The Real Misty Mountains

 

My lips expel a deep breath, and the white mist that follows weaves an ethereal pattern around my face.  It then dissolves into the mist that floats heavily around the quiet mountain side.  I stand at the bottom of the stairs, peering up at the endless procession of stone that marches up into the fog.  The "Soldier's Path" is the toughest way to get up to the legendary Mt. Huashan, and here I find myself standing at its base.

Gloved hand on the railing, I take my first step.  Then I take another step.  And another.  Little do I know that these steps are only the first of thousands to follow.  3999 in fact, and that's just to the North and lowest peak of the mountain.  I press on, winding further up into the milky vapor that seems determined to envelope all those who are braving the climb.

Silhouettes occasionally appear, belonging to others who are attempting the infinite climb.  The blood runs warm through my veins  and I find myself shedding layers.  In spite of the bite in the air, I begin to enjoy the climb and the mystery-movie feel of my surroundings.  But never one to remain complacent, the mistress of the mountain has other ideas.  Icy tentacles have begun to grow over the edges of the stairs, and as I press on, the thin wands become snarls of pure treachery   Concrete is no longer a luxury that I will have, and will instead have to satisfy myself with (literally) walking on thin ice.

Undaunted, I conquer several  hundred more stairs, snapping photos along the way.  Perhaps at this point Mother Mountain realizes that there is no way for her to send me scuttling back down the mountain on my not-so-merry way, and decides to play nice.  Craning my neck sky-wards, I can see the yellowish hue of a nearby mountain, and it's bathed in golden sunlight.  I look back at Jordan, grinning manically.  I hear several joyous exclamations behind him, for other climbers are quickly glimpsing the same sight.


Urged on by this glorious discovery we surge forward, feeling renewed and ever-more determined to reach the first of many summits.  Red cloth ribbons are becoming a more frequent sight as we ascend.  Tied around the chains and railings that line the stairs, their tails undulate in the wind.  Intermingled with these dancing ribbons are golden locks, and in the brilliant sunlight one can see the engravings of Mandarin characters.  In Chinese culture, red is a colour that represents good luck, and each lock on the mountain represents a wish for a loved one's protection and longevity.  Ascending further, it soon becomes clear that the wishes for good luck and protection are endless, as the ribbons and locks continue to grow in amplifying numbers.

The north summit is soon under our feet, and we gaze south towards where we will soon trek.  Mt. Huashan, often compared to a lotus flower by the Chinese, seems to float in the clouds.  From where we stand, it stretches into a gentle dipping bend and then reaches even higher into the heavens.  One can just barely glimpse the Blue Dragon Ridge, a narrow staircase that ebbs atop a ridge, where a fall over either edge would result in a most definitive end.

 

We soon find ourselves winding our way towards the Eastern Peak, where we'll hopefully spend the night in a comfortable guest house.  This particular peak is renown for it's spectacular sunsets, and we have every intention of being there for the next morning's dawn.

Weary from thousands of stairs, we spot a promising building, boasting the name of "The DongFeng Hotel."  It turns out to indeed be accurate when placing the word "hotel" in quotation marks.  After much gesturing and pointing, the man behind the glass check-in counter shows us to a 10 bed dorm room that will set us back about $40 for the night.    To say the room is a disappointment would be a gross understatement.  The floors are littered with bunched-up pieces of garbage and paper, and the "beds" are nothing more than a sheet thrown over the wooden bed frame.

At this point, we decide that we'll spring for a private room, as we've wanted to venture to Mt. Huashan for years, and it will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.  We soon find out that the private rooms are $60... PER PERSON.  We try to explain that even in offering us a discount on this astronomical price, the hotel will still make more than our original payment of $40 for the dorm room.

We are met with naught but a vacant stare. 

A small Chinese girls leads us down to what we are told is a "private first class room."  She fights with the door, slamming her tiny shoulder into the already worn wood, until the door finally gives and opens inwards. 

Immediately, like a sniper to its target, my eyes are drawn to the vast amount of loose dirt that occupies the floor. Except unlike a trained assassin  I don't need a scope with 40x magnification on it to spot the object of my fascination.  Before I can stop myself, the words find themselves pushing at the back of my lips.  They finally spew forth, like lava erupting from an angry mound of rock and stone. 

