was surprisingly calm, and a hint of weariness even washed over me. This grand circumambulation of Yading became the most “bland” journey of my hiking life to date.
This blandness didn’t stem from Yading itself being insufficiently beautiful; on the contrary, it was my past experiences that had caused me to “overdraw” my passion in advance. When my feet had measured more rugged and perilous paths, and my eyes had witnessed more extreme landscapes, the act of hiking had gradually transformed for me from an exploration full of novelty into a habitual repetition. The Yading trip was like a mirror, clearly reflecting this “aesthetic fatigue”—when the novelty fades, hiking can become so boring.
However, as the joy of hiking itself dissipated, a deeper kind of observation quietly began. I was no longer fixated on chasing the light and shadow or counting the miles, but instead turned my gaze toward my fellow travelers. In that moment, I discovered that the most interesting scenery, it turned out, was the “people.”
On the third-to-last day of our trip, the weather turned for the worse, with wind and snow imminent. A fork in the road offering an early descent presented us with a dilemma, and the team instantly fractured into a vivid human drama.
The eyes of the “Persisters” were resolute. They viewed completing the entire route as a commitment, an accountability to themselves, to others, and to the ambitious “me” at the start of the journey. The wind, snow, and exhaustion were the necessary offerings for this ritual. The “Waverers,” on the other hand, were torn by indecision, weighing gains and losses. They craved the comfort of ending the trip early, yet feared missing the potential beauty that might emerge if the weather cleared, a feeling further complicated by concerns over the extra costs that a change in plans would incur. Their worries were specific, subtle, and charmingly real.
As for me, I had long since passed the stage where I needed “completion” to prove myself. So, I chose to descend early and, with great interest, like a spectator in a theater, quietly observed this performance of “attachment.” The Persisters were attached to the ritual of “seeing things through to the end,” while the Waverers were attached to the possibility of “what if I miss out.” They were all pulled by their own fixations, experiencing their own unique anxieties and hopes.
This scene reminded me of a discovery from my past work in spiritual counseling, discussing life’s perplexities. People often ask me, “What is my life’s purpose?” They expect a grand, epic quest that requires a lifetime of struggle. However, the truth I’ve seen is that for many, the core lesson of their life’s blueprint is not a heavy mission, but simply to “experience”—to journey through the world with ease, freedom, and joy. In the future, there will only be more and more people with this kind of “destiny.”
Imagine, if I told you that your destiny might not be the traditional duties of honoring your parents, raising children, or achieving a successful career, but rather to fully embrace life and enjoy every wondrous encounter along the way—would your first reaction be relief, or dread?
The root of our suffering often lies not in external hardships, but in the fact that we carry too many attachments that are not part of our core lesson. Some of these attachments are expectations we place on ourselves; others are the gazes projected onto us by others. When you carry these burdens, going against the current of your own river of life, how can you not feel exhausted and pained?
Attachment itself is neither good nor bad; it is like a tool that allows you to experience the world’s myriad scenes and emotions. But please remember, when you feel an experience is complete, when you feel weighed down by a particular attachment, you always have the right to let go. You can sincerely thank it for everything it has brought you—the struggles, joys, pains, and growth—and then, bid it a lighthearted farewell.
Just like me, in this moment, saying a smiling farewell to “hiking,” a hobby I was once obsessed with. It took me to see high mountains and vast wilderness, and ultimately guided me to see into my own deeper heart. This journey to Yading, then, is the most perfect full stop I could draw to close this chapter of my life.