Siheyuan: tomb robbing? I am serious about hunting.

Chapter 762 Hiking

The creative idea begins with the protagonist Lin Ye resigning and embarking on a hiking journey, connecting Ali in Tibet and Kashgar in Xinjiang along the Xinjiang-Tibet Line. Through experiences such as circumambulating Mount Kailash and crossing the edge of the Taklimakan Desert, the story integrates Tibetan culture, Western customs, and the emotional interweaving of hikers with locals and fellow travelers. The sound of footsteps on the sky road The moment the trekking pole pierced the gravel road, Lin Ye heard his heavy breathing mixed with the sound of the wind. On the pass at an altitude of 5000 meters, the clouds were extremely low, and the cuffs of his jacket were covered with ice. He took out his mobile phone, and a text message from three days ago stopped on the screen: "Mom said that if you don't go home, I will go to the police station to report the case." The wind on the Xinjiang-Tibet Line wrapped in gravel hit the goggles. Lin Ye looked at the continuous snow-capped mountains in the distance and remembered the Tibetan uncle he met in the Lhasa Youth Hostel before leaving. "Young man, go to Mount Kailash." The old man handed him a cup of butter tea, the edge of the copper bowl was polished to a shine, "One circle of the mountain can wash away all the sins of a lifetime." When he actually set foot on the mountain circumambulation, he realized the weight of these words. At the Zhuoma La Pass at an altitude of 5630 meters, hailstones hit the jackets with crackling sounds. The Tibetan pilgrims bowed every three steps, and the red monk robes danced like flames in the wind and snow. Lin Ye helped an old woman to lift up the prayer flags blown down by the wind. The old woman's wrinkled hand stuffed a piece of milk residue into his palm: "Om Mani Padme Hum." While resupplying in Tarqin, Lin Ye met Shen Qing, a photographer from Shanghai. The girl's camera bag had worn edges, but the lens was shiny. "Can I have a companion?" She shook the GPS. "I want to go to the ruins of the Guge Dynasty to take photos of the stars." The two of them traveled west together. At dusk in the Zada ​​Earth Forest, Shen Qing suddenly pointed to the skyline and said, "Look! The Xiangquan River is like a silver snake drilling into the sea of ​​sand." On the day they entered the Xinjiang border, the words "Yecheng" on the boundary marker were burned by the sun. Lin Ye's hiking shoes were worn out, and the blisters on the soles of his feet were painful. The smell of baked naan wafted from the sweet teahouse of an old Uyghur man on the roadside. The old man said in stiff Chinese, "Baby, your feet are swollen like buns." He brought herbal foot bath water, and red willow branches floated in the pottery jar. When crossing the edge of the Taklimakan Desert, the sandstorm came without warning. Lin Ye and Shen Qing hid in an abandoned beacon tower and listened to the sand hitting the adobe wall. Shen Qing took out the camera memory card: "If I can't get out, these photos will be my suicide note." The screen lit up, and the starry sky of Mount Kailash, the ruins of the Guge ruins, and the smiling face of the old man in the sweet teahouse flashed one by one. In the old city of Kashgar, Lin Ye was attracted by the clinking sound of the coppersmith's shop. Uyghur craftsman Ailijiang was beating a copper pot, and the almond pattern engraved on the pot body was as delicate as silk. "Want to learn?" Ailijiang handed over a small hammer, "First practice to stabilize your wrist." Three days later, Lin Ye continued on the road with the copper bell he made. The ringing mixed with the banging sound of the mosque floated in the alleys. At the foot of Muztagh Ata, Lin Ye met Lukas, a German youth who was riding alone. "Do you know?" Lukas pointed to the glacier, where ancient bubbles were embedded in the cracks of the blue ice, "The time here is different from that elsewhere." The three climbed to the base camp together. Lukas had a serious altitude reaction, and Lin Ye handed him the last bottle of oxygen. The German's eyes were red: "Chinese, friends!" At the Kyrgyz wedding in Tashkurgan County, Lin Ye was pulled into the dancing crowd. The pearl crown on the bride's head jingled, and the mellow aroma of mare's milk mixed with the melody of the eagle flute. The old patriarch wrapped his frozen feet with a felt blanket: "The snow-capped mountains know who is the real traveler." The bonfire crackled, and the shutter sound of Shen Qing's camera merged with the laughter of the people. When Lin Ye finally stood at the Khunjerab Pass, the word "China" on the boundary marker made his nose sour. After half a year of hiking, from the snow and wind of Mount Kailash to the stars of the Pamirs, his mountaineering bag was decorated with fragments of prayer flags, copper bells, and camel bells, like a three-dimensional travel diary. The phone vibrated, and his mother sent a message: "There is hot food left for you at home, and... your father secretly learned to make pilaf." On the way back through Yecheng, the grandson of the old man in the sweet teahouse rode a donkey to chase him, holding a freshly baked naan in his arms. "Adasi!" The child handed him an eagle whistle. "Grandpa said, next time you pass by, I will teach you how to make authentic naan pit meat." Lin Ye blew the eagle whistle, and the sharp whistle swept across the Kunlun Mountains, startling a group of blue sheep. A year later, Lin Ye opened an outdoor post in Lhasa. The walls were covered with photos: pilgrims of Mount Kailash, coppersmiths in the old city of Kashgar, and glaciers in Muztagh Ata. Shen Qing became a resident photographer, and Lukas sent a postcard saying that he was a guide in the Alps. One morning, an old man with a trekking stick came to the post station, and the butter tea in the copper bowl was steaming: "Young man, I heard that you can tell the story of the Heavenly Road here?" Outside the window, the golden roof of the Potala Palace shone in the morning sun, and the number of people circumambulating the prayer wheels on Barkhor Street was as numerous as the sands of the Ganges. Lin Ye took out the copper bell he carried with him. It was the first work he made in Kashgar. The sound of the clapper tongues colliding was crisp and distant, as if it still carried the sandstorms of the Taklamakan Desert and the moonlight of the Pamirs.

