Straight Up a Mountain: Gaoligongshan

Our last major hike in China is our most intense: Gaoligongshan, straight up a mountain and back down the other side. It’s a through hike with our packs on, and the elevation will be above 10,000 feet. The trail is a section of the old Southern Silk Road, paved in 400 B.C. It was the site of some fighting between Japan and China in World War II.

The way to Gaoligongshan’s trailhead is an adventure in its own right. Ert has booked a taxi, which shows up as scheduled at 7am on the dot. The five of us pile into the sedan with the driver, and we’re off in the gray morning light.

This story is the continuation of a series that begins here.

Ert and the driver have agreed on a price, but it’s soon clear that the driver does not know how to get where we’re going.

After an hour or so in the right general direction, the driver stops by a store and asks directions. The woman points. We drive on.

In a town, we get more directions. We turn and drive through a market street, honking to move all the pedestrians.

The driver stops and asks directions again from a man on a motorcycle. The man points back, and we ride through the market again, looking with covetous eyes at the steaming bao zi (stuffed buns) out the window.

The driver begins to stop to ask directions of every person he passes.

Eventually, we arrive at a bumpy dirt road. A family is standing outside in the cold, sipping tea in the early morning. Our driver stops to ask directions.

The conversation intensifies, and the driver parks the car, stepping out. One of the women outside, uninterested in the discussion, pokes her baby’s face in our car window so he can see white people.

After a while, we get out of the car too. It’s cold, but it’s good not to be squished together anymore. We dig in packs for more food and put on more layers.

When I turn around, the baby has been thrust into Jon’s arms, and smartphones are out for pictures with the family. The baby is as stunned as Jon. He passes the baby to me, and I hold him awkwardly as we obligingly pose with the group.

A truck pulls up, and its driver joins the conversation with alacrity. Rick passes out little oranges, which we peel with cold hands while waiting for the rapid Mandarin to subside.

An old woman appears from down the road, hears about our mountain destination, and urgently plucks at her coat, gesturing to me. “Leng, leng!” she repeats. Cold! She says a lot more things, and I pick out “wai tao”: coat. I reassure her as best I can: “wo men you wai tao,” I say, pointing to our packs. We have coats! She shakes her head at our foolishness.

Evidently, the road ahead will be too much of a challenge for our city taxi. Motorcycles are suggested, but the obvious contender is the truck.

The truck driver knows he’s the only option, so he sets a very high rate. But it’s rural China, so it’s not a terrible burden for us– poverty level around here is about $1 USD/day.

We pile into the cab of the truck: the three guys on the back bench, Eileen and I in the front seat. I don’t really fit on the seat with her, so I brace with one arm on the headrest and the other on the dashboard. I lean forward so my head doesn’t hit the windowframe.

We pick up another passenger, a friend of the driver’s. He squeezes into the back so they’re four across.

The road bumps mercilessly. As everywhere in China, there is construction in progress. The truck neatly skirts villagers carrying rocks and pouring cement to line the road. People don’t pause in their cement mixing endeavors, but some of their eyes follow us as we drive through. Some piles of gravel cover most of the road, so the truck drives over parts of them.

We emerge, after much bouncing, on smoother pavement. The new-looking road winds up to our trailhead: a ranger station that is very clearly closed. Ert bargains with the driver for some lighters for us to carry just in case of an emergency campsite, and the driver and friend wish us good luck and good health before setting off.

Inauspiciously, we false start. We misread the first signpost and descend for fully fifteen minutes before realizing our mistake and returning to the trailhead.

People in China don’t generally hike for pleasure, so I’m surprised by the thorough and modern signage along the trail. Not only are there signposts for the trail, but sites of historical interest are marked out along the whole path in both Mandarin and English.

We see no one. Our group spaces out along the steep and steady climb until I hear only the chitter-echo of birds.

We ignore the sign that urges us to hold our breaths and pass quickly, but avail ourselves of the labeled “Back-up stone” on which you are meant to sit to release the spirits of “Soft-feet ghosts” which, according to legend, make your feet feel soft and your back ache.

It takes only three hours for us to summit. The altitude is palpable, but the sunshine is warm. Injudiciously, we loll on the grass for half an hour. It’s too pleasant to pass quickly.

We start down the other side of the mountain. There’s a commodious stone complex called the South Alms House, which used to give succor to travelers in need of rescue. It’s empty now, and we poke around and joke about sleeping here if we don’t find our way to a village by nightfall.

We’re not seriously concerned. We’ve made good time thus far, and at two in the afternoon, it’s windless and sunny. I expect us to arrive by six in the evening, an hour before sunset.

We go downhill for a few hours, appropriating walking sticks from the forest to lessen the stress on our knees.

One part of the trail is called Heavy Wind Hill. It’s still when we get there, but there is evidence of prior landslides. In some places, the trail is wiped out and there is a path around. In others, we are obliged to scramble through downed trees.

The way down is much longer than the way up. By the time we emerge onto a road, we have been hiking for eight and a half hours in steep terrain with packs.

We don’t really have a map, since the trail was supposed to be well signed (and is, for the most part). But there’s a choice between a paved road and a trail that looks like the paving stones we’ve been hiking on.

We try the paving stone path, which runs cliffside. I think it’s right, but it has fallen into disuse. We abort and hike back up. This time, we take the road.

It is jarring to see people after all day alone. But just down the road, on the benches of a bird blind, sit a cluster of men in fatigues. They have a fire with a kettle, and they’re smoking and laughing.

It is riotously funny for them to see a group of white backpackers emerge out of a trail at dusk. They are duly impressed that we have come from Tengchong. They request a group picture. Then they tell us, to our relief, that the village we seek is just three kilometers down the road.

The sun is setting for the final stretch, and a road that feeds into ours carries the traffic of locals coming home. Several motorbikes and scooters carry long-haired young women downhill. They giggle at our greetings, some knowing the word “hi”.

We have a reservation for a guesthouse somewhere in the town, but we aren’t sure how to find it- especially now that it’s dark. But on the left side of the road we’ve been watching people laughing in lit outdoor areas, and we decide we’d better join the party.

We trudge up towards the lights, our mouths watering. A man appears, and it’s like a miracle: yes, they have food. Yes, they have rooms. He leads us through the courtyard and opens doors to hotel rooms with hot showers and rich furniture. We’re to come to dinner when we’re ready.

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