The train was scheduled to leave at two o’clock that afternoon, and we were so excited that we couldn’t sleep all night. I asked Fatty how much money we had left. He counted and said we still had one hundred and fifty. That amount was just enough for our return trip and meals.
I thought to myself that this wouldn’t do. We hadn’t been back in over a decade, and it would be inappropriate to go back with nothing. We needed to find a way to get some money to buy some gifts for the villagers.
Fatty suggested selling his jade for money.
I told him to keep it. “Don’t keep thinking about that little thing your dad left you. Once you sell it, you can’t get it back. You might regret it later.”
In the end, I found something valuable. We had a limited edition Ying Ge mechanical watch that my dad bought for me when I became a company commander. It was rare, and even if you had money, you might not be able to buy it. At that time, it could sell for over two hundred. I went to Panjiayuan and sold the watch to Big Gold Tooth. He bought anything, and when he heard we were heading to Inner Mongolia, he even sponsored us with a hundred yuan and agreed to help us find buyers for anything we discovered.
In the 1980s, three hundred yuan was enough for an ordinary family to live a luxurious life for two or three months; it was a considerable amount of money. With that money, I bought a lot of food—candied fruits, milk candies, canned goods, chocolates, and tea—things that were hard to find in the mountains. I exchanged the remaining money for national food coupons on the black market.
The two-day and two-night journey felt a bit long with all the excitement. After arriving at the station, we still had to take a tractor for a day and then walk for another day and night through the mountains.
Once we entered the mountains, we barely made it through a day before we could go no further. Our loads were too heavy, each of us carrying over a hundred pounds. I gritted my teeth and managed to keep going, but Fatty was really struggling. He sat under a big tree, panting and unable to speak.
Fortunately, we ran into an accountant who was coming from the village. When we were kids, he was just a teenager who followed us around, calling us “big brother” all the time.
Seeing our heavy luggage, the accountant quickly ran back to the village and brought a few people with a donkey to help us. We recognized the older folks, and there were also two girls around twelve or thirteen years old who were born after I left. They all called me “uncle,” which felt really strange to hear.
I asked the accountant, “Why haven’t I seen any young men in the village?”
He replied, “All the laborers from the village have gone to work with the archaeological team. Remember the Tangshan earthquake in ‘76? Even though it was far from here, we’re on the same seismic belt. That earthquake cracked the whole area around Lama Valley and Niu Xin Mountain, revealing a tomb that looked like a palace. Many brave folks from our village went in to take things. They found a lot of good stuff. But somehow, it caught the attention of the county government, and the archaeological team came. They said it was the tomb of the Liao Dynasty’s Empress Xiao, and they took away all the valuable items from everyone’s homes—nothing was left behind. The archaeological team didn’t do much with Niu Xin Mountain either; they said there were still many treasures to dig up beneath it, so they hired the village laborers to work for them. They provided food and drink and paid three yuan a day. It’s been a few years now, and they still haven’t finished; many people are still working there.”
When Fatty and I heard this, we nearly spat blood in frustration. It felt like fate was playing a cruel joke on us.
But there was nothing we could do; we couldn’t just go and fight for territory with the archaeological team and the government officials. Since we were here, we might as well enjoy a few days and then figure out another plan. After all, there are plenty of ancient tombs, not just the one at Niu Xin Mountain.
As we approached the village, the villagers who had heard the news were waiting at the entrance. They crowded around us, asking all sorts of questions. Yanzi, leading her daughter, cried as she said, “Oh, Old Hu and Fatty, we missed you so much! How could you leave for so many years without a word?”
Yanzi’s father hugged us tightly and said, “You two little rascals disappeared without a trace! This time, you better stay for two or three years. No one is allowed to leave!”
Fatty and I both started to cry. Fatty had lived here for six or seven years, while I had only stayed for a year. But the people in the mountains are simple and sincere; once you’ve lived here, they treat you like family forever. Everything was just as it used to be—nothing had changed. There was no electricity, no roads, and many people had never seen a light bulb in their lives. The more I thought about it, the sadder I became, pondering that once we had money, we had to build a road for the villagers. But when would we ever have money?
At that moment, the old village secretary, supported by someone, came over. Before he even reached us, he shouted, “The Chairman’s kids are back! How is the Chairman doing? What happened during the Cultural Revolution?”
