Reflections on a Dreamlike Zhangjiajie Trip
I had longed for the ancient town of Fenghuang and Zhangjiajie for a very long time, only lacking the chance to get close to this small town. So this little dream kept brewing and fermenting inside me, until finally this Spring Festival, a group of us set off on a journey to western Hunan. This ancient town quietly plays out its ordinary stories every day. I, too, am just a hurried passerby.
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.
I had longed for the ancient city of Fenghuang and Zhangjiajie for a very long time, but I just didn't have the chance to get close to this small town. So this little dream kept brewing and fermenting in my heart, and finally during this year's Spring Festival, a group of us set out on a journey to western Hunan. This ancient small town quietly tells its ordinary stories every day. I am just a hurried passerby.
Because of Fenghuang, we came to Zhangjiajie. They say that every leaf in Zhangjiajie drips with spirituality. This spirituality flows from the heart of the great mountains, permeates the roots of the lobster flowers, and thus converges into the Golden Whip Stream.
Fenghuang — for you, this ancient city has waited a thousand years
The mood brought back from Fenghuang gradually calmed as time went by. The beautiful scenery brought back from Zhangjiajie slowly imprinted itself deep in my heart with memory, becoming piece after piece of recollection to fill this stage of life.
The plane kept bumping along with the air currents. I drifted in and out of sleep amid the swaying, dreaming hazily, thinking hazily, thinking about the bits and pieces from days ago. Memory just lay there bare in my mind.
The plot of Border Town rushed into my mind the moment the plane landed. The story of Cuicui. A woman by the river, stubbornly keeping a long, endless vigil, pitting her soft, lovely youth and her life against an unknown distance and tomorrow. "This person may never come back, or he may come back tomorrow!" The story has ended, but the one who keeps watch is still there. The journey has ended, but the heart is still there. Cuicui spent her whole life holding fast to a pure love; and I am spending my youth holding fast to—what? If there is any difference between us, it is only that she is more genuine, and I am a little more muddled.
In this warm spring, in this rich Chinese New Year, I did not follow the traditional custom of going home for family reunion. Instead, I set foot on the hometown of Mr. Shen, which I had long dreamed of. As the new year was about to arrive, I chose another culture and another life, far from my fate. I have gradually grown used to everything without you, and in the new year I will begin a new life again. I truly hope that in the days to come I can go to many places I want to go, and feel different cultures and smiles. I am so young and fresh, with no burden of the years, so I should run more lightly, and sing freely on this ancient land. When my feet touched this flagstone road, I stood at a distance of being worlds apart, hopelessly missing you, missing my friends in Shenzhen, missing my family back home, and missing myself. When I tried to "touch" her closely with body and soul, in this ancient little town called "Fenghuang," searching for yesterday's stories, releasing yesterday's feelings, trying to interpret through that long journey the road of the heart's nirvana, I came. I know the wish I made with my eyes closed and a sincere heart before the wishing lantern on the Tuo River will surely come true...
This was the most unforgettable and most wonderful New Year's Eve in years. Back in Shenzhen today, in my dreams I can still see the sky full of brilliant fireworks, still hear the firecrackers popping high and low, still feel the laughter and playful roughhousing along the way. Standing at the southern end of one earth and on a horizon just rising, there is much I want to say, yet it seems there is nothing to say. I only know that my heart still lingers among the mountains and waters of Fenghuang, following the flow of the Tuo River, caught among the water plants, letting this river wash it, lost on that land of Xiangxi...
A year has passed, and in another week I will be one year older. My heart, where have you lost your way?
At 5 a.m. the alarm by the bed rang on time, and I reflexively sprang up from the one-and-a-half-meter bed. In the winter morning of Shenzhen, everything seemed cold and quiet. Wind blew toward me, and I unconsciously pulled my coat tighter and walked into the dark street. My friends were all busy going home for reunion and had no time to see me off. With my pack on my back, my lonely figure looked especially small under the streetlights. Fortunately, there was still this warm streetlight to see me off.
I waited a full hour at the north gate of Shenzhen University. There I met my first lovely companion—Nuanxin. Perhaps because our temperaments were similar, perhaps because we were about the same age, perhaps because we were both alone, two stranger women quickly became as close as sisters who had known each other for years. And so, naturally enough, the two of us clowns were part of the journey.
At 7:00 the bus finally stopped at the north gate of Shenzhen University. Then we gathered with the partners from the last stop, counted enough people, and set off. I saw more than twenty unfamiliar friends on the bus, and my heart secretly smiled. They would accompany me through the whole eight-day journey; they would see off 2006 and welcome 2007 with me. I knew I would like them, and I knew they would like me.
Because of traffic jams and road closures along the way, we did not reach Fenghuang until the next afternoon. After ending a thirty-hour long-distance trek, bumping along the whole way and feeling drowsy, I was mentally and physically exhausted, and in that half-sleeping, half-waking state I no longer had the mood to enjoy the scenery on the road. Passing several market towns and seeing a few country fairs, going over several slopes and around several bends, Fenghuang unfolded before me just like that, so leisurely. As I hesitated on this land, quietly counting the flagstones sleeping in the old town's alleys, my heart followed Mr. Shen's footsteps, drifting in the Tuo River, losing its former confusion, in a place where spirit and blood collided.
We arrived at the pre-booked California Hotel, put down our luggage, washed away the exhaustion all over, and then began wandering through the old town. A bowl of delicious rice noodles and a plate of fresh, sweet choy sum filled my stomach and warmed it too. By the time we came out after lunch, it was almost dusk. The twilight was thick, moonlight was like water, and the lanterns hanging under the eaves of the stilted houses began to light up, telling passersby that night was slowly falling. The old town began to show another charm. The streets were lively, tourists were like weaving threads, and on the surface of the Tuo River the lights stretched the shadows of trees, houses, and people on both banks very, very long... A gentle breeze from the old town blew toward me, carrying a chill as it brushed my cold cheeks. Suddenly I felt an inexplicable emotion. The end of one stage is actually also the beginning of another, isn't it? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Looking at the unfamiliar buildings and unfamiliar faces all around, I knew: my life had truly begun anew!
A chill was stealing in with the wind, and the lights on both banks gradually seemed drunk. Happiness had only just begun, and I even felt a little at a loss. In the middle of the night, waking from a dream, I looked outside the window at the fallen leaves drifting and turning in the cool wind, and tears, I do not know when, quietly wet my face again.
The New Year's Eve dinner was settled in a restaurant near the river. When we came out after the reunion meal, it was already 9 p.m. Bits of light floated on the river surface—those were the beautiful wishes made by loyal people. The current carried the wishes away, no one knew where. Firecrackers and brilliant fireworks streaked across overhead. I stood by the river, and in this boundless world I could not touch any trace of love.
After releasing the wishing lanterns, everyone suggested going to a bar, so we all rose, crossed the river, and headed toward the stilted houses. Because of our arrival, the bar became lively. As night deepened, from the bar by the river came our sounds of roughhousing and laughter, along with the music inside. I stood up and leaned by the window, seeing the backs of groups of tourists walking past, the people coming and going on the stone bridge, and the children selling wishing lanterns. The commercialized old town had made them skilled at hawking and at how to win business. The sorrow and longing in my mind seemed so out of place with the liveliness and noise here. Some people come here to seek light, some come to seek images, some come to seek history and the words left by those legendary people. Some come and stay, some come and leave, some leave and forget, some stay and begin a life of trivialities. I could not find a suitable posture from which to look at all this coming and going, because I do not belong to any of these groups. I came, on New Year's Eve of 2006, with no purpose and no reason. The deepest paths of thought will never be as clear as the direction leading to some place on earth.
At this moment I am still by the window, softly humming and murmuring in remembrance, when I suddenly recall what Yuhua said that day: "When a strange woman sleeps leaning on a strange man, a story happens; when a strange man sleeps leaning on a strange woman, an accident happens." And in this old town full of stories, how many accidents will happen tonight?
Under the dim yellow streetlights, raindrops drifted down. Melancholy music played in the bar, and disobedient tears rolled from the corners of my eyes. This city walked into my life, and I walked through this city's memories. Was it some vague promise once made? That year you said you would accompany me to the ends of the earth; you said you would come with me to Fenghuang for the New Year. But now I am left alone. Everything was once so familiar, yet it has gone far away just like this...
Several glasses of beer, a few rounds of games, a few unknown songs. When the mood was high, everyone took off their coats and swayed in dance... Only tears still flowed in the wind.
It grew late, and the excited people gradually went back. The old town regained its original quiet. The lights on the river surface were reflected in the water. One firework after another streaked across the sky and then fell upon the water. And the whole river of wishing lanterns drifted farther and nearer on the surface with the current. On the water they traced long, beautiful routes. Those songs, firecrackers, and shouts slowly faded into the distance. What remained were the flickering wishing lanterns accompanying the ceaseless Tuo River, gone and never returning... When the New Year's bell struck, I recovered something from the stories buried in a great heap of time; I found myself again from the crowded mass of people. Beautiful night after night, the ambiguous lights in the bars, the saxophone softly confiding, the fingers of women scented with wine in the little taverns, the narrow flagstone roads, the carved doors and windows, the distinctive stilted houses, the ethnic costumes, the mixed people and languages from all over the world, the outer walls washed pale by rain and stamped with the marks of time—they all danced in the night.
Those who drank got drunk, and those who did not drink got drunk too. Some were truly drunk, some only seemed drunk; some were drunk in body, some drunk in heart, some drunk in both body and heart... I sank into deep sleep in my drunkenness. In my dream, Julia Roberts's lips still kept the lingering taste of a hot kiss.....
Slept, dreamed, woke. By the time I lingered in the warm blanket and got up, it was almost noon. After a simple wash and dressing, I went out and could no longer see the main group. Since it was free time, everyone was probably more casual. Fortunately, my dear Nuanxin was with me wandering through the town. Again and again I stepped on the flagstones and walked through one street and alley after another. Moving through the old alleys of the little town, bowing my head as I strolled, raising it to look up, in every gesture and step there was nothing but the marks of time and antiquity. Every blue brick, every stone tile contained the story of a period and hid a humanistic age. If you understood this place, you understood an era. It was also these bricks and tiles that, nurtured by the Tuo River, created one beautiful legend after another!
Passing by Mr. Shen's former residence, I did not go in to pay homage. For someone as bored and dull as me, I have little interest in the places where people of the past lived and breathed. Amid the amplified voices of the crowd, there was not much elegance or quiet left. Besides, the man of the past is gone, leaving only an empty residence, which would only make one sad. It was instead Mr. Shen's simple grave that caught my steps, made me pause, made me sigh, made me grieve. The tears in my heart, like the waters of the Tuo River, rippled without end.
Climbing the steps, turning left and right, under a stretch of dark green bamboo shadow, a clear spring poured down along the mountain, playing a note of elegance. In front of a huge rock, beneath several osmanthus trees, a slab of bluestone rose quietly, with a few green characters inlaid on it, striking the eye: "Think as I thought, and you can understand 'me'; think as I thought, and you can know 'man.'" Turning to the back, it said: "Unbending and unyielding, yet kind and yielding; his writing like the stars, his person like a newborn child." There was no large grave, not many fresh flowers, and no marble ornamental columns—just like the man's simplicity, just like a writer's concision, just like the quiet elegance of the Tuo River, yet it spoke fully of life's vicissitudes and the meaning of living. A sense of respect quietly surged in my heart; a feeling of being moved overflowed; and from it came certain reflections. Mr. Shen did not die on the battlefield, but as he wished he returned to the banks of the Tuo River that gave him life and raised him, listening to the morning bells and evening drums, to the spring floods of the Tuo River...
I was unable to fulfill the expectations I had before coming here. At least I had not yet found the perfect "Fenghuang" of my dreams; at least I had not been able to take out my whole heart and present it to myself, present it to the world to interpret. Perhaps the reason this place is called Fenghuang is that it does not have the perfection and transcendence I expected. Perhaps I still have not been able to step past the threshold of my own heart. In this remote little town, why should it be called China's most beautiful village? And on my heart, cold as ice and frost, why should I be called a cold-blooded creature? I could not understand it no matter how hard I thought. I pondered silently, searching.
