Hiking On Huangshan, Yellow Mountains

"We're looking for the fairy bridge, you know it?" The four Czech hikers were the only other people on this steep section of trail deep in West Sea Canyon in Huangshan park. They were at least armed with a souvenir tourist map of the area (we didn't even have that going for us) but the artist's water color rendering wasn't super effective for navigating trails.

We weren't seeking specific landmarks like the Czech-mates were, but rather just trying to escape the intense cacophony of crowds on the other side of the park. Solitude, we found you here! But you also came with endless miles of stone stairs. Not a hiking trail so much as an infinity staircase set into the side of steep, sheer cliffs that plunged down into this gorge in the Yellow Mountains.

"This is... challenging..." one of the Czechs said to me sympathetically as I huffed up one last tall stone step to a resting platform.

Andy and I got on the first 6:30 a.m. shuttle to the park and one of the first cable cars up the mountain to get a jump on the crowds that were rumored to be bad. I mean, we were warned. But man! We hiked among the masses on the trails around the ragged top of the mountain, and then headed over to the West Sea where the crowds were promised to lessen.

And blessedly so. Even in the early morning, Huangshan was crawling with people - large tour groups, families, small gaggles of friends, everyone carrying walking sticks and selfie sticks and talking loudly, excitedly, constantly. The tour guides carried microphones with screeching loudspeakers on their hips. Everywhere you turned was the grating, distorted, amplified yelling of guides herding their patrons. We tried to outwalk them, skirt around them and dodge them but it was no use. Just plain claustrophobic.

But the views! There is good reason so many people come here. Towering rock faces, deep crevasses, cliffs that drop straight down forever, punctured by stubborn shaggy trees in cracks and crevices. The mist and rain that clung to the mountains in the morning burned off to reveal a sunny, hot afternoon.

Still among the hordes, we headed down down, down thousands of stone steps toward the heart of the gorge. Far down the descent, a cable car gobbled up tourists and winged them back up the top of the mountain. Below here, all the crowds disappeared, save the Czechs and a few others, and we kept descending down, down, down. A small stone bride cross a languid stream ("but this is not the fairy bridge, right?") and we found ourselves at the beginning of the long uphill climb. Essentially we had just walked miles straight down the side of cliff, and now our task was to walk miles straight up the other side. Sadistically, Andy suggests this would be an awesome ultramarathon course if they would just clear the park of everyone else for a day. Privately, I think, "There is no fucking way I'd do that race..."

Countless steps later, halfway up the mountain, we come to a small bridge. Now I'm also eager to find this fairy bridge that I'd never heard of till a few hours ago. Finally, I struggle up to a clearing where the Czechs and Andy have already found it: millenia ago, a towering mass of rock split ever so slightly down its vertical length leaving a narrow crevice that stretches hundreds of feet above our heads and way down into the valley below. And then some time more recently, a beautifully carved stone bridge was built to span this cleft, an adorned nugget that's plugged into the rock halfway up the crevice. Only fairies could pull this off.

We continued ascending, marking our progress against an equal mountaintop just across a small valley, rising higher and higher one stone stair at a time.

As we emerged at the crowded mountaintop, there was seemingly a curtain that separated this trail -- blissfully rugged and free of people -- from the loudspeakers and loud speakers that clogged the rest of the mountain.

Hard hike over and serenity bubble pierced, we headed to the other side of the mountaintop for the descent back to town. We had ridden the able car up in the early morning to make sure there was time for the hike, but we walked faster than the trail guidance predicted and had time to walk all the way down on foot instead of using the tramway again. I love downhill running, but this was seriously a test. The descent was endless, rendering my legs rubbery and more sore in the following days than I've been after some marathons!

[Huangshan, Tunxi: September 19-21, 2017]

Early Morning In Hangzhou

Awoke before dawn and stayed in bed until it was respectably early rather than stupidly early to get up. Around 5:30 a.m., I got dressed and crept downstairs to read before the hostel woke up and came to life. The sweet cafe off the lobby was dark and quiet but unlocked, so I scooped up the Siamese cat that lives here and we settled into the comfy couch next to the plate glass window that looks out on the side street the hostel occupies. The cat pooled on my lap and fell asleep while I read and watched the street slowly perk up. The occasional bike whispered by, and a few people walked past, perhaps on their way to work.

