&Nbsp;&Nbsp; Li Jianwu Every time I looked at Mount Tai from the train, I always recalled the saying: "Confucius climbed the Dong Mountain and found Lu small, and climbed Mount Tai and found the world small." It felt like a debt owed to a long-standing cultural tradition if I passed by without climbing. Du Fu's wish: "I will surely reach the peak and look down on all the smaller mountains," is one that I share. Regrettably, my comings and goings have been hurried, and I've missed the opportunity each time.
Now, it's really time to climb Mount Tai, but unfortunately, the weather isn't cooperating, as it has started raining, drizzling incessantly, not seeming to fall on the ground, but rather in our hearts. The sky was gray, and our spirits were heavy. We had planned to set out in the early morning, but with everyone gathered, the rain only grew stronger. Should we wait for clear skies? Thinking of this vague "waiting", we initially felt stifled. By half past eleven, the sky turned brighter, and I couldn't help but shout: "Let's go!" Encouraging the young people, we picked up our backpacks, full of enthusiasm, and set off towards the Dai Zong Fang.
Whether it was smoke or mist, we couldn't tell, only seeing a vast gray haze enveloping the entire grand mountain tightly. The ancient Mount Tai appeared even more majestic. As soon as we passed the Dai Zong Fang, the thunderous roar attracted us to the dam in front of the Hu Shui Reservoir. Seven streams of water gushed out from the bridge holes of the reservoir, resembling seven shimmering yellow brocades, spreading straight down. Upon hitting the jagged rocks, they splashed into a mass of white water droplets, scattering like broken threads onto the swirling surface of the water. This place is called Qiu Bay; it's said that the dragon-like creature has already been taken to heaven by Lü Dongbin, yet looking over, it seemed to leap and tumble, as if returning to its old home.
We circled around Hu Mountain, standing on the dam bridge. On one side was the calm lake water, meeting the slanting wind and drizzle lazily, reluctant to move forward, while on the other side, there was an ominous roar, as if thousands of troops lay hidden beneath the exquisite yellow brocade. The yellow brocade was merely a convenient metaphor; in reality, it was a delicate pattern without warp or weft, transparent white gauze lightly pressing down on transparent beige patterns. Perhaps only the Weaver Girl could weave such magnificent scenery.
The rain intensified, and we turned into the Seven True Shrine behind the Queen Mother Temple. Here, seven statues were enshrined, with Lü Dongbin in the center, his friends Li Tieguai and He Xiangu on either side, and his four disciples on the east and west sides, hence the name Seven True Shrine. Lü Dongbin and his two friends were acceptable, but the two child attendants in the niche and the old man facing the willow tree spirit were truly rare masterpieces of expression. Generally, temple statues are often flat or grotesque; occasionally beautiful ones don't resemble Chinese people. They don't match the vividness and intimacy of this old man. The anonymous sculptor had a deep understanding of age and appearance differences, making the images so lifelike. If it weren't for the young person reminding me that we should leave, I would have continued admiring them.
Stepping into the rain, we embarked on the main path up the mountain, passing through three stone archways: Tianmen, Confucius' initial ascent, and the Heavenly Steps. The sound of water was behind us, and the magnificent Red Gate blocked the mountain. Exiting the long gate tunnel, the view opened up again, and the mountain was once again before us. People walked uphill, water flowed downhill, and the Zhongxi stream accompanying us all the way to the Second Heavenly Gate. Cliffs loomed, and water dripped from stone crevices, mixing with rainwater and flowing along the slope into the mountain ravine, the trickling sound turning into a thunderous roar. Sometimes, when the wind blew and clouds parted, we glimpsed the Middle Heavenly Gate below, faintly towering atop the mountain, seemingly not too far away; the steep Eighteen Bends resembled a large, gray python lying in the mountain gorge. More often, dark clouds gathered, and the layered peaks and ridges became ink-wash landscapes.
Crossing the shallow parts of Zhongxi Stream, walking not too far, we arrived at the famous Stone Scripture Valley. A vast expanse of water covered a stone platform about an acre in size, inscribed with the Diamond Sutra, characters as large as fists. Over time, most of the characters had been worn smooth by the water. Returning to the main path, the rain had stopped unknowingly. Sweating from exertion, we longed to shed our raincoats for some coolness. Coincidentally, we entered a cedar forest, dim and somber, where the brightened sky turned dark again, as if dusk had prematurely arrived. The sweat dissipated, and we even felt cold, no wonder people call this place the Cedar Cave. We rallied our spirits, quickly passing through the Hutian Pavilion and ascending the Huang Ling Ridge, discovering that the sandstone was all ochre-yellow, explaining why the Zhongxi water was yellow.
Leaning against the stone archway at the Second Heavenly Gate, I looked around, feeling both proud and worried. Proud because I had already traversed half the mountain path, worried because I wasn't sure if I could handle the other half. The clouds thinned, then the fog rolled in again. We rested and walked, walked and rested, and now it was past four in the afternoon. Difficulties seemed non-existent; ahead was a stretch of level downhill dirt road. The young people jumped and bounded down, and I felt younger, laughing and talking as I followed behind them.
Unconsciously, I transitioned from a downhill to an uphill path. The mountain's incline grew steeper, and the upward slope became increasingly steep. The road remained wide and intact, but only when leaning out did you realize you stood on the edge of a bottomless ravine. There was clearly water flowing, yet no sound was heard. Looking westward and raising my head, a two-foot-wide white ribbon hung suspended in mid-air, swaying with the wind. Wanting to get closer for a better look, the vast ravine separated us, making it impossible to cross. Just as we were marveling endlessly, we suddenly found ourselves at the foot of a stone bridge. Not realizing how it happened, we were drenched by a fine rain. Apparently, we encountered another type of waterfall, closely attached behind the bridge, catching us off guard and nearly colliding with it directly. The water surface was two or three yards wide, high above the ground, issuing a mighty roar, striking the oddly shaped stones beneath the bridge, spewing foam far and wide. From this point onward, the mountain stream shifted from the left side to the right, its babbling sound accompanying us to the Southern Heavenly Gate.
After crossing the Cloud-Step Bridge, we began ascending the winding path leading to the summit of Mount Tai. The Southern Heavenly Gate should have been near, but due to the twisting mountain gorges, it was no longer visible. Wildflowers and wild grasses, of every kind and color, crowded together densely, attempting to adorn the rocky mountain stones. Even someone of my advanced years learned from the children, plucking a handful until the flowers and leaves withered, then with regretful feelings, tossing them into the mountain stream, letting them drift away with the water. But what lifted the human soul to sublime realms were those pine trees “absorbing green mists and gracefully stretching.” Unafraid of the height, they rooted themselves in the crevices of cliffs, their bodies twisting like coiled dragons, spreading branches and leaves in mid-air, as if wrestling with fierce winds and dark clouds for sunlight, or playing with gentle breezes and white clouds. Some pines, yearning for autumn waters, didn’t see you coming, climbing alone to higher places, tilting their bodies to peer around. Others resembled black-green umbrellas, held open waiting for you. Still others delighted in their own company, appearing carefree. Regardless, they made you feel they were the natural masters of Mount Tai, and recognizing them as such seemed almost obligatory. Mist drifted between the pines on Song Mountain and several gorges, and the sky visibly darkened.
I didn’t know how many stone steps I had climbed, one after another, finding joy and hardship alike, as if I had been climbing since the moment I came alive. Stepping forward, dragging back, I hadn’t even finished the Gentle Eighteen Bends. Leaning against the Ascension Pavilion, I looked up toward the summit, where the Steep Eighteen Bends resembled a long ladder, tethered at the Southern Heavenly Gate. I became timid. The newly built stone steps were narrow, unable to accommodate a whole footstep. No wonder Ying Shao of the Eastern Han Dynasty described it in the "Mount Tai Feng Chan Yi Ji" as follows: "Looking up at the Heavenly Gate, it appears distant, like peering at the sky from a hole, straight up seven miles, relying on the winding goat path, named the Circular Road, often with ropes available to ascend. Two assistants support, the person in front pulls, the person behind sees the sole of the person in front, the person in front sees the top of the person behind," stepping diagonally, weaving like flowers, leaning sideways, surpassing us ahead. An elderly woman, carrying an incense bag, despite her small feet, steadily and surely passed by us. I was like Ying Shao, "eyes watching but feet not following," grabbing the iron railing, clinging to the young people, taking a few dozen steps, resting for a breath, finally reaching the Southern Heavenly Gate at seven o’clock in the evening.
My heart was still pounding, my legs still trembling, but I had indeed made it up. Looking down at the newly repaired but incredibly long winding path, I marveled at how I managed to climb it. Walking on the Celestial Street, I felt light and carefree, as if nothing had happened. A row of lodging shops, unnamed, only marked, some with a strainer hanging at the door, others with a pair of parrots at the window, some with a wooden mallet, others with a golden ox. Places spacious enough had tea tables, narrower spots just had low tables. The back walls leaned against rugged rocks, the fronts faced sheer ten-thousand-foot abysses. Unique also were those stones. Ancient poets described Mount Tai as "rocky Mount Tai," annotators told you: rocky, piled stones. Indeed, the mountaintop gave you this impression even more. Some stones resembled lotus petals, others stood upright, others leaned to explore the sea, others glared angrily. Some resembled nothing, black and motionless, blocking your way. Time had passed, legends abounded, the Enthronement Terrace let you imagine the grandeur of emperors worshipping the mountain; a barren spot might have a stone stele indicating it was "where Confucius found the world small." Some pools were called Washing Head Basins, legend says the Jade Maiden used to wash her hair here; some caves were called White Cloud Caves, legend says they used to emit white clouds, now no longer emitting clouds, the clouds still floated within the mountain. On clear days, you admired the endless green of Qi and Lu provinces, suddenly a gust of wind came, "clouds rising in layers in the chest," in an instant, just as Song Zhiwen described in "Three Days of Reflection in Guiyang," "the cloud seas boundlessly vast." Were they clouds? Clearly, clouds existed above. Seemingly snow, or cotton piles, high and low, continuous, transforming the horizon into a shoreline. Then sunlight swept over, the silver waves of the cloud seas gilded as if plated with gold, or set ablaze, burning to ashes, disappearing, revealing the face of the earth. Two white lines, winding, were the Nai River and the Wen River. A black dot moved in the midst of the emerald pattern, resembling an ant, releasing a wisp of blue smoke. While you pointed and gestured, discussing at length, illusions and realities vanished momentarily indoors.
We didn't witness the spectacular sunrise. That happens during clear autumn days. However, we had our unique pleasures: the waterfall we saw in the rain wasn't as magnificent two days later when we descended the mountain. Small waterfalls disappeared, large ones shrank. Following the West Stream, we crossed mountains and valleys, passing through apple orchards filled with intoxicating fruit fragrances, lingering for quite some time near the Black Dragon Pool. Had we not needed to catch a train, we would have stayed longer. The mountain terrain and water flow here presented a different style, changing yet harmonious.
A mountain without water is like a person without eyes, seemingly lacking in spirit. We dared to climb Mount Tai in the rain, witnessing the powerful cascading waterfalls, and conveniently sheltering from the downpour at the Doumu Palace, walking along the path with the fun of rain without getting soaked, naturally adding extra zest to our journey.