Snow sealed the mountain — the ranger scattered 300 jin of grain for the birds

The ranger, Lao Cui, started feeding the mountain birds because of one snowstorm.

That winter, the worst snow in thirty years sealed the mountain. When it stopped, he went out on patrol and found the first frozen bird among the snow-loaded pine branches — a great tit, curled up on a limb, already stiff. Farther on he saw more of them scratching in the snow for food, scratching and shivering and finding nothing.

Thirty years of patrol had shown him forest fires and illegal logging, and he always knew what to do. A mountain of hungry birds left him helpless for the first time. On the walk back to the station he made up his mind: "People get relief when they freeze. When birds freeze, I'm the relief."

He carried a sack of grain up the mountain and scattered handfuls at intervals along the trails the birds use. Then he squatted at a distance to watch. First two tits, testing. Then a group. Then flocks dropping in from every direction. He squatted there in the snow for two hours with frost on his eyebrows and his beard, warm and sore at the same time.

From that day on, all winter, he scattered three hundred jin of grain across the mountain. The station budget didn't cover it. He bought the grain with his own money. People laughed at him: "Birds are wild. Starving is their nature. Can you feed all of them?" His answer is written in the station log: "A snow that comes once in thirty years is extreme weather, not nature. When a tree catches fire I put it out. When birds go hungry I deal with that too. They're residents of this mountain, same as me."

Feeding wildlife is a contested science, but a handful of grain in extreme weather isn't interfering with nature. It's sending coal in the snow.

Lao Cui was careful about method. He scattered grain only in the extreme stretch when snow sealed the mountain and the birds couldn't feed. He kept the scatter points fixed so the birds would learn a route and not disperse too widely hunting for food. Along with grain he hung blocks of pork fat in sheltered spots — high calorie, for reviving small birds that were already freezing. The station later made extreme-weather feeding an official program, with a line in the budget.

When the snow melted, he found the return. In his district, insect damage in the forest was noticeably lighter than in previous years. The birds that survived the winter made a bigger pest-control army in spring. A technician from the forestry office called it a textbook case: "Feeding saved the birds, the birds saved the forest, the forest protects the mountain. Lao Cui scattered grain and what grew was the health of a whole forest."

Extreme-weather feeding is now part of the station's standing emergency plan. The grain is on the procurement list. The young rangers take turns. On the day Lao Cui retired, the station kept the old grain sack he had carried for thirty years and hung it in the most visible place, with a plaque beneath it:

The residents of this mountain. Not one can be missing.

He hasn't been idle since. He drew a map of thirty years of feeding points and gave it back to the station: which gullies hold the most birds, which sheltered spots are right for scattering, which corners the birds come to first. Every point on it has a year. He says the map is worth more than all the money he ever saved. "Money runs out. This map protects the mountain's winters."