When the sky was sufficiently flushed with pink and orange, I gently shifted the cat to the sofa and went out for walk. The street cleaners were nearly my only company in the pedestrian area near the hostel. The night before, this area had been boisterous with food vendors and toy sellers and revelers, but now it's peaceful and the stone streets and buildings are glowing warmly.

Turning down another street, older men and women are standing unself-consciously on their doorsteps, performing their daily tai chi and calisthenics. In the small square next to the drum tower, two women practice a meditation around a tree, another is doing her own free-form jazzercise next to a small boombox, and two more sit on a nearby bench chatting and taking in the morning.

[Hangzhou: September 17-19, 2017.]

A Word About Transportation

And that word is, IMPRESSIVE. I mean, damn, China. You have really figured out trains.

The metros in Shanghai, Hangzhou and Beijing - all have signs with incredibly intuitive symbology, easy to navigate stations and maps, and bi-lingual in English. I think of signage in San Diego, and we don't even do this in Spanish. Shame on us, because it makes being a visitor so, so easy and enjoyable.

The high speed trains. I mean seriously, holy hell. Our train from Huangshan to Beijing tipped 300 km/hour (186 miles/hr) and in just about 5 hours it transported us the distance between Burlington, Vermont, and Chicago, Illinois. Plus, they are are so sleek and pristinely clean and pretty, just like the futuristic train stations.

Street Food

The narrow streets surrounding our hostel in Shanghai burst with fascinating and questionable eating opportunities.  Vats of live marine creatures, frogs, and trays of unidentifiable meats were on offer from dingy storefront stalls lining the streets. At night, the hot pot restaurants set all of their metal urns on the sidewalk and hosed down the hot charcoal cooking chambers. Dumplings are everywhere, neat white pockets of dough filled with delicious seasoned pork and running with hot juice.  

Highlights:

This is a hot pot. The urn holding fiery charcoal is affixed to the metal pot holding water, which is set into a well in the table. Add seasoning to the boiling water, then gradually add whatever ingredients you chose to order, and ladle out the soup. Ingenious.

This is my traveling partner in crime Andy, celebrating the low-rent version of hot pot -- a make-your-own-ramen setup in somewhat suspect, tiny restaurant. (The large health inspection poster on the wall showed a yellow emoji face with a straight line for a mouth, instead of a smile.) After some pantomiming, we understood that we should each take a metal colander, choose a block of dried noodles, then add the raw ingredients we want from the bins on the vaguely refrigerated shelves, then they boil it up for us in the back. My bowl has vermicelli, spinach, mushrooms and something purple.

A mere 5 yuan (76 cents) gets you this eggy crepe filled with fresh greens, plum sauce, some kind of crunchy something and possibly some couscous (?). The woman pictured here spread the thin batter on the hot round stone and folded up the whole burrito on the same surface. Whatever those ingredients were, this Chinese breakfast burrito was fantastic.

A Search For Meaning (Or Not) At A Buddhist Temple

Wandering the courtyards amidst the five buildings of the historic Longhua Buddhist temple in Shanghai, I noticed a family gathering inside one hall for a funeral, or more likely a memorial anniversary. Perhaps a dozen people, not seeming to be freshly in grief, were eating lunch at tables inside the temple, alongside three towering gold Buddhas. In front of one statue was a large antique portrait of a woman who looked to be 40 years old, taken decades ago, decorated with fresh flowers. Several monks in saffron robes entered and sat at their own table, near the other two Buddhas, and began to recite prayers. I watched this from the far corner of the temple, standing next to a Chinese man who suddenly and cheerfully asked me in a slightly-too-loud-for-moment voice, “Where are you from? How long in Shanghai?”