I was puzzled by his question. How would I know how the Chairman was doing? I hurried to the front and supported the old secretary’s arm, saying, “He’s doing well. He lies in the memorial hall every day. If anyone misses him, they can buy a ticket to go see him. Oh, by the way, the Cultural Revolution is over now. Comrade Xiaoping is leading us in the reform and opening-up.”
It seemed the old secretary didn’t hear what I said. He shouted, “What? What is Comrade Xiaoming doing?”
Yanzi, standing nearby, told me, “Don’t mind him. He has been deaf since ‘73 and can’t hear anything clearly. He often gets confused.”
Now I understood. I leaned closer to the old secretary and said loudly, “Secretary, I brought you a lot of delicious food. I’ll bring it to you soon, so take your time enjoying it.”
As everyone chatted and walked, we entered the village. The old secretary was still shouting from behind, “Kids, when you go back, report to the Chairman that we firmly support the Proletarian Cultural Revolution… whatever needs to be done, just do it.”
That evening, Yanzi’s family had a feast laid out on the kang table, filled with stir-fried mountain chicken, smoked deer legs, and a large pot of sauerkraut with boiled pork in the center. Yanzi’s husband, who used to be quite familiar with us, had gone to work at Niu Xin Mountain and was temporarily unavailable.
Yanzi’s father drank and chatted with us, and I brought up the ancient tomb at Niu Xin Mountain, asking if there were any other ancient noble tombs in the mountains.
Since ancient times, the mountain people have viewed tomb raiding as a side business, with no moral issues attached to it, especially in the north. In the southern regions, like Xiangxi, people would even resort to robbery and murder as a side hustle. Mountain dwellers would farm during the day and turn to banditry at night, hiding in the woods and targeting passing merchants, leaving no survivors. This was a survival tactic shaped by centuries of harsh living conditions—living off the mountains and rivers, and when times were tough, they would raid ancient tombs or prey on travelers. As long as there was an ancient tomb nearby, someone would go to dig it up. In remote areas, where the mountains were high and the emperor was far away, the law couldn’t reach them. Although this reasoning might not hold up in legal terms, it was the reality they lived in. Most ancient tombs in the area were too old, eroded by time, and had lost their obvious markers; otherwise, the mountain people would have already dug them all up.
Yanzi’s father recalled that long before liberation, a few young amateur “grave robbers” had come from the village. At that time, they didn’t even know there were tombs at Niu Xin Mountain. They went to a legendary place to dig for treasure, but something happened, and none of them returned. Yanzi’s second uncle was one of them. Yanzi’s father knew the general location of that legendary place but had never dared to go there.
As he reminisced, the old man lit his old pipe from Yabuli, took a few puffs, and after a long moment of contemplation, he said, “If you’re looking for ancient tombs, the only place nearby is Niu Xin Mountain. According to local legends, if you head north through Tuan Mountain, it takes about five days to reach a place called Heifengkou on the border with Mongolia. There’s a valley known as Wild Man Valley, where it’s said that the graves of great nobles and kings are buried. However, that area is rarely visited by people, and there are wild men roaming around. Do you have the courage to go there?”
I had heard of Wild Man Valley before, but I hadn’t heard that there were ancient tombs there. No one knew what had happened to the last group of grave robbers; not even Yanzi’s father or anyone else in the village had any idea.
In the deep mountains and forests, there were many dangers—wild beasts, sudden weather changes, and natural hazards that could cost lives. If you encountered a “big smoke bubble” (a swamp formed by decaying leaves soaked in rain), getting stuck in it would mean even god couldn’t escape.
Despite the dangers, we were determined to go, and Yanzi’s father couldn’t stop us. No one from the village had ever been to Heifengkou or Wild Man Valley; they only knew the general direction. It was close to the border, and there were no people around. Even when villagers went hunting or foraging, they never ventured that far. Plus, Yanzi’s father was getting old and suffered from chronic leg pain, so he couldn’t go into the mountains anymore. Yanzi was pregnant with her second child and couldn’t travel far either. The young and strong men in the village were all working in Lama Valley and wouldn’t be back anytime soon.
