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When I glance the gas tank at only one third full, we are already well beyond civilization and into our two and a half hour drive to Xin Cai homestay. The mountains have only one road and sparse settlements. It's dark. The streets are quiet and lonely. Suddenly I'm greeted by the cloud forest— lost in the highness of mountains, confused by the blurred boundary between land and sky. She envelops the car in a thick white haze; I can’t see beyond twelve inches in front of me. As we part ways, my eyes are peeled for a gas station. But there are none. And the towns are already asleep at 7:30 pm. When things look bleak, I finally confess to my friends. A heavy silence sits in the car as the needle brushes E. We drive on like this for the next 30 minutes and I let out a sigh of relief when we arrive. But it's still dark and lonely-- and closed. The steel doors are padlocked, so I exit the car to explore. The ominous night quickly drives me back inside and I decide to call instead. No answer. I send off an email and a message through the booking system, then cross my fingers. There's no telling when they'll see any of my outreach, so I prepare for us to sleep the night in the car. As my phone nears the end of its battery, I decide its time to embark on another search. Fear creeps into my heart as I look up the dark hill illuminated farther ahead by the blue haze of a fluorescent street lamp. With a deep breath, I swipe up and turn on my flashlight. I feel confidence in the safety of this place and people I call home and muster the courage to step into the unknown. Someone unpacks a decrepit van underneath the street lamp, but it's too reminiscent of a horror scene. I slip past them and up into the small community of homes to knock on a door. No answer. I walk back down and sink into the drivers seat with defeat when my phone rings. It's them. "你看到一條小路嗎?" Yes! I do see the small road. I take us up the small gravel hill I just walked, but he doesn’t see us and my Mandarin is of no use explaining where we are. In desperation, I shove my phone into the hands of a nearby stranger that serendipitously emerged to inspect us unfamiliar visitors. His thick accent I strain to understand, instructs us to wait at the foot of the hill. We follow the taillights of a black SUV, back-tracking, gas tank on proper E, and circle to a stop. I stiffen realizing there’s still more to this drive. We circled to take a right too sharp to indicate and continue down a thin, steep road where another car can’t pass, you can’t pull over, and there’s no protection from the precipice. I'm not sure what’s scarier: knowing there's only a few inches between our wheels and the edge or that our needle is passing E. When I think we’ve finally arrived we turn down another lane and then climb up another hill. But finally, we really did make it. We exchange small talk over tea picked from this land that has been a part of his family for generations. I hear the growl of our bellies and ask about somewhere to eat. He gives an incredulous look before offering ramen. We ride in his car back up the twisting road driving at a pace that makes us forget our hunger because anxiety bubbles in its place. His knock is answered by an older man who leaves his home to unlock the steel doors of his convenience store. We're full with the hospitality and compassion shown by strangers. Morning dew thickens the fresh mountain air and our mouths hang agape, stunned by the formless hues of blue and green shaped by the structured cascading tea terrace. He funnels a bit of gas into our car for the nine mile gas station drive, and I rely on neutral through the ebb and flow of the mountains for the drive.