An easy escape from urban life
Perhaps a result of living in the crowded city of Taipei for any
amount of time, many people seem to be convinced that escaping the
clutches of city life and finding any kind of desolation other than
that of the abandoned-factory/parking lot variety requires a trip of
many hours by train or car. I recently discovered that one can obtain
a similar effect by traveling a few blocks past the World Trade Center
on Hsinyi road, making a right and heading up into the mountains.
Very quickly, as one gains altitude, most of the buildings that
signify civilization dwindle away, leaving only the occasional temple
or junk heap to fight against the attacks of vegetation. The higher
one gets, the more the emerald tide emerges victorious.
This area is known as the Sungshan Nature Preserve, and it is home to
Sishou Shan, or Four-animal Mountains.� The easiest one to get to is Elephant Mountain, which is the lowest
and closest to Taipei. Paths lead up to its peak from the Wuhsing St.
area as well as from the neighborhoods off of Hsinyi road. One day not
long ago, I took the winding road up to a small Taoist Temple, parked
my bike and followed the path along the ridge towards the other,
higher peaks.
The path itself has recently been restored and is paved with
relatively slip-proof tan stones, a few of which are engraved with
images of the local flora and fauna. Signs in Chinese tell the
distances to the various peaks, and there are several rest areas along
the way.
Following the ridge back from Elephant mountain, the path dipped and
rose gently as it skirted huge boulders, crossed small mountain
streams and ducked under the thick forest roof. It's length was dotted
with pleasant views and small pagodas in which to stop and rest. On
the approach to Mu-zhi Shan, which sounds like Thumb mountain, I
encountered a nearly vertical stairway which seemed unending until it
reached a good-sized platform with a spectacular view of the
surrounding hills and the city beyond. Here some of the older hikers,
men and women alike, sat and chatted amid a background of tinny
Taiwanese songs issuing from someone's pocket radio.
After taking a break and taking in the view for a bit, I continued up
the stairway, which shortly led to a huge rock face towering over a
small shrine. Another path led up to the top of Mu-zhi Shan, but my
destination was 9-5 peak.
9-5 Peak is named for a gentleman, aged 95, who on the 5th day of the
9th month of 1915 made it to the top of the peak. As I climbed the
trees began to thin out and I began to hear voices calling faintly in
the distance, shouting "Weeeeeiiiiiii!!!!" Looking back I
saw Thumb mountain for the first time resembling an actual giant
thumb.
The first peak I reached was crowned with the charred remains of
trees which had been struck by lightning. It seemed to be the highest
in the immediate area, yet there was no indication it was 9-5 peak, so
I continued down the other side, aiming for the next peak, which was
adorned with an array of antennae and other mysterious structures. On
the way I met another hiker, in shorts, shirtless and sweating
profusely, whom I asked, "Which peak is 9-5 peak?"� He told me the one after the next one was, so I continued, my
footsteps accompanied by birdsong, the wind, and the mysterious
shouting which grew nearer as I progressed.
As I passed the antenna towers, which were fenced off, another peak
came into view on the other side: finally, 9-5 peak. I noticed a
couple of small buildings stood on either side of the peak as I made
my way up. One bore a sign which read "9-5 Activity Center"
and was empty save for a couple of musty tables and chairs inside.
At the top was a large boulder with steps cut into it. Another hiker
stood silent, arms outstretched, on the boulder, which overlooked the
entire Taipei basin.� After a
few minutes he belted out a loud "WWWEEEIII!!!!" into the
wind. Then he got down from the boulder and left.
I climbed up on the mountain and took in the view, wondering what
nebulous entity everyone was addressing in their bellowing. I tried
once or twice, and even though nothing answered me but the wind in the
trees and the far-off murmur of traffic, I felt better, as if I had
unburdened myself in some fashion. Perhaps in that shouting was all of
the pent-up frustration living in Taipei or in any big city tends to
saddle one with. Here was a chance to address the city with no
apparent repercussions, I realized as I looked down upon it in its
entirety.
I shouted once more. Taipei answered by maintaining the far-off,
muted roar of 3 million people which serves as its voice.
It was getting dark on my way down, and the group of radio-bearing
old men was just behind me, so I ended up going faster than I should
have on my way down. Night had just fallen by the time I returned to
the temple from which I had set out that afternoon. The lights of the
city twinkled and flashed like some living entity all of its own,
lapping at the walls of the basin below, but up here there was only
the sound of insects and the flapping of tattered Taoist flags to
accompany the fluorescent-lit etchings of deities along the walls of
the temple, which was eerily deserted as the darkness grew. I
experienced a surge of relief at the sound of my motorcycle's engine
and the bright gleam of the headlight as I coasted down the mountain,
back across the divide between the city and the little-known
desolation which encroaches upon its borders.