Hiking in the Qianshan Mountain Park, Liaoning Province, China

 

Our small group traveled in two taxis to a small village at the edge of the mountains where we would pick up the trail. The weather forecast gave a high of 50 deg F with a 40% chance of rain for the Anshan area so we dressed fairly lightly. As we got out of the taxis some of the villagers who knew our guide came over to talk for a few minutes. Then we were on our way.

Our guide is a retired college teacher who speaks a useful amount of English. He is lightly built with a friendly, weatherbeaten face and a good head of dark hair. He loves the mountains and goes out there at least once a week right through the year so he knows the trails well and is familiar with all the interesting historical sites and lookout points.

 

Our trail led us directly towards the mountains – past one last village house, through cultivated land and pear orchards, and steadily on towards the forests that clad the mountains. On the way up in the taxi I had noticed a few patches of snow, higher up on the mountainide amongst the trees, and soon we were seeing some of those patches amongst the trees we passed through. As we left the cultivated land and the pear orchards behind the track became steeper and muddier. The woodland was pleasant, but still clothed in winter’s drab. Here and there a few grass shoots were beginning to push up through the mud and the birdsong suggested that spring would not be far away.

 I had no idea where we were heading but soon the mountains seemed to tower over us, presenting a formidable looking obstacle to our progress. Our guide was dressed in a city jacket and pants along with slip-on shoes that had almost smooth soles. His only concession to the terrain was an aluminum hiking stick.

As the trail got steeper he stopped at regular intervals so we could all rest, although he never seemed out of breath. He faced us and made slow, downward movements with his hands telling us to breath deeply and slowly while we rested. When we set off again up the steep trail he exhorted us to walk slowly before turning to walk ahead. His tread seemed slow, unhurried and purposeful but soon, when I looked up from the path immediately in front of me, I could see him gliding ahead – the gap between us steadily increasing. He never showed any impatience and always seemed happy to wait just as long as anyone needed for a rest.

 As we climbed the ground around us became steadily more covered in snow and, before long, the trail was icy and slippery. Whenever it seemed necessary our guide would stop to help those that needed it over difficult sections.

Eventually, we made it to the ridge. One trail headed off to our left, along the ridge, but ours descended a small distance down the other side before following the contours, more or less. The going was easier here with less snow and ice on the south facing slope so we made good progress. After a while the trail dropped down to meet a narrow road. At this point we found a burial ground with tall, cylindrical tombstones. I asked our guide about these and he explained that these are the tombs of head monks. He told us they were burned on funeral pyres in a sitting position  and their ashes placed in a hollow section at the base of the column. The weathering of the stones suggested that these were very old.

We followed the narrow road upwards – enjoying the easy walking. At the side of the road was a shrine to the goddess of fertility – standing on the side of a boulder in her vivid orange cloak with a baby in her arms. The group moved by quietly to avoid attracting her attention.

 A little further up – at the very end of the road - we came to the Da’an Buddhist temple. Nestled into the side of the mountain it is surrounded on three sides by steep, wooded slopes which are topped by magnificent, serrated peaks. It has been a place of worship since around the 8th century. The gateway was a simple, pleasing arch built from large blocks of dressed stone – many centuries older than the stone lions which guarded it. Beyond the arch was an area of cultivated ground - leveled out of the hillside - and beyond, the main temple buildings. The doorway to the temple buildings and courtyard was old and functional – the door firmly closed. Our guide walked up to the door and banged loudly three times. After an appropriate pause, during which no-one responded, he banged again. Somewhere in the courtyard a dog – disturbed from its nap – barked and came over to investigate. He banged again. At this point I was afraid we might be intruding on the peace and solitude of the monks.

I heard footsteps behind the door, catches being released, then the door was pulled back by a monk in simple clothes. As the monk’s eyes fell upon our guide his face lit up with a wide smile and he ushered us inside. Our guide introduced us and left us with the monk who showed us around.

 The temple is simple and modest. Some parts of the buildings go back many centuries whilst others are more recent. The whole place has an air of quiet, peaceful solitude which, it is easy to imagine, might have been undisturbed for over a thousand years and might continue so for another thousand. The truth of this, of course, is mainly in the imagination. Wherever we seek solitude, the turmoil of the world will find its way to us from time to time. We were told about an Asian army that bivouacked in the mountains directly above the temple about a thousand years ago (when worship had only been practiced here for a few hundred years) and the rocky summit from which the army’s general addressed his troops.

