The Lunar New Year had barely passed when Lao Cai started urging me to come to Wuhan. I got back there on the twelfth day of the first lunar month, and then Yan Cheng sent over a plan for a trip to Lushan. The itinerary was detailed enough to be tempting. I had nothing important on hand, so I rounded up about seven or eight people, we fixed a date, and set off. We borrowed a line for the trip: ridges fold into ridges; coming and going, no tracks remain.
We had all booked tickets for the 7:30 a.m. train. Lao Cai and I lost a little time over breakfast, then took a taxi to Wuchang Railway Station. When we got there, the train was more than an hour late. Lao Cai was sorry about that. The others drifted in one after another. Some had never met before, so there was a round of greetings and introductions: a friend I knew from Zhihu, my senior schoolmate, my classmate, and people from my computer association. Old Meng could not join us because of family matters. When we asked him, he said he would wait for warmer weather and pick a good day to go, so we did not push it. We just hoped to go together next time.
When we finally went through the gate and boarded, our eight tickets were not seated together—online booking had not given us consecutive seats—so we sat in twos and threes.
I sat with Lao Cai and my senior schoolmate. I had slept late the night before, so I dozed for a while, then chatted with her, ate something, and wandered between seats to see how everyone was doing. The three-hour ride went quickly. After all, I had once been on a 44-hour train, so this was nothing. Around noon we reached Lushan Station, only to learn that the real Lushan was still a good distance away. That was where the feeling behind 'I cannot know Lushan’s true face, only because I am in these mountains' began.
We spent a long stretch of the afternoon working out routes, searching maps, and checking guides. By evening we finally settled down and found a guesthouse with a bit of atmosphere. We put down our gear and our tiredness, then took a car straight to White Deer Grotto Academy, listed first among China’s four great academies. The layout was old and plain. There were statues of literary figures such as Zhu Xi and Zhou Dunyi. Farther in, we saw the old classroom desks, and the others could not resist playing teacher and student for a while, having a great time. Even more impressive were the stone steles. Each had a history. The calligraphy on them was beyond what ordinary people like us could match—ink left by literati of past dynasties, copied and carved into stone, genuinely precious. Calligraphy lovers might make rubbings there. We also heard there were white deer to see on the back hill, but it cost money, so we did not join the crowd.
That evening we went back to the guesthouse and ate together at a local restaurant, trying some local dishes. The small moods from the road had mostly worn off. Behind the little town rose the massive Wulao Peaks. As darkness came on, the place had a lingering air of something immortal. Before sleep we remembered the plan to get up early and watch the sunrise over Poyang Lake. The best spot was on Wulao Peaks, but we did not have the courage or preparation to climb up there. Instead we found a local reservoir with a distant view of Poyang Lake. The next morning we got up as agreed, shouldered the camera and tripod, and headed for the sunrise spot.
Unfortunately, just as the sky began to take on color, the clouds turned heavy. It looked as if the sun would not jump out of the lake. Sure enough, the sky turned fish-belly white, but there was still no sign of the sun. Clouds piled in layers on one side of the sky, and now and then a faint, uncertain light slipped through. After waiting a long while, I was about to put down the camera and rest. Then I turned around. Behind us, Wulao Peaks, set off by the reservoir, looked as beautiful as a painting—a kind of splashed-ink landscape that no brush could fully express. Digital equipment could not keep that feeling, but I still took a souvenir shot, as ordinary as that was.
Soon golden threads began to pierce the clouds between sky and earth. Yan Cheng told us to grab the shot—that golden light of hope was why we had come out so early. But I felt the sunrise had already risen in my heart. Looking back at Wulao Peaks, it was as if the ink had dispersed, adding the clarity and realism of a Western oil painting. The sunlit outline was edged in gold, thick and warm.
We went back for breakfast and started the day’s route. The main goal was the famous Three Step Waterfall, but it seemed we had to climb for a while before seeing it. Lao Cai’s legs were not convenient, so I carried the load and climbed. The layered ridges along the way were stunning, with patches of green water and clear springs—things absent from ordinary life and work. We played by the water when we found water, and by the rocks when we found rocks. On all those rising steps, honestly, I was not too tired. Sometimes I felt I was inside a gorge and even imagined that if a flash flood came, there would be nowhere to run. Along the way we saw porters carrying tourists up the mountain on shoulder poles. They must have gone up and down those paths countless times under loads. My pack of more than ten kilos suddenly seemed trivial. When we passed through a narrow alley, we staged a photo with a bit of an international feel. The eight of us were having so much fun that the hardship of the climb hardly mattered.
After several hours, we reached the destination: Three Step Waterfall. It was not only because of the slogan that 'if you don’t reach Three Step Waterfall, you’re not a true Lushan visitor.' The sight before us was enough to stun us. The drop was more than a hundred meters. Water rushed down and formed three tiers, flying through the air and crashing into the jade pool below with a thunderous roar. When I ran over, the spray had already wet my lens. Yet the freshness in my face and the clear-bottomed pool at my feet made it feel like a fairyland. It was not summer, but the breath of early spring had already filled Wulao Peaks along with the spring water. Bits of ice and snow were still falling from above the waterfall. A chubby stranger nearby took a group photo for us.
At noon we ate at the same place. In the afternoon we went to Bilong Pool. There were still stone steps and climbs, of course, and after the morning’s test we were a little tired. Perhaps the late-afternoon light gave us motivation. Along the way were pools of all sizes, clear to the bottom; I have forgotten why the water looked deep green and deep blue. I only remember that after stretches of lush, winding paths, another clear spring or green pool would appear, as if a new village waited beyond the willows. I had wanted to see the former residence over there, but time was limited, so we did not go deeper. There were also signs saying the mountain path was undeveloped and that safety on the way up was not guaranteed. By the end, the climb had left us soaked in sweat. When we came upon a clear spring, we did not let it pass. We splashed around, washed off the sweat, and then went back the way we came.
On the way back we saw Suojiang Tower beside the Jiujiang Bridge. It was presumably meant to pacify spirits and protect the river. Below the tower was an iron ox, also presumably a guardian beast. Standing on Suojiang Tower and looking at the Yangtze through the Jiujiang Bridge gave a different feeling from seeing the river in Wuhan. Following the river upstream, the riverbank stretched out unusually long, stretching almost in a straight line into the distance.
By dusk the sky was darkening, and we had evening train tickets. The Lushan trip was on its homeward way.
A few frames from the trip, just for viewing:
