Not all stories of the Tea Horse Road were ones of grand expanses, snow caps, or buzzing tea sessions. A friend from the Yi minority invited me to visit his grandmother who had tales of her own to tell. She had lost two members of her family decades ago upon the route in separate incidents. One went missing and one died in a accident. In her nineties and not certain of her own exact age, she hosted us for three days, serving teas, running around to ensure we were comfortable and fed. She largely subsisted on a diet of raw chicken eggs mixed with sugar and a splash of local alcohol. It was only close to our departure that we were told that she was all but blind and that her movements were almost entirely by memory. She herself remains in the memory.
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