“Tea’s not something you just sell," Lin Guodong says, wiping sweat with a worn sleeve. “It’s breathing. It’s the mountain itself in a cup." His belief is simple but hard as the rocks on his land: purity is everything. That means no chemicals, no shortcuts, no messing with nature’s way. His stubborn dedication is why his small tea plots are tucked away up here. “Down below? Too much dust, too much rush," he grunts. “Tea needs quiet earth, clean rain, and sky you can taste."

Getting this purity takes sweat and worry. One heavy rain at the wrong time can ruin weeks of work. His drying sheds are simple wood and bamboo, smelling sweetly of leaves. It’s slow, patient work, watching the leaves, feeling the air, trusting the seasons.

“People ask why I bother hiding up here," Lin muses, sipping his pale golden tea. “This sip is clean, clear, like mountain spring water? That’s why. Real white tea doesn’t lie. It shows the care… or the carelessness. My tea," he says, a quiet pride in his eyes, “it shows this land, and it shows me." Every sip is a taste of his mountain solitude and his unwavering fight to keep things pure.