Zhangjiajie & Fenghuang Travel Notes
A Promise Made Is a Debt Owed: Zhangjiajie & Fenghuang Travel Notes. Back in my school days I once told someone: a promise made is a debt owed, so never make promises lightly. I spent four years in that beautiful city of osmanthus groves and drifting fragrance, and much of it is hard to forget. Memory is as solid as steel—should I laugh or cry?
This article is compiled from the original travel notes on the "Zhangjiajie Tour Guide Network" (33519.com); it is a record of trips from earlier years. Time-sensitive information such as ticket prices, schedules, and accommodation prices is subject to the latest announcements from scenic areas and transportation authorities; the itinerary ideas and attraction introductions still have reference value.
A Promise Made Is a Debt Owed: Zhangjiajie & Fenghuang Travelogue
When I was still in school, I once said to someone: a promise made is a debt owed, so never make promises lightly. I spent four years in that beautiful city where osmanthus trees form forests and osmanthus fragrance fills the air, and there are always many things hard to forget. Memories are as solid as steel—should I laugh or cry? Who said that tears freeze in loneliness in winter, yet cannot melt in the instant of spring's warmth? And who said that time is the best medicine? But why is it that as time passes, I am still standing in the same place? Remembering all the things of the past, tears flow before words can come. At times like these, I only choose ostrich-style hiding. Last year, I chose Xiangxi's Fenghuang, that mysterious small town—not for Shen Congwen, not for Cuicui, but for that saying: 'Fenghuang, he has been waiting for you there for a thousand years.' So I decided I must go to Xiangxi. And last year's Xiangxi trip, for various reasons, the Zhangjiajie journey could not be made. Facing the Tuo River after the rain, I made a promise: next year, I will surely set foot on this land again. So on that day this year, that green-skinned train from Zhanjiang to Xiangfan carried me toward the land where I owed a debt.
Zhangjiajie. The beginning. Overcast turning clear.
Because I've grown used to traveling alone, I always make preparations before setting out. Before this trip I had already contacted a Tujia guide named Peng Qingwu. In fact, I am truly grateful to this Guide Peng throughout this journey—it was his attentive care that enabled me, exhausted in body and mind, to make it through the whole route.
The car wound along the twisting mountain road, and my heart wound and turned along with it. Tears, accompanying the dizziness, nearly burst from my eyes; I hurriedly put on my sunglasses to shut out all outside gazes. After truly entering the Tianzi Mountain scenic area, I carried my luggage and hiked up around the mountain. The wind along the way was clean and refreshing—the mountain wind was not at all as stuffy and dry as the wind in the summer city, and it made me feel much better. I took off my sunglasses and properly admired this gift bestowed by nature. Looking out from Daguantai, the mountains were by no means bare—they were covered in trees, a lush verdant expanse. The entire Tianzi Mountain scenic area is connected with King Xiang Tianzi; this peasant leader of the late Yuan and early Ming dynasties is an almost deity-like presence here, and he has also cast a layer of mystery over this beautiful landscape. There is a scenic spot here called Tianzi Seat, because the protruding mountains on both sides are like the two armrests of an imperial throne, and the mountain on the right even resembles a dragon's head, while behind the viewing platform where visitors stand there is also a mountain—the backrest of the imperial throne. Legend has it that King Xiang Tianzi would come here to sit quietly in contemplation before every expedition, seeking victory in battle. Standing amid these three surrounding mountains, we truly felt as if we were seated on an imperial throne, awe-inspiring and inviolable; that intense aura that nature brings us is hard to feel without being there in person. It is said that wishes made here are very efficacious. In the past many people would come to fulfill their vows, and only later was it banned after it caused a fire. We are new-new humans educated in modern ways, but we are also little women full of wishes—let us make a wish in all sincerity, and let all the mountains bear witness for me. Here, Guide Peng told us that we would be staying on the other side of the mountain, so I shouted toward that side, but only my own echo lingered—just like some things and some people, perhaps in this lifetime I will never get an answer.
