《天下名山記》

The "Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven" documents the travels of Ming Dynasty official Li Xian, who was commissioned by the emperor to tour the Western Park of Beijing (present-day Zhongnanhai and Beihai Park area). In early summer of 1459 (the third year of Tianshun reign), the emperor dispatched eunuchs to guide Li Xian and Minister of Personnel Wang Ao through the imperial gardens, initiating an annual tradition that continued for three consecutive years.

Passing through the Western Park's main gate, one immediately encounters Taiye Pool (today's Beihai), where reeds along the shore stand like swords and halberds, while water chestnuts and lotus leaves create refreshing vistas of emerald purity. Following the eastern bank northward, elms, willows, apricots and peach trees stand in picturesque disorder amidst lush grass and fragrant blossoms. After about a hundred paces lies the Pepper Garden, where verdant pines and cypresses mingle with fruit trees, centered by the round-roofed Chongzhi Hall with its golden dome and open sides. South of the hall, a small pond teems with golden carp, while the western waterside gazetteer, surrounded by flowering plants, bears the poetic name "Pavilion for Savoring Fragrance."

Further north stands the Round City (present-day Tuancheng), accessible through arched gates leading to a platform where three ancient pines twist their branches like dragons' claws. Ahead, fragrant blossoms surround the magnificent Chengguang Hall with its golden ornamentation. From this vantage, jagged artificial hills appear to the north while crystal-clear waters shimmer below, their ever-changing vistas framed by windows. Crossing the long bridge westward, one encounters the rugged Wansui Mountain (today's Qionghua Island) with its three stone gateways. Among its terraced palaces, the central Renzhi Hall is flanked by Jiefu Hall and Yanhe Hall, all surrounded by fantastic rocks resembling the mythical dragon-son Bixi (a legendary stele-bearing creature) with moss-covered jaws agape. Winding stone staircases lead past numerous grottoes to the summit's grand hall, where soaring eaves pierce the clouds. The interior remains mysteriously cool even at summer's peak, creating an immortal realm on earth.

(Note: The symbol 〓 indicates missing characters in the original text; Bixi refers to a dragon-like mythical beast said to carry stone tablets.)

This passage depicts a landscape garden resembling an immortal realm, where the reader can almost see the layered pavilions and towers nestled amidst emerald mountains and crystal waters.

Around the peaks encircling the Moon Palace (Guanghan Gong, the legendary lunar abode in Daoist lore), four exquisite pavilions stand atop the summits, named Fanghu, Yingzhou, Yuhong, and Jinlu. Each offers a perfect spot for visitors to ascend and rest. Ahead, a narrow passage winds through the cliffs, revealing four viewing apertures carved into the stone walls. From here, one can gaze down upon the staggered palace architecture—a breathtaking scene as picturesque as a painted scroll.

Crossing a bridge to the east and turning northward, one encounters the "Ninghe Hall" built beside the water, flanked by two waterside pavilions named "Yongcui" (Embracing Verdure) and "Feixiang" (Flying Fragrance). Further north, at the northeastern corner, lies the source of the pond, said to originate from the Jade Spring of the Western Hills, winding through palace walls before branching into several streams that feed the pool.

At the northwest corner stands the "Taisu Hall," thatched in rustic simplicity, with a straw-thatched arbor behind it adorned with paintings of the "Three Friends of Winter"—pine, bamboo, and plum—earning it the name "Sui Han Men" (Gate of Winter’s Perseverance). To the left is the "Yuanqu Pavilion" overlooking the water, with a thatched arbor in front called "Huijing" (Gathering Scenery). Following the western bank southward, a series of interconnected houses lines the shore, their interiors linked by waterways for raising waterfowl, while the "Yinghui Pavilion" stands gracefully by the water’s edge.

A short distance further south, the "Yingcui Hall" rises beside the lake, accompanied by the "Chengboting" (Pavilion of Clear Ripples), offering views of the eastern peaks mirrored in the Taiye Pond. The mountains, dark and mist-shrouded, transform endlessly with the shifting light of dawn and dusk. To the southwest, a small hill appears lush and verdant from afar, its slopes shimmering with purple and emerald hues under the sun. Up close, one discovers halls built into the mountainside, with a cavern beneath spanned by porous rocks from which springs gush forth, forming a cascading curtain of water—its splashing droplets a delight to behold.

The crisp sound of flowing water leads to a stone basin where dragon sculptures rear their heads, spouting streams that meander before the hall, creating a winding channel for the ancient literati game of "Floating Goblets." Winding stone paths flank the scene, while mountain-side halls seem poised to take flight. At the summit, a pavilion with windows on all sides frames views of fantastical peaks, ancient trees, and rare blossoms beyond counting.

Descending to the mountain’s front, one finds a grand and spacious hall, its entrance graced by a stone bridge as delicate as a rainbow. Twin ponds flank the structure, each with an islet where towering ancient trees host flocks of birds. To the south, a wooded terrace exudes deep serenity, and beyond a bridge stands the "Zhaohe Hall," facing the water. Outside its gate, a pavilion by the shore offers glimpses of gulls and waterfowl gliding across the mirror-like surface.

Here the tour concludes, with the host laying out a lavish feast as guests depart in high spirits. Truly, as the ancients said, balance between tension and ease defines the arts of both culture and governance—such an excursion is a joy that refreshes heart and mind.

West of the capital winds a mountain range originating from the Taihang Mountains, its tail connecting to the Juyong Pass. Curving eastward before turning north, it forms the city's majestic natural barrier. I played in these mountains as a child, but after entering official service, rare were the opportunities to revisit them. On the seventh day of the ninth month this year, finally granted leave, I immediately gathered friends to ride out through Fucheng Gate.

From afar, the Western Hills appeared veiled in mist, their familiar paths dreamlike. Following the stream northward, the landscape gradually opened to reveal Buddhist temples and Daoist monasteries nestled among the scenery, their vermilion eaves and golden rooftops gleaming in harmony. Another twenty li brought us to the West Lake (formed by the convergence of Yuquan Spring's waters), where the right shore spilled over rolling slopes with emerald waves, while the eastern bank stretched with vast rice fields reaching the foot of Weng Hill.

Upon the hill stood Yuanjing Temple, clinging to the cliffs with winding stone steps leading to Xuandong Pavilion. From this vantage, gazing down at the lake felt like soaring through the skies. The day was clear, with scattered clouds and falling leaves. We drank wine, composed poetry, and surveyed the endless expanse of villages across the plains. Though standing on but a small patch of land, our vision spanned a hundred li—peaks encircling the north, rivers converging in the east, filling our hearts with boundless openness.

A companion remarked that such beauty was still incomplete—without ascending to the source, could one truly claim curiosity? So we pressed westward. Crossing a long bridge and fording swift currents for five li, we reached Yuquan Hill, where mountain springs surged as if boiling. The pavilions here once hosted Emperor Xuanzong. The waters gathered into crystal-clear pools, chiming like metal and stone when struck, splashing like sudden wind and rain. This was the source of the West Lake, its banks shaded by pines and cypresses, its islets lush with reeds, ancient shrines and stone niches half-hidden among them.

I climbed onto a great boulder and washed my feet in the clear stream, so drunk with joy that I forgot my way home. What worldly pleasure could compare to this? Though one cannot take in all the splendor of the Western Hills in a single day, I've already grasped the lofty expansiveness of Wengshan and the deep serenity of Yuquan. Why must one emulate Deng Shen, who found delight only after months of scaling perilous peaks and traversing dense forests?

These mountains have endured for millennia since the eras of Yao and Shun, passing through the hands of warring states, feudal lords, heroic warlords, and foreign invaders—never unified as they are now. Has Heaven preserved them specifically to manifest our nation's prosperity?

On the Beginning of Spring in the year 1599, after viewing the lantern markets in the capital, I traveled west through Lugou Bridge to Fangshan County with my companion Chen Daoyuan. The daytime streets buzzed with crowds, but suddenly we found ourselves in deserted paths, utterly alone. Arriving at the county town by night, we lost our way with none to ask, and when we arrived, none recognized us—we lodged at an inn. After supper, strolling through this half-mountain town where moonlight silvered the snowdrifts, I marveled: barely a hundred li from the capital, on Lantern Festival night, every household barred its doors. Three or four drunkards drummed and sang in the streets, glaring at us until we retreated. The innkeeper warned: "Why wander so late? Tigers devour men here! Dragons lurk in the hollows—they rise in fury at human voices." We gasped at tales beyond imagining.

Next morning, inquiries about mountain paths drew blank stares until an old temple laborer volunteered as guide. Sixty li beyond the town, past villages like Wajing, Tianguang, and Gushankou, we saw houses clinging to slopes, thatch roofs weighted with stone slabs, icicles fringing every eave. Horses gnawed remnant ice by streams for drink—no tea vendors, only our dried rations sustained us. Not until Gushankou did an elder emerge to welcome travelers.

We entered the mountains and greeted the local villagers, gathering together to share wine. Gazing out, the towering peaks encircled us like embracing arms, while deep mountain streams resembled jade ribbons. We often walked along the waterways, following cliffside paths, stepping on moss-covered stones and grasping vines until we reached the mountain's base. There stood a small hermitage embraced by the peaks, its shape resembling a Suanni (a mythical beast) raising its head.

Travelers halted their carriages and prepared their belongings to begin ascending. Between jagged cliffs where two rock faces pinched together forming a "thread of sky," a narrow bird-path wound five li before revealing stone steps. These steps were chiseled from a single massive boulder, each tread barely accommodating half a foot, with several hundred steps in total. Two iron chains—each a hundred chi long—hung from the summit, requiring climbers to use both hands and feet. To the left yawned bottomless precipices; to the right, fathomless abysses.

Beyond the stairs lay a small retreat for rest. Turning northeast about one li brought us to the mountain gate. Only after entering and looking up could we see numerous hermitages nestled like birds' nests among cliffs and vegetation—this was the so-called "Chan dwelling" (monastic retreats). The Upper Temple stood central as if backed by a screen, accessible only after climbing countless steps. Nearby flowed two mountain streams whose sounds echoed though their waters remained invisible—frozen solid above.

Further east, continuous rock formations loomed in shadow, their snow unmelted. A single ancient cypress stood verdant and upright, its dragon-twisted branches emerging from the snow. The rocks assumed wondrous forms—some like slanting clouds, others resembling beehives or swallows' nests. Below them bubbled a spring three chi deep and six chi wide, fronted by a sixty-square-chi platform. Legend tells that when this mountain was first opened, a dragon occupied the site until a Chan master shouted it away. The dragon took most of the water, but the master struck its tail with his staff, leaving behind this dou-measure spring—hence the mountain's name, "Douquan Shan" (Peck-Spring Mountain).

Below the mountain lay a cave, requiring traversal of another peak. They say the mountain's interior is hollow, with direct access from the temple, but visitors must cross a solitary summit. This abrupt, rounded peak resembles an "Astral-Platform," daunting to behold. Midway up, one can overlook all the hermitages; the slightly flattened summit still obscures the cave.

Descending another five li leads into the cavern, whose interior resembles a walled city. Monks have carved stone chambers within, complete with rock beds and wooden gates, even brewing tea for guests. Originally waterless, they now fetch water from the depths using gourds tied at their waists. Entering requires torches of withered vines, advancing single file: the First Cavern retains faint light; the Second becomes pitch-dark; by the Third, all illumination vanishes.

This passage describes an intricate and profound cave exploration. The cave entrance is remarkably narrow, merely three to four feet wide, requiring one to crawl on the ground like a snake for about five or six zhang (15-18 meters) to enter—what monks refer to as the "Gourd's Mouth."

Upon reaching the third layer of the cave, the space suddenly opens up into a vast and lofty chamber, where even torchlight fails to illuminate the ceiling. Nearby lies a pool, its stones winding like twin coiled dragons, with a circular glow shimmering like a pearl at its center—this is where people draw water.

