To High Mountain

Author: Hong Hai / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: "The Face of Lushan"
"Within a mile, the wind and rain cause sorrow; Mount Kuanglu is inaccessible. I suspect amidst the clouds and mist, there are still monks of the Six Dynasties." (Qian Qi) This Tang Dynasty poet told us it was "inaccessible," but we didn’t listen and climbed Mount Kuanglu in just two hours. In those two hours, the climate quickly transitioned from midsummer to late autumn. When we got into the car, it was ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit, but by the time we got out, it was only seventy degrees. On the way to the third guesthouse, the car passed through the bustling main street, and my first impression of Mount Kuanglu was that of a paradise: the land was flat and spacious, with neat houses; there were tea houses, restaurants, and general merchandise; the elderly and children were all happy and carefree. However, they were "greatly surprised" to see us, because many people came to Mount Kuanglu to escape the heat and rest, and the guesthouse was full. It was hard to get two rooms for us. Mount Kuanglu, a summer resort, truly lives up to its reputation.
That day, the weather was clear. Looking out the window, I saw towering ancient trees and dense shade nearby, while distant hills rose and clouds drifted. Sometimes, a stretch of trees would suddenly disappear, turning into a sea of clouds; other times, a patch of white clouds would vanish, turning into many pavilions. As I gazed, a white cloud drifted slowly into our room. If I were a hermit or an elegant scholar, I would have opened the windows to welcome it in. But I was still too worldly, so I quickly closed the window and asked for forgiveness. I thought that the reason it was so hard to see the true face of Mount Kuanglu was because of these clouds playing tricks.
Mount Kuanglu has many famous scenic spots and historical sites, with over two hundred in total. But in the ten days we visited, our main destinations were the Little Heavenly Lake, the Flower Path, the (Bridge), the Immortal Cave, the He Po Kou (Viewing the Poyang Lake), the Yellow Dragon Pool, and the Black Dragon Pool. During the time of the Xia Dynasty, Yu the Great climbed Mount Da Hanyang; during the Zhou Dynasty, Kuang Su once lived in seclusion here; during the Jin Dynasty, the monk Hui Yuan planted pine trees outside Donglin Temple; Wang Xizhi washed ink at Guizong Temple; Tao Yuanming lived in the Lixi Village near the hot springs; Li Bai studied at the base of the Five Elders Peak; Bai Juyi composed poems about peach blossoms along the Flower Path; Zhu Xi lectured at the White Deer Cave; Wang Yangming walked on the Self-Destructive Rock; and Zhu Yuanzhang and Chen Youliang fought at the (Bridge). The number of historical sites is countless. However, remembering them was rather sorrowful, and since I’m not a poet, these sites couldn’t inspire me. Visiting them seemed pointless, so I only went when it was convenient. Sometimes, my wife and children would go exploring, while I would lie alone on the mountain at 1,500 meters, looking at photos of Mount Kuanglu and guidebooks. The mountain light shone through the windows, clouds and trees filled the view, and the hustle and bustle were gone. The pillow and bedding felt cool, and it was truly a place to escape the heat.
I saw photos of the (Bridge), and my interest was piqued. One day, I followed my children to visit it. As we climbed the cliff, a professor wearing a Nanjing University badge told me, "The path up there is very difficult, so you don’t need to go. The stone bridge at the (Bridge) has probably fallen, and it’s just this cliff now." I looked up and saw that it was different from the photo: the photo showed two cliffs facing each other, with a large stone beam extending from the right cliff toward the left one, but it didn’t reach it, leaving a few feet of space as if it could be crossed with a single step. However, in reality, there was no stone beam—just two cliffs separated by some distance. The cliff we climbed was the left one. I thought that this place was called the (Bridge), and the stone beam must have been the bridge, but now it has fallen. We sat on the cliff, watching the clouds rise and listening to the birds sing, took a few more photos, and strolled back leisurely.
At dinner, I asked a staff member from the management office when the bridge had fallen. He replied that there was no bridge to begin with, and the photo was just a view from a certain angle. Ah, I suddenly realized that the professor I spoke to was dozens of meters away from the left cliff. I did see a small stone beam sticking out in the air, and if the camera was placed nearby, the perspective made the distance between the stone beam and the cliff disappear, capturing the photo I admired. I felt slightly annoyed, as if I had been tricked by a commercial advertisement in capitalist society. However, from the perspective of photography, I couldn’t say it was dishonest—it was just "too clever." The name (Bridge) was also strange. Why call it a bridge if there was no bridge?
