Ferocious Shot, Straight Up

Up in the morning.  The Mrs. had closed the shades or I’d have been up earlier.  At 8:30Am this little hotel my son had chose, knocked on the door to deliver the breakfast. My wife pointed out that we had a little table on a porch with a lovely view of Song Shan, the navel of the Middle Kingdom.   I’ve been avoiding breakfasts the last seven months but today, before a climb up and down the mountain, some breakfast seemed like a good move. And, as I’ve learned over twenty years, when given the choice, take the Chinese breakfast over the Chinese prepared “western breakfast” option. 

We walked up the road toward the ticket booth and someone was singing local Luoyang opera. Luoyang Dagu.  (Zhou Enlai is apparently responsible for naming it, that busy Premier.)  I commented at the time on when it might be that China would rise up against noise pollution. “We Chinese deserve better!”  Throughout the day, all along this remarkable mountain we were confronted with aural assaults the completely compromised any possibilities of serenity. 

The pathway up starts gentle enough with gradual steps that rise across the plane beneath the enormous cliffside.  We passed one and then another temple that was boarded up for repairs.  Deceptively early we reached a sign that suggested we’d already risen seven hundred meters and still had seven hundred to go.  Staring up at the white mountain I was quietly suspicious of everyone’s excitement that we were this far along.

Up to the right we could see a temple by the base of the cliffs.  To get there, the steps became steeper. Psychologically the steps are most difficult when they rise up before you without any break.  This sort of uninterrupted plodding immediately brought to mind what was probably the most grueling of all the Wu Yue climbs:  Tai Shan, which has one such broad white series of steps carved into the mountain’s final summit. 

From one temple we could spy another.  And from there, you must know you are close, is what one thinks.  I went ahead, pounding my way up counting thirty stairs at a time before allowing myself to look up.  And before too long I’d reach the next mountain pavilion.  From here was a ferocious shot, straight up of at least two hundred steps.  I waited for a while but with no one from my party coming, I eventually just reckoned to take it on.  Up into the mountains, on parallel with surrounding cliff summits we then had to cross left and turn cross right, straight, cross left and pound my way up, marveling that my body still worked as well as it did, tired, but not hopelessly so, I eventually came to the crest of the hill.  And from here there was another deceptively long path, along a gradual but tiring progression of stairs, up and up, past one and other pavilion, young people eating instant noodles on benches and then finally, trailing a father and son team, I made it to the top of Mount Song. 

My shirt was completely drenched and soon the heat, faded, as I knew it would, and things became cold.  It would be another hour before my older daughter arrived and a full two hours before the whole party made it up.  Exhausted, not only from the climb but from the sound of the fake coo-coo that played over and over at the top, warning people about safety, the way down was much less difficult on the heart, but far more bruising on the legs.  Now the girls could fly ahead, bounding down two steps at a time.  While I carefully made my way.  We were lost for a bit, when we’d tried a disparate pathway but eventually reunited with the main path and undid the long climb up with hands tight on the railing, marveling at the cliffs in the afternoon light and trying to recall the first midway point when we were likely to find cars with a local taxi service. 

Saturday 4/20/19