I’d been walking down the mountain for maybe eight hours and it was starting to get dark. “Down” is misleading. The endless mountain path was a wide stone stairway, a good portion of which went up. My thigh muscles were giving out. Three hours ago some women from Australia had assured me that the next temple, where I’d be spending the night, “wasn’t too far away.” But would I make it before my legs collapsed? Suddenly I heard chanting: enough adept, sonorous male voices to fill a large meditation hall, apparently coming over loudspeakers in the forest. Yes! Definitely chanting. I would make it to the next temple while I could still walk.
On the morning of July 21, 2009, a total solar eclipse passed directly over Mt. Emei in Sichuan, China. Alas, everyone who made it to the mountain that day—the Chinese and international tourists, the school groups, the pilgrims, and all the scientists and casual eclipse chasers like me—missed the eclipse. We had all woken up to a dark, grey, drippy day. The dense clouds were so high that even the privileged few on the summit with the giant Golden Buddha statue saw nothing but clouds. That allowed a bit of sour grapes to lessen the impact for me, because when totality occurred, I was still on a minibus stuck in a long, winding traffic-jam. As we crawled up the mountain, everything gradually got even darker, until it was as dark as night. Then, just as gradually, it returned to the previous morning gloom. So much for that total solar eclipse!
The bus parking lot was a large area with plenty of shops and amenities and lots of people. A tramway goes further up the mountain, but I quickly gave up that idea when I saw the crowds waiting to buy tickets. Being Chinese, they would wait patiently for hours for their turn to ride up. But for me it was time for the main activity of the next two days: going back down the mountain.
I found the beginning of the “down” trail in an obscure corner of the parking lot, like one of those hidden side passages that beckon from the corners of Venetian piazzas. This was a stone pathway about five feet wide that curved off into the mist. A lovely bamboo pole had been abandoned there by someone who had recently climbed up, which I claimed for my own. A shop nearby had a cauldron filled with eggs vigorously boiling in tea. I bought a couple for later, along with a box of crackers and some water.
At the top of the path I hesitated, filled with a kind of expectant dread. I had been planning this trip for months, including these days on the mountain. I had left my luggage at the hostel in Chengdu and had with me a capacious cross-body bag and a little day-pack with clean socks, underwear and something to sleep in.
Accustomed as I was to taking “Leaps of Faith” while traveling, this was not an easy one. This “leap” would determine, not the next few hours, but the next two days. Behind me were the transportation, the shops and the crowds. Ahead was the stone path. All I knew was that it would take a couple days to walk down and that “there are monasteries where you can spend the night.” I told myself I might as well start walking and see what happened, although I knew that by the time I could decide one way or the other I would have gone too far downhill to face climbing back up.
As soon as I got to the first switchback, I knew that as well as missing the eclipse, it looked like I would also missing the rugged, spectacular mountain scenes that have inspired Chinese painting for millennia. Perhaps that puts my travel story alongside Matthiessen’s Snow Leopard, in which he treks for months through the Himalayas looking for snow leopards but never actually sees one. My day would be spent in the clouds. Fortunately, these were tropical clouds on a tropical mountain, so unlike Matthiessen I’d be physically comfortable on my failed quest.
The flat stone slabs soon gave way to the stairs that made up most of the steep trail. Seeing these shed light on a mystery from the day before at my hotel. I had booked a night at a Chinese “resort” hotel near the foot of the mountain. As soon as I got to my room, I could hear strange, musical clinking. A bit of exploration revealed a stoneyard behind the hotel. A gang of shirtless workers was chipping away at what I realized the next day were the stone steps for the mountain paths. The stone-workers were incising treads onto the steps.
China is the only place I’ve seen physical labor like this. The July day at the lower elevation was hot and humid, and the stoneyard had no shade. Later, as I headed out at dusk to eat, these lean, sun-weathered men were finally heading home on their cheap old bicycles, puffing on cigarettes in anticipation of their dinner.
My own toil was coming up. Even though I was hiking downhill, it seemed like at least a third of the steps headed upward as the path wound around the contours of the mountain. As I approached each ascent I braced myself for more arduous, breathless exertion. Each time I wondered how anyone could climb up this mountain. The ascents probably made up less than an eighth of the downhill trail. Nevertheless, they were no doubt a good thing, since they provided variety to the strain on my muscles. While my thighs were burning by the end of the first day, it wasn’t until two mornings later, after I had returned to the hostel in Chengdu, that I woke up with calves so sore that I could barely navigate the stairs to the bathroom.
In spite of the hard work, the hike was very pleasant. The steep mountain slopes were green and deeply wooded with tall trees. On the first day visibility was limited to the path and its immediate surroundings, but the twists and turns kept things interesting. Between the mist and occasional light rain, I was soon soaked, except for my feet in their sturdy Keens. Going down from about 7,000 feet, the temperature was perfect for hiking, even while soaking wet.
Tiny trailside snack bars provided food, bottled water and emergency supplies. My second breakfast after the tea eggs was a bowl of soft, sweetened breakfast tofu. Another meal further down was indoors at a temple: a giant tub of ramen with hot water provided by the shop provided satisfying calories for the rest of the afternoon. That meal taught this American a bit about how the rest of the world gets through their workdays on a mostly meatless diet.
The lack of distant views was made up for by the variety of fellow trekkers coming and going on the trail. I greeted everyone I passed. They laughed at my “nǐ hǎo” but I think they appreciated meeting someone that they could say “hello” to. I was amazed at the number of young women who thought their dainty flats would get them up the mountain, but the little stores were ready for them with band-aids and cheap cloth shoes.
An encounter with a young woman who had a different problem proved to be fortunate for me. A young woman heading upwards suddenly appeared around a blind curve. She was very upset and started exclaiming to me in Chinese. Amazingly I caught the jist of what she was saying as I picked up the words for “monkey” (hóuzi,) “water bottle” (shuǐpíng) and maybe even backpack (bèibāo.) I knew shuǐpíng because you have to buy lots of water bottles in China. I had already been practicing hóuzi to myself since seeing some of the ubiquitous Tibetan Macaques begging at the bus parking lot. So I understood that the girl was upset because some hóuzi had just stolen her shuǐpíng out of her bèibāo. From her distress I gathered that they had been large and threatening.
I felt bad that she had lost her water and would have to hike to the next trail-side stand to get more. But as another not-so-large woman, I was grateful for her warning. I rounded the corner cautiously and sure enough, there were a couple a adult macaques sitting on the fence eyeing me as their next victim. But I had my big stick. I only had to slightly tilt the lower end towards the male to make him submit with a little growl. I didn’t turn my back until I had passed them, thankful now for the multipurpose nature of my staff.
As afternoon set in, it became clear that I wouldn’t be abandoned overnight on the endless stairway even if my legs gave out. Wiry brown men patrolled the paths on the lookout for anyone who couldn’t make it and needed a “ride.” These guys had bamboo backframes that could carry a passenger in a sitting position. The sight of other porters conveying heavy loads of food and other supplies for the little stores convinced me that I probably wouldn’t be too much of a burden.
For most of the day I had been aware of a pudgy Indian guy taking the trail at about the same rate as I was. He and I were both catching the attention of these human taxis. As evening fell I saw that he had taken them up on their offer. I can’t remember whether it took one or two porters to carry him, but looked like he was a pretty heavy load, tilting and swaying as he was carried down the steps. The stability of my own two legs seemed more attractive in spite of their aches and pains.
One of these porters offered me a ride as dusk was falling, but I tried to convey “not now, check back.” Fortunately, not long after that I heard the chanting and knew that the night’s respite was at hand.
Una Pellegrina nel Mondo 