So far as I can tell the Chinese word for both "climb" and "crawl" is the same. When Fiona and I went hiking a mountain last weekend, the distinction made little difference, for half the time it seemed we were crawling up slippery rock, or wobbling cross rotting bamboo-and-nail bridges, or pulling ourselves up difficult paths by knotted ropes.
It began simply enough, passing through campgrounds on paved roads, then for a short time on a logging trail. But then, turning abruptly into the weird mixture of tropical forest, bamboo, and black rock we began a more direct and rocky ascent. Our group consisted of a very fine mixture of folks--some authentic, experienced hikers (you could easily see it in their careless grins) a family with a teenage girl, a very unhappy looking twenty-something girl, Fiona and I, and a 75-year-old man, who looked like it might be his first mountain hike (yet maybe not his last). I was too excited taking photos at every turn (the only person so inclined) and since we were in no hurry, we were mostly at the back of the pack with the unhappy twenty-something, the man, and a guy with very serious knee supports who every once in a while stopped stock-still as if listening, his front leg perched upon a rock, heroically. At first I thought he might be listening intently, or simply consuming nature with his senses, but I think it was just that he was taking breaks, every now and then.
A bamboo forest is odd. Like a pine forest, it admits only its own kind and its own ecosystem, completely contained and in an equilibrium of silence so deep that it extends and permeates. I've heard before that bamboo may be thought of us a reminder to prudence, or diligence, as it never extends so far without first putting another support. And yet, as I gazed high above, these crazy reeds have grown so tall that their very weight pulls themselves back into lovely curves that are easily, freely tossed by the winds. And then again, should we not reflect on the human result of prudence?
As we climbed higher, mountain mist began moving past us, sending a chill not dissimilar to that winter fragrance of snow, a sensation of cleanness and spiritual cold. When we finally reached the ridge of the mountain, we were already surrounded by a mist so thick it just as easily could be called fog. And as we walked I could not help feeling troubled and lost, as if this were a mythical land. Sounds just around the bend were lost, yet those sounds from the town below could, at times, be distinctly heard. Also distance and perspective collapsed and were confused. It was hard to tell how far we had gone, whether we were still had to go up or go down. And when I looked off either side of the trail, the most troubling thing yet (especially on these wet rocks) was an interminable near-drop. When the fogs parted sometimes you could see for a long distance straight down and yet not see the bottom. On the other side a misty bamboo forest that also receded almost vertically away. It seemed we were walking upon a series of rock platforms unsupported by earth of this world, and it continued on, and on, and on, until the ennui of the situation completely overshadowed its complete mystery.
We met finally, all together at the top, drank some cheap oolong tea, and descended again, a journey that seemed twice as long as the original.
Look at my photo album for photos of the trip.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Dream 10/01
(Note: original copy mislaid elsewhere.)
It was a day above and beyond to linger upon the sidewalks half-way sighing at the sky, wander down the Plinko streets to where long grasses swayed near the seashore, boarding this useless and picturesque town. There was a cool way to the light and of breathing that suggested spring instead of troubled fall (the days we have been having—it’s been enough—like corpses slowly rotting, blotting out the sun and getting down on all of us). There were a group of four people—at first I thought they were men—but actually at least half of them were women. Most of them were carrying black diving suits with masks, and tanks and flippers and they too were going to the shore.
We tarried on together and though my interest was idle, theirs was a freakish calm of anticipation. Only when we looked past the dunes did I too get infected with their thoughts: below me the sand, the water rinsing out and churning and then in the distance like I’ve never seen before these ancient, volcanic islands, this morning so clear as I’ve never seen, and now I knew truly the effect upon these people. This was not one rare day in Fall but one rare day in a decade. But while comparing decades one might as well be prepared to say that it was a rare decade among decades, and so on. A day like this might never come again. Or if it did, one might sleep through it next time.
We got on a boat and I got to know a little bit about my companions, though as I did I grew less and less at ease at our tight group and wished to be alone. One lady with stringy red hair embarrassed me when I tried to strike up a conversation by blurting out she hadn’t spoken English in twenty-three years. Perhaps she had forgotten most of our important syntax, pronunciation, and usage during that time because her English was horrible, enough so that it justified us not attempting to speak again. Another lady I saw was captured in spirit. I questioned her as to what it was. When she replied—satisfactory to anyone else—I said, “Why is that?” When she reweighed her thoughts she responded with another adequate suggestion but I persisted, “and why is that?” “Why it’s God,” she cried, finally. I said, almost triumphantly, almost swelling at the climax, “and what is that?” She said, annoyed, “It’s just a feeling, okay?” And that was all and we all wished to be parted from each other.
