Journal Entry
by Diane Erickson

With all the wonderful things we experienced in China: the people, the museums, the lectures, the school visits, orphanage visits, the food, the outstanding Mosuo visit at Lugu Lake, Zingjing with its interesting people, fabulous food, and great cities along the silk road it should be difficult to limit a journal entry to just one or maybe even four or five things, but I have to be truthful and admit I can limit it to one entry because on this trip to China, in 2005, I fell in love and its been awhile since I could say that, 1999, in fact. Not so long really, but long enough to realize I’d forgotten and our loves don’t take kindly to being forgotten. They want us to live and breathe them day in and day out, but in China I remembered I’d forgotten to do that. Thank you, China, for reminding me. 
           
On Wed. July 27th, I was depressed. Our more youthful-type travelers were going to hike up a mountain, and I wasn’t going to be able to participate. I’m not much of a hiker at the best of times, but before this trip I’d twisted my foot and that had turned me into a drag. If not a social one, at least a physical one. Our younger types were going to have an adventure, and I wasn’t. I tried not to whine as the bus dropped our mountain hikers off and 4 other not-so-athletic-types like me, or maybe just too-tired-to-tackle-a-mountain types, and I watched out of the back bus window as our compatriots zipped off down the path to glory as we sped away to our ‘little trip.’

I’m not sure I even listened to what our ‘little trip’ would entail. I was irritated. I wanted to be a glorious mountain climber, too. Oh, well. I pouted. My pouting was interrupted as my head sharply hit the back of the seat. We had started climbing. The Shur Lien Mountain Range may not be the highest in the world, but they sure know how to get your attention. As we wound up the switchbacks, goats clung to the fields until the meadows sloped quickly away into sharp, deep gullies. Our bus hugged the tall granite wall as we steadily climbed.
“Where are we going?” I asked my friend.
“Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, but we probably won’t be able to see it because it’s always shrouded in clouds this time of year.”

A mountain, I thought. I did like a good mountain. Another mountain flashed in my memory. Ausengati. A beautiful, snow-covered mountain I’d fallen in love with in Peru in 1999. She was glorious and had made my heart race just looking at her. As I saw her in my mind’s eye, I realized I hadn’t thought of her in a long time. Far too long. I’d almost forgotten her.
I was lost in thought of Ausengati as the bus climbed. Another snow mountain, too bad we wouldn’t get to see it. I looked out the window at the Caribbean-blue reservoir with a dam spanning it. I watched a hairy Yak walk along the dam. Not bad I thought as we continued up.

“Where’s this mountain?” I asked.
“Don’t know. Can’t see it.”

The bus kept a steady speed, almost stopping on the hairpin curves to make sure no one was coming. As it turned the corners, it looked like we would fall off and slide down the mountain. We start yelling and digging for our cameras. We all ran from one side of the bus to the other. Flashes popped. People yelled. Video cameras hummed full speed.

“Did you see that? Did you see that?”
“Yes, I thought we were a gonner for sure.”
“Where did that goat come from?”
“What goat? Get out of my way. I’m filming here.”

Braver individuals stuck their cameras out open windows to film better. I stuck my head out. Where was this mountain? I took tons of pictures I knew would be blurry, but didn’t care because of my intoxication with the towering mountains, deep valleys, and impending death. It’s understandable. When confronted with such grandeur and imminent death, one goes a little nuts. The event must be chronicled with film.
 While most of us are looking back wondering how we outlived that last turn, we come to a stop.

“We’re here.”
“Where’s the mountain?” I ask.
“I think we’re on it,” says another.
“No we’re not,” says Eileen. “Come on we need to catch the lift.”

We climb the stairs, and we do, indeed, have to catch the lift because it doesn’t slow down or stop. You jump in. Two to a gondola, the man says. It’s the rule. We watch others jump on and start up. I look at my friend. She looks at me. Neither of us are too nimble or lightweights. 

“I’ll go first,” I say.

I almost go flying out the other side, I’m so scared of not doing it right. My friend piles in half on top of me. Neither one of us cares as we glide up over the tops of 30-60 foot trees. In some places they seem so close we could almost touch them. People walk the paths below and wave as we look down. Others have dropped little heart necklaces on strings in the top of the trees, probably adding a prayer as the necklace falls and snags a branch. I wish I had thought to buy one. This seems like the perfect place to leave a permanent prayer.

People say, “Hello,” to us. We say “Ni Hao,” to them. Everyone smiles and nods.

At the top my friend looks worried, but we manage to pile out without killing ourselves or snagging our pants and returning back down the mountain dangling from the bottom of the gondola getting a closer look at the trees.
    
Up here we see booths. A little three-year-old girl dances in front of us and poses for a picture. Down below we see a yak who’ll let you sit on it and have your picture taken. Sometimes, if it feels like it.

But no Snow Mountain.

I know the direction in which to look, but clouds cover everything, and it’s beginning to rain. After we see what there is to see, my friend sails off the back of a recalcitrant yak, I get my picture taken standing next to the yak, we smell all the smells, take lots of pictures, and smile at more people, we sadly glide back down on the lift. It’s just as beautiful, and people are just as nice, and the permanent prayers are just as permanent.

But no Snow Mountain.

We jump in the bus and start slowly down the mountain. We once again bounce back and forth between sides to absorb every ounce of the rainy landscape until someone squeals and points.
“Look!”

The clouds have parted and the sun is illuminating Jade Dragon Snow Mountain in all her glory. I gasp.

“Stop. Stop,” I yell and barely wait for the bus to pull over and stop before jumping out. Around me shutters start snapping. I just stand with my mouth gaping. Everyone’s shouting.

“Take a picture of me!”
“Me, too.”
“Take one of all of us!”
I come awake.
“Wait for me. I want to be in it, too.”
Then someone yells even louder.
“Look! See her glacier?”

I look, and I do see her glacier clinging to her side. I start taking pictures from every angle I can possibly find. Everything has doubled its interest because it is in front of Jade Dragon Snow Mountain. For me, even an old blue truck will live on made memorable because it’s in front of this great mountain.

Finally, they almost have to pull me into the bus so that we can start down the mountain. I know that shortly the clouds will blow back in, and she’ll be covered once again. However as I watch, she surprises me. She stays out from behind the clouds, and I have my gaze glued to her as we wind down the mountain forcing the driver to stop often so we can photograph her from some new imagined angle. Many rolls of film later and standing by the beautiful blue reservoir, I still turn and take looks at Jade Dragon Snow Mountain.

Loves are a strange thing. What is it with me and gorgeous mountains? Is it the snow or glaciers? Is it the craggy surface? What grabbed me about Ausengati in Peru? What grabs me about Jade Dragon Snow Mountain now?  Who knows? I think. Who cares? China whispers. Just go with it, and I do.

Reluctantly, I get back on the bus and ride away looking over my shoulder at Jade Dragon Snow Mountain as she shows off for me all the way.

Cheer up, says China. This time you’ll remember. I think about that as I bounce along watching Jade Dragon Snow Mountain getting smaller. Then, I smile. China’s right. Even if the clouds come back before she disappears from sight, I know she’ll continue to shine in my heart.
This time I won’t forget.