Forget what you thought you knew about paradise.

“There are moments in everyman’s life, when he glimpses the eternal.”

-Lost Horizon, by James Hilton

What do you think of when someone says ‘paradise’? It probably has something to do with white sand, temperatures that justify near nakedness, and girly drinks brought belly-side by fawning natives. You see, that isn’t paradise, that’s self-indulgent hell. You may justify a stint in hell by sacrificing the majority of your hours to the not-so-mighty dollar, but you certainly wouldn’t want to live like that for more than two weeks, unless you share DNA with Jabba the Hutt.

Paradise has to do with scenes and experiences that ennoble us, by reminding us just how puny and insignificant our all-consuming cares really are. Paradise comes in brief spurts, usually after some discomfort. The most uncomfortable thing about a tropical beach is a little sand in your crotch. Paradise is up in the mountains.

James Hilton knew it. His novel ‘Lost Horizon’ was about a group of Westerners who crash landed and endured icy purgatory in the Himalayas before reaching a valley so breath-taking and pristine that it redefined their concept of reality. You don’t have to survive a plane crash to get there, but you may well feel as though you did by the time you arrive.

Ah, but what rose is not made sweeter by a pricking of the thumbs? I fall out of a minibus with a rusted-out exhaust system, delirious from the carbon monoxide I’ve been inhaling. I only know my left leg is there from the dull thud it makes as I gimp along the cobblestone street, looking for a private spot to unburden my kidneys.

Then there it is: Meili Mountain, and a more foreboding snow-topped slab you’ll never see, its tripartite crown as clearly delineated as a stock chart. Like light and shade, or sunshine followed by rain, what makes the peaks of the distant Himalayas so special here is the sublime contrast they present, when right in your foreground lie fertile valleys, lakes of cobalt blue, and elysian meadows.

You want to hear about the rich minority culture? Good. Google ‘Naxi’. If my purpose was to stare at people in embroidered clothing dancing like lao tai tais at the community park on a summer evening, I would have flown right in to Lijiang airport and made an end of it. I’m here for paradise – and in my experience, people are inimical to paradise.

Before someone takes me seriously enough to have a PC fit, let me explain. Yunnan has many minorities. They have rich cultures. I’ve no qualms with locals turning a tourist dollar. But whether it’s yak butter tea or fried cheese, silver bracelets or carved earrings, nothing man makes or offers can improve on the natural majesty that he hasn’t managed to interfere with.

I’m here at a special time. In late spring, below the endless forests of spruce carpeting the foothills, seas of rhododendrons burst into bloom. Like Maine in October, this is a one of a kind spectacle, a symphony of scarlet, flame orange, and innocent white. Now it’s late summer, and the winds are carrying tired petals down to Bitahai Lake. The petals are slightly poisonous, as is alcohol, hence the fish don’t mind one bit, rising to nibble in numbers sufficient to make the lake surface resemble a warming-up jacuzzi. The feeding frenzy is nearly audible, and a little creepy.

Once they’ve had a belly full, the fish, like punters who’ve had one too many, turn sleepy and slothful, enough to grab out of the water by hand. However, enough signage and stern watchmen ring the lake to make one tread lightly, let alone try to despoil the scene. You can’t even drive a car in the vicinity, a definite plus.

And that’s the appeal of Shangri-La: no cars, no planes overhead, no nothing, other than nature the way the Creator intended it on the last canvass. Because Shangri-La was surely painted last, after a world’s worth of composition, when severity and lushness had been distilled to their very essence, to recombine on a whole new palette.

Early in the morning, I return to the lakeside, where mountain meets water, not to gaze on finned drunkards, but because, after being nowhere near a computer or TV for well on four days, I can hear my intuition clearly enough to know that where mountain meets water is a place of renewal. The wind is a late riser, and leaves the lake in peace. Wisps of dense fog dance on the shore, emphasizing the utter stillness of all else around me: the forest, the mountains, even the taupe sky, boundless and piercingly fresh.

I’m exhausted from the trip and a night of warfare on two fronts against spiders and fleas. I’m famished and expect nothing better for breakfast than a crushed cardboard bowl of instant noodles I’ve got in my kit. But I’m in paradise, alright.

“Gentlemen, I give you a toast. Here’s my hope that Robert Conway will find his Shangri-La. Here’s my hope that we all find our Shangri-La.”

-Ibid