The Celestial Garden in the Clouds on Mount Ham Rong
by Anisoara Laura Mustetiu
I woke early to a faint, trembling sound in the air. It wasn’t a heavy rain, but a gentle one, like a caress. In July, in Vietnam, the season belongs to water, and the beauty of those places waits to be discovered beyond the thick curtain of fog.
Instinct and curiosity led us that day to the Celestial Garden in the Clouds, on Mount Ham Rong in Sapa. In fact, it was Joseph who found that magical place. We were both searching for somewhere interesting, but quieter. We wanted to drift away from the hustle of scooters and the voices of tourists—rising and falling like musical waves, speaking words infused with unique cultures and identities.
The entrance to the Garden in the Clouds appeared like a mirage—seductive, mysterious, with flickering shadows in the gray light. A narrow path wound upward, carved into stone, toward the heart of a forest scattered along the mountain. The steps of the trail were tall, paved with white, brown, and gray stones. They shimmered with moisture. A delicate light filtered expertly through the tree crowns and reflected on the steps. Joseph walked ahead, immersed in contemplation. Every so often I heard his protective voice: “Careful not to fall!” He was right—the steps were so slippery! Then silence fell… and I let him savor that well-deserved peace, while we carefully climbed the stairs that led us into an unknown realm.
I too surrendered — first my thoughts, then my whole being — to that silent green world that rebirths itself each day from shadow and moisture. On the larger stones and damp tree trunks, where rain had fallen more often and the light grew dim, a fine, emerald moss stretched like velvet. It looked like living skin. The air held an otherworldly calm, like a divine breeze rising with mist and scents of tree bark, wet leaves, and warm earth. It felt as if beneath the layer of greenery, gently breathing from the soil, were stories, moments, hidden emotions — fragments of life preserved in the mountain’s silence. I breathed deeply that unmistakable scent of damp earth and flowers. It tasted like a living essence, distilled from an untamed summer between rocks.
The trees rose with strange, slender trunks — some straight, their delicate branches lifted toward the sky; others bent under the weight of time, kneeling as if in prayer. Their bark was ashen, mottled with white spots, marked by the harshness of life. In places, fragile mushrooms sprouted from the moist wood, their caps tinged with rust. The branches twisted into shapes like letters from an unknown alphabet. They seemed part of a tale written by the mountain, waiting only for those willing to listen.
And in that very place, where I expected only flowers and leaves molded by moisture, I discovered so much life. Among the mist that gently embraced nature, the flowers whispered prayers in color — fiery rhododendrons, trumpet-shaped blooms in golden yellow, European cherries, blush-pink roses, and those rare, dreamy violet flowers. The fallen petals were like jewels hidden among the decaying leaves. The flowers asked for nothing, yet offered such splendor…
We stopped in a clearing. Joseph gazed curiously at everything around him. I didn’t know his thoughts, but surely they were beautiful. His face was lit by quiet wonder. The nearby distance was soaked in cloud mist — a liquid canvas of the heavens drawn upon the earth. I felt I had entered a world beyond this world. Here, summer doesn’t shout, it whispers. It doesn’t burn, it cools. It doesn’t stir, it settles. And perhaps most beautifully, it offers time — to feel, to observe, to be silent, and to gather yourself.
In the Celestial Garden of Clouds, I understood that magic is not meant to be understood… but simply lived. The mist began to give me a fairytale-like sensation. The path narrowed even more, trying to hide within the wilderness. It was inviting and seemed to whisper… Enter, but enter without judgment, with a pure and open heart. The trail led us to a place adorned with the golden glow of hundreds of sunflowers. They were guarded by slender, dark rocks sculpted into strange shapes by the wind. In places, they were covered with lichen — a symbiosis between fungus and algae — leaving irregular patterns in hues of greyish-white and green. I pressed my palm against a dark stone, about two meters high and pointed at the top. It was cold but comforting. It emanated quiet and strength. I lingered there for a few moments. And although it wasn’t long, it was enough to absorb unforgettable impressions and feelings.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget that gentle energy, the scent of rain, the muted colors, and that ancient spirit breathing through stone and soil. I was in a living sanctuary, a silent temple where places murmur stories, offer beauty to all who look… but the true treasures are for those who go deeper, slower, further. In those moments, I also discovered something within myself — a weakened fragment, longing for regeneration, for calm and harmony.
I stepped forward, beginning to notice the sound of wet stone beneath my soles. A thin green film — nearly invisible — covered the path: a layer of moss and algae, soft, cool, slippery, like a memory that refuses to leave. I stopped and knelt again to listen to the silence, to feel the breath from the earth, from the moist texture of the moss grown peacefully. In that instant, I realized those places were like a living being — breathing through water droplets, sunbeams, and gentle waves of air. There, the gaze of the sky falling on stones tells you: be patient, this is not a place to walk — but a place to feel.