By the ninth cavern, the path seems to end, accessible only through a narrow, well-like passage where those behind must step on the backs of those ahead to proceed. After crawling for over a zhang (about 3 meters), another open area appears, though thick mist fills the air, the ground is slippery, and clothing becomes thoroughly drenched, making progress extremely difficult.

The deepest point is the thirteenth cavern, beyond which, it is said, no more wonders lie. The entire cave system stretches approximately six or seven li (3-4 kilometers), with stones inside as translucent as white jade, some as thin as glass, allowing light to pass through. The most renowned sights include:

• Lotus Mountain: Stone petals resembling blue lotus flowers.
• Dragon-Tiger Stone: Uncannily shaped like a dragon and tiger.
• Long-Browed Patriarch: A rock formation resembling an elderly man with long eyebrows seated in meditation.
• Statue of Lü Chunyang (Lü Dongbin): Clearly depicted in Daoist attire.
• Stone Pagoda: Layers upon layers, standing straight like a towering pagoda.
• Stone Bell and Drum: Produces sounds like chimes and drums when struck.

The most spectacular is undoubtedly Mount Sumeru (the legendary center of the Buddhist cosmos), an enormous stone mountain so vast that one could walk endlessly without traversing it. There is also a Snow Mountain, appearing like accumulated snow but prickly to the touch; the Tower of Ten Thousand Flowers, with tiered pavilions and a floor like snow, adorned with countless stone flowers resembling lingzhi mushrooms; the Immortal's Bridge spanning a clear stream; the Eighteen Arhats, each in unique postures; and the Welcoming Banner, hanging inverted from the cave ceiling, swaying gently.

Emerging from the cave feels like returning to the world after an eternity. The next day, a small path leads to Little Western Heaven (also known as the Stone Scripture Temple), built atop a sheer peak, housing natural caves that preserve stone-carved Buddhist scriptures. Along the mountainside are pavilions and a stone well, with several smaller caves dotting the route—one enshrining the Fire Dragon (a Daoist deity), from which a murmuring spring flows.

The Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven describes the Buddhist sacred site of Stone Scripture Mountain in Fangshan, Beijing. The largest cave on the western side is the Stone Scripture Hall, rectangular in shape and resembling a curtain when viewed from the front. At the center of the cave ceiling sits a golden statue of the Tathagata (Rulai) over ten feet tall, seated in the full lotus posture (Buddhist cross-legged position). Beneath the stone slab at the statue’s feet lies a jade casket containing a golden vase, within which are enshrined three Buddhist relics (Sheli).

Embedded in the northeastern wall is the entire Lotus Sutra (Fahua Jing) carved in stone, while the western wall bears miscellaneous scriptures. Four white stone pillars support the cave’s ceiling. At the base of the cave are two smaller, unfathomably deep passages. In total, Stone Scripture Mountain houses seven scripture caves. Each stone scripture slab measures about three to four feet square, stacked layer upon layer. Warm air can be seen rising from the cave entrance, yet the stone door remains tightly sealed—legend warns that opening it would summon storms and supernatural disturbances.

According to inscriptions, the monk Jingwan of the Northern Qi and Sui dynasties vowed to carve twelve Buddhist scriptures and store them in this mountain. His disciples continued the project through the Tang, Song, Liao, and Jin dynasties, completing only half of the task; the remaining scriptures were hidden in the pagoda of Xiyu Temple. Truly, this was an extraordinary undertaking rarely seen in the world!

Wang Yun’s Travelogue of the Eastern Mountain recounts his journey in the third month of spring during the Xinsi year of the Zhiyuan era (1281). After days of spring rain, the skies cleared, and he set out with his friend Song Qi and officials, bringing ink, wine, and provisions to visit Dapi Mountain (modern-day Xun County, Henan). Riding southwest, they ascended the mountain, first paying respects at the Temple of the Sacred Peak (Yueci), then walking to the ruins of the Menghong Pavilion on the middle slope, where they read the pavilion inscription by Prefect Bian Yuanxun. Continuing northward, they reached the flat summit—the highest point of Dapi Mountain—where Duke Li (Li Jing) of Wei once encamped.

A hundred paces northeast, they carefully descended along the rugged, shadowed cliffs, resting briefly atop Longdou Rock. On their descent, they visited the Western Yangming Cave, where they saw the calligraphy of the Tang-era recluse Li Zhen from the Kaiyuan period, its strokes as free and elegant as those of the Stele of the Buried Crane from Jiaoshan. The Dragon Rock Cave was naturally formed, with a massive spiral opening resembling a conch shell, its depths unknown. Likely, this was a natural vent for the mountain’s Qi (vital energy), akin to Dapi Mountain’s mouth and nose—hardly a supernatural marvel. Yet Emperor Huizong of Song absurdly ennobled it as a marquis during the Xuanhe era. After lingering in contemplation, they finally descended and departed.

This passage from Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven documents the author's journey and reflections while touring renowned mountains with friends.

Several companions arrived one after another, and as previously agreed, they gathered to pay respects to Maitreya (a Buddhist bodhisattva) before preparing tools to carve inscriptions on the rocks. By examining the stone qilin (a mythical creature) at the temple, they confirmed it was built during the Northern Qi dynasty. Both sides of the cliff were densely covered with inscriptions, including poems by Lu Yuanhan and Zhang Fuxiu. After the visit, they rode eastward, crossed the old course of the Yellow River, entered Qiancheng, and ascended Purple Gold Mountain to admire the Immortal’s Dragging Skirt Stone. The stone, bluish-black in color, was covered in moss and rainwater erosion marks, its surface filled with inscriptions from the Yuanfeng and Zhenghe eras (Northern Song reign periods), all rare masterpieces of calligraphy.

Next, they explored White Gold Spring, where at the entrance of the Jade Maiden Cave, they found an inscription by Xu Hongzhong of Jian'an, carved beside the spring. Though worn by rain and moss, the beginning and end were still legible. Upon reaching the mountaintop, their host held a banquet, where they drank wine and composed poetry, their spirits so high that they completely forgot the twists of the mountain path and the exhaustion of the climb. As the sun set, a cold wind rose, and they passed through Cangcheng at the northern foot, examining the ruins of granaries from the Sui and Tang dynasties.

During a feast at the Hall of Purity and Integrity by the northern gate, friends such as Zhang and Zheng raised their cups and said: "Today’s journey has been harmonious and joyful—our gathering is no coincidence. Though times have changed and the three peaks are not what they once were, we can still leave behind fine tales, just as Xie Tiao roamed Xuancheng or Sima Qian traveled the world. Famous mountains gain renown through the virtuous, and landscapes are enhanced by people—just as the Red Cliff became known through Su Shi’s Ode to the Red Cliff, or Xian Mountain through Yang Hu’s ascent. This mountain is recorded in the Tribute of Yu from the Book of Documents, linked to Yu the Great’s flood control achievements, and its majestic rivers and peaks remain unchanged. We hope the author will record this journey in writing, bringing honor to both places and making this gathering a tale for future generations."

Another section, Record of a Journey to Fragrant Mountain, notes: In the third month of spring in the year Dinghai (a cyclical year), the author and friends traveled from Fragrant Mountain to Renshan Peak but had to return hastily before fully enjoying the trip. On the tenth day of the sixth month, they revisited the site with companions Ru Zeng, Mao Xi, and Ji Liang, each riding a donkey.

Turning north from Gaoliang Bridge, we followed the central waterway flanked by willow trees, enjoying the cool shade they provided. The city walls and temple eaves peeked intermittently through the dense foliage. As we advanced, the river gradually widened, divided by a long embankment into West Lake. To the left of the dike lay waters thick with lotus and water chestnuts, while to the right stretched farmland lush with pasture grass and legumes, all shaded by towering poplars.

It was the height of lotus season, their delicate petals layered like fine silk—some standing tall like a maiden’s coiled hair, others drooping bashfully. The tender shoots of wild rice and golden blooms of water chestnuts dotted the water, while aquatic plants swayed with the current. Suddenly, a breeze carried the fragrance of a hundred flowers, and I reined in my horse to face it, only to hear my companion laugh: "This scene could rival our Jiangnan countryside in March, with orioles darting through the grass and rapeseed flowers in full bloom!" We roared with laughter and raised our cups for a hearty drink.

The lake teemed with fish, and waterfowl—gulls, egrets, pelicans—darted to feed or lightly perched on flowering stems, their trembling petals releasing fragrance even without wind. After several miles, we reached the Dragon King Temple, beside which lay the deep waters of Dragon Pool. Another mile farther, the lotuses thinned, and passing through Qinglong Bridge westward, we glimpsed Yuquan Mountain. Though not tall, its undulating earth resembled dragon scales, blanketed in fine grass like a coiled azure serpent. At its foot, springs converged into a pond where the "Lake-Viewing Pavilion" stood, its bottom bubbling with springs like chasing meteors.

East of Huayan Temple, an emerald-green spring sparkled—if shaded with slender bamboo, it could rival the famed Jade Maiden Pool. As dusk painted the sky, we returned bathed in twilight hues, lodging amid the mountain’s verdant embrace. The next day, crossing two stone bridges, we followed a stream to the shade of the sala trees at Sleeping Buddha Temple, then trekked another two miles to Azure Cloud Temple. West of the temple, atop the Listening-to-Springs Pavilion, lay the tomb of a Ming eunuch surnamed Yu—these palace eunuchs had maintained the temple for generations to ensure its incense never waned, though their quarrying of springs and carving of stone inevitably marred the landscape’s natural charm.

A stone bridge before the hall split the pond in two, where hundreds of multicolored koi swam. Stripping to my underrobe, I sat cross-legged by the water, tossing in cake crumbs as the fish darted and nibbled like clouds of battling soldiers. The final stretch to Fragrant Hills was a mile-long gravel path, treacherous in its unevenness.

Here is depicted a secluded and elegant mountain landscape. The path is flanked by towering white poplars and verdant junipers, presenting an orderly yet profoundly tranquil scene. Deep within the mountains stands the Liuxi Pavilion, nestled amidst the foliage, while the Laiqing Pavilion offers expansive views perfect for gazing into the distance.

The Liuxi Pavilion, hidden halfway up the mountain among shrubs, evokes memories of spring when apricot blossoms once fluttered like snow. Though the flowering season has passed, a few lingering petals remain, as if waiting for my return to this cherished spot. At the Laiqing Pavilion, two peaks seem to embrace the distant imperial city with outstretched arms, while the setting sun bathes the golden and silver terraces in a soft glow, with purple mists rising in the air. Many say this is the finest place to admire the moon.

Winding eastward from the Wuliang Hall, one reaches Hongguang Temple. Its low walls and sparse cypress trees do little to obstruct the view, and the pristine white stone steps appear freshly polished. I cannot help but sigh: What a joy it would be to rest eternally in such a paradise. As I step out with a smile, I glimpse verdant valleys to the east, where staggered rooftops and crimson eaves peek through the trees—perhaps the Guangyu Temple. I long to explore further, but dusk is already falling.

Returning to the Laiqing Pavilion, I await the moonrise. When the moon first emerges in the east, its light first touches the ridge ornaments of the temple roofs, then gradually illuminates the entire forest. The moonlight spills like quicksilver, shimmering through the leaves, now clear, now hazy. Below the railing, a brook murmurs, accentuating the surrounding stillness. Occasionally, the poplars rustle, wild dogs bark, and eagles swoop by, their sounds mingling like the beat of a war drum accompanied by a lute. Later, the distant notes of flutes drift from the mountains, and I answer with a clear whistle—the ethereal melody seems to descend from the heavens, lifting the spirit. As my wine pouch nears emptiness, I drain it in one joyous draught.