Time to leave again. Life always passes in a hurry. Who, in a lifetime, would wait only for one memory? When I left Fenghuang, a fine rain began to fall from the sky. Were these the tears of this city? In life's long journey, there are always some things close to the depths of the soul, constantly becoming familiar; constantly being left far behind; constantly taking root; constantly being pulled away... Again and again piecing together and tearing apart attachment and parting sorrow; longing and indifference; in each process letting the heart's burden quietly accumulate some beautiful yet stripped-away emotions.
Zhangjiajie — where the soul was lost
On the road
After saying goodbye to Fenghuang, we set out for Zhangjiajie at 5:30 p.m. Perhaps everyone was tired. In the dim bus, everywhere I looked were heads lolling this way and that, but I could not fall asleep. The bumpy ride and the freezing air left me no choice but to stare blankly as dusk was little by little swallowed by night and the curtain was drawn. Swaying and rocking all the way, at 9 p.m. the bus slowly drove into Zhangjiajie. The whole city of Zhangjiajie had already become quite mature because of the development of tourism, but the simple people of this city seemed used to sleeping early; by 10 p.m. there were almost no pedestrians to be seen on the streets. Waiting for us was the guide Sister Liu, arranged by Xiang Songping (13574424677 QQ390290755), owner of the Zhangjiajie "Tujia Mountain Village" backpacker inn that we had booked. Sister Liu enthusiastically arranged our accommodation in Zhangjiajie's urban area for us, and the next task was to satisfy the demands of our stomachs. Sister Liu took us to the famous snack street for a big meal.
The night passed without incident. At 9 a.m. we prepared to gather. A bowl of congee and two steamed buns were that day's breakfast. Half an hour later, the wheels brought us to the main gate of Zhangjiajie National Forest Park. There was no warning before the bus reached the forest park, but once it stopped at the gate, you suddenly had a feeling of sudden openness. This was not the Zhangjiajie of imagination; this was truly Zhangjiajie. Except for the tour-guide MM, JIM, and NALA, who had guide certificates, the rest of us classmates, like me, had to pay 248 yuan for admission to enjoy the beautiful scenery. After buying the tickets, we fully experienced the charm of modern high technology: the entrance of the forest park used fingerprint identification technology. As the body entered the park with the crowd, the soul melted along with it into these mountains and waters.
Climbing Huangshizhai
After entering the park, the destination for the first day was Huangshizhai. There is a local folk saying: "If you do not climb Huangshizhai, your trip to Zhangjiajie is in vain." Huangshizhai is one of the sites of Zhangjiajie Forest Park and is currently the most mature scenic area in Zhangjiajie, where most travelers also gather. It is 1,200 meters above sea level, and from all sides one can overlook the whole park. Guide Liu said it was named because Zhang Liang, a famous minister of the Han Dynasty, met with disaster while cultivating himself here and was rescued by his teacher Huang Shigong, hence the name; it is also called Huangshizhai. So we split into two groups: one climbed step by step, and the other took the cable car straight up. A pleasure-seeking type like me, of course, joined the pleasure-seeking ranks.
The fresh air was filled with high concentrations of negative ions. I rolled down the car window and let the air soak every inch of skin and activate every cell. Then I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. Transparent worries emerged and burst with the air; transparent tears dripped down; sorrow evaporated and rose to the outermost edge of the atmosphere, then turned into transparent rain and dew to travel the earth. Sunlight refracted through the dense seams of leaves onto several happy faces, and happiness overflowed just like that.
The cable car went directly to the top of Huangshizhai. The summit was quite flat, with mountain forest, tea gardens, and springs. It is said that more than ten years ago this was originally a dormitory point for a forest ranger of the Huangshizhai forestry farm, where one forestry worker's family lived—truly "a household deep in the white clouds." Now this quiet leisure has become a thing of the past, replaced by a Liuqi Pavilion in Tujia architectural style, a teahouse, and a hotel. Stepping up along the flat, comfortable stone-slab tourist path, I saw strange peaks standing all around, grotesque rocks jagged, and dense, lush trees, ever-changing, giving one a sense of chaos like "something formed in the mixture, born before heaven and earth." The sun shone down through the thick shade of the trees and onto the stream beside the path, and the whole forest rippled with waves of light. Because it was a holiday and the golden week for tourism, the whole mountain was crowded with visitors like weaving threads. Around my ears echoed the boiling voices of people, the loudspeakers of tour guides, the crisp calls of birds, and the rustling of wind through leaves. A feeling of being far from the noise of the world immediately intoxicated me.
As I breathed in the fresh, clean air of the forest and felt its silence and tranquility, I unknowingly walked a stretch of mountain path. Passing the Song-Request Pavilion, several Tujia girls were warmly inviting guests to request songs. Viewing mountains from within the mountains is a hallmark of Zhangjiajie, and even more so of Huangshizhai. The origins of such wonderfully named spots as "Heavenly Soldiers Gathering Garden," "Cleaving the Mountain to Save the Mother," and "Pacifying-Sea Needle" all come from being the best vantage points for gazing from one mountain to another. Take "Heavenly Soldiers Gathering Garden," for instance: dozens of stone peaks rise straight from the ground, crowded into a single gorge with extraordinary momentum, like a group of soldiers standing in majestic formation. When you see "Cleaving the Mountain to Save the Mother," a pagoda-shaped rock peak, you will notice that the upper part of the rock is split in two, and the right half looks as if it were cleaved by a sharp axe, inevitably reminding one of the myth of cleaving the mountain to save the mother. No wonder the guide said that Zhangjiajie's peak forest is thirty percent formation and seventy percent imagination. In fact, viewed from the side it is a ridge, from the front a peak; from near and far, high and low, it looks different each way. Nature's handiwork has inspired people's flights of fancy, and anyone can pick out ever more vivid shapes from these layered ridges and capture even more beautiful and moving stories.
After nearly two hours of struggling with the mountain and with ourselves, we had made a full circuit of Huangshizhai and returned to Liuqi Pavilion. Liuqi Pavilion is the only cultural structure among the natural sights of Huangshizhai. It is a pagoda-style tower standing abruptly on a square stone base; climbing up, one can gaze far off at the many scenic wonders of Zhangjiajie. At the top of the pavilion, an old man with a long beard, dressed in black, had set up a table with his wife, writing inscriptions for visitors as souvenirs and earning a little brush fee. Liuqi Pavilion is named for the wonders here of mountain, water, stone, cloud, plants, and animals. Things are valued for their rarity—such is the rule of society, and once nature falls into the mortal world, it too cannot escape convention.
The mountain path had been crowded with people all along, but at the summit it was another scene entirely—one could simply describe it as packed to overflowing. Because the various
routes of visitors climbing Huangshizhai all ultimately converge here, this place naturally becomes a bustling spot. Everyone found a place to sit, hastily wolfed down some dry rations, rested a while, and then set off again to visit the various scenic spots and take photos. The most memorable was the essential summit attraction, "Star-Picking Terrace." This is a round stone peak over 1,000 meters above sea level, flat on top and overhanging below, thrilling in the extreme. On a night full of stars, standing on this terrace, you might just pluck a few stars. Such a marvelous viewing platform suspended in the air could surely only exist at Huangshizhai. Amid admiration and emotion, I truly felt reluctant to leave. As it was getting late, everyone hurried down the mountain and headed for Golden Whip Stream.
Exploring Golden Whip Stream
After climbing Huangshizhai, we explored Golden Whip Stream. Golden Whip Stream is one of the filming locations for the CCTV version of Journey to the West—scenes like Zhu Bajie carrying his bride and the three battles with the White Bone Demon all gave us a sense of déjà vu. Nature always ingeniously combines green mountains with clear waters: the mountains are revealed by the water, and the water is hidden for the mountains. A tour of Zhangjiajie's scenery naturally cannot lack water.
Golden Whip Stream is located in the northeast part of Zhangjiajie National Forest Park, named because it flows past a Golden Whip Rock. It runs for dozens of kilometers out of Zhangjiajie, passes through Suoxiyu, and flows into the Lishui River, becoming a source tributary of Dongting Lake hundreds of li away.
