Always remember the sky full of stars.
Remember yourself singing alone beneath the night sky.

Going out with a group, you can be part of the crowd’s excitement,
and still enjoy being alone.

This time, the Nankun Mountain Hot Spring Run fulfilled almost everyone’s wish—to soak in hot springs. And indeed, everyone got what they came for. Late at night, I sat alone at the wooden desk in my hotel room. It was so quiet that I could hear the air flowing out of the air conditioner. Just a wall away, the hot spring area was only beginning to come alive with laughter and celebration.

I am currently doing a 75 Hard challenge, which means completing the same set of tasks every day for 75 consecutive days. So before the crowd flooded the pools, I stepped out early. Hot springs in winter are incredibly comforting; the fatigue of the entire day seemed to dissolve instantly. At 11 p.m., I began the last task of the day—writing for one hour.

When I tried to start writing, my mind was filled with nothing but stars. Being able to soak in a warm hot spring, take a hot shower, and then sit comfortably under a bright desk lamp in the hotel room to write—this felt like a rare and quiet kind of happiness.

Walking Into the Mountains

The Hot Spring Run is a tradition of our group, Hash. Every winter, we travel together to the outskirts of Guangzhou to find a hot spring resort where we run, hike, and soak. In a winter that isn’t particularly cold, hot springs still feel absolutely necessary. This was my first time joining, and this year we went to Nankun Mountain—a place I had heard about long ago. Somehow, I ended up there with a large group of companions.

As the bus drove into the mountains, the winding roads seemed endless. Looking down, the road had already risen dozens of meters above the mountain’s base. Along the way, I kept seeing the phrase: “Where the sun turns on the Tropic of Cancer.” I didn’t fully understand it, but it felt deeply romantic.

Once inside Nankun Mountain, everything turned into forest. Towering trees filled the landscape. In this place rumored to make people dizzy from oxygen-rich air, traces of civilization felt rare. After entering the mountains, we walked 12 kilometers through endless wilderness, without seeing a single house along the way.

At the summit, layers upon layers of mountain ridges stretched out before us. I have seen many mountain ranges, but this was the first time I felt so deeply submerged in a sea of mountains.

Fear, Companionship, and the Way Out

During the latter half of the hike through the forest, there were moments when I genuinely wondered whether we would make it out. The winding mountain paths felt endless. It gets dark in the mountains shortly after five o’clock, and although I had companions walking with me, I would never have dared to walk alone in such dense and silent woods.

When we finally emerged from the forest before nightfall and saw the concrete road, the group erupted in cheers. I think everyone, like me, let out a deep breath of relief. We love the mountains—the shifting light, the wind slipping through the trees, and the breathtaking views from the summit are all unforgettable experiences. But if the destination were not a way out of the wilderness, I don’t think any of us would have made it without breaking down.

So if one were to ask which matters more—the process or the destination—I would say that without the expectation of a destination, many processes would simply become exhausting detours. We enjoy the journey, but we also want to return to civilization at the end: to eat a warm meal and soak in a soothing hot spring. That expectation of the destination is what carried us through those 12 kilometers in the mountains.

From now on, whenever someone talks about “only enjoying the process without caring about the result,” I find myself quietly dismissing the idea.

Returning to Civilization

The main route in Nankun Mountain is 12 kilometers long, while some people chose a more challenging 16-kilometer route. I had injured my lower back a few days earlier, so I walked carefully, conserving my strength. Even when we reached the flat ground near the finish, I resisted the urge to run, knowing my body wasn’t ready.

Before climbing the mountain, I had packed a shell jacket and a down jacket. I complained about how inconvenient they were the entire way. But the moment I put on the lightweight down jacket at the foot of the mountain, every bit of extra weight felt worthwhile. Being able to take care of yourself and keep yourself warm is no small thing.

On the way down, since I wasn’t running, I soon fell behind the others. But knowing that all I had to do was follow the concrete road downhill to reach the destination allowed me to relax. In the wilderness, one wrong turn can lead to getting lost. In civilization, however, roads connect seamlessly—and even if we do get lost, navigation systems guide us back.

I often imagine how terrifying it would be to lose one’s way in a wilderness where everything looks the same, surrounded by towering trees. We are people who have lived our entire lives in civilization. Though we may long for the wild, we lack the skills to truly survive there, and fear easily takes hold.

I am afraid of the moments of near-despair that sometimes arise during long hikes. But I also know that by focusing only on the two steps in front of me, any route—no matter how long—can be completed kilometer by kilometer. Finishing a trail leaves you with a body full of exhaustion and a heart full of accomplishment.

Every trip into the wilderness is a way to recharge a body and mind tired of civilization. But once recharged, we still have to go home.

I am grateful that we all arrived safely at the hot spring hotel deep in the mountains. That bright night beneath a sky full of stars was a sight I had not seen for many years.

Thank you, Nankun Mountain.