Rice paddies, some harvested, some still gold in the morning light passed by Interspersed were grape orchards, peanuts fields, and banana plantations tall betel nut palm trees marked the edges of the fields. The lovely train stewardesses in form-fitting skirts and wing-shaped caps came down the aisles bearing steaming cups of the tea in wire racks along with the day's newspaper. I took some tea passed on the newspaper and leaned back to admire the scenery and content-plate the journey ahead.
We were a group of ten—seven members of the new ROC National Park Department, two guides, and my American friend. Leading our group was the new chief of Yushan National Park, on his first official visit. Our objective was to climb Yushan's main peak by the traditional loop trail, starting at Alishan and ending up in Tungpu three days later. On the way, we were to survey the condition of the trails and facilities, especially the byproduct-damage resulting from the construction of the new section of the Cross-Island Highway from Shuili to Tatachia.
For me, the journey to Yushan had a special and sentimental meaning. It was the culmination of a seven-month research fellowship in the ROC National Park Department. It would be a time for reflection on what I had seen and done during my stay in Taiwan, and it was a chance to climb some of the beautiful high mountain country I had heard so much about.
We arrived in Chiayi in less than three and a half hours, too soon to complete my preliminary musings, and then rushed to unload our packs and boxes of food.
I had learned from earlier field trips that though there are relatively inaccessible places in Taiwan, their remoteness does not mean culinary sacrifice—we were carrying bags of fresh fruit, cookies, bread, sausages, bottles of kaoliang (distilled spirits) and, of course, rice. We moved all of our stuff across the tracks to the paltform of the smaller-gauge Alishan Forest Railroad that would take us to our first night's lodging at Alishan House.
This mini-train has recently been renovated and though smaller in width, is no less comfortable than the express. We wound out of Chiayi passing through numerous lumber yards. Though this city once contained the largest sawmill in all the Orient, the boom days of logging here are now over. Forest products now represent only 0.03 percent of the gross national product of the Republic of China. Like many developed countries, Taiwan's forests have gradually become more important for other uses, such as recreation and soil and water conservation.
The train soon left the tropical flatlands and entered first, the subtropical, then the temperate forest. Tree ferns and graceful palms gave way to maples, oaks, and other hardwoods. We passed through dripping tunnels and switch-backed up the side of the mountain into the clouds. On the hillsides, we could see small vegetable plots, and stands of bamboo so thick that there was no undergrowth.
Arriving in Alishan, we plodded up the wet road to Alishan House, where a change to warm clothes and the dry rooms were really welcome. That night, a film crew from Taipei's TTV joined us for dinner. They encouraged me to drink some kuanglung—a combination of kaoliang and Chinese medicinal herbs. I retaliated by introducing an American drinking custom—the boilermaker (dropping a shot glass full of bar whiskey into a bottle of beer and then drinking it all up). We substituted shaohsing wine for the whiskey with such great success, that most of our group missed the voluntary early morning trip to see the sun rise over the clouds.
On our way again, we drove from Alishan to Tatachia along the bed of the new road, still under construction. Bulldozer pulled to the side so that we could pass. The landscape damage from the construction was stupendous. Huge rock slides dropped off the edge of the road to several hundred meters below, ripping out or covering all the vegetation. Streams running across the road entered clear, but exited filled with brown silt and debris. Much of this destruction is inevitable during construction, but I asked myself, is such construction itself necessary, here or elsewhere? Why not leave wild areas as they are and encourage people to walk into the national parks? I remembered that the U.S. Park Service was at last planning to remove all automobile traffic from Yosemite National Park in California. Cars and parks do not mix.
At Tatachia we surveyed the site of the new recreation area. It is a hilly spot, and I found myself hoping that the ROC would recall the lessons of other countries and build the facilities in an unobtrusive manner so that nature, not man, would prevail. Near here, we said goodbye to internal combustion engines for three days and hoisted our packs for the climb to the Paiyun Hut at 3,200 meters, our second night's destination. The weight of our packs was negligible—we were only carrying our own clothes, snacks, and cameras. The hulk of our supplies was carried by three aboriginal porters from the village of our destination—Tungpu. These three young men hoisted huge packs on their shoulders and heads with tumplines and tramped up the trail in rubber boots. I hated to think what my colleagues from the Yale Forestry School would think if they knew that I was not carrying my own load, but I soon stopped worrying as the trail climbed to beautiful views of the south ridgeline of Yushan and the valley below.
The beauties of Taiwan's mountains come as a surprise to those grown accustomed to the noise, exhaust fumes, and crowds of Taipei. Here it was quiet and empty, mountains folding as far as the eye could see.
Walking along happily in the mist and rain towards Taiwan's tallest mountain, I thought about the pleasure of gaining access to such things on your own power, and I hoped that the Park Department would do all in its power to prevent the construction of any more roads within the area.
My thoughts were interrupted by the porters, who came steaming past me at twice my speed with four times my pack's weight on their backs. Some even smoked cigarettes while hiking! They also, unfortunately, threw their butts to join other careless litter on the trail. What a shame, I thought, that the world's natural scenes should be constantly despoiled by mere thoughtlessness-by those who do not consider the beauty of their own planet.
We arrived at the Paiyun Hut in the early afternoon for a welcome cup of tea provided by "George"-the hutkeeper. The hut is a substantial stone building that can sleep up to fifty people in double bunks set on either side of a wood stove. George spends two weeks at the hut at a time, and the next two weeks with his 23-year-old wife in a town in the valley.
