Along the Yulong River

About 5 miles outside of Yangshou the slow moving Yulong River meanders its way through the massive karst topography of southern China. The trail from Yangshou to the river is paved, and it is often clogged with tourists, but it is beautiful, serene and lonely all the same. Trekking away from my low budget hostel the road climbs its only significant rise between the town and the river. As the buildings of Yangshou disappear behind the peaks, I am quickly deposited in a narrow valley.

In the early morning the road was a flutter with local activity. Loud tractors full of farm supplies rumble by. The morning's harvest makes its way in the other direction. The bamboo raft drivers fly down the road on their motorcycles each one blaring their horn as they pass to my very near left. Although the valley is narrow the locals have managed to carve small rice farms out of the land. In the fields the women pick and tie bunches of the plants while the men load their tractors near the road. Somewhere after the first bend the valley begins to open up. To the right farming persists for 200, 300, 400 meters as the massive mountains veer away from the road. To my left, peak after peak rise thousands of feet into the air. Sheer cliffs with plant life seeming to be clinging desperately to the face with their roots. Nature has weathered out small niches in the base of many of the peaks.

Here old ladies sit, selling hats and tiaras made of flowers. Another hundred metres and the trail seems to give birth to what is, I promise you, the most beautiful scene anyone has ever seen. Within the tall confines of the valley walls a massive and proud peak stands solitary, and at its base is a village. The mud road to the left bumps through a small village with no storefronts, just homes. To the right the paved trail cuts quickly through town and on to the Yulong river. Touts scream at me, "Bamboo... Bamboo." I respond with a stern "Bo yo shia shia."

I decided to see where the path to the left led... it led to nowhere but that was the point. The locals on this side of the village were not used to seeing westerners stray from the manicured trail and were eager to have me notice them. "You walk from Yangshuo?" a man asked in surprisingly good English with a look of awe on his face. I simply nod. After exploring the small paths of the town and giving the children a few enthusiastic "Ni haos" I found myself back on the paved trail again heading towards the Yulong. As the road leaves the more modernized part of the village the valley opens up on both sides of the road. It seems that here the entire world is open to me. It is nothing but blue and white sky and peak after cloudy peak.

This is the China we have seen painted a million times and probably written on just as much. I can imagine the ancient Chinese here thinking of the dragon and the phoenix wrapping their way between the massive peaks. The fertile valley floor is flat and ensures that my view of the topography is unencumbered. Something as simple as a stone bridge leading into the soggy fields becomes magical in a setting such as this. When you walk this trail you feel full, entire. Now the trail is beginning to get crowded though, and I must constantly look over my shoulder to ensure that I am not tagged by a motorcycle or tractor, or even worse one of the gigantic buses that are now shipping thousands of tourists to the berth of the bamboo floats. I am soon near the river where more raft drivers offer me their service. In order to escape their requests I find a small dirt path that leads down to the river. And there it was, silent but mighty, slowly weathering this land even further. Upstream there is a flotilla of umbrella clad bamboo rafts. Down stream local children are gathering water guns to sell to the tourists. The colors of these man made items create a paradox that is garish but unmistakeably beautiful. What was once only green and blue is now a flurry of red and orange and green and purple and blue and blue and blue.

I find myself on a map within my travel guide and as some children shyly approach me I show them where we are. The bravest of these quickly grabs the book from my hands and begins searching the map. I am not sure how much of it she comprehended and she quickly handed it back to me closed. I did not spend long at the river, it was hot and I was getting hungry. The walk back home was full of the same scenery and wonder. I have walked or ridden a bike down this trail many times now, sat completely alone and homesick at the edge of a small farm; played and swam in the river with the tourists; jumped off the famous Yulong Bridge into the river and then rode the current back to my clothes; and even climbed the mountains walling the valley until they simply dumped me into another scar in the Earth. The thing that is shocking about all my trips is how it never gets old, never gets ugly, never gets boring. This is why I came to China, for this.