When we reached "Immortal Bridge," I learned from Guide Peng a true story: a Tujia girl and a young man fell in love, but the girl's family was a prominent local clan, and the vast gap in status destined them to have no future; they could only choose to die for love. What I want to focus on is what happened afterward. Later, on this very bridge, the girl and the young man held hands, gazed at each other, took one last look at this cruel world they were about to leave, closed their eyes and jumped down—to become the butterfly lovers flying together, or to pledge themselves to a beautiful next life. But yes, there is a but—one person did not jump. Guide Peng asked us to guess who. Did we even need to guess? No need to guess! Without hesitation I chimed in: it must have been the man who didn't jump. Why so certain? Only because I understand all too well that even at such a moment, a man's heart will always have reason triumph over emotion; a woman's heart will think only of reunion on the Naihe Bridge, while a man will mostly be thinking about whether he should jump, that there are still people at home who need him to care for them, that he is still young, that he hasn't yet bought a house or a car—I'm getting off track. In fact, it was indeed the man who didn't jump. Of course there is a follow-up to the story: the man lost the use of both legs in a car accident—since he made a promise, it always has to be repaid! Immortal Bridge, Immortal Bridge—from the name alone you can tell that one careless step across this bridge and you can become an immortal. In fact, apart from that poor Tujia girl, many people have indeed lost their lives here. That is why there is wire fencing in front of the bridge, repeatedly reminding visitors that they may stop here: beautiful scenery is all very well, but please mind your safety. But isn't there a saying: to appreciate beauty, one must always pay with a racing heart. So, in fear, we too set foot on Immortal Bridge. Unexpectedly, we crossed the bridge calmly and quietly. Sure enough, there is an excellent view here for admiring Zhangjiajie. Between heaven and earth, all is open and vast; the sky is no longer merely sky, the mountains no longer merely mountains—sky and mountains join, blue and green meet, as if it were the Pure Land of the West, and the heart is purified by it. We only wished to fly here!
Walking on to "One Step Is Hard to Take," another perilous spot, a professor from Peking University lost his life here. But today's "One Step Is Hard to Take" is no longer hard to take; stepping on steel bars, we walked across with ease. Blowing in the mountain wind, basking in the warm sunshine, breathing the fresh air, with a relaxed and happy mood we took photos—and just then, inadvertently looking up, I saw in the clear blue sky a radiance flashing out from behind a cloud, as if Buddha's light had suddenly appeared. Was such Buddhist affinity telling me to let everything go, to achieve "originally there is not a single thing—where could dust ever cling?" But such a state, I fear, is something I could never attain in my whole life. Apart from this place, on this trip we had another Buddhist affinity (I stubbornly call it a Buddhist affinity). In Zhangjiajie National Forest Park there is a flower unique to Wulingyuan, called the lobster flower, named because it resembles a lobster. This flower does not bloom until October, yet in mid-July we unexpectedly found two lobster flowers hidden among the weeds. "You come from the sea, yet cling more to the green mountains; you bid farewell to ancient times, yet linger more on today. Lobster flower, braving wind and rain you grow in Wulingyuan, letting your fragrance seep into the mist of Zhangjiajie, dissolving your colors into the springs of Tianzi Mountain." This is a poem someone gave to the lobster flower, but I only want to say to her: when the vast sea has all receded into mulberry fields, you transformed into a magnificent rare blossom—your waiting, unchanging for millions of years, is for what? Could it be that you too believe in that promise once made?
Gently turning to leave, I could not possibly not take away a single cloud. This place has left me too many thoughts, just like the memories that city a thousand miles away has given me.
Fenghuang. Finale. Clear turning overcast.
I have never been a woman who endures silently; it is only because of those things and those people that I have become the stubborn, silently enduring person I am today. A friend who knows the whole process says my life is like a story; I can only smile bitterly in helplessness. Last year, because of a single sentence I chose this city, and this year, once again because of a promise I returned to this city. This year the Tuo River's water seems even clearer—but when will I too be able to make my heart as calm as water? On the blog of a woman with a wonderfully perceptive heart I once read these words, and I have remembered them ever since: With a smile, across a distance like the edge of the world, from the good people in my life—love, it has always been there; hate, it has never disappeared either; where no one can see, in some place it quietly grows. Experiencing encounter after encounter, performing pain after pain, striving for indifference after indifference; in this life, from now on we meet on a narrow road; in this flourishing age, from now on we perform the passing years; may we understand each other, and from now on the other shore's flowers bloom; may we each be happy. From now on, let us forget each other in the rivers and lakes.
One sunset, one scene of heartbreak. By the Tuo River at dusk is the best place to watch the sunset. Watching the afterglow of the setting sun blanket the whole city, gilding it in gold, and then quietly letting my thoughts wander. At midnight, beneath the Rainbow Bridge, listening to a wandering singer reinterpret the classic songs of that woman who loved milk tea, my heart couldn't help but ache for a moment; curled up in a corner, my heart still lingered in memory. After all the winding and turning, when I finally learned, finally recognized clearly—only, everything is no longer the same...
Leaving this city, I look back once more, because in this lifetime I will never return. And the answer I was seeking ultimately came to nothing. All right, then let me return to the noisy city and go on idling away the years. I only wish that in this life, I will never make a promise again.