The owner of our school, Madame Baishan, took us out for Teacher Appreciation Day. We donned our best collared shirts, shorts and flip-flops, and jumped in one of two school-owned buses that took us to the Sophia Hotel, located approximately seven miles west of our gated campus. The buffet was the most elaborate I have ever seen.
Between where we live and this buffet worthy of Chinese Deities, there sits a mountain called Shiloaoren that Brusie and I had been eyeing. Since we had nothing else to do that Saturday except nurse hangovers by engorging on the 50-plus dishes of potential food poisoning, we decided to then go on a small hike in the park.
Beyond the entrance gate for 30 Yuan (~$3.50 US), we saw this cute concrete chipmunk that had elephantitis of the balls. Fair enough, I thought. About 50 steep paces later we realized we were in one of the coolest parks either of us had ever been in. It was straight out of a Choose Your Own Adventure book.
The paths winding up the mountain were constantly splitting. The designated and impromptu trails led to Chinese pagodas, hammocks, outdoor workout equipment, streams, rock formations, Chinese scrolls, wooden scaffolding, tree forts, lookout platforms, Buick-sized bells that you could ring with a log suspended by rusted chains, and the obligatory refreshment stands.
I’m pretty sure Brusie likes hiking for hiking’s sake. Me? Not so much, unless we can conquer a peak or reach an amazing viewpoint. Then I love it. With the top in sight and the views of the Qingdao city center to the west, the Yellow Sea to the south, the Laoshan Mountains to the east, and the mountain wilderness to the north becoming more impressive, I pressed on with Brusie at my heels.
Flip-flops were a bad idea. The terrain went from fairly steep and well worn to extremely steep and slanted with bald rocks. Moreover, only a rusty chain separated us from a cliff that offered plenty of time for our lives to flash before our eyes on the way down. But we bitch-slapped that slope, sandals be-damned, and reached the summit around 2 p.m.
The sun was shining on us that day, my friend. The view was spectacular and we spent some time taking it in. We laughed our asses off putting together the scenes of the night before and that we had just shot up this mountain in nice clothes and flip-flops. The entire peninsula was in sight. We could pick out the Chinese nuke sub base, our school, wooden fishing boats skirting around sandbars and the skyscrapers of Qingdao.
I started to say, “Let’s head on back down and catch a bus back to the... uh Brusie, where are you going?”
Crap.
“It kind of looks like the trail goes off the backside of the mountain,” Brusie observed.
That’s right. If you mean the trail disappears off that edge, into that armpit-deep grass, between the narrow and really steep open-rock faces, along the crest of the next three ridges, and right into the forest of Hobbit trees — then yeah, it goes off the backside of the mountain, I thought to myself.
“Yeah, let’s check it out,” I mumbled.
“Okay, it’s 2 p.m. now. If we aren’t somewhere by 4 p.m. we should return and head down the normal way,” Brusie said.
“I am down. Sign me up. Mark me down. Let’s do this,” I said uneasily.
Pride is a bitch. There was no way I was going to be the guy that was like, Ummmmm, this isn’t a good idea because, we could get lost, it’s going to get dark, we have no water, no food, who knows if it’s private property, we want go out tonight, WE’RE WEARING FLIP-FLOPS!
I think that’s why we make such a good, or bad, team. Neither of us will back down to another’s idea, even if it’s a bad one.
Brusie disappeared off the backside of the mountain. One last peek back toward the designated trail, a shake of my head, and I double-timed it to catch up. Immediately, my waste disappeared into the lushness of the trail. I just kept thinking, Well if there are any poisonous snakes (we saw a five foot snake skin the other day) or spiders (they’re bright yellow and neon green, and as big as your hand), lynxes (we saw one a couple of weeks ago on a hill behind our school) or any other crap, then they would get him first.
With that in mind we were cruising and I was really enjoying every step minus the ankle twisters. There was a soft breeze from the southeast that feathered the grass and created, other than the sound of our steps, the only noise.
For two hours we walked along the ridgeline, taking pictures and enjoying ourselves. We were in China! The day was the gorgeous. We were way off the trail and completely carefree. It was 4 p.m. and there was no way we were retracing our steps to Shilaoren. We knew our school was somewhere in the valley to the east.
“The trail looks like it goes east, though the surreal glade and off the mountain,” I said.
“Sure, sounds good,” Brusie said.
The top half of the descent wasn’t bad at all. Then as we started nearing some buildings the ground would drop away about ten feet every twenty feet or so. The hillside was still densely vegetated, and we couldn’t make out what was under the vegetation. Half of these ridges we slid down on our butts to avoid any more ankle rolls. Then it dawned on us: many years ago this hill must have been terraced, farmed, abandoned, and now it’s a pain in the ass for two white boys trying to get down.
With legs, ankles, and feet scratched up and bleeding, we came out to an opening.
“New marble steps leading up the facing mountain?” said Brusie.
“What is going on?” I asked.
“Lets see where they go.”
“F’in A, lets do it.”
The carefully placed, sapling-lined, shiny marble stairs climbed 500-feet to the north as a parallel stream ran south. We had stumbled upon a construction site of what we had originally thought was an extremely wealthy businessman’s country hideaway. We asked the workers if we could continue to climb the steps guarded by two red-collared, marble lions. With their approval we ran to the top and were breathless as we stood in front of an incredibly intricate Buddhist temple.
Two care takers approached us like Chief Yelleppit must have approached Lewis and Clark. In broken Chinese we conversed with them:
Them: “Where did you come from?”
Us (mainly by pointing and hand motions): “We hiked over the top of Laoshan Mountain, along the ridgeline for two hours, down the face of that ridge, up the stairs and here we are!”
They looked toward the mountain looming overhead and then stared at us in disbelief. They pointed at our torn up legs, shook their heads, said something in Chinese and cracked smiles. They invited us to look around but told us to not take pictures. We explored the temple in awe, but the sun was setting and we had to get moving.
Following a dirt road in the direction of our school, we passed several large condominium/apartment development complexes that were still under construction. The road led directly to our school and was the only way out of the valley. Now, we know where the cement trucks that continuously roll by our windows throughout the night are headed.
While our intentions were to tear up the Qingdao bar scene that night, we ended up chilling with a beer in my apartment watching a bootleg DVD version of Will Farrell’s newest movie, Talladega Nights, that cost me about $0.80 U.S. and comes complete with crowd laughter and people getting up to go to the bathroom. The surprises never end.
