Echoes of the Forest: A Ranger's Transformative Journey

Nestled within the shrouded mysticism of the Yellow Mountains—a region in Anhui, China-- sits Jiulong Peak Nature Reserve, concealing within its magnificent mountains a rich landscape of biodiversity. Every summer, I call Jiulong Peak home for a few weeks, volunteering as a forest ranger. The area boasts vivid forests, dancing streams, rolling mountains, and a group of young rangers ready to make a change. We are responsible for protecting the forests and communicating with villagers who have lived there for generations, building a bridge of harmonious coexistence between people and nature. Lin is among these rangers.

I first met Lin on night patrol. That evening, Lin was the leader of our night patrol squad—me and another trainee. The light of dusk threw Lin’s round face into sharp relief, highlighting the weathered crevices of his skin that had darkened slightly from long hours of hiking. His presence is a comfort, speaking with a relaxed demeanor and a cheerful voice which exuded vibrance. We boarded a small truck, driving through the uneven gravel roads between expansive fields, the evening breeze wafting an earthy smell through the air dripping with humidity. In the distance, the mountains were bathed in golden hues by the setting sun.

As we entered the forest, damp darkness swallowed the last rays of sun. Our surroundings fell to a silence interrupted only by occasionally breaking twigs. Lin signaled us to turn on our headlamps and not to fall behind. We traced his tracks precisely as he forged ahead with sure footing. As a full-time ranger, Lin knew every peak and trail in the reserve like the back of his hand.

“My team and I have explored almost every corner here,” he said, a muted tone of pride underscoring his words as we paused beside a pine rooted firmly in a rocky crevice.

It was clear that Lin loved his work. Besides daily patrols, he and his team conduct two large-scale surveys every year. They use a grid system to monitor the reserve, installing infrared cameras to capture wildlife activity. These efforts yield tens of thousands of valuable photos and videos annually, aiding scientific research and conservation efforts.

“Do you find this work tiring?” I asked, curious. I was only volunteering for a few weeks, but they worked tirelessly every day.

“Tiring, yet not tiring,” Lin replied thoughtfully. “We also check for illegal fires, logging, and poaching. If we find anything, we have to work day and night in the mountains.” He patted the moss-covered trunk of a nearby tree. “It can be exhausting, but it’s rewarding. Protecting nature is worth it. When the environment thrives, people thrive.”

I nodded, thinking of the villagers at the foot of Jiulong Peak. Years ago, rampant poaching and deforestation had devastated the forests, driving away wildlife and forcing many villagers to leave their homes in search of work. But after the reserve was established, the forests began to heal. Wildlife such as sika deer, spiny frogs, big-headed turtles, and mountain hawks gradually returned. Slowly, the villagers came back too, many of them joining or supporting the reserve’s work. As they often said, “When the mountains and forests regain their spirit, so do the people.”

We turned off our headlamps while resting, plunging the forest into darkness. Without light pollution, tranquility spread through the entire forest blanketed with a layer of inky black. The moon cast dappled shadows through the overlapping ridges, swaying gently with the branches—a soothing lullaby, washing away the weariness of the day. Lin pulled out a water bottle and took a sip. "Three years ago, I rarely drank water," he said, his voice distant, as if lost in thought. "I spent most of my time drinking alcohol."

Seeing my shocked expression, he chuckled, a smile tugging at his mouth yet eyes faraway and distant.

“Let me tell you a story of how the mountain saved me.”

After graduating from college, I was eager to stay in the big city. But like many others my dreams were crushed by unemployment and I soon found myself returning to my hometown—a quaint place near the Yellow Mountaint area. Work there was monotonous, and I quickly fell into unhealthy habits—playing cards, drinking late into the night with friends. Eventually, I stopped working altogether, spending my days sleeping and my nights seeking solace in alcohol. My physical health declined to the point where I couldn’t run 1,000 meters, and my mental health worsened as I lost interest in everything. My family tried to encourage me to live a healthier life, but their efforts only led to constant arguments and raging headaches. It was no use, I had already resigned myself to life of nothing.

One day, a friend mentioned applying for a ranger position in the reserve, saying we could live there. Seeing it as a chance to escape my parents' nagging, I decided to apply too. It didn’t take long for me to regret it. Just ten minutes into the climb, I was utterly exhausted. I was a fish out of water, gasping for air and stumbling forwards on the path. With each step I cursed every life decision I had made.

But watching my peers full of energy, pride and self loathing made me refuse to give up without a fight. I began to count my steps—100, then 1,000—and whenever I felt I couldn’t go on, I told himself, 'Just ten more steps.' Finally, we reached the summit, leaving the winding path behind us. My chest had tightened, feet beaten into bloody pulp, but the mountain breeze cooled my face, and the air, carrying the fresh scent of trees and earth, was rebirth. For the first time in years, I felt alive. Euphoria carried me through the first day and then the next, and the next. Three months later, when I could climb the peaks while carrying out a light flow of conversation, I had become a full-fledged ranger.

As Lin finished his story, we were nearing the end of our night patrol. The sound of a stream flowed through the valley. Lin quickened his pace, pointing ahead with excitement. "There's a stream there; if we're lucky, we might spot big-headed turtles or Chinese spiny frogs."

Watching Lin stride effortlessly along the mountain path, I asked, “What’s the most captivating thing about being a ranger?”

Lin paused, then said slowly, "I used to feel empty every night—even when I was drinking with a group of people, I still felt hollow." He continued, "But here, every night, I listen closely to the sounds around me. During night patrols, the forest comes alive with bird calls, insect chirps, and rustling leaves. Sometimes, we hear the call of a black muntjac—soft and fleeting, like whistles. These sounds… they fill the void." He suddenly stopped and raised a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. "Listen," he whispered, his eyes gleaming, "it's the call of a Chinese spiny frog."

I held my breath, and sure enough, in the stillness of the night, the hidden symphony of the forest emerged—soft, layered, alive. A clear frog call echoed from the stream, like a drumbeat punctuating a grand composition, vibrant with life.

This vitality is a symbol of a healthy ecosystem, and it offers humanity boundless energy. Tonight’s patrol has come to an end, but it has lit a spark within me—a spark I hope will ignite countless others, illuminating the path toward a future where humanity and nature nourish one another, coexist in harmony, and thrive together to build a healthier, more sustainable blue planet.