A few weeks ago I went with a friend to climb a mountain. Well, not really climb as such and not really a mountain, but the closest thing we have in Yuanlin that fits such a description. It was actually more of a hike up a geological structure that almost became a mountain, but finally settled into being something of a high hill. Not that it felt like anything less than a mountain as I hiked up the steep concrete path that had been considerately laid out for National Geographic-watching would-be adventurers like me.
We arrived at the starting point of the hike just after 6:30 on a Sunday morning. That was almost adventure enough for me, who usually never sees the sun until about 10:00 - make that 12:00 on a Sunday. It was an idyllic scene. Trees all around and the sounds of birds ringing through the early morning mist that swirled around us. There were few people about. And so, with an adventurer's zeal, I started on the path upward, although the first minute or two of walking was pretty flat going.
Then we rounded a bend in the path and the aforementioned zeal evaporated into the aforementioned mist. Even the birds stopped singing to listen to my rapidly increasing heartbeat. The path ahead rose, most inconsiderately, at an almost impossibly steep angle. Yet my friend strode boldly ahead, swinging her arms as if she was skipping along a playground. I had no choice. I had to follow. Five minutes later my legs were screaming for a merciful amputation, which my brain steadfastly refused to grant. However, I mediated between the two and we reached a compromise. We would stop for a short break before continuing upward, ever upward.
This procedure was re-enacted several times with increasing frequency. Roughly two minutes hiking would be followed by a minute's rest. My friend, proving herself more considerate than the evil trail, waited patiently for me to recover and even suggested that we turn back. But I was in no mood for being defeated. It was bad enough that countless people double my age had been sprinting past me on their way to the top, most of them, to their credit, pretending not to notice a tall, gasping, pole-clutching foreigner blocking their path. I was going to get to the top even if I had to walk on my hands to do it.
And that I did, get to the top that is, not walk on my hands. Forty-five minutes after starting we arrived and I crowned myself King of the World. I refused to allow the presence of galloping children and aerobics exercising adults all around me, who was at this point sitting in a nearly crumpled heap on the ground, detract from my glory. They had climbed the mountain, but unlike me, who was taking the time to savour the moment, had launched themselves into other distracting strenuous activities. Their loss, I say.
All too soon it seemed, I had to abdicate my throne and head back down the conquered path. Having more space for leisurely observation now, I took in the breakfast stands scattered around the summit and the KTV (as karaoke is referred to here), where a man was sitting who must have had a similar experience to me heading up the path, woefully lamenting his experience in almost harmony with Taiwanese lyrics flashing on a screen before him. Folks heading up the mountain took notice of me heading down and friendly greetings were exchanged this time. And I was able to empathize with a somewhat overweight pooch lagging far behind its owners who were waiting patiently for it further up the path as it panted doggedly upward. It looked up at me as I passed and I smiled reassuredly back at it, suggesting that if I could make it then he could too.
I was buoyant for the whole fifteen minutes it took to get down.
23 November 2004
Dion Marc Delport