Yanzi’s father said, “I can’t go with you, and that makes me uneasy. The real danger in Wild Man Valley doesn’t come from the wild men; it’s the complex terrain. In winter, the white wind blows fiercely, and it’s easy to get lost. But now it’s early autumn, so you don’t have to worry about that. If you go, make sure to bring plenty of dogs and find a good guide. We have a few mastiffs in the village; I’ll have them come with you.”
In the north, “mastiff” doesn’t just refer to Tibetan mastiffs; it refers to any large, powerful dog. In the northeastern grasslands and forests, hunters and herders faced threats from wolves and black bears, making ordinary hunting dogs insufficient. They learned to raise mastiffs from Tibet. There’s a saying: “Nine dogs, one mastiff.” This means that among nine dogs, only one can be a mastiff. You need a high-quality female dog to give birth to a litter of nine puppies. From the moment they are born, the puppies are kept in a cellar without food or water, forced to fight each other. The last one standing is the mastiff. Mastiffs are incredibly fierce; three of them could tear a strong human bear to pieces.
In the village, there were three mastiffs and five of the best hunting dogs, all entrusted to us. Yanzi’s father also recommended a guide named Yingzi.
Yingzi was only nineteen and was a rare member of the Oroqen ethnic group. Among the younger generation of hunters, no one was more skilled than her. She was known as a sharpshooter in the mountains. Despite her young age, she had been hunting with her father in the woods since she was little, and she knew everything about the old forest. Of the three mastiffs in the village, two were raised by her.
Before we set off, I asked Yanzi to help prepare some supplies: a birdcage, sticky rice, black donkey hooves, a crowbar, a large bucket of vinegar, and some liquor.
Once everything was ready, Yanzi’s father repeatedly reminded us to be careful. If we couldn’t find anything, we shouldn’t force it. He insisted we go and return quickly, and he only left after seeing us off to Tuan Mountain.
I felt quite confident about finding the ancient tomb. As long as we reached Wild Man Valley, it would be fine if there were no tombs; if there were, I was sure I could find them. I had learned some knowledge about tomb raiding from books, but most of what I knew came from my grandfather’s stories. My grandfather, Hu Guohua, had been an officer in the old warlord army. Some of his soldiers had been under the command of Sun Dianying, a notorious tomb raider, and had participated in several large-scale tomb raiding operations. Their experiences were invaluable, and much of my grandfather’s knowledge came from their accounts.
Tomb raiding has always been divided into two categories: official and unofficial. Official tomb raiders operated openly, targeting imperial tombs. The famous warlord Xiang Yu from the end of the Qing Dynasty could be considered the ancestor of official raiders. During the Three Kingdoms period, the “Dugzi Army” and the “Mo Jin” were merely a systematization of official tomb raiding, creating an assembly line of sorts. Among the unofficial raiders, there were both amateurs and professionals. Amateurs would dig wherever they could, while the more professional ones focused solely on noble and royal tombs, often looking down on smaller graves.
The key to tomb raiding lies in being able to locate ancient tombs, which is a profound field of study. Over thousands of years, as dynasties rose and fell in China, the construction and positioning of imperial tombs varied significantly. During the Qin and Han Dynasties, there was a trend of following the same style, often characterized by “overturned bowl” tombs. This term refers to the shape of the burial mound, resembling an inverted measuring bowl placed on top, with sharp edges and lines. The peak is a small square platform, somewhat similar to the pyramids of Egypt, but with an additional side, making it strikingly similar to the pyramids of the “lost civilization” of the Maya in South America. The connection between these styles remains a mystery.
In the Tang dynasty, the construction of tombs was grand and imposing, reflecting the strength of the Tang Empire during its peak. The royal tombs of the Tang dynasty exuded an air of superiority, embodying the spirit of the world’s greatest empire.
From the Southern Song to the end of the Ming and the beginning of the Qing Dynasties, the country faced continuous warfare, and some of the largest natural disasters in ancient Chinese history occurred during this period. With the nation weakened, the scale of noble and royal tombs became less extravagant than before.
Later, during the Qing Dynasty, particularly in the Kangxi and Qianlong periods, the economy and productivity of the country saw significant recovery. The architectural style of tombs changed, placing more emphasis on surface structures and integrating them with ancestral temples and gardens for worship. Learning from the anti-theft experiences of previous dynasties, the structures of tomb chambers in the Qing Dynasty became exceptionally sturdy, making them difficult to breach.
