Mounting Yellow Mountain

By Roux Van Zyl

“A relaxed and happy feeling comes from the harmonious coexistence between human and nature” – is engraved on a granite slab on Yellow Mountain at a special viewing point. Exactly, well almost…

We were told to confirm our attendance a week before the bus was scheduled to leave at 7.30am from our Xiaoshan office for a 4 hour trip to Yellow Mountain in China’s Anhui Province. Like all things in China the instructions were simple, to the point, coming out of nowhere and quite close the actual event. Not that it bothered me, we were offered a free two-day holiday to one of China’s 10 must-see spots. On the bus, that early April morning, were 27 travellers, all staff from the EF Xiaoshan office. Most were Chinese, female, with a grouping of about 10 foreigners predominantly from South Africa, along with representations from the USA, Canada, England and New Zealand. The trip was part of a tour package and we had our own bus and two tour guides. As the bus pulled out of the parking lot the first tour guide, whose task it was to count us all to check if no one has been left behind, embarked on a 30 minute monologue with a microphone singing the praises of the mountain in Chinese until our boss asked her to stop. We didn’t understand most of what was said, except for some titbits: the mountain is very beautiful… be careful…

Yellow Mountain is a granite ridge, reaching to over 1800 meters above sea level at its highest peak, formed over 100 million years ago when a crust uplift pushed away an ancient sea to expose craggy grey rock which was gradually shaped and smoothed by glaciers. Today it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site, attracting tourists from all over China, and the globe, which flock to see the spikey mountain tops, looking like decayed fangs biting into the clean mountain air. Pilgrims across the Chinese ages found their way to the mountain on foot or by horse, having to traverse countless hills and semi-mountains, spiralling up to the Yellow Mountain fangs. Our bus just rode through the mountains via numerous tunnels (I counted at least 5) on to a base camp town of sorts where we ate lunch, stocked up on beers and water and snacks as we were told that once on top everything was double the price. We soon learnt just why everything is so expensive, for despite our modern age there are only two ways to get to the top of the mountain – by cable car or on foot. The cable cars are not used to ferry food to the mountain top. That is the job of men. Middle-aged men carry loads of food and water and other supplies hanging heavily from both sides of a bamboo stick that rests on their shoulders. They work like oxen climbing the endless stairs up the mountain, resting the loads on vertical sticks to catch their breath before climbing further. They seem to look but can almost not see the streams of tourists flitting past them.

Our way up the mountain was less strenuous – we took the cable car. I was ill prepared for the green boxes that hold eight passengers at a time and, swinging and creaking and leaning to one side because all the heaviest members of our tour group thought it wise to climbs into one with me, flew off to somewhere between the blue heavens and abysmal crevices below. The gondola, as North Americans call it, followed thick cables strung over the various ridges that progressively grow higher towards the mountain range top. With sweaty palms and not enjoying the enclosed space and the creaks I trained my eyes on the cable leading to the next peak where I hoped our destination would be. Three times I was foiled, for the cable just kept on stretching towards new ridges and it took us 10 minutes to finally reach the end. But that wasn’t the real destination.

With two cases of beer shared between us, taking turns to be carried on our shoulders and drawing stares and comments from the other mountain visitors, and our clothes in our backpacks we commenced on an hour-long trek to the hotel. Not understanding what the Chinese the tour guides were saying we had to guess at the significance behind every sight. There are a handful of hotels spread out over the mountain. I’m not sure exactly where our hotel was but the path there took us past various look-out points revealing the hazy skyline and the same craggy outcrops that were by the early afternoon becoming monotonously breathtaking. At the Shi Lin Hotel, meaning Lion Forest Hotel, all the men, there were seven of us, were piled into a single hotel room placed at the back of the hotel looking out onto a brick wall and filled with wooden bunk beds that wobbled and protested as you climbed to the top and creaked when you rolled over. It was somewhat surreal, but it was home for only one night. That night was spent playing drinking games in the room after dinner, trying hard to consume the two cases, or 48 beers, between the seven men and a handful of ladies. Loaded with beer, I and two friends explored the hotel surrounds under the full moon that lit up the granite and we tried to recognise the few constellations that were visible. Later the other joined us for a midnight snack in front of the only tuck shop on the mountain top.

