Walking in the jungle is like entering a quiet and beautiful place, quiet and quiet, but with a little mystery. It is an experience and a journey to wash the soul for the people in the same trade to set foot on this red pilgrimage place with their heads down and silence. I'm going to slow down and relax, and go on a date with red memory, which may disturb the peace.
On Daba Mountain, every tree is a standing soul and has an immortal legend. Perhaps under an old tree, there are still the footprints of Red Army soldiers. Maybe there was a fierce battle in some forest. Maolin's houses with blue tiles and white walls in northern Sichuan are most likely old Red Army iron works, wood works, bamboo rope factories, clothing factories, salt factories, shipyards and so on.
Not long after walking along the steps, we arrived at the Red Army Martyrs Cemetery in the Sichuan-Shaanxi Revolutionary Base. More than 25,000 heroes turned themselves into red seeds and rooted in this hot land forever. On the high and long memorial wall of heroes and heroes, 7,823 hard and clanking names are engraved, and more people even left no names. Walking around the sacred white tombstone, row after row, bright white and shining red stars, I was shocked to tears.
Among them, some couples joined the army together, and some fathers and sons went to the battlefield together, but both died. I also heard that an 80-year-old man, accompanied by his family, came to the martyrs cemetery after many inquiries and many landscapes. He knelt trembling in front of the tombstone, stroking his dream with his hand, and shouted the name "Dad" for the first time in his life ... A group of descendants of the Red Army and war witnesses came here in a simple way. They planted a tree beside the towering Bashan cemetery.
There are always people standing under the tree, listening to the tree's breath over and over again, stroking its bones and muscles, thinking, crying or feeling sad. On the other hand, trees don't care. It just spreads its branches and leaves, and the branches reach high into the sky. That Xiuba's posture is as upright and resolute as that of a soldier in those days.
Without trees, people can't live. Some trees in Daba Mountain have stood for a hundred years, which is a witness to the history of the Red Army. Locals call them "Red Army Pine", "General Tree" and "Fairy Tree". In the ancient town of Maoyu, I saw a locust tree, which used to be a horse-tied tree for the generals of the Red Fourth Army. In the midsummer of 1970s, the trunk withered and died when struck by lightning. However, the split bark, with nearly half a century of pride, propped up the thick green shade.
Trees like to tell their troubles to the wind and clouds. The Red Army's night crossing, the Battle of Kongshanba and the surprise attack on Pingliang City are all touching stories that have been sung in Bashu for a long time.
If you don't believe in winged winds and erratic clouds, then you might as well pay attention to wait and see. The looming slogan of the Red Army stone carving in the Woods is an epic stone carving. "Red the whole Sichuan", "Divide the land equally", "The axe splits the new world, and the sickle cuts the old Gankun" ... Those blood-stained stone carvings, those shouting stones, like the horn of the charge, like the sword of the floodlight, shocked the leaves and scared the enemy.
On the Nankan Mountain in the suburbs, I met a strange man who could make the stone "blossom". He was the founder of the forest of steles for generals in Sichuan-Shaanxi Soviet Area, and visited Zhang at the age of 70. A person, who has traveled millions of kilometers for more than 20 years, has only done one thing-carved more than 4,000 monuments for the soldiers of the Red Fourth Army, making the hero's name a flower in full bloom on the stone.
I was misunderstood and laughed at, but I never wanted to give up. How broad a heart must be to be so calm, firm, persistent and unrepentant. When he left, someone said, Zhang Lao, I wish you good luck and a long life. He replied with a smile, then I will be the patron saint of the forest of steles!
The mountains in Bazhong are born by water, so there are large and small hydropower stations and substations scattered like pearls. I have met many people in the power grid. They are the people who pull the silver wire, the people who light the lamp, and the Prometheus of the present age.
It is such a group of people who are willing to bear hardships and stand hard work and send the beautiful "fire tree silver flowers" to the world. I asked a worker who had just come down from the transmission tower, "Why do you stay when the conditions are so bad?" He looked up, gave me a surprised look and said slowly, "This is the old revolutionary base area. So many people died that year, someone has to do something! "
Winter and summer here are like ice and fire. For the construction and maintenance of the power grid, it is common for people to wade through mountains and rivers, get caught in the rain and walk in the snow, and repair it day and night in case of freezing rain and snow. Therefore, when you meet them, you will feel that men have the calmness honed by years, and women have the elegance precipitated by time.
Wherever the silver line extends, it is inseparable from the figure of party member Electric Power Service Team. They use small acts of kindness to gather great love, knock on the dark door and convey warmth and light. A person's nobility has nothing to do with status, but only depends on the height of the soul, which is the extravagance revealed in his bones. Let love beget love, and the world will become better and better.
A member of the party member Service told me one thing. As soon as they received the call for repair, they rushed to the mountain area overnight and went to the villagers' homes to repair the circuit. After the power was turned on, an unforgettable scene happened: an old Red Army man who had been ill in bed for many years, with the help of his wife, sat up from the bed, leaned sideways, raised his hand and gave them a military salute.
In the vast Bashan Mountain, walking through the mighty pine forest, I slow down from time to time and listen quietly, as if they were notes in the vast pine forest. I bent down to pick up a pine cone and wanted to take it back to my little daughter to tell her about the red history and the story on Daba Mountain. May tough seeds sprout in her heart, grow into lush trees and shine with the light of life in sunny poems.