For us city folks, the concept of “going into the mountains” is foreign to me. So, after the tractor had been running for four hours with no sign of stopping, I asked Old Cooper, “Is the Huangsha Plant in Donghua Mountain really this far?” He told me that, actually, the straight-line distance isn’t far, but there are mountains in between, and a long stretch of mountain road. Having a tractor to ride is already a blessing—once we get into the mountains, we’ll have to walk on our own.

Only then did I realize that so-called “going into the mountains” is not as easy as a leisurely stroll.

“These kinds of ghost stories mostly happen in places rarely visited by people, because listeners can’t easily verify them. Many mountain valleys and caves are said to be haunted. This is also a kind of instinctive response people have to the unknown,” that Old Professor seemed to have studied this, and explained to us very earnestly.

There weren’t many trees along the way, just one hill after another. After another hour or so, the tractor could go no further—we had arrived at a small village. We got off the tractor, found a household to buy a meal from, ate quickly, and then started walking into the mountains.

Normally, with this kind of trek, I’d be nodding off, but the wind was strong on the road, and Old Professor was very interesting, telling all sorts of fascinating things. I didn’t feel sleepy at all; on the contrary, I was full of energy and excitement.

In conversation, I learned that this Old Professor's surname is Li, and he’s quite a big deal—apparently some kind of provincial representative. The two students he brought are his favorites. As for the woman, she’s related to him by blood, probably a niece or something.

Their main purpose in coming was to collect some Shanxi folk legends and historical anecdotes, and then compile them into a book. Old Professor is very rigorous in his approach—he insists on hearing things with his own ears before he’ll count them. He believes these things are intangible antiques, far more valuable than tangible ones.

Actually, I quite agree with him. Although I also like collecting antiques, I think spending tens of thousands of yuan on these things is not normal. If you buy a pottery plate, you’ve actually deprived it of its use as a plate, and its other value is really something very abstract and hard to grasp.

Old Professor and I really hit it off on this topic, feeling like old friends at first meeting.

After entering the mountains, because of the higher elevation, the trees gradually became denser, starting to resemble the northern deciduous forests. Old Cooper and his nephew led the way up front. His nephew works at the Huangsha Plant and is familiar with the area, so he came along. The two of them walked at a steady pace, occasionally coming back to remind us to watch out for loose rocks and thorns.

We kept moving along the valley, with thorns everywhere, and often heard footsteps besides our own. Old Cooper said those were wild animals, which made us quite nervous. I couldn’t help but start missing the flat, eroded hills we’d passed on the way here.

We walked for a full two hours without a break. By the time it was getting dark, we had arrived at the legendary Huangsha Plant. I saw a row of dilapidated tile-roofed houses, which were where the workers used to rest when the plant was operating.

On one side of the houses was the Yellow River. I had never imagined seeing the Yellow River like this. In my childhood memories, even during dry seasons, the Yellow River was still lovely—we could play in the sand and catch fish. But here at the Huangsha Plant, I saw a riverbed several kilometers wide, baked by the sun into cracked yellow mud. It looked terrifying.

Inside the riverbed, the dredging boats had left uneven trenches. Old Cooper, who was leading the way, took us up a ridge by the Yellow River. Through the setting sun, he pointed to a blurry black outline in the distance. “It’s over there!”

Looking out, I saw an irregularly shaped, large, dried-up lake about three or four hundred meters away, with a strange shape.

Such a large dried-up lake didn’t seem like the result of local dredging operations, but rather as if something had fallen from the sky and created it. To put it simply, it looked like a small meteorite crater. It was very strange.

I saw Old Professor climb up the ridge, look around at the surrounding mountains in the wind, and his expression changed a bit. Suddenly, he asked Old Cooper, “Little brother, are there any legends about the ‘Yellow River Dragon King’ around here?”

Old Cooper let out an “ah,” clearly not expecting the question. After thinking for a moment, he said, “There are quite a few legends, but if you ask me now, I can’t recall any. You’d have to ask the old folks in the village. When we were young, during the ‘Cultural Revolution,’ we spent all day reciting Mao’s works.”

Old Professor just said “oh” and didn’t ask further, but his gaze at the Yellow River seemed to carry a hint of seriousness that was hard to detect.

The two students and the young master all wanted to go to the lake right away. Old Cooper said no, there are lots of mud pits in there—if you fall in, no one will ever find you. Besides, it was getting late, and the locals have a rule: no going into the Yellow River at night, for fear of being dragged away by water ghosts. Better to wait until tomorrow!

We had originally planned to stay in the workers’ houses below, but when we went to check, they were all locked up tight, with official seals on the doors. Back then, those seals were a big deal, and none of us dared to break them. So we returned to the ridge, lit a campfire, and prepared to huddle there for the night.