Through the veil of mist, I discerned a long string of black rocks — massive, silent, with strange shapes, like creatures petrified in the heart of an ancient firestorm. Between them stretched elongated paths — extremely narrow, like cracks in the mountain’s heart. They were so tight that only a small, slender body could pass through. I felt they weren’t carved by time, but by the quiet steps of locals — mountain people with lithe bodies and eyes that know how to read the fog.
I touched one of the rocks again. It was cold too — but not inert. Its surface was porous, dotted with lichen and droplets of rain. It was basalt — a volcanic rock formed from the rapid cooling of lava. Possibly andesite, commonly found in the Hoàng Liên Sơn Mountains. These black, rugged stones are witnesses to a world of fire and ice, of geological beginnings that shaped Northern Vietnam millions of years ago.
The rocks stood like ancestral guardians. They couldn’t speak, yet I felt they had seen everything — the flowers that come and go, the clouds born and dissolved into nothing, the footsteps of seekers who wander and forget. I walked among them carefully, as though through a temple with no altar. And in that moment, I understood that beauty isn’t just in the flowers — but in the soil that sustains them, the air and water that nourish them, the light that surrounds them… in the paths that lead nowhere — but take you back to yourself.
Joseph had sat down on a stump, choosing instead to gaze at the horizon. He too was overcome by silence, harmony, and nature’s mystery. And I continued exploring that magical landscape with all my senses. As the path grew narrower, the stones seemed to draw closer together, leaving only a slender window of gray sky between them. I breathed slowly, consumed by curiosity. Advancing forward, I felt I was stepping through an invisible gate. Then, as if out of nowhere, the opening widened into a hidden place between rocks, covered in moss, with tiny white flowers growing directly out of the stone.
At the heart of that place was a grotto. Small, yet seemingly deep. Its entrance was concealed behind a veil of ivy. The rock before the grotto bore a face — eyes gazing into the valley, lips slightly parted as if frozen mid-whisper. From the creases of that face, thin threads of water trickled, shimmering in murky amber hues, carrying with them dense, earthy scents. I stood still… feeling time knot itself into silence. Next to that world-hidden grotto, guarded by basalt and mist, I felt the spirit of the place trying to reach me. Not in words — but in sensations, in questions, in memories that weren’t mine, yet felt near.
Maybe the sculpture was once a goddess. Maybe just a stone shaped by rain. But for me, in that moment, it was a mirror — not of stone, but of soul. Someone, long ago, had carved that face as a tribute to the mountain. I later learned the legend called her the Goddess of the Four Winds — protector of flowers, clouds, and hidden paths. It was said that only those who walk alone, silently and with a pure heart, can reach her.
I tried not to disturb the silence reigning there — a silence dense like cool velvet. I leaned against a volcanic rock. The gentle waves of mist surrounding it pulsed like an ancient heart. The grotto before me wasn’t just a natural shelter. It was, as the elderly H’mong said, “the ear of the petrified dragon.” For yes — in local mythology, Mount Ham Rong is the body of a dragon who, with a heart broken by longing, lay down among the clouds and turned to stone. His head rests high on the crest, and his body stretches into the valley. The mountain’s grottos are the places through which the dragon still listens to the thoughts of those who climb to his crown. A secret thought swept over me — a tremor that came from beyond the stone: The mountain is alive. Perhaps a flower, a mossy film, an undeciphered sculpture are ways in which nature speaks — waiting only for us to be silent enough to hear.
Nearby, I heard Joseph’s careful footsteps as he slowly approached me.“Pss…” he gestured, pointing a few meters ahead. I looked closely. First came a faint sound — a muffled cluck, then a rustling from a bush. Among the roots and rocks strutted a proud rooster with damp feathers. He was accompanied by a small, chestnut hen. Behind them, from the glossy grass, emerged a trail of yellow chicks. Tiny and fragile, they waddled with a gentle sway, trembling slightly in the cool air. There was something sacred in that image — delicate lives emerging in the heart of a place wrapped in silence and mist. Even on the cold summit, where humans leave no trace, nature offers wonders. It doesn’t need spectators. Only quiet. I smiled warmly, my heart aglow. I knew I would carry that image with me — and perhaps, one day, frame it in words.
We returned to the meadow, walking softly. It was raining again, but differently — more gently, more purely. In the distance, among rhododendron flowers and bamboo leaves, it felt as though a shadow was following me. Or perhaps the dragon simply smiled. We wandered onward, unhurried — led only by our footsteps and thoughts unspooling like mist off the mountain’s shoulders.
Beside the path, beneath a giant umbrella-shaped leaf, I met a woman. She sat on a tiny wooden stool. She was so small, like a child, dressed in traditional clothes — bright pink, yellow, and black, intricately embroidered. Her cheeks were round, her smile luminous, and her brown eyes full of life. Her hands were worn, yet her gaze remained impossibly gentle. I adored her instantly. I believe she was around eighty years old. When she saw me, she took my hand and pointed to the hand-crafted items laid neatly on a table. Then she said, “Ma…ma.” I tilted my head, puzzled, and she smiled again. A lump rose in my throat.