Ultimately, regardless of the dynasty, the forms of burial in China over thousands of years have been derived from the principles of the I-Ching’s sixty-four hexagrams and the five elements of Feng Shui. Despite the variations, they all adhere to the same fundamental principles, emphasizing the importance of understanding the natural world.
Tomb culture is the essence of Chinese civilization. Various ethnic minorities, such as the Mongols, Hui, Tubo, Jurchens, Xianbei, She, and others, have been greatly influenced by it. Their burial practices often imitated the forms of the Central Plains, but most only scratched the surface. It can be said that as long as one understands the flow of mountains and rivers across the land, even the most hidden ancient tombs can be easily found.
As we moved forward, we entered the vast and endless primeval forest. Yingzi led the way with eight large dogs, while Fatty led a short horse carrying tents and other supplies. I followed behind with a hunting rifle, and our group ventured into the rugged mountains along the border between China and Mongolia.
As we walked, Fatty asked Yingzi, “Hey, sister, what’s the deal with the wild men in Wild Man Valley? What exactly are they? Have you ever seen one?”
Yingzi turned back and replied, “I don’t really know what wild men are. I’ve heard my dad say that many people have seen them over the years, but no one has ever caught one alive, and no one has seen a dead body either. Those who have seen them can’t really describe what they look like.”
I laughed from behind and said, “Fatty, you really are clueless. As the name suggests, wild men are just wild people. You need to study harder! Do you know what wild people are? They are those who live in the wild, possibly born from trees or growing from the ground—anyway, they are not cultivated by humans.”
The legend of the wild man in Shennongjia has a long history, and I had heard about it while in the army. It is said that a soldier from the People’s Liberation Army once shot a wild man in Shennongjia, and the body fell off a sheer cliff. In the end, no one could determine whether the wild man was human or just a large, hairy monkey. Almost all witnesses who claimed to have seen the wild man insisted that he was tall and strong, covered in long black hair.
Yingzi told us that the Wild Man Valley at Heifengkou used to be called “Dead Man Valley.” Even further back, it was known as “Peng Yue (Moon-Holding) Valley,” which had historically been a burial ground for the nobles of the Jin Dynasty. Later, when the Mongolian army defeated the main forces of the Jin soldiers at Heifengkou, the bodies piled up like mountains. The Mongolians threw the dead into the valley, nearly filling it up, which led the locals to call it “Dead Man Valley.” Eventually, when people began to see wild men in the area, the name changed to Wild Man Valley.
Wild men aren’t really that scary; can they be more formidable than mastiffs? Suddenly, a thought crossed my mind: I wondered how much a wild man would sell for in the market. But then I quickly dismissed the idea, realizing it wasn’t very humane. It was better to focus on digging for ancient tombs instead.
Since we were traveling with horses, we couldn’t climb steep slopes, so we had to take detours around the mountains, making our progress particularly slow. Fortunately, the autumn scenery in the primeval forest was stunning, with vibrant red and yellow leaves covering the hills, creating a beautiful tapestry that was pleasing to the eye. Occasionally, we would spot a few mountain chickens, wild rabbits, roe deer, tree squirrels, or muntjacs darting out from the depths of the forest. Yingzi would send the dogs to chase them.
At night, when we set up camp, we gathered some wild herbs and mushrooms for seasoning, lit a campfire, and roasted our catch. Fatty and I feasted well, enjoying a variety of wild game that we hadn’t had in days.
Traveling through the mountains, if you don’t have hunting dogs, you can only sleep in trees. We had brought three giant mastiffs along with five large hunting dogs, which made us nearly unbeatable in the forest—unless we encountered more than three human bears. Yingzi said that mastiffs were the natural enemies of human bears; when these creatures heard the barking of mastiffs, they would quickly retreat. So at night, we all slept in the tents, with our loyal hunting dogs keeping watch around us. There was nothing to worry about; these dogs were far more reliable than people.
Yingzi had a much fiercer temper than Yanzi did when she was younger. She was tough and didn’t tolerate any nonsense. We had to follow her lead on which routes to take and what to eat, since she was the guide, and even the dogs obeyed her. Although I was used to being a company commander, here I had to swallow my pride and act like an ordinary soldier.
