Chinese Road Trip, Part 5
Nine Dragons Lake. photo by author
By way of introduction to this segment, I will say that the expat lifestyle certainly has no monopoly on spontaneous events or surprises. However, when you shuffle off to a new time zone and become an expat, you inherently expose yourself to new environments, new cultures, new colleagues, and new situations. Call them “learning experiences” if that sounds more comfortable.
If we are lucky, we can create an expat lifestyle with a loose schedule of few commitments and minimal regularly scheduled activities. Some days, you can wake up in the morning and ask yourself what you would truly like to do that day… then go do it. And other days, you wake up and wonder what the day will bring. In essence, that freedom is the expat dream. It is not about unlimited wealth or power, just the freedom to choose our activities.
Chinese Road Trip, Part 5
Shortly after leaving the village and crossing the stream via a low-water bridge, we had reached the lower slopes of the mountain. Here, the real ascent began. As we climbed the mountain, we were zigzagging sideways along the slopes rather than taking a direct, more vertical approach. This made our route easier and less strenuous.
The previous day, before starting up Song Shan, I had picked up a walking stick which had been employed by some anonymous stranger then abandoned at the bottom of the mountain. Upon spotting this walking stick before beginning our own Song Shan climb, I had immediately appropriated it. It was merely a five-foot long staff, a slender tree which had been hacked down and stripped of branches. This walking stick had been comforting the previous afternoon as I climbed then descended Song Shan, although I knew that it was largely ornamental on the concrete steps. I think that I had carried it up and down the mountain largely because I liked the image and the feel of holding a walking stick. Today, however, it was quite useful and I was glad that I had kept it overnight.
Now, as we walked, the angle of the slope quickly increased. Moreover, this was no easy venture like yesterday’s simple walk up innumerable flights of concrete steps. Now, as we ascended, there were no concrete steps, no guard rails, and, in truth, no clearly defined route. We were on rudimentary dirt paths, meandering their way up the side of a mountain.
Gradually, I noticed a shift in my mood. Up the rocky slopes and down through small, shallow gullies, often winding through groves of slender trees, our path was now taking us through a beautiful, silent, remote area filled with periodic long vistas that relaxed the eye and soothed the spirit. Soon enough, my apprehension and frustration was transformed by these surroundings. I stopped worrying about bus schedules and the innumerable unexpected delays. I even forgot about the digital watch strapped to my wrist. Here on this mountainside, the pace of life was slow and the unfolding view was of a Chinese Brigadoon, a magical place that time had left largely untouched. Moreover, I was changed as well. For right now, it seemed that seeing Nine Dragons Lake with our fine new friends was the most important activity we could undertake… and there was no need to think further ahead.
While we climbed, Jimmy translated the story of Nine Dragons Lake for me. According to the Nine Dragons legend, in ancient times, a young woman who lived on this very mountain found herself in trouble… unmarried and pregnant. Indeed, it seems that her problems went much, much deeper than that. Her unborn babies - all nine of them - were dragons. The story goes on to say that, as each of the unwanted baby dragons were born, she flung them from the mountaintop. Subsequently, the spot where each baby dragon landed on the mountainside below became one of nine connected pools, hence the name Nine Dragons Lake.
This tale was related to me as we continued our way slowly up the mountainside. Unlike yesterday’s safe if arduous trip up Song Shan’s hundreds of concrete steps, this climb actually involved a few dangerous points. There were times when the path narrowed to only a couple of feet wide as it edged along the face of a cliff. Likewise, a misstep while crossing some of the more rocky sections where the narrow path crept around, between, and sometimes over large boulders could easily have resulted in an injury. Most of the time, however, the route was innocent enough, simply weaving around rocks and trees and hillside rivulets as it climbed and climbed, ever upward.
As we had begun our actual ascent of the mountain, our group of admirers had, one by one, left us to resume their daily routines below. Soon, we were reduced once again to our original group of four, plus father and two local guides from the village. That whole day, we saw only about a dozen people on the mountain itself, including several who actually lived in a tiny house about half-way up the mountain. Life for them must have been wonderfully quiet and unchanging. This was a most dramatic contrast with the crowded, bustling, noisy cities I had seen.