On the eleventh day, I cross the Twin Well Ridge to visit Yan Gong Hall and Cao Family Temple. Though the scenery is unremarkable, the white clouds cling so closely to the mountainside they seem within reach. Voices carry clearly across the valley, as if speaking directly to me—a curious phenomenon indeed. Descending another ten li, I ford a stream shaded by fine trees and finally glimpse the cliffs of Yuquan Mountain. The distant peaks of the Western Hills flicker in and out of view, while the glazed tiles of the Taoist temples shimmer with shifting hues under the play of light and shadow.

Urging my horse toward North Great Mountain Peak, I gaze wistfully around, thinking I must bid farewell to the Western Hills. Yet as I reach the lakeside embankment, the mountain scenery reappears before me. Just as I prepare to immerse myself in its beauty, the sudden fragrance of lotus blossoms and the trill of orioles disrupt my reverie.

People often find themselves looking back with regret, feeling their senses (the six roots) are too limited. The scenery of the Western Hills is somewhat similar to Hangzhou's West Lake, though the mountains lack its winding contours, yet their lush greenery surpasses it in vibrancy. So, a whimsical idea arose among a few friends: What if we cleared the reeds, drained the wetlands, and planted lotus flowers all the way up to the mountainside? Then, fifteen children in embroidered robes could board painted boats, singing the lotus-gathering songs of Jiangnan, weaving between white gulls and emerald waves. The dwellings here must have bamboo doors and wooden windows, creating a striking contrast with the gilded temples. After retirement, we could establish a Xiangshan Poetry Society here, appointing Li Bai (the Lotus Hermit) as the proprietor of the Jade Spring Tavern, and spend our remaining years in this idyllic setting.

Yet humans never seem content. Sitting motionless as a tree stump in the mountains, I don’t even bother to remove my saddle in spring, content to inhale the fragrance of a few lingering blossoms—how refreshing it feels! Compared to those who merely glance at flowers from horseback, who truly gains more? That’s why I’ve written this dedicated travelogue. Earlier, when passing Mount Rentou, I saw massive boulders jutting and crouching like angry beasts, unrivaled among northern peaks—such splendor should not go unrecorded, so I’ve noted it here as well.

On the record of Panshan: Panshan is rugged on the outside but lush within. Precisely because of its outer toughness, jagged rocks stand like swords, halberds, bears, and panthers when viewed from afar; precisely because of its inner richness, fruit trees thrive. Pines that force their way through rock crevices twist and writhe as if wrestling with the stone, suppressed by perennial frost and snow, unable to grow upward, so they stretch horizontally for dozens of feet. The mountain face is sheer, offering no foothold, while its back slopes gently, allowing a winding ascent. The rocks here are broad at the top and tapered at the base, giving them a dynamic, soaring appearance. Layer upon layer, the higher the cliffs, the farther they jut outward, with the highest points extending dozens of feet into precarious overhangs—like collapsing bridges, terrifying climbers.

At the mountain’s base, rushing springs meander, crashing against boulders large and small with a ceaseless roar, day and night. This mountain combines majesty, antiquity, depth, and wonder in one. Its most famous sights, in order, are: Panshan Spring at the entrance, followed by the Hanging Rock, and finally the Panshan Summit. The spring water tumbles here into a small pool, flowing out through White Stone Gully, its bed paved with golden sand where a few small fish dart about, clearly visible. Fallen petals drift on the ripples, their reflections mingling with the fish shadows in the crystalline water—a sight that enchants visitors, making them reluctant to leave.

This passage vividly depicts a perilous and spectacular mountain landscape that transports readers into the scene. As the author and companions trek upstream along a creek, the water suddenly deepens to chest level, its rushing torrent drowning out all conversation. At times, they toss pears and plums into the current to observe the strange, swirling dance of the whirlpools.

Ahead loom several precipitous peaks, their bluish-black cliffs plunging knife-straight into the earth. Some massive boulders appear suspended midair, exuding an uncanny vitality. Midway up the slope stands a small pavilion backed against sheer cliffs, overlooking a deep ravine where the roaring of pines harmonizes with rushing stream waters. Nearby sits an upper retreat (a Daoist cultivation site), arguably the mountain's finest vantage point.

The summit rises like a pointed bamboo shoot, crowned by a Buddhist pagoda (stupa) whose shadow stretches beyond the mountain when struck by slanting sunlight. Suddenly, gale-force winds churn clouds into rolling ocean waves, forcing the unsteady travelers to descend. Another hidden path called "Heaven's Gate Opening" requires climbing from a rock shaped like a topknot. The trail narrows to palm-width, with right arms scraping against stone while the left side drops into bottomless chasms. Massive boulders frequently block the way, prompting the author and their monk guide to establish a pact: at each perilous spot, they'd laugh loudly to bolster courage—though each burst of laughter only heightened their terror.

Grasping vines, they ascend and descend until finally passing between two primordial cliffs. These rock faces, perpetually eroded by mist, glow jade-green. Descending further, they find flat chessboard-like boulders perfect for sitting or reclining. Stroking a pine while surveying the vertiginous landscape, the author marvels: only those willing to risk their lives could witness such wonders!

One sheer cliff hosts a cramped cave, which the monk scales like a macaque—an attempt the author dares not make. The guide advises keeping eyes off one's feet during descent, relying instead on elbow movements. Barefoot, the monk slithers up like a serpent, even tying the author with cloth ropes. Pressing his belly against the slick, outward-sloping rock, the author freezes mid-climb until servants push him onto the ridge, leaving the group biting their fingers in retrospect.

The text mentions undocumented sights: the Stone Rain Cave, found by following stream echoes, and the Wisdom Stone Pavilion's vicinity where bizarre rocks shift character every hundred paces—some slender, others voluptuous, as if whispering. These stones overlook cascading streams beneath pine canopies resembling pavilion roofs, inviting visitors to sit or lie, hence their name "Wisdom Stones." Through this heart-stopping ascent, the passage orchestrates a majestic dialogue between humanity and raw nature.

The Records of Famous Mountains describes several remarkable mountain landscapes and temple ruins. The Red Dragon Pool was renowned for its secluded and extraordinary spring, while Auspicious Cloud Hermitage (Ruiyun An) provided an ideal environment for cultivation with its grotto-heaven blessed land setting. The summit of Mount Jiuhua featured steep and picturesque terrain, though its temples had fallen into ruin. The author mentions several temple names (Thousand Images Temple, Central Plateau Temple, Upper Peak Temple, and Pagoda Courtyard Temple) without detailed descriptions. This excursion took place on the first day of the seventh lunar month, accompanied by companions including Su Qianfu, the monk Xiaoxiu, Sixin, Baofang, and Jizi. The local official Prefect Zhong (Junwei) came to meet them due to prior acquaintance, while Vice Minister Li (Youqing), who couldn't attend, sent letters along with vegetables and fruits.

The Account of Ascending the Golden Terrace documents Zhong Fang's search for the Golden Terrace (Huangjin Tai) ruins during the Zhengde era of the Ming dynasty. While passing through Yizhou in spring, locals pointed out an earthen mound as the Golden Terrace, though its features were barely discernible. Historical research revealed: the Records of the Grand Historian mentions King Zhao of Yan building a palace for Guo Wei rather than constructing a terrace; the Book of Later Han and Ren Fang's Southern Dynasties records first mention the "terrace"; Tang scholar Li Shan's citation of the Illustrated Gazetteer of Shanggu Commandery clearly locates the Golden Terrace eighteen li southeast of the Yi River, where King Zhao displayed a thousand pieces of gold to attract talents.

Zhong Fang reflects: though the Yan state perished long ago, King Zhao's reputation for honoring scholars transcends millennia. When Yan appointed Yue Yi as general and allied with other states to attack Qi, they captured over seventy cities within months, nearly annihilating Qi. This history exemplifies Han Yu's observation that "certain deeds can move people across centuries." Though the Golden Terrace has vanished, King Zhao's spirit of recruiting worthies remains eternally worthy of admiration.

The Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven contains two main sections of text:

The first part expresses the author's nostalgic reflections while standing atop an ancient platform. Gazing from the elevated terrace, he recalls the historical anecdote of King Zhao of Yan building the Golden Terrace to attract worthy scholars (Ningtai, Yuanying, and Mishi were all names of Yan state palaces). He laments: had the Yan state not suffered internal turmoil, had King Zhao not died prematurely, the fate of the Qi state might have been entirely different. The ultimate exile of Yue Yi (a renowned Warring States general) due to slander, resulting in his unfinished achievements, demonstrates how difficult the proper relationship between ruler and minister truly is—how often talented individuals remain unrecognized. Now standing on this terrace with companions, the author observes rolling clouds and unchanging mountains, yet finds no trace of that ancient golden age when rulers truly honored the worthy. A profound melancholy arises within him. Throughout history, exceptional talents have never been lacking—what's scarce are enlightened rulers who genuinely appreciate them.

The second section documents the visit to the Liang Family Garden. Located about five or six li southwest of the capital, the site originally belonged to the Tang Dynasty Youzhou city and later became the secondary capital of the Liao and Jin dynasties (Empress Xiao being the famous Liao dynasty empress). Through textual research, the author concludes this was not only the Liao-Jin capital but also the old Tang military garrison town. By his time, the city walls' bricks and stones had long been scavenged by locals, leaving only earthen ramparts—the very yellow soil now dug up by villagers to mix with coal for fuel or to use as burial grounds. Visiting during the Qingming festival period, the author observes willow branches planted on nearby graves and paper money hanging from them (traditional Qingming tomb-sweeping customs). The entire passage reveals the author's profound meditation on historical transformation, blending nostalgic remembrance of past glory with melancholy witnessing of crumbling ruins.

This passage from Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven recounts the author's travels to places like Juyong Pass and his reflections. It begins by describing how this land endured seven centuries of turmoil from the mid-Tang Dynasty to the late Yuan, witnessing everything from petty thefts to epic battles between mighty forces. Now, with the turning of heaven and earth and the shift of times, even the timid can till the former battlefields with hoes, build towers where war banners once fluttered and battle cries shook the skies, and plant flowers or erect walls among ruins to block wind and shade the sun—allowing scholars and refined minds to retreat from officialdom and enjoy the rustic pleasures of mountains and forests.

The author visited during the Beginning of Summer (Lixia), when more than half the peonies in the gardens had already withered. He notes that in the Beijing region, peonies typically bloom after the Grain Rain (Guyu) solar term, when cuckoos take flight and hoopoes alight on mulberry trees. Fellow traveler Scholar Ke shared drinks with him under a dragon locust tree. On their return, they rested at a temple built during the Zhengtong era of the Ming Dynasty by the eunuch-monk Sengbao at a cost of tens of thousands of taels of silver. Passing back through the Temple of the Heavenly Kings—constructed when the Yongle Emperor was still the Prince of Yan—they observed its scale was only a third of the previous temple’s.

Regarding Juyong Pass, the text cites Huainanzi, which records it as one of the Nine Great Strategic Passes under heaven. The Taihang Mountains stretch south from Zezhou in Shanxi, their sheer cliffs nearly impassable except for eight narrow, barely traversable paths called "Xing." Juyong Pass is the most perilous of these, the Eighth Xing. Visiting in autumn, the author felt a solemn grandeur and noted how the western wall stood less than ten zhang from the mountains—yet those peaks towered many times higher than the ramparts. The slopes were gentle enough to accommodate ten thousand cavalry; if enemies seized the heights, defenders wouldn’t dare man the walls. Beyond the northern gate lay a military training ground, and from the heights, one could survey the entire city’s defenses—all vulnerabilities demanding vigilance.

The section on the Ba River, though brief in the original, contextualizes it as part of the "Eight Rivers of Guanzhong," geographically complementing the preceding text. Through contrasts of past and present and on-site observations, the work depicts both majestic landscapes and the weight of historical rise and fall.

This passage describes two major river systems in northern China.

