All in the Family

Monday morning I was greeted with a bright sun and the fortunate grace of not being called in on stand-by. Therefore, with bright hopes of a fine day resting on the horizon, I took off for a place just east of Taipei called Pingxi.

To the loyal readers of this blog, Pingxi might ring a few bells; the area is reminiscent of sky lanterns, hot stinking trains, crazy old women wanting English lessons, and torrential downpours while wandering lost and with no sense of direction. What's more is, I believe I may have mentioned that bad times make for good stories. Well, I can tell you friends, it has not come to the point, yet, where we look fondly on our first trip to this treacherous part of Taiwan.

However, this trip was to be solo, by bus, and in fair weather. Wait, by bus you ask? Oh yes. Apparently there is a bus service that runs from Muzah in Taipei and goes to Pingxi in 45 minutes. The ride costs three swipes of the MRT card, or NT$45, was not crowded, and presented me with some of the most charming scenery around Taipei. Already, this second voyage to Pingxi was vastly improving over my last trip.

Once I arrived in Pingxi, I was dismayed to see dark clouds rolling in over the mountain and thuderous crashes sounding in the distance. A quick wind was picking up and I knew I had to make a choice: climb the mountains and beat the storms, thus risk stranding myself in unpredictable and dangerous weather, or wait it out at the bottom of the mountain for the storm to pass. My recent accident at Silver Stream Cave made me weigh all my options quite heavily.

At last, I decided to test the elements, and incidentally my ability to judge an approaching storm, as I made my way up the unique mountains. I have commented on before how the hiking trails are managed in this area, that rather than dirt paths meandering up the sides of mountains, the Taiwanese prefer stairs straight up instead. Well, the stairs at Pingxi take hiking to a new level when they are actually cut straight into the cliff faces themselves.


Although I have a decent head for heights, it was a dizzying task at times. And with the chances of a small thunderstorm coming at any time over these unprotected rock faces, the chance of failure was elevated. The danger and intensity swirled around my head as I made my way up the first of two peaks: Dutiful Son Mountain.


Dutiful Son Mountain climbs at a solid 75 degrees, making it difficult, yet climbable. The difficulty comes at the finale when the stairs are replaced by hanging ropes dangling over a vertical cliff and you have to literally scale this terrifying peak up to the summit. But once there, the views of the surrounding countryside are incomparable. Furthermore, there is a splendid view of the nearby and more precipitous climb up Loving Mother Mountain.


Loving Mother Mountain dwarfs Dutiful Son Mountain, but it isn't as dangerous in my opinion. The steps are twice as long and more exposed to the elements, but in reality, the climb was relatively simple and dare I say, peaceful. Once I had arrived at the summit, I was presented with the most enchanting view of Dutiful Son Mountain and the surrounding countryside. The serenity and magic of the rolling mountains stretched deep into the distance and blended effortlessly into the quiet horizon.


The peacefulness of the scene was quickly interrupted when mother nature decided to remind me that I was on an exposed cliff face when she loudly bellowed out "Hey, idiot, get off the mountain! A storm's abrewin'!" Cracks of thunder very close to this outcrop sent me on my way, and I quickly, yet carefully, descended this glorious peak. And in no time, too, because the rain started tapping at my back as soon as I reached the head of the trail. Nature gave me just enough time before the storm hit to find shelter underneath a local pavilion with a gaggle of old Taiwanese dames. Certainly, it was no setting of any Harlequin romance novel, where I am forced into a local stable with scantily clad young women as the roaring storm electrifies our primal urges. Rather, I sat there calmly for forty-five minutes praying none of the grannies would request any "English lessons" from me during this passing rain.

Fortunately, the rain passed, and so did my fears of any advances, and I made my way down the road to a quiet town called Ling Chiao. With a main road no larger than a back alleyway, this village doesn't have much to offer a passing traveler. However, I was en route to a more fabled sense of gold at the top of a mountain behind the village. Taking a trail through wooded hills, (and absentmindedly walking through some spider webs only moments later to find what very well could be lethally poisonous spiders crawling all over my arm and shirt) I reached the summit and to a new and imposing temple. I walked in, greeted the monk and climbed carefully up to the top of the temple. On top, I was presented with two very special gifts.

The first gift was behind the temple. Here, a cave is tucked away in a place so remote and and so unknown, that there aren't even any photos of it on Google. This cave, called Quan Yin Dripping Water Cave, is another geological masterpiece. Over thousands of years, hanging plants have turned into stalagtites and stalagmites from a process of petrification by mineral-rich waters. In the center of the cave, a small statue, shaped from a large, central stalagmite, serves as a worshiping point to the Goddess of Mercy, Quan Yin.


The second gift was the panoramic view of the mountains, encased in a sweet unfolding of clouds and mist. The view, quite honestly, took my breath away. Because, after such a long and somewhat tiring trek out to the temple, I came to realize I was at the top of a mountain beside a wondrous cave. It was in this moment I felt a great and overwhelming sensation of achievement and tranquility as I gazed off at a view I had seriously worked for.


I descended the mountain, walked back to Ling Chiao, walked a bit of the train tracks to take some photographs of a forbidden waterfall, and caught the quaint train back to Taipei. And for what it's worth, the train wasn't crowded this time.


From a man who climbed the mountains that truly are all in the family, Michael.