"Holy s**t!  Is that DIRT on the floor?!?!"  As expected, I receive the usual blank stare in return - a typical result of the language barrier.  However, I'm inclined to think that she does understand the direction of my surprise, as her gaze flits to the floor, in spite of the "couldn't care less" expression that she soon dons. 

Jordan charades a sweeping broom motion, and our host almost rolls her eyes, pushing past us to fetch one.  Upon returning, she half-heartedly sweeps out a few wisps of the dirt mound, and then leaves as quickly as she reappeared, slamming the door behind her.  Only, the door doesn't stay shut.  In fact, it doesn't even seal.  Sitting on the hard beds, we shiver as the wind blows in through the gaping hole beside the door.  It's difficult to look beyond the cobwebs that seem to cover every unoccupied plot of plaster on the walls, and the fresh stains that linger with grotesque clarity on the once-white sheets. 

This is not happening.

Jordan painstakingly looks up the mandarin characters to a phrase, and we present the male host with an iPhone that roughly reads,

"Very sorry.  Room is cold and very dirty.  We would like refund.  Much appreciated."

The man won't even look at us as he counts out the bills, and walks away before we can even express our thanks.  We are immensely grateful that we were able to re-secure our funds, and start the walk back to another guesthouse we had stumbled upon earlier.



                                               *                                *                                   *

We don't detangle ourselves from the sheets early enough to catch the sunrise, but none-the-less, it's a beautiful sunny morning.  A cold bite still lingers in the air, and the wind has yet to cease it's constant quest for recognition.  Excited for the day's adventures, we retrace our footsteps up to the eastern peak.  There we meet a hearty mountain local in feline form.  Meowing hopefully, she follows us around, purring while she rubs up against our hiking pants.  Her eyes closed, she blissfully leans her head into our palms, eager for attention, but even more eager for the prospect of tasty morsels. 

We relent, and setting down our packs, she immediately realizes that she's suckered us in.  More weak tourists have fallen prey to her "angelic" facade.





Finally, the time has come.  After years of image searching and wishful thinking, we are actually going to experience it.

The legendary cliff walk of Mt. Huashan awaits us.  

After a mimed safety "demonstration" from the supervising employee, we find ourselves tugging excitedly at our harnesses.  Seconds later, our "safety guide" has disappeared back to his chair in the sunlight, and we find ourselves alone, staring down at what can only be described as a building attempt at a ladder.  Steel scaffolding has been stuck into the granite cliff walls, and zigzags haphazardly through a vertical crevice   Far below we can see a small ledge, less than a foot wide, which will lead us onward throughout this daring walk.

Sucking in a breath, our lungs full of misty mountain air, we begin the descent.  The first few steps are shaky, and we cling furiously to the cable wires that run along the step holds.  Tensions soon ease however, and I find myself  hanging in precarious perches off of the steel rails, vying for the best camera angle.

Shuffling along the rock ridge, we soon glimpse the sight that has occupied my thoughts for the last several years.  Two ragged looking boards jut out from the face of the mountain.  Twisted and bent nails seem to be the only means of its support, and for a moment I wonder how these planks are able to support a squirrel, let alone a human being.  We find ourselves squealing with delight, and almost dash forward.  Unfortunately, our harnesses deter us from doing any real sort of dashing, and we have to be satisfied with the slow clipping and un-clipping process.

Standing out on the planks, I feel unbelievable blessed.  Not only are we completely alone on the southern peak, but the sun is beaming brilliantly onto our upturned faces, and the yellowed granite wall shelters us from the wind that batters the eastern peak.  We are giddy with delight, giggling as we kick our feet out over the open air, marveling at the sheer drop onto solid rock far below us.

It's impossible to describe the feeling one gets when placed in a situation such as this one.  To close your eyes and breathe the air, it feels as if the entire mysterious essence of the mountain is absorbed into your very being.  Gazing out towards the endless sea of undulating peaks, you feel as if you could prance from summit to summit with one graceful leap.  Such is the height of your appreciation and joy.

My eyes are unable to rest for more than a moment on each wonder that it presented for me.  Finally, I concede defeat, and let them drift closed for one restful moment.  One thought circulates through my mind.

This is what I live for.