In early January 2006 my wife and I spent a week in the small village of Shengcun in the very south of Yunnan. The provincial town of Yuanyang is the center of a fabulous area of rice terraces, built, no sculpted by the local Hani people over many generations. We were remarkably fortunate with the weather, as the hills can be blanketed in fog for over half the year. The peak time to visit the area is between November to March when the terraces have been flooded in preparation for the rice planting.

CLOUDWALKER
“The point of the journey, is not to arrive.” they say, but that was certainly not the case this time. 18 hours on a bus from our home in the mountains; through the provincial capital Kunming, then south to a little village just over the border from Vietnam. Traveling by bus in China can be very, very frustrating; meaningless delays with mindless regularity; whether it’s waiting for someone left behind at the last toilet break, cruising the streets touting for more passengers, or just the driver trying his charm with a girl,

But, as all trials begin, they end; the final climb into thick cloud, blanketing the mountain like a shroud. The village is dank, a seeping wetness, not rain, not mist. Yes, a shroud.

I flick through a photo book and lust after the classy landscapes; golden light, mist rolling over acres of terraced hillsides, cute villages surrounded by bamboo forest. As we cruise the streets in vain searching for a restaurant, the grayness reflects my mood. We found noodles and dubious meat in a freezing shop-house and a beer before bed at 8pm. The point of the journey may not be to arrive, but arrival was not the point of my journey!

Yuanyang in Southern Yunnan is a natural wonder, even though it is manmade. Over 1000m of mountain slopes have been carved into terraces over generations, transforming a barren valley into a humid Eden; perfect for rice crops.

At 5am on our first morning however, the fog was as thick as soup and we saw nothing. Standing there in the growing gloom with a few other hardy souls, I found some macro stuff to play with, but this was not why we were here. By lunchtime, as we trudged the sodden lanes, our spirits were low, but a faint wind and a hint of blue sky above sent our hearts soaring and we raced to a view point. That afternoon we were blessed; the fog rose and fell like a tide, flowing over the crazy landscape, collecting in hollows and eventually burned off to produce a stunning sunset. In short, it felt like I’d died and gone to photographers’ Heaven.

But, as with all heavily photographed areas, most photographers stand in the traditional spots, attempting to emulate those classy landscapes. I tried those shots too, but felt the location deserved more effort; so, for the rest of our stay, we set the alarm for 3am, and walked 30km a day to shoot star-trails and the moon setting over the flooded fields.

On our final morning, having forced our tired legs to serve us once more, we stood watching the dawn erase the stars for the last time, standing close together precariously above a steep drop into the misty valley. We had been out for 4 hours; the moon nearly full, was setting too late to shoot star trails, but had illuminated our world with an ethereal glow. Plenty of time to think, playing with words as I convince my freezing fingers to change aperture. The glow of headlights sends searchlights across the sky, another mini bus of photographers heading for “the dawn spot” We share a joke, laugh and gaze silently once more at the ocean of mist below us; just a couple of cloud-walkers in a chilly dawn.