That was not the worst part. Upon one of the splendid islands, I searched for entry onto a secret beach. On this side there was a fence, and so I retraced my steps back up a long hill to where a road was. The road was gated, so I retraced my steps down the hill again to where a house was and where other people were lingering. Someone said, angrily, “There’s no way to get to the beaches.” It looked to be a tavern of sorts and a lady was at the door, black hair and quiet to the reproaches directed at her and pretty in this specific way. We knew that the only way to the beach was through this woman’s house and yard and to be blocked by a wire fence was just unacceptable. “It’s private property,” she said. But no one really owned the islands did they?—and who was she to put down markers upon such a perfect day? “It’s not fair,” someone cried, “it’s just not fair!” The crowd became more and more angry at the injustice. I thought they might do something violent, and, in fact, I started to run away. I stopped when I realized what I could do. “What is wrong here,” I cried, mightily, “is not to be solved like this, here by you—but later in a court of law where it might be properly judged. What are you going to do—kill the lady because you couldn’t have a swim?” I thought I was clever and perhaps I was. I ushered some people away and I thought I saw the lady smiling at me, warmly, or was it with self-satisfaction?
She had slid free, and another set of sea washed-up warn-out city dwellers had dissipated and wandered away. Such verdicts are never gained, for these islands melt into the fog, lost for unendurable ages, this woman, her smile and all.
It was a day above and beyond to linger upon the sidewalks half-way sighing at the sky, wander down the Plinko streets to where long grasses swayed near the seashore, boarding this useless and picturesque town. There was a cool way to the light and of breathing that suggested spring instead of troubled fall (the days we have been having—it’s been enough—like corpses slowly rotting, blotting out the sun and getting down on all of us). There were a group of four people—at first I thought they were men—but actually at least half of them were women. Most of them were carrying black diving suits with masks, and tanks and flippers and they too were going to the shore.
We tarried on together and though my interest was idle, theirs was a freakish calm of anticipation. Only when we looked past the dunes did I too get infected with their thoughts: below me the sand, the water rinsing out and churning and then in the distance like I’ve never seen before these ancient, volcanic islands, this morning so clear as I’ve never seen, and now I knew truly the effect upon these people. This was not one rare day in Fall but one rare day in a decade. But while comparing decades one might as well be prepared to say that it was a rare decade among decades, and so on. A day like this might never come again. Or if it did, one might sleep through it next time.
We got on a boat and I got to know a little bit about my companions, though as I did I grew less and less at ease at our tight group and wished to be alone. One lady with stringy red hair embarrassed me when I tried to strike up a conversation by blurting out she hadn’t spoken English in twenty-three years. Perhaps she had forgotten most of our important syntax, pronunciation, and usage during that time because her English was horrible, enough so that it justified us not attempting to speak again. Another lady I saw was captured in spirit. I questioned her as to what it was. When she replied—satisfactory to anyone else—I said, “Why is that?” When she reweighed her thoughts she responded with another adequate suggestion but I persisted, “and why is that?” “Why it’s God,” she cried, finally. I said, almost triumphantly, almost swelling at the climax, “and what is that?” She said, annoyed, “It’s just a feeling, okay?” And that was all and we all wished to be parted from each other.
That was not the worst part. Upon one of the splendid islands, I searched for entry onto a secret beach. On this side there was a fence, and so I retraced my steps back up a long hill to where a road was. The road was gated, so I retraced my steps down the hill again to where a house was and where other people were lingering. Someone said, angrily, “There’s no way to get to the beaches.” It looked to be a tavern of sorts and a lady was at the door, black hair and quiet to the reproaches directed at her and pretty in this specific way. We knew that the only way to the beach was through this woman’s house and yard and to be blocked by a wire fence was just unacceptable. “It’s private property,” she said. But no one really owned the islands did they?—and who was she to put down markers upon such a perfect day? “It’s not fair,” someone cried, “it’s just not fair!” The crowd became more and more angry at the injustice. I thought they might do something violent, and, in fact, I started to run away. I stopped when I realized what I could do. “What is wrong here,” I cried, mightily, “is not to be solved like this, here by you—but later in a court of law where it might be properly judged. What are you going to do—kill the lady because you couldn’t have a swim?” I thought I was clever and perhaps I was. I ushered some people away and I thought I saw the lady smiling at me, warmly, or was it with self-satisfaction?
She had slid free, and another set of sea washed-up warn-out city dwellers had dissipated and wandered away. Such verdicts are never gained, for these islands melt into the fog, lost for unendurable ages, this woman, her smile and all.
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