I regret not getting his name or photo, but I did get a nice conversation. He explained the three Buddhas are the pathway to eternal happiness, and their prayers are meant to usher her soul there. His English was halting, he looked to be 30, wearing black track pants and a t-shirt.  He himself is from Shanghai, but has been in Melbourne where his wife is finishing her degree. They go back and forth about where they should live, but he thinks that if they have children, it would be better to raise them in Melbourne.

“The Chinese education system, it’s really difficult for children. It’s too much. It’s pressure,” he says, gesturing with tensed hands.

My acquaintance and I both wander to the side of the three Buddhas temple but the walkway is closed off to visitors. Then two black SUVs pull in, and their smartly dressed passengers are escorted through the bamboo gate that marks off an area restricted to monks.

“They are probably VIPs,” explains my impromptu guide. “Probably they give money to the temple. The family with the funeral, they probably give money, too.”  He gestures around the grounds and shrugs, “I think giving money to such a big temple is….” He’s either searching for the English word, or else he's uncertain how his opinion will land.

“Meaningless. I think it’s meaningless.”

Shanghai, First Impressions

A professor at the University of Vermont told me over dinner last spring that your first visit to Shanghai is just a peek inside, your second visit opens the door. I peeked at Shanghai through a tiny keyhole, and can already imagine taking a big step into this massive, cosmopolitan, ascendant metropolis. Shanghai felt far less crowded and polluted than I had been warned to expect; I was totally smitten watching people, mostly much older, practicing tai chi in public parks, or performing morning stretches, and even joining what appeared to be an 8 a.m. ad hoc ballroom dancing session in People's Park. The street food, the whisper-quiet electric scooters and city bike fleets, and generally happy vibe made it easy to like this place.

We Built This City

The natural place to start this post is The Bund, the riverfront at the heart of Shanghai, from which one can see the elegant architecture left by the British and French on one side of the Huangpu River, and the eye-popping lights of the new Pudong skyscrapers on the opposite bank. But instead, let's start with the Urban Planning Exhibit, because despite its sterile name, it's a gem of a museum in People's Park.

The exhibits take you on a photographic history tour of Shanghai's massive changes and development, envision (propagandize?) the city's pristine energy future, and dedicate nearly an entire floor to a scale mock-up of the sprawling, jagged, fascinating expanse of Shanghai. The growth and expansion of this city in tiny window of time is hard to comprehend. Already a megacity in the year 2000 with 16 million people, Shanghai in 2017 has a population of 24 million. Where once there were no tall buildings, there is now an entire new downtown of skyscrapers soaring past each other. Where once there was no subway, there is now a expansive, gorgeously clean and and totally intuitive metro. The growth is visually stunning to take in.

The Bund & Yu Garden

Wide flat stone forms a ribbon along the Huangpu River, comprising the Bund. The pedestrian artery was dotted with runners and walkers on a early gray morning, and teeming with families and revelers in the evening - seemingly energized by the spectacle of city lights around them. (What the heck is a 'Bund' anyway? Thanks, Wikipedia!)

From the Bund, Yu Garden is short walk into a nest of classic Chinese architecture - red wooden lattice walls, narrow stone passageways, dark tile roofs that swoop out to dramatic pointy corners. In the early morning, before the souvenir hawkers and dumpling sellers take over, the alleys surrounding Yu Garden are quiet and patient, populated by a few people on their way to work, and a handful more playing badminton in the courtyard that will be overrun with tourists a few hours from now.

The French Concession

My French Concession obsession was stoked by Rob Schmitz's book, Street of Eternal Happiness, and by the gorgeous displays of photography and folk art at the Urban Planning Exhibit. In style and cultural cache, you can think of the French Concession kind of like Georgetown in Washington D.C., a tony historic enclave that swarms with posh stores, posh people and... tourists. A walk down the main shopping street was enlivened by a delicious and cold lime-chia-seed drink concoction, but turning down Changle Lu (Eternal Happiness Street) yielded the long warning blare of city-wide emergency siren, three times. No one seemed ruffled by it, and a bookstore owner explained a few minutes later it's a monthly test. Garden Books, by the way - fantastic! Shelves of English and other foreign language books, somewhat chaotically arranged, but with incredible range and diversity of topics. A different visit to the French Concession, wetted by heavy mist that turned to rain, was focused on the Shikomen houses. A few city blocks of warm gray stone houses arranged to face inward to their odd-shaped, interconnected courtyards. Some passages are narrow and barren with exposed stone reaching two or three stories overhead, others open generously into leafy patios of twinkling lights, with wood-framed window balconies overhanging the elegant, festive streets.

