Mountain

Ok, so it's not exactly the biggest mountain in China, or even Yunan, but I climbed it.

A few days ago (don't ask me exactly how many - the boundaries blur), Ben and I took the overpriced (aren't all tourist attractions in China?) chairlift from Dali old town up to 2600m. We marched up the last 150 meters along a precarious footpath, following the signs to the Higherland [sic] Hostel, as recommended in the LP (of course). By the time we reached the hostel we were both aching and panting like octogenarians; I was secretly pleased that Ben appeared almost as tired as me, having 6 years extra slobbery under my belt.

The hostel was an eccentric collection of tumbledown wooden buildings with corrugated steel roofs, liberally painted in a mishmash of styles - the guests are encouraged to contribute their own artistic talents. We were shown to a cosy twin room, with amazing views through the pine trees, down to the town below.

We spent the afternoon tackling spectacular but un-challenging walks that traverse the mountains; cascading waterfalls crash down steep gullies, the path dropping off to sheer rock-face on either side. Every few minutes we would pass a group of Chinese walkers, always immaculately dressed, and would greet them with a cheery "Nee How", usually returned with a "Hallo".

In the evening we ate local food (fresh lotus buds, shredded beef, cabbage with chillies)at the communal round table, and shared stories with other travellers. The hostel had a calm and relaxed feeling that I think is often associated with places genuinely off the beaten track, that require some special effort or exertion to reach.

The next day we attempted the summit, and set off early, fully equiped with water and rations for a full days climbing. After about an hour we realised we were hopelessly lost; the hand drawn map from the hostel making up in character what it lacked in accuracy. We climbed up a virtually disused trail beside a waterfall, the path falling away on occasion, requiring us to cling insect-like to the sides to avoid sliding into the torrent below. Eventually we accepted that we could go no further, and examined blisters and other minor scrapes beside the glistening clear pools. Nevertheless, we returned to the hostel slightly dejected, to eat our packed lunch in the courtyard, and spent the afternoon reading in bed, somewhat sulking in our failure.

Determined to succeed, that evening we re checked the route with the hostel staff, and having discovered the cause of our error, re-calculated our route, and rose early the next day.

The start of the climb gave some forewarning of the challenge to come. Within minutes we were both struggling hard with the barely discernible trail, which struck upwards at such an oblique angle that we were reduced to scrambling on our hands and knees at almost every step. The going eased a little after an hour or so, giving us false hope as the path then sprang up even more steeply than before, emerging through dense bamboo scrub into bleak rock-face, traversing an escarpment, dropping hundreds of meters to either side. I could easily have imagined myself in the highlands of Scotland, were it not for every breath reminding me that we were at altitude far exceeding anything on the British isles.

The day had stared with wisps of cloud, but rather than abating as hoped, the mist drew in closer, until visibility had dropped to 50 meters at most. Nevertheless, the penultimate marker before the summit, we stopped to share a sandwich, and debated our course of action. Each of us held just too much pride to make the decision to return, although each of us would have quickly accepted the decision had the other taken it. Therefore we pressed on despite the inclement weather.

We were both almost certainly ready to call it a day when we reached the final marker indicating 40 minutes to the summit. At this point there could be no question of going back, and with renewed vigor (and other cliches), we pushed along the increasingly worn path. The temperature continued to drop below 8 degrees, and the visibility to a few meters. The wind whipped cloud up the mountainside, and for a moment I could imagine myself melodramatically on the North face of the Eiger. Finally we sighted some abandoned machinery, and soon afterwards the shape of the television transmission tower marking the summit loomed out of the mist. We were elated, at 4092 meters.

The summit held a small building, and peering inside we were greeted by a couple of somewhat perplexed engineers, apparently permanent residents on the desolate peak. After a hastily munched sandwich held in frozen hands (I had never imagined I would be so cold in China), and shivering posing for celebratory photos, we said goodbye to the engineers and began our decent. The decent seemed to last for ever, we soon began to slip and fall due to fatigue and the residual effects of altitude. The last 2 hours seemed to last for ever, particularly as light rain had turned the rocky path ice-slippery (both our walking boots had "Vibram" soles, which seem to have all the adhesion of polished teflon). Eight and a half hours after we had set off we reached the hostel again, just as the heavens opened, and we scurried to shelter.

That night we had the fortune to celebrate the moon festival with the hostel owner and her family, and were treated to one of the most sumptuous and extensive feasts I have had in my whole time in China. This was washed down with home made plumb wine, followed by traditional moon cakes. After eating I felt my eyelids gradually closing with contentment, and I made my excuses and collapsed into bed. I slept like I had never slept before.