First, the waterways around Bazhou (modern Hebei's Bazhou) and Wen'an. Bazhou's low-lying terrain resembles a basin, making it prone to waterlogging. At Fanjiakou, the Huitong River and the newly dredged Kaolaoquan River converge, spanning about twenty li east to west. The northern bank belongs to Bazhou, while the southern bank belongs to Wen'an. Both sides are fortified with high embankments—Wen'an's stretch about sixty to seventy li, Bazhou's around fifty—as sturdy as the Great Wall. These dikes have ensured bountiful harvests year after year. However, the higher the embankments, the worse the waterlogging becomes, prompting suggestions to both reinforce the levees and dredge the channels. Bazhou, anciently known as Guangling, boasts picturesque scenery and is truly a geomantic treasure.

Regarding the Hun River (Sanggan River): The Hun River is the Sanggan, flowing from the old Bao'an city through Yankoukou and Shigangkou before merging into the Lugou River. The Song dynasty poet Su Zhe wrote of the Sanggan: "Crossing north, the river begins to freeze, my heart fears the bitter cold; crossing south, spring winds thaw the ice, ripples shimmering." Downstream, it is called the Hun River ("Muddy River"), and further on, the Lugou ("Black Gully"—lu meaning "black" in the Yan dialect). Its torrents roar like thunder, earning it the nickname "Little Yellow River." Its narrow plank bridges force travelers to balance like apes, arms outstretched, hearts trembling. On September 16, 1588, the Wanli Emperor, returning from the Shou Palace to Gongde Temple, inspected the Hun River at Shijingshan the next day. As he stood on the central plank bridge, guarded by ministers, he asked about the river's source. Chief Grand Secretary Shen Shixing replied, "From the deserts through Juyong Pass to Tianjin, it empties into the sea." The emperor remarked, "Seeing this river, I understand the Yellow River." He then ordered river officials to strengthen the dikes to safeguard grain transport.

The Sanggan River derives its name from Mount Sanggan and is also called Luoshui. Legends claim the Yellow River has a subterranean branch originating from Jinlong Pool in Mayi County, Shanxi, merging with the Yang River at old Bao'an. The Tang poet Jia Dao wrote: "Crossing the Sanggan for no reason, yet feeling at home in Bingzhou." Ming chronicler Jiang Yikui noted that near Lugou Bridge, the Sanggan splits: one branch joins the Bai River (Grand Canal) at Gaolizhuang, Tongzhou; the other enters marshlands at Xinan Town, Bazhou. Each flood season brings violent surges, often destroying bridges.

(Note: li ≈ 500 meters; dynastic dates like Wanli 16 = 1588 CE)

Crossing the Sanggan River, I turned to gaze toward Bingzhou—my homeland. As I forded the river, the northern wind howled, driving the frigid sands of the desert north into my face with a bone-chilling sting.

Regarding the Lugou River (by Jiang Yikui): The Lugou River divides southeast into two branches. The eastern branch flows through Gaolizhuang in Tongzhou to join the Bai River, while the southern branch passes through Gu'an and reaches Xiaozhigu in Wuqing before emptying into the sea. On clear moonlit nights, when the open plains stretch wide beneath a low-hanging sky, the shimmering ripples at dawn are celebrated as one of the "Eight Scenic Views of Yanjing," known as "Morning Moon over Lugou."

The Lugou Bridge was called the Black Water River Bridge during the Jin dynasty. Initially built during the Jin's Mingchang era, it was restored in the Zhengtong period of the Ming dynasty. Spanning over two hundred paces, its stone railings are carved with hundreds of lions—yet every attempt to count them always comes up one short. Ten li northwest of the bridge lies Wangjialing, where the mountain range winds for several li before turning westward. From the ridge, looking south, the Hun River meanders like an embroidered ribbon or a swimming dragon; to the east, the staggered palaces and pavilions blend harmoniously with the rocky hills; to the north, the nine imperial mausoleums can be seen, their lush auspicious aura seemingly presiding over the Western Hills.

Regarding the Qinghe River (by Jiang Yikui): Twenty li beyond Desheng Gate of the Immortal Capital (Beijing) lies Qinghe, fifty li from Changping Prefecture, named for its clear waters. Its source is the Yimu Spring in Changping, flowing southeast past Yandan Village to merge with the Yu River, eventually becoming the Sha River, which joins the Bai River in Shunyi. A bridge built during the Yongle era spans the Qinghe, while the Sha River is crossed by the "Anji Bridge" constructed in the Zhengtong period. When Minister Liu Long passed Qinghe, a light rain had just cleared—his carriage raised no dust, and the distant Changping mountains appeared like a freshly bathed beauty, their emerald peaks encircling the horizon like cloud-pinned hair.

Regarding Huanghua Town (by Jiang Yikui): Huanghua Town has a breed of etiquette-observing mice with pale yellow fur resembling marten pelts. In winter, they gather hazelnuts and store them in burrows, arranging them in categorized piles like granaries—some hoarding up to three pecks. Their selected nuts are exceptionally plump, surpassing handpicked ones in quality and fetching double the price.

(Note: "Sanggan" refers to the present-day Sanggan River; "Lugou" is the Yongding River; "Hun River" was the ancient name for the Yongding; "Nine Mausoleums" denote nine of the Ming Tombs.)

The "Records of Famous Mountains" documents several renowned peaks with their extraordinary landscapes and legends. Mount Jieshi is located southwest of Licheng County in Youbeiping Commandery, and was renamed during Wang Mang's reign. Emperor Wu of Han once climbed this mountain to gaze at the sea, leaving inscriptions on its rocks. Today, a peculiar rock formation extends dozens of miles along the coast, while atop the summit stands a colossal stone pillar rising from the sea—unmoved by tides, locals call it the "Celestial Bridge Pillar." Though appearing man-made, this pillar is entirely natural. The Three Kingdoms scholar Wei Zhao identified this as the legendary Jieshi mentioned in ancient texts.

The "Annals of Three Qi" preserves a legend about Qin Shi Huang constructing a stone bridge here: The sea god helped erect bridge pillars on condition that the emperor wouldn't look upon his divine visage. When Qin Shi Huang broke this pact by secretly sending artists to sketch the deity, the enraged god withdrew his power—the bridge collapsed, the painters drowned, and to this day the mountain rocks maintain their precariously tilted forms as testament to this event.

In the Jiangnan region, Jiming Mountain within Jinling City hosts ten grand temples honoring past emperors and meritorious officials, along with an armillary sphere platform. The mid-slope Pavilion of Empty Vistas offers panoramic views of Jinling—imperial palaces, government offices, residential quarters, and gardens all visible at a glance. North of Taiping Gate stretches the three-to-four-mile-long Taiping Embankment, shaded by ancient trees. To its left, city walls overlook lakes; to its right extends the ridgeline of the famous Purple Gold Mountain (also called Jiangshan), where Zhuge Liang once marveled at its "coiling dragon" topography. The mountain's undulating contours along the embankment create extraordinary scenery.

The text also mentions local villagers' excessive foraging of mountain products, which depleted food sources for rodents and even led to animals hanging dead from branches. Despite official prohibitions, such practices proved difficult to eradicate.

To the northeast, dense woodlands encircle a lotus pond and rice fields, with a lake called Xuanwu (Mysterious Warrior) at its center. A dike was built on the western side, and within the lake stands a small fortress where the imperial court stored maps and classical texts. Distant mountains embrace the lakeshore, while one side features a sprawling hundred-acre lotus pond where red and green blossoms sway in the autumn breeze, as vibrant as the evening makeup of Han dynasty palace ladies—a truly splendid sight for visitors.

The mountain path leading to Guanyin Nunnery (Avalokitesvara Nunnery) offers breathtaking scenery. Guanyin Rock stands outside the Guanyin Gate, its entrance nestled between the valley cliffs. Turning left from the valley and following the stone path leads to the temple. Along the way, a small hill splits open like a doorway. Legend says that when Bodhidharma (the First Patriarch of Zen) crossed the river on a reed, Emperor Wu of Liang dispatched a messenger on a mule to chase after him. Just as the messenger arrived here, the two peaks suddenly closed in, trapping the mule—hence the name "Jialuo Peak" (Mule-Clamping Peak).

Descending from the peak and following the waterside trail at the mountain’s base, one can climb onto a stone terrace. The tallest structure to the west is the Guanyin Pavilion, a crimson tower suspended in midair, its massive pillars plunging into the river, backed by sheer cliffs and facing the Yangtze. Inside the pavilion, the rock partially embeds itself into the back of a Buddha statue, while boats dart back and forth across the river. Gazing from the pavilion, the distant green mountains on the opposite shore resemble inky brushstrokes. Leaning against the railing with a wine cup in hand, one feels as if transcending the mundane world.

Crossing a small bridge along the old cliffside path and heading west for several hundred paces brings one to Yanziji (Swallow’s Rock). This solitary peak juts abruptly from the riverside, a striking extension of the mountain cliffs. Iron chains and railings encircle it, with the river embracing it on three sides. The pavilion at the summit is perfect for rest, and a hundred paces beyond it, an overhanging rock projects over the river. Lying on the rock and peering down, one can faintly glimpse boats struggling against wind and waves.

The fishermen living below the rocky outcrop lead varied lives: some dwell in thatched huts on sandbars and rocky shoals, others in floating houseboats, some in mountain crevices, and still others in precarious homes suspended from cliffs under trees. They either sell fish and crabs to visitors for money or trade them for wine at taverns, living freely between heaven and earth.

At the southern foot of Zijin Mountain (Purple Gold Mountain), passing Ming Xiaoling (the Ming Dynasty’s Xiaoling Mausoleum) and heading south leads to Linggu Temple. The five-mile pine-shaded path to the temple weaves through overlapping green canopies, while sheer cliffs encircle the temple’s rear like fortress walls. Here lies Pipa Street (Lute Street), named for the buried jars beneath it that produce lute-like echoes when clapped—once the study site of Prince Zhao Ming of Liang. The temple also holds the "Eight Virtues Water" left by a foreign monk and the Pagoda of Master Zhigong (the reliquary of the Southern Dynasties monk Baozhi, relocated here during the Ming). On Wu Wei’s mural, hundreds of deer frolic across the grassy fields.

This passage describes the landscape around Niushou Mountain in Nanjing. About forty li south from Jubao Gate, one reaches Niushou Mountain, where twin peaks pierce the clouds in the distance, with pavilions and towers dotting the cliffs along the mountainside.

Ascending the winding mountain path, one first arrives at Hongjue Temple atop the peak. Inside the temple gate stands a stone staircase several zhang high, known as the "White Cloud Ladder," flanked by ancient pines and peculiar trees lush with greenery. Climbing the stairs and turning left leads to a seven-story pagoda, and further up is the Guanyin Pavilion—the highest point of the pagoda.

Continuing up the steep stone steps brings one to Doushuai Cliff. Here, the terrain is perilous, appearing both artificially constructed and naturally carved. Passing through the Buddhist hall, one must remove shoes to scale the treacherous rocks to reach the "Body-Sacrificing Platform." On this platform stands a small stone pagoda five chi tall, with nearby trees draped in ribbons tied by women—a modern substitute for the ancient "body-sacrificing" ritual, where people tie ribbons to pray without actually leaping from the cliff.

Crossing the ridge from Wenshu Cave to the western peak leads to Pizhi Cave, where a crevice lets in light, making it more spacious than Wenshu Cave. In front of the cave stands the Pizhi Buddha Relic Pagoda. When the door of the room to the right of the meditation hall is closed, the setting sun casts the pagoda's shadow onto the altar curtain, creating a golden reflection; at dawn, sunlight from the east forms a black silhouette.

On the stone platform grows a ginkgo tree so large it takes three people to embrace its trunk, hollow like stone, with twisting branches resembling a dragon. Its shade covers a stone well below, known as "Tiger Run Spring," with crystal-clear water. To the east lies Baiyun Spring, concealed beneath a massive rock.

