As soon as I stepped into this icy world, I was completely shocked and speechless. The snow capped mountains in front of me are like a sacred white palace, with steep and steep peaks and rigid lines. Against the backdrop of the blue sky, they are dazzling white, as if they are works of art carved from ice and snow by nature. Unlike elsewhere, the winter snow capped mountains in Kala Jun have rich textures, which are the traces left by wind and snow over the years, like a historical book written by time, with every wrinkle hiding a story.

The clear river water flows over the side of the boat, carrying the slight coolness of the melting snow mountains, carrying you to split the sparkling waves. On both sides of the strait, green stretches to the horizon, with cows and sheep scattered like pearls on the carpet, and grass fragrance and fragments of pastoral songs wrapped in the wind. The engine's soft roar breaks the tranquility, but does not disturb the harmony of nature - that is the rhythm that resonates with the pulse of the grassland. At times, I gallop, splashing water on my cheeks and feeling the pleasure of the wind brushing past my ears; Sometimes drifting slowly, watching the clouds float on the water surface, listening to the river's murmuring stories about the grasslands.

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Fingertips brushed over the rough bowstring, as if touching the pulse of a nomadic people for thousands of years. The snow capped mountains in the distance are the widest bullseye, and the grasslands beneath your feet rise and fall with your breath. When the arrows burst out of the air, the wind makes way for you - not to hit anything, but to let this arrow, with your heartbeat, pierce into the gap between heaven and earth.

At the moment of stepping into Karajun, hiking shoes became tools for measuring the pulse of the earth. The undulating meadow is like green silk crumpled by the wind, stepping on it with one foot can sink into half an inch of softness, carrying the scent of grass that has been exposed to sunlight. Spruce trees draw ink lines along the mountain ridge, while the pasture winds into silver chains in the green waves. After walking a few steps, you come across a group of cows and sheep grazing on grass with their heads down. They glance up at you and then wag their tails to blend into the scenery. The wind is the guide here, sometimes pushing you towards the top of the slope, and sometimes bringing the smell of smoke from the distant felt house.

The wind started, and the blue waves surged like the rhythm of life. I wanted to reach out and touch them, but slipped away from my fingertips. Walking forward in the sea of flowers, a romantic atmosphere slowly emerged, making me unconsciously hold my lover's hand. The distant bleating interrupted my thoughts, and it was only then that the scattered cattle and sheep reminded me that this was Karajun, the 'pasture of the gods'.