On the table were fabric wallets, vividly colored, stitched with geometric cotton threads that told stories of clouds, rice, wind, and dreams. Others shimmered faintly with golden thread in the misty light. She showed me a headband. She had made it — with patience, with thoughts woven into each stitch. I touched it tenderly, afraid I might unravel the tale sewn into the threads. When she placed the headband on my forehead, she said again:
“Ma…ma,” and I felt as though I had been adopted, even just for a moment, by the kindness of her soul. I don’t know if it was a name or simply a word whispered beneath the sky — but it etched itself into my heart. For me, that word is sacred. “Ma…ma,” she repeated. I interpreted it, in her language, to mean “handmade” or perhaps “made by me.” I bought the headband without hesitation, with deep respect.
I know for certain that when I return home and look into the mirror, that headband won’t be just a souvenir — it will be a reflection of a day that exists only within me. A day when I lost myself among the clouds of Sapa and found myself again in the smile of a woman I’ll never forget. The headband will be a memory worn on my temples — a thread connecting a patch of sky, a woman who said “Ma…ma,” and me, wandering among flowers in a damp summer place.
Rain trickled through thick bamboo leaves, and the mist descended even more densely over the stony path, wrapping everything in a soft, pearlescent vapor. In that place, the stones seemed rounder, the earth darker, the flowers fewer — but more vivid. I smiled, without fully understanding, as though the entire garden echoed with that magical word that stirred my heart and longing thoughts — longing for a soul I belonged to, and that watched over me from the heavens.
At the mountain’s peak — where nature breaks into bare stones and the sky folds downward in veils of steam — the mist was so thick, it felt like a living wall, breathing. I had lost all sense of time, which had dissolved along with the delicate water threads. The rain kept falling, light and steady, like cold silk from the clouds, as I slowly descended into the valley. The thought of hot tea at Le Gecko Café gave me fresh energy, but I had to move cautiously — the path had grown slick.
In a moment of distraction, my foot slipped on a wide stone covered in a fine layer of algae — glossy, almost translucent, like a sheer skin stretched over rock. The fall was sudden. My left knee struck the stone, but the pain faded quickly — a new memory, quietly added. I got up, soaked to the hips, trembling, awakened from the reverie in which I’d been floating. Joseph offered me his hand… “I told you to be careful!” he smiled softly. I gave him a childish look in reply. He was right. I wiped my hands on a broad leaf, and we continued on. Around us, the clouds had descended to eye level. The trees now looked like statues in mist, and the flowers along the path fluttered faintly. I reached out to a small branch and discovered an organic biofilm — almost invisible, but sticky to the touch; a combination of microorganisms thriving in moisture.
Then, suddenly, the paths widened. Nearby, veiled in vague chime-like sounds, Le Gecko Café peeked through the trees. Its windows were misted with a promise of warmth. We approached slowly, still muddy, but with a kind of joy that no fall could disturb. At the café’s doorway, a woman in a brown canvas apron welcomed us with a soft smile and an almost whispered question:
“Ginger tea or peach?” I smiled softly. “Anything… as long as it’s hot.”
We entered the café, lightly trembling, cheeks cold and hands wet, yet our souls still vibrating with everything we had lived on the mountain. The café greeted us with the scent of tea and dried flowers, mugs placed on small, round tables, each topped with embroidered cloths. We sat by the window facing the street — though the mist blurred all clarity, leaving only soft contours of flowers and damp rooftops in faded hues. A young woman brought me a large glazed clay mug, steam rising from the mildly spicy aroma of ginger. I cupped the mug with gratitude. The warmth reached my fingers, and for the first time since the rain, I felt truly rooted in that moment. I didn’t even want to move. I think I was spent. Joseph had ordered something light to eat. Outside, the mountain cradled its mysterious stories, and we, inside, sipped hot tea.
On the corner of the table lay the headband from the elderly woman with the angelic face. Its handwoven threads seemed even more vibrant now. It will remind me of a woman who, on a rainy Vietnamese summer day, helped me understand that beauty isn’t something you collect — it’s something you live. Outside, the rain had thinned. A silent ray of light touched the rim of my cup… and I felt the events of the past few hours hadn’t drifted away — they had quietly settled within me. Like a dream that doesn’t end, but gently nestles in the depths of the heart.
The Celestial Garden in the Clouds gifted us a tale of mist, flowers, wet stones, and small people with great souls. I fell, I smiled, I heard the sacred word “Mama,” and I left with a ribbon embroidered not just with thread, but with memories. I covered my teacup with both hands and gazed silently through the misted window. Beyond it, the landscape breathed through dream and reality. In those moments, I thought — maybe the mountain had simply loaned me a few hours from its heart. And I gave them back with this story of gratitude. I kept its memory, laying it gently onto soft pages of mist and light.
Translated from Romanian language. The story was published in the International Cultural Magazine Emotions and Light.
