Flying through the Clouds
Zhangjiajie at dawn looks like a place the gods forgot to finish - stone pillars punching through cloud, a forest frozen in the mist, something surreal.
This is my favourite moment, entering in the early morning as the entrance gate first opens, long strides on wet steps, and the air fresh and quiet. Then, from a desolate perch away from the incoming crowds, I can unfold the small grey machine.
Not a toy; a tool. The advantage is simple: perspective.
My drone pulls you out of your human height and shows you the world from above - how ridgelines rise, how trails carve the mountain, how rivers fight with rock. It makes scale honest.
But there’s an unspoken code, and too many people pretend they don’t know it. Don’t fly over crowds. Don’t buzz a temple like it’s Oshkosh. Don’t broadcast your presence to people who came here for silence. And don’t do the drone selfie - the hovering buzzing vanity mirror. It never looks good, the lens angle is too wide, it just tells everyone you think the place is a selfish backdrop for you, and only you.
Drones have a bad name because they’re like illegal squatters for the ego - loud, lazy, and in places they don’t belong. They got cheaper; the manners didn’t improve. More bans. More signs. More side-eye for anyone who shows up with a controller. The few spoil it for the rest of us, as usual.
Still, magic remains for the stubborn and the careful. You set an early alarm. You find the right quiet spot away from others. You check the rules, the wind, the battery. Then you lift off and let the drone slip into the mist. You don’t chase birds. You don’t peek into windows. You keep your distance and your dignity.
Land before the buses arrive. Pack up without ceremony. Leave nothing but boot prints and a memory card full of fog and stone. If you do it right, no one knows you were there - only the place, finally seen the way it deserves.
