The Wild

F**k NATO! The cry echoes through the darkness in heavily accented English causing the hair on my arms to stand up. Its pitch black, and I am lost in the forest below Huashan Mountain, one of the sacred Taoist peaks of Chinese legend. The year is 1999 and the threatening words are for me alone. I know this because I am the only foreigner in the forest that nigh. I am alone and lost in a strange land.

About a week before I had arrived in Beijing to riots and attacks on the United States embassy and consulates. There had been an international incident that cost several Chinese officials their lives, and the blame had been placed on the NATO alliance. Not how I imagined my first solo backpacking trip would kick off. Feeling that the Capital was a little tense, I made plans to move further inland on the suggestion of fellow travelers.

I soon left the unsettling vibes of Beijing for the old capital of Xi,an. This area is most famous for the Terracotta Warriors, but I found myself drawn to Huashan, one of the most important sites of Taoist pilgrimage in China.

The plan was to do as the locals do, and ascend the sacred peak at night when the heat is not so bad. Technically I was not supposed to be visiting rural areas, but I was of that age when stupidity and bravery are almost indistinguishable from one another.

Back on the mountain my antagonists in the dark did not care that I was a clueless Canadian. In me they saw the west, NATO, and an outlet for their collective national rage. The yell “F**K NATO” echoed through the woods and down into the valley where A few other voices rose in support. Fear gripped me as I imagined what might happen to me on the mountain that night, my mind flashing upon images of the fire damaged and vacant American embassy from the weeks headlines. I panned my flashlight around, searching the woods, but I was alone. A few choices were available to me, but I refused to hide in the dark, opting to gamble on human decency. I moved onward, heart in my throat.

After a while the fear subsided, and I fell back into a rhythm. As I climbed rock steps chiseled into the stone my thoughts wandered back to the village at the foot of the mountain where I had stopped earlier that afternoon to have a meal.

The restaurant had been simple, little more than a cook house and an outdoor patio where patrons could sit and have dinner or a meal. It was empty, making it a perfect choice in my estimation. The young waitress seemed quite taken aback when I plopped down at a table, but quickly found a one page menu to bring me. I scanned it: all mandarin, no pictures. This was long before cell phones and wifi, so i randomly pointed at something and hoped for the best.

As I waited a few people appeared, taking note of the foreigner. I had read that in rural areas of China there were still those who had never seen a white person before. The waitress appeared again and provided me with tea and some chopsticks before hurrying off. As I waited a crowd began to gather. It was an uncomfortable feeling, being watched, and the discomfort only grew as more and more people gathered. By the time my food had arrived there was a crowd of 20-30 people encircling me. Word apparently travelled fast, and I think the entire village must have come out.

The food arrived and I picked up the chopsticks, wishing I had practiced with them before I decided to leave home. The rice dish (delicious) was not sticky, and I was struggling feebly with the sticks. Eating in front of an audience would have been bad enough, but to display such ineptitude in front of an entire village was insufferable. I could feel myself going deep red in shame and frustration.

My struggle seemed to amuse the locals. A conversation broke out in mandarin, and after some discussion a young man ran off in the direction of some houses. I returned my attention to the rice dish, doing my best to maintain some dignity in the struggle. A minute or two later I heard a yell, and looked up to see the young man returning. He held his hand high in clear triumph, the last rays of the setting sun glinting off of a metallic item he carried. By his clear excitement he could have been holding the holy grail itself, but as he drew closer I spied something even more wonderful. He carried aloft a single shining spoon.

The crowd parted with some chuckles, and he brought the culinary implement to me, an offering of mercy on a wayward traveler. I provided my most gracious thanks, almost head butting the table I bowed so low, and then resumed my assault on the rice dish. I had been defeated by the sticks, but I would master them in the days and weeks ahead.

The sun was nearly gone as I rose from my seat and offered thanks to the server, cook, and assembled villagers. With a full belly and warm heart I set forth into the dusk to begin my night ascent. Everything was right in the world, and I was energized by the adventure ahead.

Now hours later the kindness of the villagers kept my head in check. I pushed on, still aware of the danger, but with renewed confidence. Things would not come to violence I reassured myself. Still the tension wore on me, sapping my energy making the already difficult climb even more challenging. To make things worse, I really was lost. There were almost no signs, and the ones that did exist were in Mandarin and completely undecipherable. I kept going on hope and the belief that somehow I would find my way.

Then I met an angel. Not an actual angel of course, but a young woman and her companions. They had stopped to take some photos (yes this was before smart phones and selfies). As I approached I made the universal gesture that I would take a group shot of them, which they accepted. When I handed the camera back she said “Thank you” in English. I was shocked. At that time it was very uncommon to find nationals that spoke English, especially outside of the major cities.

“Your welcome” I said in surprise. There was an awkward pause, and I turned to go. “Please wait” she called “one moment”. Her small group moved off to conversed while I waited nervously. The was a brief and heated discussion and then she turned back to me. “We will climb together, and watch the sun rise from the eastern peak” Her smile left no room for argument, and I had none to offer.

And so we climbed. And as we climbed we shared food and water, conversation, our hopes and our dreams.

That morning we watched the sun rise over an ancient land together. Hatred and fear had been transformed into friendship and hope. What we (I) realized as we climbed through the night was how much we had in common. Sure we were from vastly different cultures, but beyond the constructs were the shared hopes and dreams that connect all human beings.

What more could a pilgrim ask of the Great Mount Huashan?

Stay Wild!

Image courtesy of https://www.travelthewholeworld.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/China-Mt-Huashan-Peak.jpg