Crossing the origins of the Yangtze River, and approaching the Tanggula Mountains, they were not so lucky. One day, toward evening, the jeep got bogged in a marsh, and despite General Mu's best attempts, there was no way to extract the "cavalry" from the marsh, and his felt like it would soon explode. This time, ready for battle, General Mu was not angry, and without a solution he spread out his hands and said, "Cao, wait here and don't move, preserve your strength and get ready for the big push, just wait quietly!"
"General Mu, if we keep on waiting, won't we wait to death?" Cao Ruzhen said, not without concerns.
"Not a problem, wait and help will come." Mu Shengzhong laughed.
"General, who will come to help us through the ice and the snow on this vast wasteland?" Cao Ruzhen looked out at the wilderness, there was only a solitary and mysterious eagle, a vastness.
"A military vehicle will come!" Mu Shengzhong looked toward the Qinghai-Tibet Highway into which he had poured his own effort, and with the grace of a general, he waved his hand, "Guard!"
"Here!" The guard jogged over, "what needs to be done?"
"Go immediately along the highway, and if any military vehicles come, intercept then. Call to them for help, to get a bogged car unstuck." Mu Shengzhong already had a plan formed in his head.
Looking all around, no military vehicle appeared in the empty wilderness, there was only the howl of wild wolves, their sound conveying terror. A bunch of green lights came closer towards them, step by step, filling them with a feeling of dread. The guard drew his pistol and prepared to shoot.
Mu Shengzhong kicked the guard, saying, "Save some bullets so we can kill a gazelle and eat to our hearts' content. The wolves aren't scared by it, and if you don't hurt it, it won't hurt you."
Thus, they bundled into the vehicle, and trembling with fear watched the wolves circle around.
Until the depths of night, half the hillside flashed with shining lights, like the fireflies of a southern summer night, and General Mu leapt to his feet, declaring loudly, "Help has arrived!"
A party of military vehicles gradually drew closer, finally discovering them, they were able to help the small surveying group.
After half a month, they entered Lhasa by car, and the final leg of the initial survey for railway line selection was completed, and General Mu, unsettled, asked Cao Ruzhen, "Cao, please tell me it's over."
Cao Ruzhen enumerated a great number of questions concerning the permafrost, and it appeared that they were yet to have any sense of finality. Mu Shengzhong was a little impatient, and got straight to the point, "Cao, I'm a rough sort, I don't know about permafrost theory, don't take me on a goose chase, cut a long story short and please tell me in one word, can we proceed with the Qinghai-Tibet railway at all?"
"Yes!" Cao Ruzhen answered without hesitation.
"Good! That was the word I wanted." Mu Shengzhong excitedly declared, "tonight, the mutton noodle stew is on me."
After Cao Ruzhen's delegation of three returned to Lanzhou, they reported the results of the initial survey to the academy director: a railway can be constructed on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau. Immediately after, they wrote an investigative report.
At 3p.m on November 9, 2002, I interviewed Cao Ruzhen from the Lanzhou branch of the First Survey and Design Institute in his home, his face, already elderly, was compassionate, and the age spots on his face seemed to conceal the stories of the wind and the snow of the plateau, however, what he talked about most was still Mu Shengzhong, who had passed away early, saying in hushed tones, "Although Mu Shengzhong was a forthright person, addicted to alcohol, and in large quantities, too: his blood was strong and fierce like liquor, it can be said that he was the forerunner of both the Qinghai-Tibet Highway and railway, his contributions should not go unnoticed, and we should not forget him."
A Tibetan Acquaintance—Commander of the First Line, Zhuang Xindan
I now enter a brilliant chronicle of the construction of the Qinghai-Tibet rail, a fortune afforded to me by an old man.
The elderly Zhuang Xindan sat at my side with the grace of an immortal, quietly narrating faded memories of the past. His meditative expression was such that he seemed to be telling someone else's story, without any apparent connection to himself. He was already eighty-seven years old at the time, a lock of snowwhite hair hung on his chest, his slim oval face imprinted with the marks of the sunny south, unchiselled by the ruthless desert winds of the northwest. I stood in the room, which was so small it would be hard to find room to store even a pin. The residence of 30.59 square meters was full of old broken furniture, and the light was dim, and full of the undecipherable special smell of old people.