The air here carries a faint scent of leaves and flowers, an indescribable freshness; with every breath, you feel the stale air in your lungs diminish by a measure. Walking along Golden Whip Stream, you can often see companions tilting their heads slightly back, lost in deep breathing. Compared with the mountain path up Huangshizhai, the winding trail of Golden Whip Stream seems so quiet and cool, with few pedestrians on the road, making me feel as if I had been transported to another world.
Golden Whip Stream winds left and right between two gorges. The many peaks I had seen from Huangshizhai just moments ago were now right beside me. At such close range you cannot gaze far into the distance; you can only look up at the peaks piercing the clouds and experience their magnificent momentum and bearing. Only at this moment do the true faces of such mountains as "Heavenly Book Treasure Chest," "Pacifying-Sea Needle," "Southern Sky Pillar," and "Golden Turtle Probing the Sea" become fully visible. They are no longer a continuous undulating range, but rather vertical joints, smooth eroded surfaces, and even cracks burst open by mountain vines.
Zhangjiajie has four streams, and the longest is Golden Whip Stream. Even just the section developed as a scenic area is nearly eight kilometers one way. The water of Golden Whip Stream does not originate from a river, nor does it vary with a reservoir; it seeps out drop by drop from beneath every tree root, every blade of grass, every stone, every crack—spotless and flowing endlessly. It is so clear and transparent that, without being there in person, who could comprehend that such soul-cleansing pure water exists in this world? I had never in my life seen stream water that so intoxicated and stirred me. That translucent, gurgling, pure water permeated deep into my soul, moving me so deeply that I could barely contain myself, tears almost spilling from my eyes. Such wonderful worldly mountain scenery, such wonderful worldly ordinary water—apart from Zhangjiajie, how many other places on earth could one find them?
After a full day, my physical strength was nearly exhausted. The sun sank bit by bit along the horizon, and the vast dusk enclosed the boundless peaks. A bright, clear crescent moon hung at the edge of the sky, shining with a cool luster. By the time we reached the summit of Yuanjiajie, the main group had already lively begun. Everyone gathered around the dining tables waiting for dinner. The Tujia mountain village proprietress had prepared a sumptuous dinner for us: stir-fried choy sum, taro with braised pork, tomato scrambled eggs, smoked bamboo shoots with cured meat, and she even gave us all a free-range chicken hot pot...
Tonight there was no moonlight; the sky full of stars twinkled and leaped, making the cold, clear night sky seem especially lovely. Nuanxin was teaching Shanyefeng hand over hand to identify constellations, but the mischievous Big Dipper only liked to play tricks on people. No matter how Shanyefeng used his four eyes, he simply could not make them out. Whether the Big Dipper, the Weaving Girl, or the Cowherd, whether one could identify them or not, the only difference was each person's own state of mind. In such a short time—encounters and partings, strangers and familiarity—we refused promises, we set defenses against attachments, our beliefs abandoned their former starting points, we no longer followed the rules, we yearned for distant places. Life, so easily, shifts like the stars.
After settling into the accommodation and taking a hot shower to wash away the day's fatigue, I threw on a jacket and simply walked out to the yard to watch the scattered starlight reflecting off the earth. The whole world seemed to become a tranquil garden. My heart was still. Even my thoughts seemed frozen. He called, saying softly that he missed me very, very much... After I left, all he could still say to me were such obscure, unclear words. Apart from silence, I had nothing more to say in response. Because I knew this was never the answer I had been waiting for. Perhaps, even if I spent my whole life, I would never get that answer. Suddenly I had the urge to dial your number. My finger reached the last key, but in the end I gave up. I looked up at the sky. To see if you were there. To see how I, under this sky full of stars, could smile instead of weep. The "Tujia Mountain Village" backpacker inn is located in the Yuanjiajie Scenic Area, the core scenic area of the beautiful Zhangjiajie National Forest Park, at the top of a mountain at an altitude of 1,000 meters, surrounded by lush greenery in all four seasons and fresh air. Staying here is like being in a fairyland on earth, far from the clamor and pollution of the city. If you, who have long lived in the city, choose to come here for leisure, it is also a great enjoyment in life, letting you truly realize that there really are places on earth where immortals live.
