Editor’s note: Liang is a 30-year-old construction worker and amateur meteorologist from Mianyang, in China’s southwestern Sichuan province, who has gained more than 170,000 followers online for his accuracy in forecasting sunglows, the warm-colored radiance that can appear in the sky around sunset and sunrise. Here, Liang — who uses a pseudonym online to protect his true identity for personal reasons — shares how he became a guru for photographers and sunchasers.

I first became interested in weather because of my job. Three years ago, we were building a road in Sichuan’s Liangshan Yi Autonomous Prefecture, and the rainy season hit us hard. When the downpours came, all work had to stop. I just desperately wanted to know when the rain would end.

We were in such a remote area that there were no official weather forecasts. Back then, I had no idea that weather apps could predict the exact moment the rain would stop. I searched online and found a blogger who specialized in forecasting the weather conditions in Sichuan. He told me it would clear up the next day — and it did. I was amazed that someone could understand weather patterns so well.

I started communicating more with that blogger to learn about meteorology, about cold fronts and warm fronts, and I would study maps to locate them. I bought lots of books and would read them in bed after dinner.

In the construction industry, you read books to get certifications — more certificates mean better pay. But I’d fall asleep after a few minutes reading those manuals. With meteorology books, I could stay up all night, completely engrossed.

One afternoon, I noticed something peculiar on a satellite cloud map: across thousands of miles, there was only a single patch of cloud above us. My gut told me this would bring unusual weather, so I suggested that my colleagues watch for something special that evening. We were surveying a mountain road when the sun dipped below the horizon and the western sky blushed a deep red. I had no poetic words for it, but somehow that simple sight melted away the day’s weariness. That was the first time I ever truly noticed a sunset glow.

The principle behind a sunset glow is simple: after the sun dips below the horizon, its light refracts onto the clouds above, illuminating them. The same principle applies to the morning glow before sunrise.

After that day on the mountain road, I began sharing information about these phenomena in online photography groups, but I received little attention. Sunglows are hard to observe in the Sichuan Basin, as the terrain blocks light transmission, and trapped smog and haze reduce visibility. Eventually, the blogger suggested I broaden my scope and start forecasting for the entire country.

In July 2023, I posted for the first time on where sunset glows might appear nationwide. It received hundreds of likes on the lifestyle app Xiaohongshu, or RedNote, with people sharing their photos in the comments. I was thrilled to discover so many others shared my passion. I later learned that photographers would travel across provinces to capture these fleeting moments of beauty.

Forecasting these glows hinges on two main factors: the presence of clouds, especially mid- and high-level ones, and air clarity. The lower the aerosol level, the more brilliant the colors.

There are many weather apps that forecast sunglows, but I have my own program, which I made after teaching myself the programming language Python. I’ve written 1,000 lines of code and started incorporating artificial intelligence, feeding in data to refine my prediction model.

While the basic principles are in textbooks, fine-tuning a model requires real-world feedback. For example, I first set Beijing’s cloud cover threshold at 100% for a spectacular sunset to occur. But based on feedback from my followers, I lowered it to 60% and adjusted other parameters, which improved the model’s accuracy.

Weather forecasts can never be 100% accurate, as conditions are constantly changing. Recently, the model predicted a rare sunglow in central Sichuan, so I woke at 4 a.m. and rode my electric bike to a nearby bridge. I waited through the “blue hour” just before sunrise, but after 10 minutes, there was nothing. The clouds were too low for light to break through.

I think people follow me online because my predictions are relatively accurate, I post frequently — three to four times a day — and I try my best to answer every question in the comments. Even when I get it wrong, people make no judgments, as I do it all for free.

This is purely a passion project. A follower once sent me some snacks, but other than that, there’s been no material reward. I pour hours into this account every day and even spend my own money to gather data. But knowing that so many people rely on my forecasts drives me forward. When I nail a prediction and see the stunning photos my followers share, it’s all worth it.

Quick getaway

I used to feel like a frog at the bottom of a well. From dawn until dusk, my world revolved around the construction site, surrounded by nothing but steel bars and concrete. Each project dragged on for at least three years, and the days bled together. After work, most of my coworkers would hole up in their dorms playing video games. That was life.

I didn’t leave Sichuan until I was 25, when a group of us traveled to Wuhan, capital of the central Hubei province, to capture that perfect shot of the full moon crowning the Yellow Crane Tower.

At the time, I was working on a site in Xichang, part of Liangshan. I dragged myself out of bed at 3 a.m., and a coworker drove me to the airport. It was my first time on a plane.

I was supposed to be leading the group, but I didn’t even bring a camera. My role was to find the ideal vantage point, which is my specialty. I’d often use software to help predict shooting locations. If you can frame it right in advance and the weather plays along, you’re guaranteed a great shot.

Seeing so many professional cameras and lenses up close was awe-inspiring, but before I knew it, I was rushing back to catch my flight home. I had work the next day. Looking back, hearing people call me “master” filled me with pride.

The past two years as a weather blogger have expanded my world, bringing new friendships and opportunities to “escape my well.” Last year, a group of friends and I drove out to western Sichuan to photograph a comet. What struck me most was our return journey past Mount Siguniang. The night was brilliant — stars carpeted the sky, and moonlight bathed the highest peak in an ethereal glow. We pulled over and just stood there in silence, no one wanting the moment to end. But it had to. I had work the next day, so they dropped me at the high-speed railway station to catch the first train back.

That’s the unforgiving reality of working in construction: the work never stops. There’s always another survey point to mark. The sun and wind leave everyone tanned. Our total annual vacation time barely exceeds a month. We have a bitter joke: “Girls, whatever you do, never date a guy from a construction site.”

Personal time is a rare luxury. When I do get a break, I go home to my wife and daughter. As a Sichuan man, I naturally take on my share of the chores, with the occasional cherished trip out with my little girl.

I bought a camera five years ago when my daughter was born. Like most parents, I wanted to document her growth, but since I’m stuck at the construction site year-round, I’ve had few opportunities to practice photography, and my skills are mediocre at best.

A photography outing with my family is even rarer. In August last year, I went with a group of friends to watch a meteor shower. When I got home, I took my wife to a nearby mountain so that she could capture the sight, too. She has little interest in photography, so we just lay on mats staring at the sky, though later she admitted she found it a little boring.

The truth is, my initial attraction to photography stemmed from a romantic idea: I hoped that for our 10th wedding anniversary, I could take a truly special set of photos for us against a backdrop of Meili Snow Mountain (in the southwestern Yunnan province) bathed in the first light of sunrise. I’ve never told her this, because I want it to be a surprise.

Family footsteps

I’ve always been an introvert, often struggling to string together even a single sentence.

I grew up in the countryside of Mianyang with my grandparents, while my parents worked elsewhere. My grandparents didn’t get along with the other villagers and wouldn’t let us play with the neighborhood kids. My sister would sneak off anyway, but I spent my days sitting on a rock by the door, either napping or playing with our three cats.

My academic performance was mediocre. After middle school, when my parents had finally settled in Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan, they brought me to live with them. Though my grades were good enough for me to go to high school, I followed their advice to study at a vocational school, and ended up in construction. I started with odd jobs, then slowly learned engineering design, and finally moved into surveying.

With all my relatives working in construction, it seemed inevitable I’d follow the same path. My sister, despite her excellent grades and admission to a good high school, also ended up studying at a technical college. She now works in construction cost estimation. In my family, it always seemed safer to follow a well-worn path than to venture into the unknown.

To this day, my family remains unaware of my weather forecasting. I’ve carefully hidden all weather-related content from them on social media, fearing their dismissal and lack of understanding. They’d probably see it as pointless.

In their eyes, the only way forward is acquiring more professional certifications. But my true passion comes alive after hours, when I lie in bed studying weather patterns and Python.

Sometimes, when my mom or wife is preparing to pick up my daughter from school, I’ll remind them to take an umbrella and tell them exactly when it’s going to rain. If they ask how I know, I just say that I saw it online, and they accept it as truth.

Last year, chasing the sunrise over the Chengdu weather tower, I slipped away from the construction site and back into the city. My bed that night was a park bench under the open sky.

There’s an old saying: “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” For me, after love and marriage, nothing stirs my heart more than studying the afterglow of sunset.

Making weather predictions can be disheartening, though. Sometimes the sunglow I’m hoping for never appears, and the disappointment cuts deep. But knowing I might help others capture beautiful moments makes it worthwhile.

I haven’t thought much about the future — most likely I’ll spend my whole career on construction sites, the only place where my skills can be put to use. As for chasing sunsets all over the country, that will probably have to wait until after I retire. When my daughter is a little older, I want to take her to see Beijing and Shanghai.

But for me, concrete jungles won’t touch my heart. What captivates me are snow-capped mountains, especially when they’re cloaked in golden light — those moments feel magical. Seeing such a glorious display after my own prediction carries an extra sense of achievement.

Reported by Zhou Hang.

A version of this article originally appeared in White Night Workshop. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.

Translator: Chen Yue; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.

(Header image: Courtesy of Liang)