On 高黎贡山 Gaoligong Mountain

A couple of weekends ago, good old 彭智文 asked me if I wanted to climb 高黎贡山 (Gaoligong Mountain), probably because I’ve been asking since we arrived. It’s that massive majestic mountain range making daily guest appearances on my instagram. All of the American 腾冲 fellows, and most of the Chinese fellows signed on, making us a fit group of nine hikers. Early Saturday morning we stuffed into a van and rode to the base of the mountain.

It was a difficult morning of steps, steeps, stairs, and rocks. My pack was really heavy, which was obviously a disadvantage; I’d brought clothes for sleeping, clothes for the next day, a bathing suit, a towel, 10 bananas, two dozen unidentified stone-fruit, a few liters of water, dates, pumpkin seeds, keys, glasses, tp—a hundred too many things. Though it was a never-ending slow slog, everyone was mutually and simultaneously pumped, supportive, and exhausted. Finally we got to the top where we found a windy field, prime for photo-taking.

 

After some food and rest, we spent five hours trying to ride gravity, but mostly falling, down the mountain. Although it was easier, I was on a mission to finish; around 10am I had felt the first pangs of a dehydrated, caffeine-deprived headache, and by the afternoon, it was a fully-developed, skull-splitting agony. Never skimp on water: lesson learned.

Once we reached our paradise of clean beds and hot food, we turned right back around and hiked to a natural hot spring. It had been a long day, but we soldiered down the path nonetheless. The sun was setting when we crossed a bridge over a waterfall to a shallow temperate plash. It was the size of a swimming pool, and the water was clear and warm—a gentle end to our arduous feat.

My Monday

Today I woke up early. I got dressed and made breakfast over the pre-dawn chants of my students’ synchronized steps around the track. I prepared materials for class, and tried to write a lesson plan that reflected what I wanted my students to learn.

As children lined up for breakfast, I filled my canister with hot water, and brewed my favorite green oolong tea. I had such a feeling of vigor; it seemed to me like capability, raw strength. I rushed to class, and it didn’t go poorly.

I rushed to class again, but walked more slowly when I realized the school meeting was running long. I set up in an empty classroom, but still no one came, and when they did, it was as if I didn’t exist. I packed up my things and talked with my favorite teacher, who said they were having a long assembly about the big fire. Over the weekend, five students, including a 3^rd and a 6^th grader, were playing with fire when it got out of hand. In fact, at the time I was visiting her house, and she made me go outside to look at the smoke.

We went to lunch and she asked me if her 盐菜 pickled vegetables, which I had eaten over the weekend, were better than the school’s. I admitted that they absolutely were. She continued to ask me, so that other teachers would hear my response. Each time she laughed an evil laugh. I told her I was going to teach her first class in the afternoon—she's sick, and I didn’t get a chance to teach her students because of the assembly. She just laughed.

I went to my room and took up a book that I liked as a kid. I got distracted by a memory, a nice kind of longing though, the kind that makes you want to close your eyes. I fell asleep.

She laughed again as she saw me walking to her class. I was informed that they were taking pictures this period, and I could take her 3^rd period class. I was momentarily let down since I had planned to go on a long run during that time. But I pushed the selfish thought from my mind, and went back to reading in my room.

I taught two periods back to back. Afterwards, I ran a mile and did some weights, interspersed by squats. I went to dinner sweaty.

I ate the rest of my strawberries since I was still hungry. They would have gone bad after much longer anyway. I showered. I hand-washed my underwear in a basin while listening to music and singing to myself.

On a trip back from the bathroom, I stopped and watched the setting sun. I marveled at the grandiose; everything looked petty and unremarkable in comparison, even the canola flowers. I thought about how the cirrus clouds looked as if the white crayon worked in nature.

Now I’m drinking chrysanthemum tea, writing, with music afloat. I plan to read for a couple hours, and then go to sleep.