***

My peek into Shanghai was an extremely narrow but happy vantage point. The tiny corner of the city where I spent time is reputedly the most attractive face of Shanghai, and I write this knowing that I have a gaping chasm of ignorance about what is beyond the comfortable edges where I spent my few days here.

[Click the photo below to advance slideshow.]

[Shanghai: September 14-18, 2017]

“What did we learn today?”

I can’t recall now if this is a rhetorical device from a canonical work of literature or a scrap of dialog from a mediocre movie, but “What did we learn today?” is a flexible, quizzical way to appreciate a big moment or roll my eyes at annoying series of events. The answer is sometimes, “To never do that again….” But the question can also extract a stomach-filling breath and a head full of appreciation and revelations.

These are some of the things I learned and observed and appreciated during my weeks of driving across the country and dipping into my friends’ lives:

• Kindness and generosity -- not only extended to me, a random long-lost friend looking for a couch to crash on, but effortlessly given to strangers and friends alike. While people were still reeling from the news of Charlottesville, I observed a casual conversation in an Illinois gas station between a biker in head-to-toe leather, and cashier wearing a Sikh turban.  My first glance at them imprinted my own assumptions on their interaction: the biker is an aggressive, menace, and cashier is a minority who needs backup. But then I heard easy laughter and lighthearted voices from both of them – the biker had visited the cashier’s home town, he knew where the big Sikh temple was there... how long are you on the road for? how did you move there from here? ... Two guys who on the surface seemed pretty different, but who noticed what they had in common. Breezy small talk, nice to meet you, best wishes. It takes effort to be divisive and cruel, and kindness comes easy.
• I told my friends with kids, just fold me into whatever your family would be doing anyway! I joined them on the sidelines at soccer practice, and at pickup on the last day of pre-school, and in relaxing on the back deck, and in one ferocious Trivial Pursuit game (during which my nine-year-old teammate urgently asked me, “You’re going to be good at this right?!”). My friends are patient, loving, tired, and amused parents, and their kids are full-tilt energy, quirky comics, thoughtful conversationalists and genuinely charming, interesting people.
• Surprising to me, the topic of disability cropped up several times and in wildly diverse ways.  In talking about the experience of disability and in observing how my friends navigate it, I was struck repeatedly by the idea that disability is both difficult and normal, both remarkable and not needing to be remarked on. The candor, matter of factness and mettle with they approach their lives normalizes their experience; and to call it “normalizing” undermines it – people have different abilities and ranges, and we use what we’ve got in the best ways we can, and we work around the things that get in the way. There is no pity here, but there is room for empathy and advocacy for what our friends need to live their best lives.
• Local knowledge is awesome. Travelers and tourists know this on a transactional level, we seek local advice on all kinds of things to make a trip more interesting. But a recurring joy in these last weeks has been to hear my friends describe where they live, what they love and loathe about it, and what memories are attached to specific places. They told me about the history of the cowboy wars in eastern Wyoming, and their conflicted feelings about gentrification, and how the geology of a certain place set its destiny once European settlers arrived there, and why a tiny town that most people would drive by or fly over is actually a really special place.
• We are all trying to figure it out. Every one of us is in different circumstances of life, with varying responsibilities and joys, everyone making choices and calculations about the best path forward. To move or stay, to look for a new job, to preserve relationships or let them go. So many of the reunions throughout this trip pretty quickly led to ‘what are we doing with our lives?” conversations, and it was incredibly reassuring and inspiring to hear my friends articulate, here’s what I‘ve decided is important, and here’s what I can live with because I have to, and here’s what I want to do next. None of it is perfect, some of it is messy, a lot of it is joyful. Despite how different our lives are, we’re all in a similar, familiar place.

