“When Pangu, the ancestor of all things, died, his head turned into Mount Tai, his belly turned into the Central Mountain, his left arm turned into the South Mountain, his right arm turned into the North Mountain and his feet turned into the West Mountain. Mount Tai thus has become the head of all mountains.”
-Chinese mythology
“To get rich is glorious.”
-Deng Xiaoping, 1993
One culture, five thousand years of uninterrupted history. I can’t get my mind around it. What does it mean? What is it like for an individual to grow up in a culture carrying so much shared history on its collective shoulders? Change is the norm; nothing lasts forever. Great Walls are built to keep out invaders, then become tourist magnets, drawing people in from all over the world. Centuries of xenophobia are shed and replaced by subjugation and exploitation by those who were previously kept out, which is followed by another period in which the doors to the outside world slam tightly shut again. Compact and lively old neighborhoods are razed and replaced with wide avenues and sterile high-rises. Mythology mixes with the contemporary. Enemies become role models. So China seems to me after a few days in its densely populated Northeast.
John and I have been touring China for six days, “touring” as in being escorted from place to place on large busses with twenty-five people who we have never before met and probably will never see again. After traveling independently through twenty countries in the past five years, this is our first escorted tour, and, with any luck, our last for a very long time. Until now we have spent most of the trip in the political and tourist capital of China – Beijing. China is changing rapidly; nowhere is this more evident than Beijing. The city is undergoing a makeover on a scale rarely seen in the modern world, partly in response to stunning economic growth and partly to prepare for the 2008 Olympics.
As China becomes wealthier, cars replace bicycles and mopeds on the city’s streets, leaving chaos and choking pollution in its wake. The only consistent rule on the streets seems to be that size matters – smaller vehicles must yield to bigger vehicles or get crushed. Traffic signals, like international copyright laws, are widely ignored. Bicycles and mopeds go anywhere, including sidewalks and opposite traffic on one-way streets. Perhaps the chaos fails to penetrate the consciousness of the Chinese in the same way it does me. In this country, personal space is smaller than my comfort zone, in fact, nearly non-existent. Pushing through crowds to the front of lines is the norm; staring is not a social faux pas. I find the differences in social norms and personal boundaries unnerving. I am from the American Midwest. We are nice, considerate people. We do not push our way into lines, and we do not stare (openly). After just a few days in the country, my partner and I are ready for a break from modern China. Lucky for us, our wish is soon to be granted. We are going to climb Tài Shan.
Tài Shan is legendary in China. Upon arrival at the summit, Confucius is reputed to have said: “The world is small.” Emperors visited Tài Shan for divine validation, although few actually climbed it. And from Tài Shan, Mao exclaimed “The East is Red!” Tài Shan is the highest peak on the east coast of China. Legend has it that the mountain was formed from the head of Pangu, the ancient God who was the creator of the universe. Because ancient Taoists believed that life began in the east, daylight gracing Tài Shan came to be revered as the symbolic beginning of life. Seeing the sun rise from the top of the mountain continues to be an important ritual for many climbers. Some pilgrims climb through the cold of the night to reach the summit in time for sunrise. Alternatively, one can experience the sunrise quite comfortably today, as numerous guesthouses offer overnight accommodations on the summit. We expect to see the sunrise from Tài Shan but not from the summit.
We overnight in the town of Tai’an, the town at the foot of Tài Shan. “Tai’an is a small city”, our guide, Han, tells us. He is not entirely wrong. Away from the historic center Tai’an is a sprawling mass of factories, concrete high rises, and islands of sparkling new developments the size of Rhode Island, quickly swelling the city from several hundred thousand residents to nearly five million, or roughly the size of Houston, America’s fourth largest city. Not too bad for a small city. The older part of the city, however, is compact, with markets on nearly every block. We browse through markets specializing in flower and garden items, women’s clothing, children’s clothing, prepared foods, and fresh foods. The old city is eminently walkable, at least until it is time to cross one of the main roads. Like Beijing, the streets are clogged with mopeds, cars, and bicycles that never stop moving.