Heading south from Niushou Mountain and crossing three western ridges for about five li, one can reach Xianhua Cliff via precarious steps. Climbing vines to the summit's Furong Pavilion, one sees hibiscus flowers hanging from the cliff edge, making the entire precipice appear extraordinarily striking—as if the giant deity Juling had piled countless rocks here, teetering on the verge of collapse. Legend says the monk Lan Rong once preached here, drawing the miraculous spectacle of a hundred birds offering flowers.

The passage also mentions the nine-story pagoda of Bao'en Temple, built with patterned stone and carved tiles, its splendor rare in the world; though merely a high mound, Yuhuatai offers expansive views and beautiful scenery; and Jiming Mountain serves as the starting point for touring Niushou Mountain. Some remark that Guanyin Cliff excels in river vistas, Jinjiao Mountain lies beneath Beigu Hill, and the extraordinary views of Zhu Pavilion surpass the Jiangtian Pavilion of Jinshan and the ethereal scenery of West Lake.

This passage depicts the scenic landscapes and cultural features of the two capitals during the Ming dynasty—Nanjing (Jinling) and Beijing. The author Du Mu composed this travelogue in August of the Longqing era's first year while visiting Niushou Mountain with friends.

The opening compares Niushou Mountain (named for its twin peaks resembling ox horns) with Xuanwu Lake, praising them as rare wonders of the Wu-Yue region. It describes Nanjing's palaces gleaming like constellations, yellow orioles singing among emerald willows, mountain springs encircling like island chains, and endless acres of lotus blossoms. At dusk, mist veils the waters where flocks of wild ducks and gulls take flight, amidst which one might glimpse crimson-robed immortals. Jewel-like hills sparkle while bridges encircle them like jade belts—scenes unmatched among southern capitals.

The account continues with Nanjing's broad, immaculate streets paved in polished stone, the Yangtze's tides flowing through urban canals where boats shuttle conveniently. Markets overflow with goods yet remain spotless. However, the author notes local customs: northerners embody heroic recklessness, even unto death, while Nanjing's youths idly pursue frivolity. Women obsess over cosmetics, with courtesans favoring subtle elegance—accomplished in qin music, chess, calligraphy and painting—they inspire young gentlemen to ruin themselves without regret.

Comparing northern and southern topography: gazing north reveals the Taihang Mountains and Juyong Pass under endless clear skies; looking south, the sheer cliffs of Longjiang Pass and Shicheng Mountain (Stone City) plunge into the river. Both capitals possess majestic uniqueness, recalling Ban Gu's (styled Mengjian) classic Han-dynasty capital rhapsodies. The conclusion details their twenty-six-day itinerary: ascending Phoenix Terrace and Qixia Temple with companions Zhou Yuan, Li Hu and others, consuming two jars of fine wine, composing twenty-four poems—the first being "Moonlit Thoughts of Lord Mao on the Path to Juqu" (referring to Mao Ying, patriarch of the Maoshan Daoist tradition). Those like Chen Jizhi missed the excursion due to illness.

This passage documents an excursion to Niutou Mountain (also known as Tianque Mountain). In Buddhist texts, this mountain is referred to as "Jiangbiao Niutou" (Ox-Head Mountain South of the Yangtze). During the Jin Dynasty, Prime Minister Wang Dao once pointed to it and declared, "This is the Heavenly Gate," hence its alternative name Tianque Mountain (Heavenly Gate Mountain).

On the 23rd day of the seventh lunar month in the Dingmao year, several officials and literati set out on their journey. Departing from Nanjing's Fengtai Gate, they traveled fifteen li south to Tangwan, then crossed a mountain ridge after another ten li, finally arriving at their lodging three li further at the mountain's base. The following day, they headed west for two li to reach Hongjue Temple. At the temple gate stood two wells—the one on the left called White Tortoise Pool and the one on the right known as Tiger Sprint Spring (later modified into a well by monks due to the spring's dangerous currents, with the Tiger Sprint Spring being particularly clear, serving as the primary water source for the temple's residents).

Within the temple grounds grew a ginkgo tree with a trunk two zhang in circumference. After lunch, the group ascended to the pagoda's summit, where they composed linked verse poetry. They then proceeded eastward through a long corridor, climbing single-file like a school of fish to reach Guanyin Pavilion. Peering over the railing, only the pagoda's spire was visible below. Further up were said to be the Sacrifice Platform and the footprint of the Pratyekabuddha, though the group avoided these due to their perilous locations.

Descending, they visited Shuaiyan Cave and Manjusri Cave, pausing to inscribe poems on a small hut's wall near the latter. Turning to the mountain's northern side, they observed Xiao Zhaoming's Horse Watering Pool—a ten-foot-square pond that never dried, winter or summer. Westward lay Pratyekabuddha Cave, more spacious than Manjusri Cave, with a pagoda standing before it said to house the Pratyekabuddha's relics. An elderly monk recounted witnessing the relics emit light in his youth, though none had seen this phenomenon for decades.

The pagoda bore two stone inscriptions: one recorded a stele from the second year of the Huangyou era (1050 CE) during the Northern Song, documenting Master Zhi Gong's response to Emperor Ming of Song regarding the Pratyekabuddha's winter retreat here; the other contained verses by lay practitioner Ruyu, resembling Huang Tingjian's calligraphic style. That evening during a gathering in the abbot's quarters, the author retired early from exhaustion while others composed poetry throughout the night until cockcrow.

At dawn on the 24th, they left the temple. The southern mountain path proved so steep that their horses repeatedly balked. Amid swirling clouds and mist, sunlight illuminated rice fields at the mountain's base, their golden-green crops resembling the patchwork colors of monastic robes.

This travelogue recounts experiences and reflections from visiting two renowned mountain landscapes.

First, the scenery of Xianhua Rock: After walking five li, we reached Xianhua Rock, where the stone formations were exceptionally striking. The cavern was hollowed out to a depth of about ten paces, as neatly arranged as a grand hall. Legend has it that during the Southern Dynasties, the eminent monk Lanrong practiced asceticism here, and at that time, a wondrous event occurred—hundreds of birds came bearing flowers as offerings, hence the name "Flower-Offering Rock." The mountain once housed the Youqi Temple, which later fell into ruin. During the Chenghua era of the Ming dynasty, the Shandong monk Faxing came here to meditate in cultivation. Due to his profound meditative power, devotees contributed funds to rebuild the temple, now called Huayan Temple. To the south of the cavern stands the Tunyun Pavilion, and further south is the Hibiscus Tower, embedded into the cliff face. Ascending the tower offers a sweeping view of the mountain peaks—the finest vantage point. Here, our party drank wine and composed poetry. On the northern side of the monks' quarters hangs a plaque inscribed with "Boundless Scenery," and below it is the "Dustless Pavilion," another fine spot for drinking and verse. Another two li brought us out of the mountains.

The second section records a visit to Guanyin Cliff: In the spring of the Dingmao year, I took up an official post in Nanjing and heard that Guanyin Cliff by the Yangtze River was one of the world's marvels, but the long journey prevented me from going. In the ninth month, at the invitation of the Ministry of Works official Qian Jun and accompanied by the military officer Mei Jun, I finally made the trip. At noon, we arrived at the base of the cliff and saw a hundred-foot tower suspended in midair. Leaning against the railing, the full expanse of the Yangtze came into view—boats passing below as if beneath our feet, so close we could even converse with those aboard. Truly astonishing. Yet the author reflects: The Yangtze, by nature, has no intent to bear these boats, and most who traverse its waters are seekers of fame and profit. True recluses would never take part in such affairs. Seclusion was originally meant to allow one to enjoy the serene pleasures of rivers and lakes, yet now these very waters have become a marketplace of ambition, choked with worldly clamor—where is the purity to be found? From this, we see how rare true recluses are, and how easily the human heart is consumed by desire. Just as the river's roaring waves and lurking dragons and fish inspire fear, those chasing fame and profit dare to brave the dangers—yet while the perils of the river can at most swallow a body, the poison of worldly desire harms the soul far more deeply than any waters.

(Note: "Lanrong" refers to the Chan master Farong, a disciple of the Fourth Patriarch Daoxin, famed for the miraculous phenomenon of birds offering flowers during his practice; "Chenghua" was the era name of the Ming Emperor Xianzong; "Du Mu" was a Ming dynasty scholar who once served as Assistant Minister of the Court of the Imperial Stud in Nanjing.)

Though holding official positions, my two companions and I have always yearned for the simple joys of mountain and stream. Such pleasures are most pure—even when illness or misfortune prevents our outings, and even when sudden rain or shine disrupts our plans during rare excursions. Only during true leisure can we fully savor such moments as today's. Drinking wine and composing poetry at Swallow Rock, we took warning from witnessing reckless adventurers, making this journey particularly rewarding—thus I record it here.

Having read local records of Jinling, I knew of a scenic spot called Swallow Rock northeast of the city. In this Ding-Si year, while traveling to my post in Fujian, I passed through Jinling with Imperial Physician Shen. Riding northward about twenty li in a carriage, we reached Guanyin Gate. Passing through this ceremonial gate flanked by halberds, we crossed the market bridge northward before turning west to rest at Qingjiang Daoist Temple. A temple attendant showed us the shrine of Marquis Shou of Han (Lord Guan), then led us through a side gate to the Waters-and-Clouds Pavilion, its plaque inscribed "Vast as Sky and Sea" by former Minister Zhan Ruoshui.

Leaning on the railing, we saw the Yangtze's waters nearly lapping at the windows. Further north at Lord Guan's shrine, I sighed: "Who but he deserves such veneration here?" Just beyond lay the famed Swallow Rock. A pavilion crowned its summit, with the "Overlooking-the-River Pavilion" higher still—yet several vulgar men lay there half-naked, so we left in distaste. With Physician Shen, I sat bare-shouldered on the rock as a west wind stirred and the sky stretched flawlessly clear. Westward lay Jing-Chu's lands; eastward, the river's mouth merged with distant haze. Facing this immensity, we raised cups to the current and sighed together.

Suddenly, a man in straw sandals and Daoist yellow cap passed below. We hailed him, and after brief words, invited him to drink. He spoke of alchemical arts. Physician Shen bluntly said: "What immortals exist in this world? Only by nurturing essence (Jing) and vital energy (Qi), wandering wooded hills, versifying, or playing chess can one find perfect joy. Have you truly seen men riding clouds?" Gazing skyward, I sighed: "Dao of immortality—should I pursue or abandon you?"

Attendants brought food. After dining, we straightened our robes and left the pavilion southward to the riverbank, where a boatman ferried us across. Following perilous narrow shores, we reached Hongji Temple with its triple halls...

This passage records several important historical sites and architectural transformations:

Behind Guanyin Mountain (a sacred Daoist site), the terrain grows even more precipitous. Deep within stands a grand palace facing the river with mountains at its back. Slightly to the south, a pavilion hangs over the river, suspended above fathomless cliffs. Looking up, the sheer cliffs behind tower thousands of ren (an ancient unit of measurement), seemingly ready to collapse upon travelers—a sight so awe-inspiring it makes passersby tremble with fear, truly one of the world's marvels. As dusk fell, the group prepared to rest. Someone inquired about the location of Plum Blossom Spring, only to be told it was still five li away—impossible to reach before nightfall. When asked whether there were ponds, pavilions, or plum blossoms there, the reply was simply "none," prompting the lament: "If there are no plum blossoms, why call it Plum Blossom Spring at all?"

On the palaces of the Six Dynasties period:

When Sun Quan moved his capital to Jianye (modern Nanjing), he transported materials from Wuchang Palace to construct Taichu Palace. Later, when Sima Rui, Prince of Langya of the Jin dynasty, crossed the Yangtze, he renovated and inhabited the old Wu capital, using Taichu Palace as his residence. After proclaiming himself emperor, he renamed it Jianye Palace. By Emperor Cheng's reign, a lavish new palace had been built. Though successive dynasties (Wu, Eastern Jin, Liu Song, Southern Qi, Liang, and Chen) made alterations, all constructions remained on the original Wu foundations.