It is obvious that the monks live a very simple life in this isolated spot with very few visitors – much of their time spent in cultivating crops to feed themselves and gathering wood to keep warm through the long, bitter winters. I find myself wondering what it might take for a friendship to develop with the monks – in the manner that their friendship has obviously developed with our guide. My guess, in this case, would be that hiking around the area week after week with an obvious regard for and connection with the mountains that enfold the temple would, over time, make our guide a natural candidate for their  friendship.

Before taking our leave I left a modest donation of money towards the upkeep of the temple and took the opportunity to strike the large bell six times as a gesture of good fortune.

We left from the rear of the temple grounds and headed on up the hillside. There are many sacred sites scattered amongst the mountains and on the peaks. These are connected by a network of paths with thousands of stone steps up and down the steep slopes. We followed one of these paths upwards through the trees towards the craggy summits that towered over us. Below the summit, in a huge outcrop of rock, we found the entrance to Arhat Cave.

Nestled at the base of the rock in a deep alcove the entrance to the cave had a neat, arched doorway leading into it. The door was ajar so we stepped inside. The cave opened out into a spacious living area with a stone cooking stove and a large kang. It was apparent that the cave is not currently used as living accommodation. Above the kang another opening from the cave acted as a window – now open to the elements. The floor of the cave sloped upwards and narrowed towards the back. Here, at the high point of the cave, sat a small Buddha surrounded by incense and offerings.

 Our guide encouraged us to slip past the Buddha into the darkness behind. The floor fell away sharply to a six foot drop into another, wider section of the cave. Steep, narrow steps could barely be seen in the light that filtered in from the furthest end and, in the shadows, a number of figures in cloaks could be made out – sitting and standing, motionless around the walls of the cave.  At the furthest end, backlit from a small window-opening was another small alter with its own small Buddha figure.

Making our way carefully down the steps it felt to me as though we were stepping backwards through centuries of time into the ancient world that had frozen these cloaked figures into stone so they could maintain their vigil for eternity. As we moved amongst them their cold eyes stared through us and they held their breath perfectly. And that is the way they would stay for as long as we were there. But part of me felt sure that, shortly after we left, they would breath out – a long, quiet, collective sigh - and resume suspended conversations.

But they waited patiently, with bated breath, while we stood by the alter. Our guide produced a small package of incense and we took turns lighting a few sticks and thinking quiet thoughts as heavy drops of water on the outside ledge of the window opening intermittently punctured the silence.

As we left the cave wisps of incense smoke followed us with heavy scent out onto the trail. I stood a while to listen for the voices of the cloaked figures but they spoke too quietly so we climbed carefully on – to the very top of the outcrop where we edged around the snow and the ice to admire the views over  precipitous, unguarded edges. The air was moist with tiny, occasional drops of snow or rain and we looked out through a mist that lent an air of timeless mystery to mountains that showed as merest outlines around us.

 For a while we hiked through the mist - from summit to summit, measuring our physical resources carefully. Here, amongst the snow, we found the huge grinding disc that had been used to grind corn for the army that bivouacked there ten centuries ago. There, we climbed to the soaring heights of Immortal Summit with a golden Buddha carved into the rock. High above the Da'an temple our guide told us how, one winter seven years ago, he had lost his way in the deep snow. After searching around for a while a barking dog attracted his attention. Once the dog had his attention it headed off down the hillside - pausing from time to time to make sure the guide was following. After struggling down the hillside through deep snow for a while the guide was led to the temple - safety amongst friends.

 Our descent from the summit was difficult with much snow and ice on the north facing slope. In many places the steps were frozen over so we dug our heels into the fresh snow on the slopes and buttressed ourselves against the trees. Close to the trail our guide showed us where a spring, bubbling out at the base of a boulder, had created a huge, frozen dome of ice. The water still bubbled out beneath the ice-dome, tantalizing my ears with the gently incessant tinkling of ice-bells. Finally, we were once again below the snow line and the walking became easier as we made our way  down to the road which would carry us back to Anshan.

 Steve Roberts, March 29th 2008. All rights reserved.