A Journey to Zhuque Mountain in Jilin
I stayed at a rather unremarkable hotel in Jilin City. The name of the hotel has long escaped my memory, but I do recall a poorly painted landscape hanging in the lobby. The mountains didn’t look like mountains, and the water didn’t resemble water—it seemed more like a half-hearted effort by a struggling artist. Yet, guests hurried past without a second glance.
At dawn, with the sky just beginning to brighten, I decided to visit Zhuque Mountain. The receptionist, yawning and with puffy eyes, barely raised an eyebrow when I mentioned my destination. She handed me a blurry map with a hint of impatience.
"Not far, just take a cab," she said, her tone laced with indifference.
Stepping out of the hotel, I was greeted by a cold wind. Mornings in Jilin are always like this—bitingly cold with a touch of moisture. The streets were sparsely populated, with the occasional car passing by, its tires making a soft "shhh" sound on the damp road.
The taxi driver, a silent middle-aged man, simply nodded when I told him I was heading to Zhuque Mountain. As the car moved through the city, the view outside the window gradually shifted from buildings to trees. A mist began to envelop the surroundings, and the distant mountains appeared faint and indistinct, like an unfinished ink painting.
"This fog..." I couldn’t help but comment.
"Happens often," the driver replied curtly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
After about forty minutes, we arrived at the foot of the mountain. The fog had thickened, shrouding Zhuque Mountain in a mysterious haze. At the entrance, a few vendors selling snacks and bottled water huddled with their hands tucked into their sleeves, their gazes vacant as they watched the sparse flow of visitors.
I bought a ticket and began ascending the stone steps. The steps were damp, with patches of moss in some areas, requiring extra caution. The mist wove through the trees, their dark branches etched against the white backdrop like a woodblock print.
Along the way, I encountered a few hikers, all walking silently, without even exchanging glances. Only the sound of footsteps echoed in the quiet mountain, occasionally interrupted by distant bird calls that were quickly swallowed by the fog.
Halfway up, there was a platform with a weathered stone tablet, its inscriptions eroded by time and weather. Standing there, gazing at the fog-filled valley, I was overcome by an inexplicable sense of solitude. The mountain, the mist, the silence—it all felt detached from the outside world, forming a realm of its own.
Continuing upward, the steps grew steeper, and my breathing became labored. Sweat soaked through my undershirt, clinging uncomfortably to my back. Occasionally, a ray of sunlight pierced through the fog, only to be quickly engulfed again. This fleeting interplay of light and shadow seemed to mirror life itself—moments of hope, brief and elusive.
At last, I reached the summit. The fog had thinned slightly, allowing a view of Jilin City below. The city appeared faint and dreamlike, like a mirage. For a moment, I couldn’t distinguish between reality and illusion.
At the peak stood a small pavilion, where an elderly man sold tea. His face was deeply lined, as if carved with a knife. I ordered a cup of tea, and he poured the water with deliberate slowness, his movements unhurried yet precise.
"Come here often?" the old man suddenly asked.
"First time," I replied.
He nodded and said no more. The tea was bitter, but as I swallowed, a subtle sweetness lingered in my throat.
Descending the mountain, the fog began to lift, and sunlight filtered through the clouds, casting dappled patterns on the stone steps. I noticed small purple wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze along the path—something I had completely missed on my way up.
The return taxi driver was more talkative, chattering away about the legends of Zhuque Mountain when he learned of my visit. I gazed at the fleeting scenery outside the window, my thoughts still lingering on the bitter tea at the summit.
Back at the hotel, the receptionist had changed shifts. The new attendant was energetic and all smiles. Returning to my room, I lay on the bed, feeling as though the day’s journey had been a dream.
And that poorly painted landscape still hung on the lobby wall, unnoticed by anyone.