On several significant fortifications:

Shicheng (Stone City) was a defensive structure built by Sun Quan along the Qinhuai River. Zhuge Liang once praised Nanjing's topography, saying, "Zhongshan Mountain coils like a dragon, Stone City crouches like a tiger"—an ideal location for imperial capitals.

Yecheng (Smelting City) was originally Wu's ironworks. Later, when the fangshi (Daoist adept) Dai Yang warned that the site's conflicting Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) made it unhealthy, the smelting operations were moved east to Stone City, and the original site was converted into gardens.

Jincheng (Golden City) was built by Wu. When Huan Wen of the Eastern Jin was stationed there, he planted willow trees. Years later, passing through during his northern campaign, he saw the willows he'd planted had grown so thick that ten men could encircle them. Overcome by the swift passage of time, he clutched the branches and wept.

In the seventh year of Emperor Cheng of Jin's Xianhe era (332 CE), the newly constructed Jiankang Palace (now known as Taicheng in Nanjing) was completed. The area called Baixia was originally Baixia Village in Jiangcheng County. Emperor Wu of Qi relocated the Prince of Langya here due to its favorable location between mountains and rivers. In the first year of Emperor Gaozu of Tang's Wude era (618 CE), Jinling County was abolished and a new city wall was built here retaining the old name "Baixia."

The Vermilion Bird Gate (Zhuque Men) was constructed in the second year of Jin's Xiankang era (336 CE). At that time, the newly built Zhuque Floating Bridge spanned the Huai River, also called Zhuque Bridge. This bridge directly faced the capital city, six li away, with imperial roads flanked by canals and willow-lined banks.

The True Warrior Lake (Zhenwu Hu, now Xuanwu Lake) was excavated by Wu's last ruler Sun Hao in the first year of Baoding era (266 CE), channeling water from the Rear Lake north of the city into the new palace complex to encircle its halls. During the fourth year of Tianxi era (1020 CE) in Northern Song, it became a "life-releasing pond." The ancient pond thirteen li north of the city, commonly called Rear Lake, now serves as military training grounds.

Jingyang Tower was built in the twenty-second year of Yuanjia era (445 CE) under Emperor Wen of Song. During Emperor Xiaowu's Daming reign, it gained its name when purple clouds appeared above it. Ruins still remain southwest of Fabao Temple today.

Xin Pavilion stood fifteen li south of the city near the riverbank, where Emperor Xiaowu of Song ascended the throne. Baixia Pavilion became famous through Li Bai's poem "Farewell at Jinling's Baixia Pavilion" with the lines: "Three poplars at the post pavilion / Right by Baixia Gate."

Yuhua Terrace (Rain Flower Terrace) earned its name during Emperor Wu of Liang's reign when Master Yunguang's scripture lectures moved heaven to shower floral rain, with celestial kitchens offering food. The Zither-Listening Hall commemorates Emperor Yuan of Jin's banquet at Xie An's residence, where Huan Yi's moving flute and zither music moved Xie An to tears that soaked his robe.

The imperial racecourse built by Emperor Shao of Song stretched over ten li from Changhe Gate northward through Chengming Gate to Xuanwu Lake, serving as training grounds for imperial steeds.

The Yangtze River connects Jiangning to the west and Jurong to the east, bordering Liuyang County of Zhenzhou to the north across 120 li of waterways. When Later Zhou's Emperor Shizong inquired about southern defenses, advisor Sun Ji replied: "The Yangtze's natural barrier surpasses fortified cities, equivalent to 100,000 troops." The Qinhuai River was channeled when Qin Shihuang toured Kuaiji, cutting through the Zhongshan-Jinling mountain ridge. Hengtang remains the most famous embankment along its course.

This passage records historical place names and anecdotes from the Nanjing area (anciently called Jiankang):

The embankment built along the Huai River at the Yangtze estuary during Sun Quan's reign (Emperor of Wu) was called "Hengtang." The "Thunderbolt Ditch" mentioned in Wang Anshi's poem was located five li east of the city—a rural path passing four or five households where he once leisurely rode his horse through blooming peach blossoms.

East of the county ran a canal linking Fuzhou Mountain and Rear Lake, locally believed to be the ancient "Qingxi Creek." The westward-flowing stream passed through the capital, where during the Eastern Jin dynasty, many aristocratic families resided along its banks. On the northern shore stood the mansion of Southern Dynasties minister Jiang Zong. "Yaodibu" southeast of the city, now the Upper Sluice Gate, was where Eastern Jin general Huan Yi famously played exquisite music on the Keting bamboo flute crafted by Cai Yong.

The "Taoye Ferry" at the Qinhuai River mouth derived its name from Wang Xianzhi's beloved concubine Taoye. Wang composed poems here depicting the ferry's paddle-less crossing through rushing currents. "Egret Islet" eight li southwest of the city inspired Li Bai's verse "two streams parting at Egret Islet."

The "Jingyang Well" within Jingyang Palace in Taicheng witnessed Emperor Chen Houzhu hiding with his consorts from Sui forces—legend says rouge stains could still be rubbed from its stone rim with silk. "Poplar Road" at southern Shishan Ridge was where Southern Song minister Yuan Can once drank merrily with villagers.

The "Xie An Mound" where Xie An and Wang Xizhi ascended still preserves ruins behind Banshan Temple. Northwest of Baogong Pagoda on Zhongshan Mountain lay the famed "Peach Blossom Gully" once celebrated for lush blooms. Twenty li east of the county stood five hundred extravagant "Pheasant Hunting Grounds" built by the deposed Qi emperor, adorned with jeweled hunting gear.

This passage records several famous historical sites around Nanjing and the author's observations and reflections during his travels.

Regarding Wuyi Lane (an ancient place name in Nanjing), it mentions that during the Eastern Jin dynasty, renowned scholars like Wang Dao and Ji Zhan once resided here. The famous lines by Tang poet Liu Yuxi - "Wildflowers bloom by the Vermilion Bird Bridge, The setting sun slants over Wuyi Lane. Swallows that once graced Wang-Xie mansions, Now fly into common people's homes" - depict this very place, lamenting how the grand mansions of nobility had become ordinary dwellings.

Changgan (another ancient Nanjing place name) refers to flatlands in the mountains five li south of Jiankang, divided into Greater Changgan, Lesser Changgan, and Eastern Changgan. Lesser Changgan, located south of Waguan Temple, had an alleyway leading west to the Yangtze River.

The author Yang Wenqian recounts how in the first year of the Chongzhen reign (1628), his father purchased a garden with ponds and artificial forests southwest of Nanjing city. When relatives and friends held a farewell banquet there, Yang found it such a delightful occasion that he painted the garden scenery as a memento.

Passing through Shicheng (another name for Nanjing) after snowfall when the skies cleared, Yang recited Tang poetry with great enthusiasm. Behind Jiashan Temple, he observed pine forests, sandy banks and temple buildings, though even the boatman couldn't name them precisely - leading Yang to reflect how true beauty often refuses to reveal itself to ordinary people.

Detained for several days outside Guanyin Gate by contrary winds, Yang passed time admiring the city wall's bizarre rock formations, finding them so extraordinarily shaped that even Mi Fu (the Song dynasty painter famous for his obsession with unusual stones) would have bowed in reverence.

At Hongji Temple, accompanying his father and friends Xue Qianren and Li Jiyin, Yang drank wine in Guanyin Pavilion amidst fantastic rock formations, with the Yangtze flowing like a ribbon below, their laughter mingling with river tides. Regrettably, rain prevented visiting Santai Cave on the return journey, leaving him with lingering disappointment.

Yanziji (a Nanjing scenic spot), usually bustling with crowds during his annual visits on the 13th of May, revealed its original tranquil charm this year when contrary winds delayed their eastward journey with his father.

Note: "Shiyou" refers to contrary winds hindering travel, alluding to ancient legends; "Old Mi" denotes Song dynasty calligrapher and painter Mi Fu, renowned for his eccentric passion for unusual stones.

These past few days have been bitterly cold, the river waters clear and chill, the mountain stones radiating frost. The profound and limpid atmosphere here offers inexhaustible inspiration. It makes one realize that all meaningful things and states of being in this world should never be sought amidst clamor and bustle.

Gazing at Qixia Mountain from the river. Last year when I was studying at Sheshan, I would often climb to the summit and watch the sailboats skimming like birds across the Yangtze. Now viewing the mountain from mid-river feels like reuniting with an old friend. When I first began painting, the resemblance seemed perfect, yet when I finished and pushed aside the boat awning to compare, the difference was striking. Someone once said, "Sails follow the river's bends, viewing mountains requires nine perspectives"—isn't this exactly what we're experiencing today? Reading this passage, I couldn't help but laugh aloud.

Sunset on the river. We moored near a small islet as the sun balanced on the mountain's edge. The dazzling interplay of sunset clouds and shimmering waves compelled me to seize my brush at once. The scene in my painting resembles Kuafu chasing the sun.

Golden Mountain. During the Yichou and Bingyin years, I often climbed Jinshan Temple, always intending to paint but never succeeding. Now viewing it from the boat, inspiration suddenly struck, and I managed to capture some essence. Su Dongpo was right: "I cannot recognize Mount Lu's true face, because I stand within this very mountain."

Jade Mountain. By the river stands Yushan Temple. I once chanced upon its pavilion and delighted in watching massive waves crash against the cliffs below. But the monk's quarters nearby were walled off, deliberately shutting out the river-mountain vistas—how vexing! I nearly wished to scoop up acres of river water to wash away those vulgar structures defiling the splendid scenery.

Viewing Golden Mountain and Jiaoshan from Ancient Silver Mountain. At dusk I climbed Ancient Silver Mountain and saw the twin peaks floating like waterfowl on the surface. With a few strokes, I captured them in my painting. It occurred to me that our minds should embrace heaven and earth; with widened vision, we could hold the Ten Continents and Three Islands in our palms. But those who cling to their windowsills, content to grope blindly at the bottom of a well—that's no life I'd choose.

Purple Sun Cave. Passing Zhaoguan, I entered Ziyang Cave where the river's murmur echoed. The thousand-foot cliffs held an air of lofty transcendence. It reminded me of Mingxia Cave near my hometown—once an everyday sight, now buried in wilderness miles away. Isn't this Purple Sun Cave precisely the refuge we need from the dusty world?

On the Xinchou day of the fourth lunar month in the Guihai year [1623], I arrived at Jurong County intending to visit Maoshan. By coincidence, Zhang Rujing—a fellow scholar who had passed the imperial examinations with me that same year—was serving as the county magistrate there and arranged carriages to accompany me from the southeastern gate of Jurong. The road was uneven, and after several days of rain followed by clearing weather, some muddy sections had knee-deep standing water. After traveling twenty li, we rested briefly at a villager’s home.

Continuing eastward for fifteen li, we reached Caomu Village, then another five li brought us past a local earth god shrine (called the "Five-Li Temple" by villagers), and after five more li, we finally arrived at the mountain’s base. Maoshan has three main peaks, the tallest being Damao Peak. The slopes were vividly green as if painted, with dense forests and clear springs reflecting one another. My excitement grew, and I urged the sedan bearers to quicken their pace.

After ascending two li, we reached Chongxi Wanshou Gong (a Daoist temple). To its east flowed Chuwang Stream, formed by three tributaries west of Huayang Cave, passing before the temple. Legend says King Wei of Chu once roamed here. Shen Lingguan (a temple administrator) emerged with a group of Daoists to greet us. This temple complex was originally the Lower Huayang Lodge of Tao Hongjing (styled Zhenbai) from the Liang Dynasty. Inside the gate stood a three-tiered stone platform called the "Memorial Presentation Altar," a relic from Emperor Huizong’s reign in the Song Dynasty. The temple also housed shrines to Tao Hongjing and his disciple Wang Yuanzhi (venerated as Zhenfa Zhu, "Master of Orthodox Dharma").

