On the Tibetan plateau, winter is often not spoken of as an enemy, but as an arrival that teaches measure. The land itself models this restraint. Grasses dry but do not disappear. Yaks move slowly, conserving strength. Rivers thin, yet continue beneath ice. Nothing rushes.
To endure winter well is not to overpower it, but to align with its pace. Those who learn this pass through the season intact; those who resist it grow tired before spring arrives.
Winter is accepted as a companion, stern, clarifying, and precise, reminding people that survival on the plateau comes not from abundance, but from knowing exactly what is enough.
The only force that challenges the icy wind is the sun. Winter is when the sun seems at its mightiest, rising briefly but fiercely against the cold. Light sharpens everything it touches, and the colour of winter here is not white, but blue, a deep, saturated blue drawn from the vast, cloudless sky above. The air is so thin and dry it feels honed to an edge, cracking lips, reddening faces, drawing moisture from the skin.
Winters are not dark or heavy with snow. South-facing hillsides are quickly stripped bare by sun and wind, while north-facing slopes hold on longer. There, snow compresses into ice, catching and reflecting the brilliance above. Colours intensify: ochres deepen, shadows turn indigo, and distance itself seems clearer, as if the land has been freshly cut.
Winter is also the season when nomads return from high pastures. Towns fill with sheepskin-clad figures, bundles tucked into their robes. New Year approaches. Weddings are planned. Those married into other families return home for reunions long awaited.
Through it all, Norden Camp lies silent, sharing the season only with yaks and sheep. Mornings arrive as white sculptures of frozen dew. The landscape is radiant but uncompromising, shaped by wind, sun, and altitude. One day, we hope to share winter’s quiet brilliance with our guests. For now, we let Norden rest, easing slowly into winter, held in balance between light and cold.