Out for an exploratory walk in the afternoon, we spot a store we want to visit. Unfortunately, the store is on the other side of the road and our only path is via a crosswalk painted in the middle of the street two blocks from the nearest traffic light. We pause, the traffic loud and relentless in front of us, feeling a mixture of curiosity and panic. We watch other people’s strategy for getting to the other side. The trick appears to be maintaining a slow but steady pace and keeping your eyes focused on the vehicles that come closest to you. Fearlessness also helps. Taking a deep breath, we look into each other’s eyes in case this is our last chance to do so, and take our first tentative steps into the street. As our feet hit the pavement and we enter the first lane, traffic slows and gently bends around us. This is like magic to me. Bolstered with confidence that we may not die today after all, at least not crossing this street, we proceed steadily the rest of the way across six traffic lanes and safely reach the other side of the street, feeling relieved yet strangely buzzed once we get there. In China, walking around town can be an extreme sport.
Safely back at our hotel, our attention turns back to the mountain. Our group is set to tour Tài Shan the modern way – by bus to the halfway point and then by cable car to the top. We are excited at the chance to visit Tài Shan but not excited by the planned method of ascent. The mountain now in view, we feel inspired to tackle the mountain in a more traditional way – walking. We ask our guide if there is time for us to hike up the mountain on our own and rendezvous with the group at the top. He seems resistant, but eventually he approves. Now we are really excited. Day seven is going to be our first chance to experience China away from the cocoon of our group, if only for a few hours.
“Ugh. Why are we doing this?” John asks, as we wake at five in the morning and the reality of the climb sinks in. We expect the climb to take between three and four hours, but this is only a rough guess. Our group will be at the summit between 9 and 11, so we have a fairly small window of opportunity to complete the hike in time to descend back down with our group. We save the shower for later and dress in a double layer of nearly everything. We finish packing our bags, leave them at the front desk and are out the door by six. It is still dark as we exit the hotel. The air is crisp and cold but mildly suffocating from the smog. We walk fifteen minutes uphill from the hotel to reach the trailhead. Tai’an is beginning to stir. Along the way we are passed by a few joggers, mostly men in their sixties or older, who are undeterred by the cool temperatures and air that is dominated by auto and moped exhaust infused with industrial smoke. We make a quick stop to stock up on snacks and bottled water, most of which we end up consuming in the first half of the climb.
One doesn’t exactly climb Tài Shan but rather walks up on a very long stone stairway. The first steps up the mountain were laid about one thousand years ago. Today, the 6600 stone steps to the South Gate of Heaven stretch over 4.7 miles, finishing about 2000 vertical feet above the starting point. In order to reach the summit, though, one must traverse another 600 steps. The walkway, though elegant, struck me initially as betraying a fundamental contradiction – stones laid by mortals to tame the mountain composed of the immortal Pangu.
The climb begins modestly at an ancient stone gate that is gracefully framed by an old, twisting cypress tree. A few small shops selling climbing essentials such as walking sticks, bottled water, bandanas, and t-shirts welcome visitors. We walk another fifteen minutes before we reach the ticket booth at the Number One Archway Under Heaven. After buying our tickets, we enter under the Archway, still being passed by a number of joggers. The valley is draped in a thin layer of fog, or smog, that is accented by the diffuse early morning light. Like the rest of China, the physical face of the mountain has changed over time. Temples have been built and destroyed, steps laid and replaced, calligraphy added. In recent years, the mountain has seen increasing commercial activity, again like China. I am relatively confident that neither Confucius nor Mao had the opportunity to buy a souvenir t-shirt.
The early section of the path winds gently through the valley, decorated by numerous inscriptions in Chinese calligraphy carved in the mountain’s stones. For all I know they read “This way up” but they are supposed to be inspirational quotes from one of the three major religions that revere this mountain and dominate the spiritual and philosophical life of the Chinese: Taoism, Buddhism, Confucianism. Like the Tao itself, I find myself contemplating the mysterious nature of the inscriptions, finally deciding that they are unknowable, to me, at least. As we amble along the path in the early morning, vendors set up their stands for the day, food cooks, and people sweep the path. Trees, adorned with dozens of red ribbons left behind by previous climbers, are shrouded by a thin layer of incense smoke from nearby temples. As the number of joggers diminishes, we find ourselves increasingly alone. It is remarkably easy to forget that we are hiking up a small mountain in the world’s most populous country. The gentleness of the climb, the crisp air, the calligraphy carved in stone, the smell of incense, and the utter solitude are intoxicatingly serene. If it is possible to be in a meditative state while walking, I am there. The solitude is only occasionally interrupted by other climbers.