While drinking tea in the abbot’s quarters, I expressed my desire to climb Damao Peak. Shen Lingguan mentioned the summit was still ten li away and lent me a lightweight sedan chair. Departing eastward from the temple then turning south, we encountered stone steps after about five li. The path grew increasingly steep, requiring attendants to pull the sedan uphill. After another li or so, I abandoned the sedan and continued on foot, passing Chaoshan Pavilion and resting at the mid-slope Earth God Shrine. By then, we had climbed four li, with the peak now close.

Proceeding along cliffside trails, the route became perilous. The mist-shrouded mountains of Jintan County shimmered in the distance, but we had no leisure to admire them. Two accompanying Daoist novices, each clutching roof tiles (locals believed tossing them brought blessings), hopped nimbly, competing to show agility. I chuckled and warned them to watch their footing. Another li brought us to Shengyou Guan atop the peak, said to be where Great Maojun (Mao Ying, founder of the Maoshan Daoist lineage) ascended to immortality. Slightly higher north of the temple lay a flat boulder called Tianshi Altar—Daoists explained that five jade tablets had been buried here during the Yongle era of the Ming Dynasty. To its left at a lower elevation was a small Dragon Pool, where a dozen tiny black dragons (likely a species of salamander) swam. Scooped up for examination, they measured about three inches long, with raised heads, four limbs, bright eyes, and red-patterned bellies, though their sexes were indistinguishable.

This passage records the extraordinary tales and historical sites around Huayang Cave, a famous Daoist mountain. During the Xiangfu era of the Song dynasty (1008-1016), imperial envoys were sent to conduct a Zhaijiao (Daoist purification ritual), sealing two dragons in containers as tribute for the emperor. However, a storm arose during the journey, leaving only one dragon alive. The emperor even composed a poem to ceremoniously return it to the mountain. In the Hongwu era of the Ming dynasty (1368-1398), another attempt was made to bring dragons to the palace, resulting in four out of five dragons mysteriously disappearing. The area became renowned for its efficacy in rain-praying rituals during droughts, leading to both the Dragon Deity and Mountain Deity being officially recognized in state sacrifices. The Mountain Deity was worshipped annually during the Dragon Boat Festival, while officials personally conducted rituals for the Dragon Deity on the day of Jingzhe (the "Awakening of Insects" solar term).

Half a li (about 250 meters) northeast lies the Welcoming Guests Spring, a circular stone pool measuring one zhang (about 3.3 meters) in diameter and half a xun (about 0.8 meters) deep. Its marvel lies in how the water bubbles up like scattered pearls when people clap their hands, yet remains perfectly calm otherwise. Another wonder, the Clapping Spring near Prince Zhaoming's reading platform, exhibits similar magical properties.

Several hundred paces east across the mountain stream, two stone steles stand among the grass: one bearing an imperial edict from the Jingyou era (1034-1038) granting privileges to a Daoist temple, the other recording Yan Shu's (styled Yuanxian) "Account of Five Clouds Temple." Another hundred paces east leads to Huayang Cave—the eighth of Daoism's Thirty-Six Grotto-Heavens, celebrated as the "Golden Altar Huayang Heaven." The steep cliff at its entrance bears the large carved characters "Huayang Cave" alongside numerous ancient inscriptions. Recently unblocked by Daoist priests after being long sealed by earth, the cave mouth features two lip-like rocks now protected by a low wall and crowned with a pavilion. Entering through the left-side stone steps requires stooping, revealing water basins formed by dripping water on the walls, though the passage remains obstructed by earth a few zhang further in—this being merely the western side entrance among the cave's five possible entries.

Several hundred paces east of the cave lies the Stone Pillar entrance, so narrow it admits only one person at a time. The author, exhausted, chose not to enter. The northeast path winds through rocky terrain past Immortal Cave before turning west through Horse Greeting Street and across a stone bridge to reach Shangyuanfu Longevity Palace. This was originally the residence of the eminent Daoist Tao Hongjing (styled Zhenbai), featuring a Petition Platform less sturdy than Chongxi Platform. Two steles beside it bear Emperor Lizong of Song's inscription "Hall of Sagely Virtue and Benevolent Blessings" along with Yuan dynasty imperial gifts including seals, swords, and mountain-encircling documents.

As dusk fell while ascending the Abbot's Thatched Peak, Priest Shen Lingguan recounted an extraordinary event: on the fifteenth day of the third lunar month in the Gengxu year during the morning watch, hundreds witnessed the Three Mao Perfected Lords (Mao Ying, Mao Gu, and Mao Zhong—revered Daoist immortals) manifesting west of Great Mao Peak. Cloaked in golden light and standing on auspicious clouds, their apparition lasted about the time needed for a meal before vanishing. Some claimed their robes had been woven entirely from cloud vapor during this divine manifestation.

I spent the night in the chamber to the left of the abbot's quarters in the mountain temple. Through the window came a surging, tumultuous sound—now rising, now falling—like autumn torrents on the river, or a great general leading ten thousand cavalry in full charge. Thinking the stifling heat might herald a storm that could disrupt tomorrow's journey, I threw on my robe to listen carefully—only to realize it was the roaring of wind through pines. In the profound stillness of these empty mountains, even the wind could sound so awe-inspiring. No wonder Tao Hongjing (courtesy name Zhenbai) once cherished such celestial harmonies.

Passing by Maojun Hall in the guimao year, I noticed a Daoist's inscription on the northern wall—"Zhou Tianchan's Ode to Maoshan." Zhou, a polymath from late-Yuan Jinling, was erudite and multi-talented, yet this particular composition proved unremarkable. After reading just a few lines, I moved on. Later, Shen Lingguan accompanied me to the abbot's quarters where we examined the jade seal bestowed by Emperor Huizong of Song upon Patriarch Yuanfu. The three-inch square seal, with its bluish luster, bore six exquisitely carved seal-script characters: "Seal of the Nine Elders Immortal Capital Lord"—a craftsmanship far surpassing contemporary standards. Yuanfu Palace also preserves a ritual sword, another imperial gift from Huizong, which together with the seal forms the mountain's sacred treasures.

After breakfast, Shen Lingguan guided me downhill. A li's walk brought us to Chongxi Temple, where to the right lay the tomb of Master Wang Fazhu (Tang dynasty adept Wang Yuanzhi). As I straightened my robes to pay respects, pooled rainwater barred my approach. The two stone pillars before the tomb—their design utterly unlike modern work—were Tang relics, though the left one had fractured and been repaired with new stone. Turning northward another three li, we glimpsed ancient pines veiling palace eaves—the Temple of the Three Mao Perfected Lords (brothers Mao Ying, Mao Gu, and Mao Zhong), housing Tang-era stone carvings.

Five li further north, amid overgrowth, we discovered a broken stele and two stone rams (one headless). Surviving characters, several inches tall, faintly read: "Site where Tao the Recluse of Zongxuan Yijiao buried his sword." Climbing several hundred steps brought us to Tao Hongjing's tomb—crumbling walls, wild grasses, and toppled old trees framing the Yuan-dynasty stele erected by Patriarch Liu Dabin. Another li brought us to Yuchen Temple, legendary "Jinling's Earth Lung and the World's Foremost Blessed Land," where Yang Xi and Xu Mi attained the Dao during the Eastern Jin. Before the temple lay Leiping Pond, recorded in Zhen'gao as the ancient Lei family's dragon pool (later mistakenly called Guo Zhenren's Dragon Pool). On the southern embankment's Fuloong Ridge stood the tomb of Tang master Li Hanguang (alias Master Xuanjing), though time prevented our ascent. Fourteen ancient junipers—each trunk requiring two men to embrace, their grain all spiraling leftward as if carved—stood sentinel at the gate, said to have been planted by Xu Mi himself: a true marvel of natural artifice.

This passage records observations from two sacred Daoist sites. The first part describes remarkable ancient trees at a particular temple complex, which houses halls dedicated to the Three Pure Ones (Sanqing) and Laozi. Before these halls grow several rare ancient trees, among which a left-twisting juniper is particularly precious. The author reflects that among all the extraordinary ancient trees witnessed in their lifetime, only the Seven-Star Juniper from Changshu and the Nine-Mile Pine from Qiantang could compare to this specimen. These trees boast extraordinary antiquity—the Seven-Star Juniper dates back to the Liang Dynasty of the Southern Dynasties period, while the Nine-Mile Pine was planted during the Tang Dynasty, making Song and Yuan Dynasty trees seem like mere descendants by comparison.

Beneath these ancient trees lies an old well with weathered inscriptions on its stone rim. Upon careful examination, the text reveals this to be the alchemy well of the renowned Daoist immortal Xu Xun (Xu Zhenren) from the Jin Dynasty, later reopened during the Tianjian era of Liang. Modern-day Daoist priests mistakenly refer to it as "Master Tao's Alchemy Well." The temple preserves twenty-five ancient steles, including stone inscriptions from the Liang Dynasty, Tang Dynasty, and Southern Tang period. The most valuable among them bear writings by Tao Hongjing (the eminent Southern Dynasties Daoist), Xu Mi (a key figure in the Shangqing lineage), along with calligraphic masterpieces by renowned artists like Yan Zhenqing and Li Yangbing.

The second part transcribes Su Shi's travelogue from spring of the second year of the Yuanfeng era, documenting his excursion to Mount Huan with companions. They entered a stone cavern in the mountains and invited Daoist priest Dai Rixiang to play the guqin zither. Su Shi's mind wandered to the site's history as the burial place of Huan Tui, a Song State minister from the Spring and Autumn period, citing classical precedents to demonstrate that playing music before tombs didn't violate ritual propriety. The text references the famous incident when Confucius, during his travels among the states, faced Huan Tui's murderous intent yet responded with unshaken composure.

This passage from Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven documents the legends and historical anecdotes surrounding two mountains.

The first part recounts the story of Huan Mountain. Ancient people considered it foolish to be buried in thick stone coffins, since human flesh and bones ultimately return to dust scattered by the wind—how much more transient must be the stone sarcophagi and buried treasures? The author plays his zither and sings, lamenting the impermanence of life and the Dao of perpetual transformation. Hearing this, eight accompanying scholars were deeply moved and chanted a ballad: "The stones of Huan Mountain tower majestically, yet Minister Sima's (likely referring to some powerful official) misdeeds endure longer than stone; the waters below Huan Mountain flow ceaselessly, yet Sima's tomb shall vanish with the current."

The second part records the legends of Niuzhu Mountain. Located thirty li north of Dangtu County, this mountain features a strategic ferry crossing beneath its slopes that served as an ancient military stronghold. Legend tells of a diver who discovered an underwater passage leading to Dongting Lake, where he encountered a strangely shaped golden ox. After suppressing Su Jun's rebellion during the Eastern Jin dynasty, the renowned general Wen Qiao passed by Niuzhu Jetty. Hearing of underwater monsters, he illuminated the depths with a burning rhinoceros horn and witnessed various bizarre aquatic creatures. That night, he dreamed of being chastised for peering into the underworld and died shortly afterward. Later, when Xie Shang was garrisoned at Niuzhu, he once boated under moonlight and heard Yuan Hong reciting poetry, greatly admiring his literary talent. The text also cites verses by Liu Yuxi and Li Bai depicting Niuzhu's enchanting night scenery.

These passages from Records of Famous Mountains depict the scenery of various renowned peaks and the insights of literati.

