Among The Grasslands.

The cup was warm in his hands. It was a nice compliment to the blanket that now draped around his shoulders. 

They had hiked what seemed like all day. The wind cut through the mountains like a knife, so cold and crisp that it stung his cheeks. He had tried to cover his face but it was no use. His feet were not used to the terrain or the weather either. The socks he packed only helped for the first few hours before the frigid air found its way into his boots and now as he sat cross legged on the floor they ached so bad it was as though he could hear them in his ears. The nomads however, didn’t seem to mind the conditions. 

Warmth. So simple, so essential, so difficult for the Tibetans of Kham during the winter months. At least, that was what he thought four days ago when he made his way from Tagong through the snow covered hills with these nomadic people and their yaks. Now he had a glimpse, as quick as it was, of how resilient, how special, these people were. 

It was early winter and Hui, his guide, had told him they were on their way to a small village of stone houses to wait out the season's heavy snowfall until they could return to the plateau and roam the high grasslands once again.  

The tent was foreign, and yet familiar in a way. Vertical poles of wood about 4 inches in diameter staked into the ground with ropes stretched across made a frame that held the rectangular shape of the black tent made completely from yak hair. 

He had been searching for familiar. 

He sat in the circle around the stove in the center of the tent. There was just enough room between his head and the ceiling for him to feel comfortable. A small pot boiled in front of him as a woman dressed in a long sleeve shirt, and a long traditional looking skirt with bright fabric wrapped around her waist, fed dried yak dung to the small fire for fuel. A garlic like aroma filled the tent while the flame crackled almost rhythmically as seeds in the dung popped from the high heat. The blanket around his shoulders, also made from yak hair felt soft on the back of his neck and insulated his body heat, helping his muscles release the tension from the days journey. He took a deep breath and felt his shoulders sink as he stared into his tea. 

“They speak we another three day from the village,” Hui said softly as he leaned over and translated what the nomads were discussing. The guide’s english was broken, but he spoke well enough to be understood. “They too speak if you like the tea,” he asked with a smirk as his gaze met the wisps of steam dancing upwards from the small ceramic cup. He had had his fare share of warm tea, but this was the first time it was accompanied by yak butter and ground walnuts. The salty cream gave the tea a thickness that felt filling. He liked the warm sensation of it sliding down his throat and into his stomach. He nodded and smiled towards the family who had agreed to let him tag along for a few days as they trekked to their winter resting place. There were seven of them. A much older man and woman who looked as if they had seen many years among the mountains, the elders of the family. A husband in his early to mid fifties, his wife, and their three children who all appeared to be a few years younger than he was. When he smiled they laughed softly as their eyes squinted above their high, sun kissed cheekbones, and their lips curled up, following the path to reveal their teeth in a smile. It felt warm. It felt kind and genuine. It reminded him of his grandfather. 

They said something he didn’t understand. He didn’t speak their dialect. He didn’t speak any Tibetan, and he didn’t even know if he wanted to. But he did know that he wanted to be around them. 

His grandfather had spent almost five years with with the nomads on the Tibetan Plateau just after he passed the bar exam and before starting one of the most successful law practices on the East Coast. He would tell stories of his time among the grasslands, learning the ways of these people. How they valued and displayed courage, integrity, and generosity to the people, animals, and land around them which pillars of his grandfather’s character for as long as he could remember. How they had intimate knowledge of their environment and could distinguish the various plants among the mountain fields that would influence the behavior of their herds; his grandfather loved to remind him as often as he could that “God is in the details.” He had once even heard his grandfather say in a commencement address, “We must acquire the knowledge of mobility to aid in anyway possible, and adore the liberties to do so in search of the greater good of those around us much like the high-pasture people of Tibet who have learned to freely search for lands that nurture the very animals whom provide so much for the good of those around them. We must do what is necessary to take care of what has been given to us.”  

His grandfather was the best man he had ever known. The kindest, the wisest, the most selfless man he had ever known. It was like he controlled some sort of mythical goodness, and much of it had to do with what he learned about life through his time here with these people.  

Time, the past four days, seemed paradoxical. Minutes felt like hours as the days fleeted. Yet he wasn’t there to pass the time, he was there to experience it. To experience what his grandfather had experienced. He was only a few days in but it was like he was in the midst of his hero. The warmth didn’t just come from the yak wool blankets and makeshift tent stove, but it radiated from their presence. They had eagerly shared their belongings and their way of life with him from their first step together outside of Tagong. Their resourcefulness reminded him of the ways he watched his grandfather adapt to life’s difficulties and handle the conflicts that came his way. The way he had watched them lead the heard through the snow speckled ridges, discerning areas where certain plants that would be more nutritious than others for the animals during this particular journey, made him reminisce how his grandfather could always tell when something was bothering him, and how he had cultivated an environment where it was safe to be heard. 

“He say there is man in village who knew your grandfather.” He suddenly realized he was still in the tent. He had been lost in memories as Hui leaned over and translated what the elderly man was saying to the woman stoking the fire. “They say he win many horse races.” He looked back down at his tea as a grin slowly spread across his face. 

His grandfather had come to this place to explore something more than a law school library and a boulevard view of the world, and he had discovered a way of life that ushered in a legacy perhaps not possible otherwise. Now eighteen months after his death, and a short time until he was to take over the family practice, he came to discover what his grandfather had. To see things first hand like he did, to remember him, and in that remembrance, to learn to be more like him.