I think of how many beautiful roads we once walked together. I think of how many blue skies and white clouds we once saw together. I think of those days with you by my side, and so I imagine again—if only today I were walking this stretch of road with you, we would surely bicker endlessly, and I would surely act spoiled endlessly, complaining about being tired, sunburned, thirsty, hot, sore, and then climb onto your back and make you carry me.
Outside the window the temperature was very low. The sky was very gray. As gray as tonight's mood. My heart—ached, ached so much... Yes, yes, it was I who made myself so unlovable; by what right then did I demand to be loved for long and long? Standing alone under this lonely starry sky, carrying sorrow and joy unknown to anyone, a voice drifted into my ears from the wind: "My dear, at this moment, where are you..." Thinking of a beloved person in a strange place, my eyes were already wet: there was no warm shoulder for me to lean on, and that gaze had already gone who knows where...
Inside the room, my classmates were gathered around the stove warming themselves, drinking, and playing games. I pulled up a chair and drew close to the crowd. Time flew by quickly in the game "007." Carrying my longing for you and a face full of drunkenness, I sank into deep sleep. The alcohol in my stomach kept burning, never extinguishing, like loneliness. Mottled light shone on the late winter and early spring hour. Love being forgotten and dismantled is beyond our control.
Roaming Tianzi Mountain
Waking the next day, the sky was already bright. After lazily washing up and finishing a hearty breakfast, we began our tour of Tianzi Mountain. Our group faced the wind, braved the rain, and with resounding steps set off along Yuanjiajie.
Unlike viewing the summit from the foot of the mountain at Golden Whip Stream, Yuanjiajie gives a completely commanding, overlooking feeling, and truly reveals Zhangjiajie's grandeur and majesty. Walking along the path on Yuanjiajie, there is endless scenery to admire all the way. The famous Number One Bridge Under Heaven is right here. If the weather were good, this would absolutely be a place that devours camera memory. Unfortunately, the roads were slippery in the rain and voices clamored; we skimmed the surface and passed by in a hurried glance. One more thing worth mentioning: in recent years Zhangjiajie has invested especially heavily in advertising in South Korea, thus attracting many Korean tourists every year. Zhangjiajie's shops, scenic area signs, and road signs all have Chinese and Korean annotations. As we walked, more than 90% of the tour groups of threes and fives coming toward us were speaking Korean, giving us the illusion that we had arrived at some scenic spot in Korea. What is the point of saying all this? In some consumption venues in the scenic area, a large portion of prices are marked for Koreans to see—bluntly put, they are specially set up to fleece Koreans. Therefore, we tourists must absolutely not spend blindly, and should make full use of our language advantage to bargain with the vendors.
Past the Number One Bridge Under Heaven is the parking lot. There are many parking lots on Zhangjiajie's mountains, with many environmentally friendly buses inside. They depart at fixed intervals and reach designated scenic spots. All such buses on the mountain are free. Braving the wind, we squeezed through the crowd onto the bus heading for Tianzi Mountain.
Half an hour later we arrived at Tianzi Mountain. In Helong Park on the mountain there is a statue of He Long, and everyone went up one after another to take photos with Marshal He Long. The mist in the sky still had not dispersed. Tianzi Mountain was already before our eyes, yet it still shyly hid behind the clouds, unwilling to show itself—and this is precisely the most beautiful and most longed-for scenery.
Coming to Zhangjiajie, one cannot miss Tianzi Mountain, because standing atop Tianzi Mountain and looking down upon the vast world, that magnificent scene is truly extraordinary. Within the park, such grand sights as Shentang Bay, Yubi Peak, West Sea, and Fairy Presenting Flowers are numerous, all stirring the heart. Tianzi Mountain is the most captivating mountain in Zhangjiajie, with an altitude of 1,260 meters. It is named because during the Hongwu period of the Ming Dynasty, Prince Xiang (Xiang Dakun) gathered his forces here to rebel against the Ming. It is interdependent with the Zhangjiajie National Forest Park and Suoxiyu Nature Reserve that I passed through earlier, and especially by virtue of its high position it looks proudly down upon all the others. Hence the local sayings: "To see mountains, see Tianzi Mountain; having seen Tianzi Mountain, see no other mountains under heaven," and "Without touring Tianzi Mountain, one has wasted a trip to Wulingyuan."