George is 55 or more, and his story tells a small segment of the history of the last few decades. He was sent by the Communists to fight in Korea in the early 1950s, and he and 10,000 of his comrades deserted to the American army. He was imprisoned in Japan where he picked up some English and his nickname and then was finally repatriated to Taiwan. George enjoyed testing his use of some of his American swear words with me and he translated for me the Chinese expressions written on either side of the hut's entrance: "Yushan Above the Clouds" and "Our Good Friends Come From All Over the World."
That evening, we watched the sun set over the clouds in the valley and went to sleep early, our schedule calling for a 2:45 a.m. departure to catch the sun rise on the main peak. I slept poorly from the altitude but stayed warm from the coals in the fire and the heavy cotton quilts. At 2:00 a.m. we collected our drying socks and boots and gathered for the rice soup, sausages, dried pork, and peanuts in the kitchen. The cold stream water quickly splashed me into wakefulness and I saw the sharp stars overhead. With flashlights in hand, we struck up the trail, our parkas and windbreakers providing only marginal protection against the cold wind.
It was an unearthly sensation, this hiking in the darkness. The sky was clear and visible, but around us all was blackness and, as we were above the treeline, emptiness. Unfortunately, as we reached the base of the summit cone, the mist came up and shrouded the view. The last half-hour climbing was in clouds, with only our hands on the metal chain fence to guide us. Soon, the statue of Yu Yo-jen appeared out of the mist; we had arrived at Taiwan's highest point.
But it was anticlimactic—we could not see a thing and were so cold and hungry we retreated without fanfare back to the shelter of the hut to munch candy bars and hope warmly for a break in the clouds. We soon enough gave up this hope and, taking some photos, returned down the cone to the trial juncture, here taking a right turn and down the scree slope towards the Patungkuan Valley.
The day grew warmer and brighter as did our spirits as we took pictures of the alpine flowers and enjoyed skidding down the loose rocks.
I pointed out to my American friend the site where a Free China Review cameraman had fallen during a winter climb and landed several hundred meters below with an injured leg. She was not amused and clung carefully to a recently installed metal rail.
At the North Peak trail spur, we left our packs and decided to make a side trip to the peak summit. Still in the clouds, we followed this lovely, gentle trail to the ridgeline where, just as suddenly as it had come, the mist parted, revealing the peaks and valleys to the west in all their early morning splendor. After being hidden from the mountains for so long, the site was startlingly beautiful. And we stood there absorbing the sun and the view and inwardly thanking ourselves for making the climb.
Continuing along the trail, we watched the mist slowly lifting from the main peak, revealing it as a tooth of rough stone jutting upwards from the surrounding ridges. At the North Peak weather station, the attendants offered us hot water and a seat by their woodstove as they called in the 8 o'clock wind and temperature report. We were all exhilarated and happy to be so far away from the workday cares of our Taipei lives. Free of the mist now, we took pictures at the North Peak summit and surveyed the course of the trail that would take us down the valley to Patungkuankou—the site of our third night's lodging. I could see the trees that the night had hidden on our way up-junipers and spruces, twisted into obscene shapes by the wind, hugging the outlines of the ground.
There were bright flowers in bloom everywhere, for this was spring in the mountains, though it was the end of June for us. I especially liked Yushan's thin-green snow flowers, and the rhododendrons, falling over themselves with blooms.
Following the trail back to the scree slope to collect our packs, I was thinking that there had been enough adventure already in the day, but no, the trail below was washed out in places and we had to pick our way across steep slopes of loose rock with great care for fear of slipping and falling hundreds of meters into the stream below.
Ecologically, the trail downwards was a reverse process of altitudinal change. We soon left the juniper-spruce community and entered mixed stands of pine. I noted our first bamboos and then, surprisingly, fields of daisies that inspired our photographers. The air warmed and we shed clothes with the altitude so that by the time we arrived at the broad meadow at Patungkuan, we were in shirtsleeves again. I was saddened to learn that the openness of this spot was due to the carelessness of a hiker who had started a huge fire. Given time, the spot will return to its natural state, but this should be a lesson.
That evening, at Kuankau along the old Ching Dynasty trail that cuts through the central mountains, we enjoyed a return to the civilized world through the huge loudspeaker of the Forest Control Station, which was blaring incongruous organ music. I retreated for a long walk along the forest road through stands of huge cedar and hemlock, some rising thirty or forty meters without a branch.
Though this timber would make a lumberman salivate, I hoped that the Park Department would be able to preserve these stands for future generations. If cut, I wondered how long it would be before they ever returned.
On the trail again for our last day, we followed the gently inclined path all the way to Tungpu. Soaked by the dew, we tramped along, lost in thoughts of showers and cold beer, not now so completely reluctant to give up our wilderness ways.
We stripped to bathe in the cold water of a tall waterfall and lay drying like lizards on the rocks while eating our lunches. It was a time for healing blisters, resting aching knees, and celebrating the past four days of beauty. As I sat on a rock overlooking the empty valley, I hoped that I would be able to return to Taiwan, perhaps with my children, to make this trip again.
I hoped to find little change-perhaps another hut on the north side of the peak, perhaps the littering hikers would be under control, perhaps the trail itself would be improved in places. These were my little hopes. My biggest was that Yushan National Park would stay as it is into the far future-natural and wild for all to enjoy.