However, Yingzi was indeed impressive. She was skilled at hunting, finding paths, locating springs, and identifying whether mushrooms were poisonous. She knew how to find wood ear mushrooms, hazelnuts, wild persimmons, codonopsis, and schisandra in the deep mountains—there was hardly anything she didn’t understand. There were some animals in the mountains that I couldn’t even name, having never seen them before, but Yingzi could identify them, explaining what they were, what environments they lived in, what they ate, and what traps could be used to catch them. Fatty and I exchanged wide-eyed glances, and all we could say was, “Impressive.”
The Oroqen people are born hunters. The term “Oroqen” is the official name for this ethnic group, but it’s not entirely accurate. Sometimes they refer to themselves as “E’erchun” or “E’lechun,” which means “those who wander in the forest and mountains to hunt deer.” They have roamed the forests of the Lesser Khingan Mountains for years, living a nomadic life of fishing and hunting. When China was first liberated, the Oroqen population was less than a thousand. The government encouraged them to leave their harsh mountain environment and settle down. However, the tribe held a near-mythical reverence and longing for the hunting lifestyle of their ancestors. They practiced shamanism and revered nature, and even after settling down, they still frequently ventured into the mountains to hunt.
After six or seven days of walking and camping in the primeval forest, we finally reached Heifengkou on the border between China and Mongolia. The density of the forest at Heifengkou was indescribable; in the depths, there was almost no place to stand. The area was filled with red pines, larch, birch, and poplar—cold-resistant trees. The ground was covered with layers of dead branches and leaves, making every step a struggle. While we managed to navigate, the weight of the horses often caused them to get stuck, and we had to use all our strength to pull and push them along, inching forward.
It was hard to tell how many years the decaying leaves and the remains of animals trapped beneath had been there, emitting a foul odor. This stench mixed with the scent of red pines and wildflowers created a strange aroma that, after a while, became oddly addictive.
Once we arrived at Heifengkou, the rest was up to me. We found a valley that should be the legendary Wild Man Valley. The terrain here was not particularly remarkable; it wasn’t as fierce as Lama Valley, but that was just a superficial impression. Yingzi warned that there were likely “big smoke bubbles” in the valley, and we needed to be careful before descending, as getting stuck in one would be disastrous. To enter Wild Man Valley, each of us had to prepare a large wooden stick to probe the ground, as the layer of leaves was deep and more treacherous than a swamp. Fortunately, it wasn’t the rainy season; otherwise, we wouldn’t have been able to go down at all.
Wild Man Valley was part of the Lesser Khingan Mountains, with gentle slopes on both sides. The valley ran north to south, flanked by hills to the east and west. The central area received very little sunlight throughout the year, creating a gloomy atmosphere. The valley was filled with decaying leaves and wild grass, with only sparse low shrubs growing—no trees at all. Beyond the valley, the trees became even scarcer; the primeval forest ended here, and another two hundred miles ahead lay the vast grasslands of Outer Mongolia.
As dusk approached, the blood-red sun hung on the horizon. We climbed a slope and gazed out, watching the sun dip lower, painting the sky with large patches of red clouds. The entire sky seemed to be drenched in thick oil paint, with the forest-covered mountains and the endless grasslands in the distance becoming hazy.
Fatty, taking in the beautiful scenery, exclaimed, “Old Hu, this view is amazing! This trip was worth it.”
My mind was focused on the ancient tomb in Wild Man Valley. I carefully examined the terrain in the valley according to the “The Secret Art of Yin-Yang Feng Shui in Sixteen Characters,” and took out my compass to identify the eight trigrams and directions. I thought to myself, “Finally, we’ve found the right place. There must be a noble’s ancient tomb in this valley.”
The terrain here was stable and majestic, exuding a sense of grandeur. One end led to the grasslands, while the other connected to the Lesser Khingan Mountains. The Outer Mongolian grasslands resembled a vast ocean, and Peng Yue Valley seemed like a great river flowing into the sea.
Although the feng shui here might not be suitable for an emperor’s burial, it was more than enough for a prince or a high-ranking general. When the moon reached its zenith, its light would guide us to the location of the ancient tomb.