2014, the seventh year after his divorce.
Thirty-seven years old. No hiking experience, no specialized gear, and at first, he had never even considered hiking the whole way. He wore a pair of 3515 knee-high leather boots, carried a no-name backpack that cost 120 yuan, hauled a 2-by-2-meter tent meant for picnics in the park, and brought a phone that had come free with a top-up and a fake memory card. Then he boarded a hard-seat train that would rattle for 42 hours before reaching Chengdu.
This is neither a feel-good travelogue about "purifying the soul" nor a conquest guide to the Sichuan-Tibet route.
It's simply an ordinary person's plain record of walking. It records the misery of a broken shoulder strap tied up in a knot, the blisters all over his feet from the 3515 leather boots, the cold wind blowing into a park tent at a mountain pass 4,000 meters above sea level, and the rough routine of wearing one pair of cotton socks and throwing them away before putting on another. It also records every cold tablet he gave away, the Guangzhou train conductor's calm "Good luck" aboard the green train, and the strangers along the way, one bottle of drink at a time.
No beautiful photos, no elegant prose, no earth-shattering adventures. Just 2,100 kilometers walked one step at a time, fourteen snow-capped mountains over 4,000 meters crossed, and the same routine repeated every day for more than three months: walking, eating, sleeping.
He wasn't searching for anything, or running away from anything. When life had become a complete mess, he just wanted to go for a walk and see the world.
The content is very real, the language is simple and unpretentious, but the plot is vivid, interesting and attractive.