Everyone was complaining when we got up at 4am the next morning. The room was a mess, stinking of fart and beer. We didn’t have a choice, we had to get up and adhere to the strict itinerary. Our next stop was: the sunrise on Bright Summit Peak. Now I could have assumed that Chinese sunrises aren’t that great because of the constant haze, but this was a natural spot, tucked deep in one of the country’s least developed provinces. So I refused to complain and just pushed on up a flight of mountain stairs in the dark for an hour-long trek to the summit. The day was eerily quiet until, near the top, we passed a forest where birds were gathered, singing a strange tune, as if calling or praising the sun that was by that time starting to turn the sky indigo. As if all the birds were assembled in only that section of the forest we gradually left them behind as we neared Bright Summit Peak where a massive meteorological building stands right next to a hotel and camping site. This, I assumed was the best spot from where to see the sun rise. It probably is, being 1840 meters above sea level. That’s why there were already hundreds of people assembled on the various viewing platforms. Bright Summit Peak is also exposed to wind. An ice-cold gale pulled at our clothes, digging into our ears, while scrambling over the rocks to find a better view of the sun, but it became clear why everyone was drawn to only two spots; all the other platforms’ views were obscured by rocks. Highly irritated I found another bunch of irritated fellow travellers and moped with them while the day became brighter and the grey clouds turned yellowish. No one saw the sun, except for one colleague who got a photo of the sun with a swallow flying past. Jealous as I was, I knew that if I had not been such a moper and persisted to push through the crowds I would also have had my swallow chasing the sun too.

After the worst breakfast I’ve ever had – a dry piece of cake, boiled egg, steamed bun, mini bowl of rice soup and pickled vegetables – we commenced our descent past uncountable stone formations resembling animals and one looking just like a cellphone. That side of the mountain was pretty interesting-looking. Almost luminous, the silver rocks had been shaped and smoothed by eons of water and glacier movement. It had an unnaturally smooth look. It seemed to be soft and yielding. And looking down the stairs, cut into the stone about 1500 years ago, we winded down to the bottom where we caught a bus and hurtled off down the mountain to a tea museum, lunch and then a knife museum. None of the museums were really museums. They are shops where travellers are expected to buy products with a historical connection. The tea museum was pretty awesome, though, because we had a chance to taste all the top teas from that mountain area, including the Mao Feng (pronounced Mao Foong) or ‘white hair tea’ which is the best of the area.

At the knife museum, which had a vague connection to the Qing Dynasty, China’s last empire, we were treated to a live infomercial on how well the knives performed various kitchen tasks, including cutting through double bent leather and the blade surviving a hard blow against a steel pipe. To all the foreigners’ surprise a few sets of the knives were bought that day before we got into the bus and rode back home again.

Having had to cram the whole mountain experience into two days left me a bit dazed – if not grumpy. Once I got over myself I gradually realised what I had beheld at Yellow Mountain. It wasn’t only a lump of stone, it may have been more; it could even have been a test of character. For everyone I spoke to afterwards who had visited the mountain before either loved it, or hated it, but no one has ever walked away from Yellow Mountain untouched.

Our tour guide giving us the low down on the bus

Kyle and myself with beer in hand

the 8 man cable car

looking down on a pool from the cable car

An impressively long cable way

the view at the top of the cable car ride

Roux Van Zyl – in the flesh

granite peaks with trees

another “yellow” rock face

Following our tour guide with the flag

Viewing point near our hotel

everyone taking in the view at the top

Basketball at 1700metres, why not?

vista of granite peaks

Looking out over a bottomless valley at sunset

The morning after

The 10 deep crowd waiting for the sunrise

“Swallow chasing sun” by Rory Alexander

The worst breakfast anyone had ever had !

A “yellow” peak

Plaque at the top of the mountain

Looking across at one of the daunting stairways

Looking back up at the stairs we had just descended

At the tea museum, some of the staff took the chance to catch up on sleep

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