+++

So those are some of things I learned today, or at least, recently. Here's another quote:

“What it comes down to is, if you’re curious then you cannot stay home.” These words were spoken to me over breakfast by the inimitable Mr. Jim Taff, my friend and former high school teacher. His peripatetic explorations of the world and rambunctious accounts of stories he’s collected could roust the most steadfast homebody into a road trip, and his enthusiasm gave me a welcome cheery endorsement of my adventures still come.

Tabletop at The Wandering Goose cafe, Seattle, Washington

US Road Trip, August 2017

Five weeks northeast to northwest, with a bold jaunt down to southern California: Vermont, Ontario, Michigan, Wisconsin, Chicago, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, Washington, California, Washington again, Oregon.

This trip was built on the idea of reunions – reconnecting with friends whom I see too rarely, and with long-ago friends whom I haven’t laid eyes on in decades but who remain bright in my memories; visiting places my family is connected to through long decades, but that I was seeing only for the first time; and also hard-core celebrating of amazing, transformational moments in my friends’ lives. Not to mention collecting new friends along the way.

Incredible thanks to the people who made this trip memorable:

Upper Peninsula, Michigan: Roma & Stefanie Sidortsov (friends since Project Harmony)

Green Bay, Wisconsin: Kendra Bellue and family (friends since elementary school)

Geneva, Illinois: Al & Aubyn Keefe (friends since VPR), and Christine Colburn (friends since mid-August!)

Denver, Colorado: Amy Vidali and family (friends since junior high school)

Buffalo, Wyoming: Cyd & John Gosney (friends since mid-August!)

Jackson, Wyoming: Jeremy Berrian & Gillian Butsch (friend since Project Harmony)

Couer d’Alene, Idaho: Lora & Pat Whalen, generous hosts for the Ironman Triathlon!! Andrew Morris, Lisa Donchak & Will Mroz (friends since Antarctica)

Ellensburg, Washington: Sara Treadwell and family (friends since high school)

Seattle, Washington: James Metz, Jon Carver & Christina Pease and family (friends since Project Harmony), Walter Allen (friends since the Vermont House), Kathy McDonald (friends since Tina went to college) and Melanie Coulson (friends since VPR)

San Clemente, California: Lisa & Will’s wedding!!

San Diego, California: mom; Jim Taff, Kristin Tomlinson, Sonali Desai (friends since high school); my cousins Carrie Langley, Joyce O’Donnell and Jackie Kennedy. Especially mom!!

Port Townsend, Washington: Andy Brett and family (friends since Antarctica)

Portland, Oregon: Bill Beadie and family (friends since college) and Sage Van Wing (friends since VPR)

Wyoming Homestead

In August, during the hour of the eclipse, I was standing in a small valley in Johnson County, Wyoming. Short dry grass extended across the landscape for miles with not a tree or bit of shade in sight, and as the mid-morning sunlight faded into the dusky purple of the eclipse, I was peering through the sagging window frames of a wooden house that my great grandparents built on their homestead here just less than a hundred years ago.

With the help of my older cousins' memories of what our grandparents told them, we think this one room wooden house was built to replace the house they lost in a kitchen fire, a few hundred yards away. What's left on the homestead now is a solid outhouse, listing 45-degrees sideways, remnants of animal pens, troughs, a root cellar, and this broken, weather-worn house, whose decline has been helped along by cows that still pasture here and who scratch their sides against any surface that will withstand their weight.

My guide and host was the most generous woman, Cyd Long, whose family ranches on this and surrounding land. She drove me all over Johnson County, explained its history and geography, and some principles of ranching and raising animals. Our conversation and my own observation of this beautiful, empty landscape confirmed the hardness of the homesteading life my great-grandparents attempted. This particular Little House on the Prairie has a cast of flinty, practical sadness.