Huang Tian's rubber shoes sank deeper and deeper into the gravel. Thirty meters away, Liu Dan was bending down to straighten a sapling that had been overturned by the strong wind. Salt stains oozed from his face under his sunscreen mask. This desert, known as "Swallowing Beach" by locals, is the eighth year they have taken root.
Every day before dawn, the iron roof would be crackled by the wind and sand. Huang Tianzong took out his account book at this time and paused with the tip of his pencil on the number "176 surviving plants" - the sandstorm last week swept away 23 new seedlings, which is equivalent to Liu Dan watering for three full days under the scorching sun. Liu Dan was boiling salt-alkali water in the kitchen, and the burnt aroma of dried angustifolia floated from the iron pot: "Go to Dongpo tomorrow and try it. It's leeward."
Their life is a repetitive trek: carrying 20-pound buckets on their backs among the sand dunes, using wires to fix tree trunks that are half-buried by quicksand, huddled in drafty wooden houses at night, listening to the sounds of Haloxylon ammodendron fighting against the wind and sand outside the window. Huang Tian once broke down and cried when a heavy rain washed away the nursery shed. It was Liu Dan who silently handed over the roasted potatoes and pointed to the green clouds in the sky: "The rain can revive the roots. You will know when spring comes."
When the first cluster of sea buckthorn bears orange-red fruits, two women squat on the sand dunes to share them. Huang Tian found that the crack in Liu Dan's palm was covered with a layer of hard callus, like the roots of the sand willow they planted with their own hands, which had already clung to the ground unseen by anyone. The wind blows over the newly picked green buds, carrying a fine whistling, which is the desert saying: stay and live.
