You don't know what grandeur is until you've climbed Mount Tai. For me, climbing Mount Tai has never been a simple sightseeing trip, but a vertical dialogue with time. This dialogue begins at the foot of the mountain and ends at the Jade Emperor Peak, each step echoing the past and prompting self-reflection.
Starting from the Red Gate, the stone steps wind upwards in the morning mist, the damp air carrying the scent of pine needles and earth. At first, the steps are light, amidst throngs of tourists, laughter and chatter. However, after passing the Hutian Pavilion, the slope becomes steeper, breathing becomes heavy, and the previous leisurely mood gives way to the most direct physical sensations. The aching legs, the beads of sweat on the forehead, the powerful pounding of the heart—climbing first teaches you honesty. Before these endless stone steps, any pretense or disguise seems pale and powerless; you can only listen to your body, adjust your breathing and pace, and learn to reconcile with your fatigue. This is a most primal form of spiritual practice, a surrender and transcendence of the body to the will. Suddenly, I realized that this climb itself was the beginning of the ancient pursuit of "investigating things," a struggle with the rocks that revealed the most authentic, perhaps even somewhat wretched, self.
And the stones of Mount Tai are far from ordinary rocks. They are carriers of time, the marks of civilization. Below Zhongtianmen, on the streambed of Jingshiyu, Northern Dynasties monks used the entire cliff face as paper to carve the grand meaning of the Diamond Sutra. The large characters, weathered by a thousand years of wind and rain, are now blurred and indistinct, blending into the moss and flowing water. My fingertips did not actually touch those weathered strokes, yet I felt a silent awe while gazing upon them. It was no longer merely calligraphy, but an eternal attempt to integrate faith into the mountains and rivers. Continuing upwards, the cliff inscriptions lined the path, from the seal script of the Qin and Han dynasties to the regular and cursive script of the Tang and Song dynasties. Imperial sacrifices and literary reflections are all frozen in these hard rock faces. The heroic spirit of Li Bai's "A long roar at the Heavenly Gate, a clear breeze sweeps ten thousand miles," and Du Fu's lofty ambition of "I will climb to the summit, and survey all the mountains below," seem to still echo in the valleys. Walking through them is like turning the pages of an open-air, three-dimensional history book. Each stone carving is like a coordinate of time, marking the moment a soul encountered the sacredness of this mountain. The weariness of climbing is dissolved by a profound sense of history, and each step becomes a pilgrimage to the accumulated layers of civilization.
The test of the Eighteen Bends is the most intense climax of this dialogue. Over 1,600 steps, like a ladder to heaven hanging straight from the Southern Heavenly Gate, inspire awe. At this moment, one's gaze can only focus on the small space before one's eyes, one step, then another. All grand imagery and timeless contemplation give way to the purest physical endurance. Among our companions were elderly men with white hair, slowly making their way with canes; young children, encouraged by their parents, toddling upwards; and the silent, steady figures of porters, carrying supplies on their shoulders, seemingly bearing the weight of life itself. On this steep road leading to the sky, a wondrous sense of equality and connection arose. Regardless of where we came from or what our identities were, at this moment, we were all simply look up to them, climbers. A simple "Keep going!" or an understanding glance became the warmest comfort. The meaning of mountain climbing may not only lie in conquering the heights, but also in the kindness and support of those on the same path.