Looking off into the distance, it certainly felt timeless. On a hot, still August afternoon, this Henan mountainside was a peaceful, ageless place, as magical as the legendary Scottish Brigadoon, and as far removed from the outside world. I had stumbled onto a Chinese Brigadoon.
In a strange way, I was also reminded of how Robert Louis Stevenson had written about living on a mountain while vacationing in America in the summer of 1880. He was visiting a remote part of what was later to become California’s wine country. Certainly, Henan province in central China was far from California, but his description was eerily similar to what I was seeing that day on my Chinese mountain:
Some way down the valley… we turned sharply to the south and plunged into the thick of the wood. A rude trail rapidly mounting; a little stream tinkling by on the one hand, big enough perhaps after the rains, but already yielding up its life; overhead and on all sides a bower of green and tangled thicket, … through all this, we struggled toughly upwards, canted to and fro by the roughness of the trail, and continually switched across the face by sprays of leaf or blossom.
… No more had been cleared than was necessary for cultivation; close around each oasis ran the tangled wood; the glen enfolds them; there they lie basking in sun and silence, concealed from all but the clouds and the mountain birds.
Despite the vast differences in time and place, his words also described this silent Chinese mountain before me. My mountainside was also so lonely and deserted that it was indeed “basking in sun and silence, concealed from all but the clouds and the mountain birds”.
Finally, we approached the summit. Looking down from a promontory near the mountain top, I now saw how the nine pools were linked by a rushing stream. Formed by the descending watercourse, some were quite small and some were larger but there were nine distinct pools. Perhaps it was due to the recent rains but the thoroughfares connected them were running full and swift. Alongside the white water, the trees were lush and green. Waterfalls of different heights separated each pool from its neighbors above and below.
After a short rest, we began our descent. Each twist of the meandering, rocky path, each corner where the narrow trail made its way around a cliff face or rocky projection, and each promontory presented new panoramas.
But each such point was also an obstacle that had to be negotiated carefully. My legs were still tired from yesterday’s unaccustomed exertions. Soon, I had a nasty slip while going along a particularly steep and muddy slope. Only a fortuitously placed tree growing from the side of the hill saved me. As I slid by the sapling, I grabbed it and stopped my forward momentum towards the edge of a steep and rocky cliff. I quickly recovered and continued my descent unfazed but I noticed that Jimmy appeared to be having a heart attack. Perhaps he was thinking of how he, a freshman student, would explain to university officials how one of their rare foreign teachers had been injured on a trip that he, Jimmy, had organized. From that point onward, Jimmy was especially solicitous and never left my side except to go ahead of me down a tricky section then turn to offer a supporting hand. I think he would have carried me on his back if I had allowed it.
A little more cautiously, we continued our way down the mountain.
We went down the mountain by another route than the one we had used for the ascent. Thus, turning a corner of the path, we discovered a beautiful little glen hidden at the base of a high waterfall cascading down into one of the lovely pools forming Nine Dragons Lake. Here, we decided to take a short break to rest and cool off. At the lower end of the pool, Jennifer and Suzy took off their athletic shoes and socks and were soon wading in the gin-clear, shallow water. Below them, the rapidly flowing water continued downstream over small riffles.
At the base of the waterfall, there were mossy, mist-covered boulders and a pebbly beach. Surrounded by the high cliffs which channeled this nameless stream, we found the mist trapped at the bottom of the falls acted as a natural air conditioner. Here also, we were partially shaded from the sun by the trees growing from the overhanging cliffs all around us. Unheralded and with no fanfare, hidden on the side of a mountain far from any tourist swarms, was a compact, unspoiled little haven, a comfortable and inviting retreat from the afternoon heat. We had discovered a perfect place for a picnic lunch of the drinks and snacks in our backpacks. Relaxing in the shade by the stream, I understood what the poets meant when they wrote of singing waters. Here on the mountainside, life was quiet enough and slow enough to hear them sing.
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