Climbing Mount Tai: Picking Up Stones and Recording Clouds

The stone steps of Zhongtianmen are bathed in the morning light, and the mountain mist swirls beneath your feet. As you ascend, the dappled sunlight filtering through the ancient cypress branches resembles scattered coins, and the remnants of incense from pilgrims of the Wanli era are embedded in the cracks of the steps. The moss between the bricks still carries the starlight of the previous night. As you cross the Yunbu Bridge, the wind suddenly changes direction. White mist rises from the valley, engulfing the vermilion railings. The stone steps appear and disappear in the mist, as if you are stepping on a flowing cloud carpet. Amidst the sound of the pines, the sound of bells and chimes can be heard. It turns out that there is a small Tang Dynasty temple hidden in the cliff, and the eaves and corners are just opened to the cloud curtain. After passing Wudaofeng, the stone steps gradually become a ladder to the sky. The mountain path of the Eighteen Bends appears in the mist, and the ancient road of a thousand years reveals its rugged bones. The stone steps are polished by time, and the sweat of merchants in the Ming and Qing dynasties, the traces of straw sandals of the porters in the Republic of China, and the scratches of the metal trekking poles of the contemporary climbers are all layered in the texture of the bluestone. Climbing to Longmen, looking back at the road you came from, it has already disappeared into the sea of clouds. Only the bronze back of the mountain porter can be seen undulating in the mist, and the two ends of the carrying pole are hung with mineral water and incense candles, like a moving offering. Nantianmen appears at the break of the clouds, and the white jade archway is filled with moisture. As you pass through Tianmen, the Tianjie suddenly unfolds, and the Tang and Song steles awaken in the glow of the setting sun. Beside the stone inscription of Taishigong, several old men are using withered branches dipped in dew to imitate the brushwork of "Five Mountains Alone." Standing on the summit of Yuhuangding, the sea of clouds beneath your feet is surging like a boiling pot. Suddenly, the clouds split open, and the Wenhe River flows eastward like a silver thread. The seventy-two peaks emerge from the clouds, just like the scattered poems in "Du Fu's Collection." As you descend the mountain at dusk, the mountain porters are tying up empty mineral water bottles into a pagoda shape. The lights of Zhongtianmen are just lit up, and it feels like Mount Tai is an inverted history book - the mist is the ink that has been spilled, the stone steps are the binding line, and we are all the punctuation marks that walk between the lines.