One of these other climbers is a young man who appears to be pacing us. We slow our pace and allow him to catch up near a small temple, so can we chat with him. His simple English is far more effective than our three words of Chinese (ni hao
At 847 meters, we approach the halfway point, the “Midway Gate to Heaven”, and we encounter the steepest ascent to that point, although it is nothing compared to what we will scale later. We reach the Midway Gate around 7:30 and after the requisite pictures in front of the arch, we rest for about twenty minutes, snacking on what remains of the trail mix and granola bars. Our hiking buddy continues on alone but not before pointing us in the correct direction for the next leg of the hike. We will catch up with him again soon enough.
We also catch up with the crowds, or they catch up with us, just after the Midway Gate. In spite of the folklore about living to be one hundred if you climb Tài Shan, most people seem to prefer riding a bus to the halfway point, then walking the rest of the way. Maybe ‘climbing’ is defined liberally. We slink our way through the suddenly bustling crowd of climbers and increasingly aggressive vendors until the steps steepen and the crowds disperse along its length.
If the first half of the climb was serene and meditative, the second half is an ordeal. Whereas the first half graced us with long, gently sloping paths and few steep sections, the second half is the reverse. Stepping up and looking down are the standard motions. Plateaus for rest are increasingly rare. My thighs feel progressively tighter and heavier, my breathing labors. This fact is unceremoniously brought to my attention when a man who appears to be in his early seventies observes me leaning against a wall, panting. He pauses and offers me his walking stick. People around us struggle to contain their laughter. I smile, chuckle, and politely decline, then silently pledge to restart my running program when I got home. We meet up with the old guy again a few dozen steps later, and he insists that we pose for a picture with him. As this is our 312th time being asked to pose for pictures since our arrival in China, we dutifully oblige and smile. Westerners are still a novelty in China. After ducking out of the way of a concrete mixer coming down toward us carried by eight rather bored looking men, we reach the “Archway to Immortality.” According to ancient mythology, people who pass through the archway immediately become celestial beings. I am ready to settle for a little superhuman strength right now. Unfortunately, no such strength is forthcoming. We’ll see what happens with the immortality thing.
The Archway to Immortality also signals the start of the home stretch, “Heaven’s Ladder”, which is anything but divine to me. Lifting my legs is a full body workout. The top of the mountain, visible for some time, feels further away with each arduous step up. Yet, there is a palpable sense of group cohesion among the climbers, all no doubt experiencing the same pain as us, offering encouraging glances to propel each other to the top. I can see the pain and fatigue in the face of our friend, the guide from Shandong Province. The form of Buddhism that dominates in China, Mahayana, teaches that the fate of the individual is linked to the fate of others, and during the last stretch of the hike, I swear I feel like every step of mine also brings the other hikers one step closer to the top and vice versa. Instead of feeling burdened, I feel boosted. It does not matter that John and I are the only two Westerners in sight; we receive just as much non-verbal support as anyone else.
The South Gate of Heaven, my nirvana now, is visible just above us, resting stately on top of the mountain. The ending is within reach. I feel a burst of energy and with it renewed optimism. When I lift my exhausted body up that one final step and arrive on the plateau with the “South Gate of Heaven” (and throngs of people who arrived by cable car), I feel like Rocky Balboa knocking out Apollo Creed. I raise my arms in the air and start dancing around! (Where did this energy come from after 3 ½ hours of climbing??) We exchange high fives with our hiking buddy, who exclaims “Success!” That is the last we see of him. As we climb the remaining steps to the highest peak and the Taoist Jade Emperor Temple, I pass the old man who earlier offered me his walking stick. We smile at each other, and he winks.
See photos from Tài Shan below.
© Dean Klinkenberg, 2005
