"We don't think of this as a hard life. It is the only life we know. The cold is just the cold. The altitude is just the altitude."
Dorje is 58. His wife Pema is 53. They have three adult children, all of whom have moved to cities for work — Chengdu, Shanghai, one to Lhasa. They have six grandchildren they see once a year, if that.
They live in a small stone house at 4,200 meters elevation, with their winter herd of yaks, some chickens, and a vegetable garden that produces enough for half the year. The nearest paved road is two days' walk. The nearest hospital is five hours by car, when the road is open.
A year in pieces
I sat with Dorje and Pema over several visits, asking them to walk me through a typical year. What follows is theirs, in their words, lightly edited for clarity.
Spring (March–May): The hardest season. The yaks are weak from winter, the grass is just starting, and the snow can come back at any time. Calving happens in this window. Most of the year's losses — animals that don't make it through — happen in March. You don't sleep well in March.
Summer (June–August): The work moves up the mountain. We move with the herd to summer pasture, around 4,800 meters. The days are long, the grass is good, the animals are strong. This is when we make butter and cheese for the year, and when we cut and dry grass for winter. We host the few travelers who come.
Autumn (September–October): The best season, by far. Clear skies, cool nights, warm days. The yaks are fat. We harvest what we can from the garden, prepare for the long winter. We sell some animals at the autumn market. This is when we have the most visitors.
Winter (November–February): The house. The stove. The yaks are at winter pasture, lower down, where we can see them from the window. We eat what we stored. We read. We visit neighbors. We tell each other stories we've told many times. The cold is real but we have wood, and wool, and each other.
What outsiders don't see
I asked them what they wished visitors understood about their life. Pema answered first.
"That we are not poor. We have what we need. The city people who come up here and feel sorry for us — they are missing something. We don't need their pity. We need them to be respectful guests, that's all. To take their shoes off. To ask before taking photos. To not litter. These are not hard things."
Dorje added: "And the loneliness is real. We have each other, and our neighbors, and that's enough. But the children are far. We don't talk about it, but it's there. That part is hard."
On the future
None of their children will come back to run the herd. The grandchildren don't speak much Tibetan. The pasture is still theirs, but for how long is unclear. Government relocation programs, climate change affecting grass growth, the slow drift of young people to cities — these are not abstract forces here. They are felt in the size of the herd each year.
But Dorje and Pema don't frame this as an ending. They frame it as a continuation. The life they have is the life they have. They tend it. They share it. The rest is in someone else's hands.