The creative idea starts with Wang Yang's first encounter with doubts when attending a conference in Silicon Valley. Through the unexpected debugging before the conference, the wonderful performance during the speech, and the academic discussion with international authorities, the author depicts his process of shining in the frontier field of artificial intelligence with solid knowledge and innovative thinking. Code Galaxy The glass dome of San Francisco International Airport leaks fragmented sunlight, and Wang Yang's fingers tap on the suitcase handle in a rapid rhythm. The collar of his shirt is damp from sweat. He took out the conference brochure, and the gold-plated words "28th International Frontier Summit on Artificial Intelligence" printed on the title page hurt his eyes - this is his first time on the international academic stage. "Wang Yang?" Sweet Chinese interrupted his thoughts. A Chinese girl with a ponytail held up a sign to pick her up at the airport. The MIT badge on her chest was gleaming. "I'm Lin Yue, a volunteer of the organizing committee. Your speech needs to be reviewed in advance." She glanced at the USB flash drive handed to her by Wang Yang, and her eyelashes fluttered. "You actually chose the third session of the main venue? That's the time reserved for Nobel Prize winners." As the taxi passed the Bay Area Bridge, Wang Yang looked at the Golden Gate Bridge in the twilight. His phone vibrated in his pocket, and his mentor sent a message: "Don't be nervous. Explain the 'neuromorphic chip' in our laboratory thoroughly." In the rearview mirror, he saw the boarding pass he was holding tightly - three months ago, it was this thin piece of paper that made him stand out from paper abstracts. There was a long line at the registration counter on the first day of the summit. Wang Yang heard several European and American scholars behind him talking in English: "I heard that there is a Chinese team doing brain-like computing this year?" "I hope it's not repetitive work again." He squeezed the shoulder straps of his backpack, which contained a chip sample made in the laboratory, and the edge of the silicon wafer still had subtle traces of hand-polishing. The spotlights in the main venue were so bright that people couldn't open their eyes. Wang Yang sat in the third row, watching the first two speakers.