A Campsite.

Charlie rolled pass the wheat fields, and prayer flags and women with scythes. The stone path turned to an alley, and the alley became tighter and tighter, as we pulled into a town made of mud and straw. Tall, brown walls encompassed us on all sides. The yangtze was a hundred yards away and we needed a place to sleep. We stopped at a mahjong table that had been set up in the alley. We showed the people the picture of a tent on one of our cameras and pointed to a the chinese word for camping. Everyone laughed. Everyone. The dog started laughing. Yes? Thumbs up? Thumbs up! We paused and shook hands and hi-fived and pushed our bikes past where their cattle grazed and down a dirt path and onto a rocky beach on the Yangzte. We stripped down and washed 120 kms of dust and dirt and stink off of us. The sun was setting fast as we set up our tents and lit our stoves. The river glided past, and tomorrow the road would bring us to mountains. Real mountains. Snow. We made our ramen as a man steered his boat across the river and sung to himself. The sun set.