Looking left from He Po Kou, I could see the Yangtze River; looking right, I could see Lake Poyang. It was a spectacular view that couldn’t be missed. One day, we indeed climbed to the pavilion on the peak. However, the clouds played tricks, covering the river and lake with thick layers of white, refusing to show us. We sat in the pavilion drinking tea, waiting for a long time, but the clouds never dispersed. Below, everything was white and indistinct. At that moment, a man with a banana fan walked into the pavilion. Hearing us speaking in our local dialect, he greeted me, saying we were from the same place. It turned out he was from Huzhou, and our town, Shimenwan, was near Huzhou, so our accents were similar. We started talking with him in our dialect. The dialect was really enjoyable—every word was sharp and expressive, conveying even the most delicate thoughts and emotions. The man from Huzhou was also quite refined, and every sentence he said was pleasant. He said he was in Shanghai and was visiting his son in Hankou. On his way back, he landed in Jiujiang and took the opportunity to visit Mount Kuanglu. I asked why he brought a banana fan, and he replied that it was incredibly useful: it could fan the wind when it was hot, provide shade when the sun was strong, serve as an umbrella when it rained, and even act as a seat when resting. It was like the banana fan of the legendary monk Ji Gong. From then on, we called him "the Living Buddha Ji Gong."
When we exchanged stories about our travels, he said he had only just arrived that morning and knew that the restaurants on the main street sold meal tickets at fixed times. So at eleven, he bought his tickets and a bottle of wine, went to the Little Heavenly Lake, offered the wine at the martyrs’ monument, explored for a while, and then returned to the guesthouse for lunch. That lunch was truly enjoyable. Listening to his story also made me feel happy. The clouds kept blocking the Yangtze River and Lake Poyang, refusing to show them. It was getting late, and the car was waiting at the bottom of the mountain, so we had to say goodbye to "the Living Buddha Ji Gong" and return to the guesthouse. After that, "the Living Buddha Ji Gong" became our topic of conversation. We didn’t ask for his name or address, and we had little hope of seeing him again, so we treated him like a character in a novel.
Who knew that in this world, things happened by coincidence: a few days later, when we were descending the mountain and eating at the Xunlu Restaurant in Jiujiang, "the Living Buddha Ji Gong" suddenly appeared with his banana fan. It turned out he was also waiting in Jiujiang to take a boat back to Shanghai. We exchanged stories about our travels since we last met. This man traveled alone to many places we hadn’t visited. I only remember that once, he went to the top of an ancient pagoda alone and a yellow weasel jumped out. He said in Huzhou dialect, "He was scared by me, and I was scared by him!" I thought that was practically poetry, though it didn’t rhyme. Song Dynasty poet Yang Wanli once wrote: "Accidentally walking to a place where no one is, startled the mountain birds, and I was startled too." Isn’t that the same experience? Nowadays, some vernacular poems don’t rhyme and write each sentence on a new line, with a single "but" or "not" taking up a line, and the content is unclear. I really don’t understand it. At that moment, I thought: if I could express myself as poetically as "the Living Buddha Ji Gong," not rhyming wouldn’t be a problem.
Eating at the Xunlu Restaurant in Jiujiang felt almost the same as in Shanghai. The dining situation on the mountain was different: the third guesthouse where we stayed was about three or four miles from the main street, with nothing around to provide food. We had no choice but to eat at the guesthouse. The prices were very cheap, and the food was abundant. However, we had to accept the ration and couldn’t order dishes. There were also fixed meal times. This wasn’t a restaurant but a dining hall, like a school cafeteria. I hadn’t eaten in a dining hall in forty years, and it gave me a sense of returning to childhood. Running three or four miles to the main street, there was a restaurant there, but it also had fixed meal times and limited supplies. If you didn’t buy your tickets early, you might go hungry while hiking.
On the ship, meals were divided into five or six shifts, with each shift limited to twenty minutes, and you had to buy tickets in advance. The dining hall was marked with a sign: "No alcohol allowed." One passenger said, "Eating is a task." I thought: the ship was small and crowded, so it was understandable. In scenic areas on the mountain, meals must be convenient. But I soon realized that the mountain restaurants weren’t much better than the ship. I really hope this could be improved. Why? This is a tourist area, not a school or a study group! People work hard all year and rarely get to travel. When they’re in the mood, they might delay meals, and when they’re hungry from hiking, they might want snacks. If the food supply in scenic areas could meet the needs of tourists and allow everyone to enjoy their visit, wouldn’t that be even better?
However, Mount Kuanglu always gave me a good impression, even in terms of food: when the Qingdao beer was opened, the foam sprayed everywhere, splashing several feet away. I always drank Guangming beer in Shanghai, so I thought Qingdao beer was much more lively. Rushing home to buy Qingdao beer, I found that when I opened it, it was just like Guangming beer—no foam spraying. Ah, I realized it was because of the atmospheric pressure at 1,500 meters! The beer on Mount Kuanglu was really good! (This is the first part of Feng Zikai’s "Travel Notes of Mount Kuanglu") P3-6