Today happened to be rainy and foggy weather, and this place became a sea of clouds, known as the West Sea. I really wish the West Sea were a real sea, for then I would plunge into it and embrace these peaks, one by one, so lifelike yet so illusory, full of spiritual energy.
In the afternoon the weather began to gradually improve, and the sun came out to greet everyone. Thus a whole day was spent soaking in Tianzi Mountain. Night fell, the birds were returning to their nests, and we too followed the road back to our lodging. The road stretched far ahead and behind the car, and the vehicle wound around one mountain top after another, as if there were no end. The altitude also began to rise gradually, and the ringing in my ears grew more and more serious. I had to repeatedly move my jaw up and down and swallow saliva to reduce the impact of air pressure on my eardrums. The scenery outside the window flew past, and the only thing I remember is those high and low, layer upon layer, undulating mountain ridges. The arrival of night like this made me hold my breath in excitement, listening to this voice that leads to the soul... The rain came, drumming on the car window, drumming out a passionate rhythm, drumming on our youth...
Daring the Perilous Wulong Village
Today was the last day on the mountain. After breakfast we continued on the final leg of the journey. After completing the perilous Wulong Village, we split into two groups. I joined the ZN group and began a tough and lengthy hike. The whole morning we crawled along mountain paths, from one mountain top to another, up to the summit and down to the valley floor, and finally up to Yibu Dengtian. The whole way down was not too tiring—at least our usual exercise had not been wasted. Especially Nuanxin, that tireless creature—I admired her to the utmost.
At noon, the warm sunshine, though not quite satisfying, was pleasant. The air was so pure it seemed like being on another planet. Every time I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, it felt as if I were drawing it into my very heart. Although sweat soaking through my whole body was a little unsettling, as soon as the wind blew I immediately felt refreshed and joyful. My entire body breathed, walked, and thought to a single rhythm. My lungs no longer breathed independently and unconsciously, but were trained to coordinate with my thoughts and limbs.
At 3 p.m. we descended to Golden Whip Stream. The sunlight flickered in and out, refracting prismatic shadows of time among the deep, solemn mountains. In the depths of the dried-up gorge, occasionally clear, icy stream water slowly drew a weak, delicate thread through the vast ravine under the silent sky. It was as if mysterious gazes sharply cut through all the stillness, crossing over from the surrounding peaks, standing speechless. The wind blew boldly past, and the whole world was so quiet that only the sounds of nature remained. The soft water and the layered rocks gently embraced each other, quietly reading one another. The secluded blue and the elegant green mysteriously blended in the transparent water, and occasionally strings of strange little bubbles rose lightly from beneath the water—slowly upward, then dissipating—enacting the gaze from birth to death. Like a strange afternoon essay, it made me think of a beautiful, lonely woman who came to keep a promise for a past life.
At 4 p.m. we arrived back on time at the entrance of Zhangjiajie National Forest Park and found Driver Li and Driver Zeng, whom we had not seen for two days, along with the vehicle that had carried us all along. Back in my seat, quietly recalling these three days, I suddenly realized that all my words had become pale and powerless at this moment. In life, there will always be some special beauty that arrives when you least expect it; in life, there will always be some unique traces that make you miss them as if you could never forget a person. When they become passersby in life, they will never become mere passing clouds in memory.
At 6 p.m. we came down the mountain, got our luggage, and boarded the vehicle. Sister Liu had already found us food—authentic farmhouse cooking, the most indulgent meal of all. The seven-day itinerary thus came to an end. As the city lights came on, we set out on the road home!
Begin, end. Then begin again, and end again... Life, in fact, is just such a repeated cycle. We said goodbye to Sister Liu, who had taken careful care of us for the past few days. In the misty rain, I seemed to see once more the busy figure of the Tujia mountain village proprietress.
The vehicle drove out of Zhangjiajie. Finally, after Roman took a photo of my awful sleeping posture, everyone fell asleep, and only the two driver brothers remained focused on driving. The rain beat on the car window with a swishing sound........