There are some travel experiences where a generous load of Rock's hype is needed to justify the blog entry. Then there are those experiences where the written word (or at least Rock's crude attempt) is barely sufficient to capture the grandure of the scenery. Then there are those experiences where neither words nor photos are adequate. And then there's the Leaping Tiger Gorge.
Much like this blog, the boundary between myth and reality is blurred. A long time ago in... no I won't go there... A long time ago, a mighty tiger is said to have leaped over the raging torrent, from one towering cliff face to the other. Someone with poetic license on par with your author witnessed this epic feat, and came up with the startlingly original Leaping Tiger moniker. Aeons later, scores of tack merchants are forever gratefully as they flog of crappy silk 'paintings' of fearsome tigers to busloads of eager tourists. But before you get the wrong idea, no we weren't on one of those buses, chugging along the new tourist road, only disgorging their cargo at key 'photo stops'. No, for your adventures, it was a different road. A road less travelled. A road that would take 2 days of brutal slog up vertical cliff faces, along deadly precipices, across waterfalls and through the clouds of shangri-la... 20km, 12 hours and 1 egg plant hot pot later, this is their story:
Day 1: The Path with 28 Bends
There were four of them in the party. A strange white man who pounds away furiously at a mysterious Berry, the likes of which don't grow in these parts. Then there was his companion, who looks like a local but who's time in far away lands has shaped her ways. And there was their fellow traveller, a man who shared the common desire to escape the generic road. Last, there was the surefooted guide, a local of the Naxi race who was born to stride the mountains of Yunnan.
But since this isn't the manual for a World of Warcraft expansion, let's get back to the story. The trek begins in the foothills of the gorge. An easy path through picturesque terraces of rice paddys dotted with the occasional stone farm house. The odd donkey carrying sacks of rice or baskets of veges meanders by. Gradually though, the idyllic country scene is left behind as the path winds its way up into the shear stone cliffs that tower over the young Yangzee River far below. Suddenly the side of the trail drops away to reveal a dizzing drop to the now raging river. On the other side of the trail the jutting cliffs continue their almost infinite climb to the misty heavens. A mere half a meter of slippery stone ledge is all that separates the trekers from the murderous stones over 300 metres below. A slow single file shuffle, carefully testing each stone before commiting one's weight - and indeed life - to the next step, is the only way to proceed. This is China - there are no safety rails and certainly no hope of a rescue.
Hours later, the torturous path continues upwards in a series of 28 hairpin bends that zigzag up the almost vertical cliff face. The altitude is around 2600 metres now. Looking across the gorge, the vista is epic. The pinnacles of stone tower vertically up from the white spray of the maelstrom at their base, their peaks masked by tendrils of fog that cling to the nooks and crannies of their scared facades.
The rain, which started as a light drizzle, has picked up by this point making the path even more trecherous. After 4 hours of backbreaking slog, the sactuary of the Halfway Guesthouse is still over 2 hours away. With daylight already long gone and a murky darkness rapidly encroaching, the race to safety is on. Finally, through the mist the welcoming lights of the inn appear and minutes later the weary, drenched travellers gratefully drop their packs. The guesthouse is picture-perfect. A series of traditional wooden buildings perched on the edge of the cliff, with a balconey overlooking the mighty gorge. Being above cloud level, the whole structure seems to float in the sky, especially as dusk fades to darkness.
Dinner is served in the dining room perched over the gorge. The chill in the air at this altitude is biting, but the pot of hot coals placed at the weary travellers aching feet is pure heaven. As is the steaming array of stir fried veges and crispy pork. A couple of hot pots of steaming soup and a plate of fried eggplant later, the tribulations of 6 hours at the mercy of mother nature are long forgotten.
Day 2: Descending into the Depths
A quick wok-fried egg and a steaming mug of hot goats milk, gulped down while huddling around a glowing coal fire, marks the bleary-eyed start to day 2 on the road. After the brutal ascent of yesterday, the trail mercifully heads downwards. But much like the emperors of old, the mercy is shortlived. The first challenge of the day is a waterfall that cascades directly over the stone ledge that masquerades as the trail. The torrent of white water plummets down from the sky, its origin lost in the misty clouds, and after washing across the trail continues its downwards plunge into the depths of the gorge. This isn't a movie so there's no miraculous path behind the wall of water. No, the only way forward is cling to the slippery stones and wade through the torrent. Exhillerating.
From there, the trail continues its meteoric descent with little respite. A vertical kilometer below, the bottom of the gorge beckons. The overnight rain has made the already tenuous trail a deadly slide of loose stone and mud. The descent is painstakingly slow - a scramble down almost vertical stairs carved into the very face of the cliff.
Finally, the roar of the river reaches deafening levels, and the weary party reaches the bottom after 2 hours slipping and sliding downwards. What will eventually be the mighty Yangzee is now a ferocious stretch of white water rapids, pummelling the ancient cliffs on either side. Carefully navigating the maze of rock falls that punctuate the torrent, the trekers reach the very edge of the thunderous river. Unbelievable. I'm not sure if the are any English words to express the scene. Judging by the awestruck silence, neither are there in Mandarin.
Nonetheless, victory was not quite achieved, for the finale of the long march was perhaps the most challenging of all - the final ascent back up to the road and civilisation. They call it the Sky Ladder. A series of vertical stairs carved into the cliff face, culminating in a rickety steel ladder, stretching up almost 60m. Held in place only by a few cables and only strong enough to support one person at a time, this was the final challenge. The rungs - mere cross-bars of steel tubing - were slippery from mist, and the concave cliff-face meant the ladder was suspended in space with the void gaping over 200m below. By the top third of the ladder one's legs are shaking from the exertion and the sheer terror of losing grip on the feeble cables that act as hand holds.
But the drama is lessened by the fact you're reading this so evidently no one plunged to their death. Although as the guide pointed out (thankfully at the end of the journey) plenty who came before have met their deaths on the jagged stones below, and plenty more will in the future. But for this party victory was sweet. Ice cold Coka Cola sweet. The ubiquitous mastercard ad is overused, but as they say, singing happy birthday to your travelling companion in a mixture of english, chinglish, mandarin and naxi, on the final ascent after conquoring one of the world's truely great treks, is priceless. Absolutely priceless.
Regards,
Rochester Cahan
--------------------------
Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Handheld
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment