Climbing the Dragon's Spine- From Daxi To Dali- 在龙脊攀爬, 从大溪到大里

My path takes me up the Daxi Trail to the orange circle at Taoyuan Valley.  This area has the nickname 世外桃源 'shiwai taoyuan', which means a beautiful retreat away from the world.  From there, I follow the red path, the Caoling Trail, all the way to where it intersects with the green path, my exit route down to Dali Station.

*BEEP BEEP BEEP*

Christ, what time is it?  6am?!  What am I doing waking up at 6am?

"What you do every Sunday," a sharp voice pierces my hazy consciousness, "Climb mountains, trek across the wilderness, the usual bad-assery."  The voice sounds a little like Carl from Aqua Teen Hunger Force.

"Yeah, but at 6am?"

"What can I say, you chose a long hike this time.  Now get your ass out of bed."

That's right.  I was making the trek from Daxi to Dali, a 13 km route winding from mountain to mountain along Taiwan's beautiful east coast.  Daxi is a 1.5 hour train ride from Xizhi, and with the hike ticking off at around 5 hours, I decided to wake up extra early to leave the rest of my day open.  It still amazes me how small Taiwan is; I can be half-way around the island in less time than it takes to teach one of my classes.

Groggily, I pick up supplies at the local 7-11 and head for the train station.  The one idea paramount in my mind: I'll be able to sleep on the way over.  Who else is going to be taking the 6:54 am train on a Sunday morning?

You know nothing, Stephen Hopkins.

With visions of stretching out comfortably I step onto the train bound for Su'ao and do a double-take.  Everywhere I look seats are crammed with hikers, most of them dressed in neon-colored polo shirts.  Massive packs lay at the foot of some, and walking sticks are the order of the day.  How arrogant of me to think that I was the only person who might want to get in some hiking while the weather's this perfect, especially considering the mean age of hikers in Taiwan.  Old people waking up early to take advantage of the day?  Nah...

Before long I'm able to grab a seat squeezed between two fully-decked out hikers.  The gentleman on my right frequently stands up at stops to greet other hikers wearing the same garish orange shirt he is.  Jesus, these clubs sport some braggin' membership.  I'm unable to really stretch out until Fulong, but by then I've got maybe fifteen minutes until Daxi, so instead of sleeping, I twist around to get a full view of the Pacific laid bare before me.

Maybe ten minutes from Daxi Station, not far from the trail entrance.

Alighting at Daxi, I find myself in a commercial desert.  7-11s, the defining mark of civilization in Taiwan, are replaced by the occasional mom and pop store.  Seeing a group of young Taiwanese pointing at the station map, I overhear they're looking for the Taoyuan Valley Trail.  Great, all I have to do is play it cool and creep on these guys.  Considering we're the only ones who get off at this stop, THAT won't be at all conspicuous.  They notice pretty quickly that I'm skulking behind them, and when one of the women asks me where I'm headed, I let her know.

She brightens, "Oh hey, that's where we're headed!  Where you going until?"
"Dali."
"Oh, us too!"
"Cool.  I actually eavesdropped on you guys and was planning on following you to the trailhead without engaging in conversation."

Haha, just kidding on the last part.  I learn from one guy that they're a group of middle school teachers.  He first engages me in broken English before I convince him to do otherwise with my Chinese, and we share facets of teacher life with each other before I push ahead at the trail proper.  The first young woman was trying to convince me that this hike takes eight hours.  Maybe eight hours if you travel in a group of people who never hike.  As friendly as they are, I took the train alone, and I'm already inured to the idea of setting my own pace.  In a few minutes I hear them only faintly, and after a few more I'm truly alone.

I already know from Jaryd that the Taoyuan Valley Trail is 5 kilometers of steps, but I'm unprepared for the slippery stones that frustrates my progress.  It's as if someone scrubbed each brick with soap and just left the residue, a sick joke to make this Sisyphean task all the more aggravating.  I'm reminded of my time waiting at Din Tai Fung, where sometimes you weren't sure if you'd keep your footing around that corner, or eat shit while hefting a tower of dumpling baskets.  After having my back foot slip out from under me one too many times, I abandon stone for mud and step off to the side.  Apparently, other people have shared this sentiment, because the ground immediately around the trail is tramped down and well-worn.  Now, I complain about steps a lot on this blog.  For someone who does as much hiking as I do, it's kind of a big deal, but I do realize the advantages of installing them.  For more elderly hikers, a sturdier stone path means fewer aches in the joints, and less energy expended.  Fair.  But to install a trail THAT'S SHITTIER THAN THE DIRT PATH ALONG IT?!  You realize people find the FUCKING DIRT AND TWIGS more reliable than your soapstone bullshit?  And trust me, it's not like I wasn't slipping and sliding in the mud too, I just stood a better chance of making it up the mountain without breaking my front teeth on hard brick.

It all pays off, trust me.

Ah yah, dose are purdy nice steps, BUT I WOULDN'T TAKE DEM.

Now I understand why all the hikers here wear sturdy boots.  Hint: it's not for off-trail adventuring.

It doesn't take long at all on the steep path to break above the trees, and my eyes drink their fill of the endless Pacific below.  The weather is sunny yet cool, and the cloud-dappled water sparkles merrily, cyan  in the light, and.  I fiddle around with my camera, trying to capture the rich colors of the water against the verdant green of Daxi's coastal mountains.  My best efforts are amateurish, and I decide I'll wait until I get to the ridge line before seeking photographic gold.

The best Taiwan imitation of autumn.

I meet an older couple resting at a pavilion, the husband ensuring me the hike will take no more than five hours for someone of my stamina.  Later on, a family greets me from the lone restroom stop on the trail.  I see their dog and inquire about it:

Me: "Nice dog."
Man: "Yeah, it's been following us ever since we got here."
Me: (not understanding at first) "Can you pet him?"
Man: "I don't know, he's not ours!"
Me: "Oh."

I whistle softly and he starts running up ahead of me.  He's a beautiful mutt, undoubtedly with some German Shepherd mixed in there.  As I pet him, I notice he lacks any distinct dog odor.  He has a collar, so surely he can't be a stray.  Just when I think he's going to be a permanent companion on this hike though, his ears prick up, and he gallops back the way he came.  Probably for the better, I have no food for him.

It's too bad he doesn't stick around though, as I have no companion to share the ridge-top view with.  I'm granted a 360 view: mountains to my left, the Pacific to my right, and my destination straight ahead.  With only one kilometer left I make it to the pavilion in no time, a landmark confirmed in my mind as the connecting point to the Caoyuan Trail.

You really have to try to take a bad picture up here.

I rest here for a spell, enjoying the sun, the cool breeze, and my Chinese trail-mix, much improved with the addition of peanut M&Ms.  The family I ran into catches up with me, the dog proceeding them.  I chat with them a bit, and the husband remarks that the dog's well-mannered, it's just a shame they can't take it in.  Tell me about it buddy.  I've seen about a dozen cats that I'd like to make my own, but my schedule would never allow it.

The Taiwanese are out in force, both casual families driving up to the grassy meadows of Caoling, and more dedicated hikers.  What I don't see is much wild cattle, with one lonely specimen grazing far in the distance.  I probably see more warnings and barbed-wire checkpoints than I see actual cows, but I'm not really disappointed, as I got my fill of them at Qing Tian Gang.

The dog busies himself sniffing my crotch while I pack up my stuff up and set off once more.  At first I think he's going to linger with the family, but he comes bounding up to me.  Grinning, I whistle him over, but he darts away down the meadow, bounding over the rolling hills.  What looks to be a pile of cow shit grabs his attention and he busies himself rooting around in it.  With that final picture of him locked in my memory I wave goodbye and head up and over the grassy crest of rock that's long occupied my field of vision.

I quickly realize that I've underestimated this hike.  After tackling the first green wave, my sense of accomplishment is instantly swept away when I gaze out ahead; the Caoling Trail is a dragon's spine, whipping up and down with the ridgeline.  I curse out loud when I take in all the undulations of the five km still in front of me, not out of exasperation, but because I had no idea to expect such beauty.  For the first time I feel like I'm on a legitimate day-hike, like I would be back home.  Wuliaojian might have tested the strength of my nerves, but the Caoling Trail, with it's rolling mountain views, truly reminds me of the far reaching vistas of my native Cascades.

Taking a detour to a viewpoint leaves my left hip throbbing by the time I reach the top.  Shitski, a trail in Taiwan that can cause me physical pain?  Ashamed, I picture myself next year climbing up Jade Mountain, gritting my teeth at the half-way point due to aching knees.  Sometime in the past few years my body went ahead and aged without my consent: worry lines, thinning hair, protesting joints.  This displeases me.  I push through and wait until I've hiked to the top of Mt. Kengtou before I sit down and knead my hip.  All the aches and pain do on a trail like this is give you more time to appreciate the scenery.  That's all getting old is, a reminder to slow down and take it all in.

Heading downhill now, I spot a huge eagle hovering against the force of the wind.  It's clutching something that manages to worm away every few seconds, all to no avail as the hawk deftly plucks it back out of the air.  My mouth drops open every time this happens.  The hawk has scant moments to maneuver and snatch whatever prey it has out of the air while compensating for the gusting wind, and it does so without fail.  Hell, it even makes it look easy.  Like, shooting-tires-while-driving-a car-during-a-car-chase-scene easy.  The hawk is shortly joined by another, and they frequently fly overhead not more than ten meters above me, close enough for me to appreciate their great size, but not close enough for my camera to record any appreciable features.

From this point I can see the road I'll be taking back down to the Dali train station and after trekking on a curling dragon's spine through breath-taking vistas, I'm less impressed with having to walk down an asphalt road.  There are shortcuts cutting through in the form of stairs, but I'm stuck behind crawling geriatrics until I lose my patience and do a bit of off-road passing.  If there are some dirty looks thrown my way I'll never know, because I'm busy making up for time lost taking photos.  Hurtling down steps at breakneck speed, I'm able to cut the last 3 km to about twenty minutes.  I pass through a garish temple, whistling something from a Miyazaki film, and work my way to the train station just as it starts to rain.

Rain at the end of my hike?  I'll take it.  From here it's on to Jiaoxi, to soak in a hot spring.  Or, as my brother says, enjoy the dicks.