By the spring waters southwest of Chuzhou, Ouyang Xiu constructed the Pavilion of Abundant Joy during his second year as prefect, personally composing an inscription explaining the pavilion's name. Later, several hundred paces east of this pavilion on higher ground, he built the Heart-Awakening Pavilion and commissioned Zeng Gong to write its record. Whenever Lord Ouyang hosted guests, they would first drink at the Pavilion of Abundant Joy, then when pleasantly inebriated, ascend to gaze afar from the Heart-Awakening Pavilion. Encircling peaks stretched endlessly through shifting mists, expansive fields merged with lush vegetation, while exquisite springs and rocks refreshed both eyes and ears—expanding the mind's horizons until visitors lingered forgetful of departure. Zeng Gong observed that Lord Ouyang's joy stemmed not merely from landscape appreciation, but from witnessing an era of great peace—where rulers governed through Wuwei (non-action), commoners enjoyed abundant sustenance, talents flourished, and all things found their proper place. Such sages appear perhaps once in centuries; how fortunate were those who shared his excursions.

Wang Zemin's Record of Wandering Mount Huang notes: This mountain straddles the Xuancheng-Shezhou border, dominating southeastern terrain. A hundred li south lies Shezhou's administrative seat, twenty li north sits Taiping County, and another two hundred forty li north reaches Xuancheng's prefectural seat. Though not situated along major thoroughfares, Mount Huang became celebrated for its grotesque pines, fantastical rock formations, sea of clouds, and hot springs. Visiting literati often marveled at creation's wonders, inscribing verses like "maple leaves descend in endless showers" to convey their contemplations.

These writings reveal how ancient scholars projected their ideals onto landscapes—finding in nature's beauty not merely aesthetic pleasure but vessels for political aspirations and philosophical realizations. Famous mountains became mediums for emotional expression and spiritual transcendence.

This travelogue recounts a traveler's journey to explore a famous mountain on the ninth day of April. Setting out from Jiaocun at the mountain's western foothills where the land was broad and flat, the traveler gazed upon peaks that rose like steep jade monoliths—some resembling upright ceremonial tablets, others like tilted hats, arrays of spears, or freshly bloomed lotus flowers—their myriad forms shifting magnificently amid clouds, mist, and changing weather.

Venturing twenty-five li south from Jiaocun to Tang Ridge, the traveler looked up to see clusters of summits still shrouded in clouds. The mountain's contours twisted and coiled, with footpaths painstakingly carved into the rock faces. By precipitous cliffs, waterfalls roared like thunder amid forests of bizarrely shaped boulders, while mid-slope springs sprayed cool mist that dampened travelers' robes. Though early summer, the air carried autumn's crispness.

Another ten li brought the traveler to Xiangfu Temple (originally named Lingquan Monastery, renamed during the Xiangfu era of the Northern Song). Before it, a stream tumbled through scattered rocks, flanked by towering pines and precious fir trees entwined with vine-curtains of emerald green. Two small pools beside the temple, fed by the sacred spring of Cinnabar Peak, held water so clear one could see to the bottom—seven chi across and three and a half chi deep—reflecting even a single hair. The spring bubbled through stone crevices like strings of pearls, exuding a fragrant aroma and tasting remarkably sweet, utterly unlike common sulfur springs. Bathing there the next day, the traveler found grime melting away, leaving mind and spirit refreshed—legend claimed even stubborn ailments could be cured.

Three li beyond the temple lay Dragon Pool, where noontime sunlight conjured prismatic radiance. At night, strange birds sang antiphonally, locals calling them "mountain music birds." Monks pointed to distant peaks: Celestial Capital Summit, Lotus Summit, and Cinnabar Summit—the first being highest, its slopes rich with rare medicinal herbs. Herb-gatherers needed three days' provisions to ascend. Though tempted, the traveler abandoned the attempt upon seeing the bird-track narrowness of the path.

Returning via Cuiwei Temple, the traveler crossed a stone ravine spanned by monks' roofed bridges for weary wayfarers, all shaded by ancient pines and bamboo. The temple housed an ancient well, its sweet waters said to have sprung forth when the Tang-dynasty hemp-robed master struck the ground with his tin staff—a spring never running dry. Nearby, Solitary Excellence Peak stood arrow-straight, its singular beauty distinguishing the landscape.

(Note: The "tin staff miracle" references the Buddhist legend of eminent monks summoning springs by planting their staffs; "Hemp-robed Master" denotes the celebrated Tang-era monk known for his hemp garments.)

To the southeast stands Cuifeng Peak, its winding ridges coiling like a serpent. The temple is nestled in a mountain basin, completely obscuring the surrounding peaks from view. A fifteen-li journey from here requires crossing the White Sand Ridge, where travelers often cling to cliff faces, grasp vines, or edge along narrow rock ledges barely wide enough for a single foot—with sheer thousand-zhang drops beside them that terrify the boldest soul. After seven more li, the summit opens into a broad, level expanse far more spacious than ordinary terrain. Resting on the rocks during a sudden clearing, we breathed crisp air with panoramic views stretching hundreds of li across undulating ridges and villages.

Jiuhua Mountain’s emerald peaks bloom like lotus petals, while the hills near Lujiao Village appear low and gentle. As we sat resting, rolling clouds abruptly surged, making distant peaks flicker like islands in a stormy sea—only the tallest summits piercing the mist. This spectacle of appearing and vanishing peaks repeated three times, a rare marvel. At dusk, we lodged at the temple and departed northward two days later.

Ten li north lies the Immortal Spring Temple (Xianguan), where the Yuan-dynasty adept Wu Wanzhu of Xin’an once cultivated stillness. A master of the Yijing (Book of Changes), he often praised this landscape to scholars from Wanling. I once composed poems for him; now his bamboo grove remains, though the Daoist has long ascended as an immortal. Encircled by layered peaks and jade-green summits, this is truly a sanctuary for nurturing life and prolonging years.

After ten days’ rest at my kinsman Gongzhong’s Cloud Pine Pavilion, we crossed Xing Ridge southward. There, the famed Thirty-Six Peaks stand like pillars of heaven—towering, jagged, and awe-inspiring. Every manner of grotesque crag unfolds before the eyes. Crossing farmland, we ascended Heng Ridge, following a winding path through bamboo and fir woods where monks had built hermitages. A weathered thatched pavilion stood for wayfarers, though I planned to rebuild it a zhang to its right—where southern peaks resemble wings in flight and northern ridges gallop to a halt, framing a scene of crystalline serenity. I considered naming it "Lotus Pavilion," but time has yet allowed it.

Winding along cliffs to White Dragon Pool, we saw torrents churning between boulders in unfathomable depths. Locals’ drought prayers here never fail. Beyond a plank bridge, a humble hermitage houses ascetic monks. Once, a recluse of the empty valley healed many with rare remedies; his remains now rest in a stupa.

This land of encircling streams and peaks forms its own secluded cosmos. The forty-five-li stretch from Xing Ridge remains sparsely populated—perfect for escaping worldly clamor. That night, we slept to the murmur of mountain springs.

This travelogue records Huang Ruheng's journey to Mount Huang and his reflections. Originally named Yi Mountain, it was renamed Mount Huang (Huangshan) after the legendary Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) ascended to immortality here with his immortal companions Fuqiugong and Rongchengzi. In his youth, Huang Ruheng had obtained a geographical atlas of the mountain and longed to visit, but only managed the trip in his later years, regrettably unable to stay longer.

The author recalls his youthful experience climbing Nanyuan Mountain in Nan'an to pray for rain—going barefoot through rocky torrents, scaling cliffs with ropes tied around his waist, eventually reaching Dragon Pool. By contrast, this Mount Huang expedition, though equally precipitous in places, was undertaken with greater appreciation for scenic beauty, allowing him to forget the hardships and fears of climbing. The journey took place in 1269, the Gengchen year of the Yuan dynasty's Zhiyuan era.

The account details their itinerary: first visiting friend Pan Jingsheng at Yan Town, then staying at Wang Ranming's bamboo pavilion. The next day, they discussed Mount Huang's wonders with Pan. Some travelers claimed autumn was best for visiting, as summer brought oppressive heat along with fierce beasts and venomous insects. But Huang laughingly declared he'd "sacrifice himself to the mountain," while Pan boldly countered that Mount Huang was ideal for summer retreats, dismissing such creatures as unworthy of fear.

Their ascent began at Fozi Ridge, where the mountain scenery already proved magnificent. Mount Huang was said to tower four thousand ren (an ancient unit measuring approximately 1.8 meters per ren) and span five hundred li, with even Tianmu Peak reaching only its foothills. Passing Yangqian Temple and Rong Stream (traditionally where Rongchengzi achieved immortality), they observed water encircling Rongcheng Platform, stone bamboo shoots protruding like aquatic plants. For five li, bamboo forests lined their path, framing distant mountain vistas with distinctive charm.

Rongchengzi, mentioned here, was a legendary immortal adept at longevity practices, often paired with the Yellow Emperor in Daoist lore. Through contrasting his youthful rain-praying adventures with his current elderly appreciation of landscapes, the author expresses profound love for natural scenery while subtly conveying the Daoist ideal of transcending obstacles through harmonious alignment with nature (Dao).

Passing through a sunlit mountain field, I ascended Shizhen Ridge and crossed another mountain range before stopping for a meal at the Yishan Retreat (a dwelling for practitioners) in Fang Village. It was the season when azaleas bloomed in full splendor, and a visitor brought stream fish from the direction of the stone cliffs, so we enjoyed a modest drink beneath the flowers. Continuing onward for about a li, I saw Tiandu Peak and Lotus Peak piercing the clouds; another li further, Cloud Gate Peak stood like a heavenly portal, with mist drifting between the twin summits.

Following the winding path along steep cliffs, I soon reached Tangkou and, after another li, arrived at Xiangfu Temple—once the palace site of the Yellow Emperor (Xuanyuan). Before the temple lay a hot spring pool. By evening, I arrived at Lotus Nunnery, where the narrow path twisted through stone crevices, reminiscent of the Three-Life Stone behind Hangzhou’s Lower Tianzhu Temple. Nearby flowed the Fragrant Stream, offering a view of White Dragon Pool, a bottomless abyss where scattered rocks concealed alchemical wells (for refining the Golden Elixir). Climbing to Lotus Nunnery, I found the front courtyard encircled by peaks, and the monk, at my request, pointed out each summit’s name.

From Tiger Rock, I descended step by step along the highest stone precipice until reaching a massive boulder over ten zhang long, lying like an ancient qin. Around it stood eight or nine hollowed stones, their surfaces struck by spring water to produce a sound like the konghou harp—this was the famed "Singing String Spring." Standing atop the rock, I glimpsed the indistinct form of Immortal Bridge—a sudden sliver of sky piercing the emerald mountains, a true marvel. Descending the ridge for ten li, I gazed left at Cloud Gate Peak and right at Cuiwei Peak, both exquisitely towering.

Traversing another ten li of ridges and streams, I crossed one final brook to reach White Cloud Nunnery for a meal. Immortal Peak seemed to beckon with an outstretched hand, and as I climbed the stone steps, an abrupt stone screen appeared, crowned by a strangely twisting pine. The monk explained that beyond this lay the Three Heavenly Gates—first a narrow, treacherous passage, then sudden openness. At the most perilous point, the cliffs pressed so close that only one person could squeeze through while mountain winds howled like arrows, sending chills down the spine.

Treading downward on sandy, shifting stone steps, I clutched vines amid grass and crevices, inching forward with a bamboo staff until my legs trembled. As dusk fell, a sudden gale stirred rolling fog, obscuring everything within arm’s reach—we only avoided separation by calling to one another. This was Huangshan’s most celebrated spectacle: the "Ocean of Clouds." Five Elders Peak and Immortal’s Palm Peak flickered in and out of the mist as I followed a northward trail through reeds for five or six li to reach Stone Bamboo Shoots Ridge.

The next day, I arrived at Pine Valley Nunnery in the rain, struck speechless by the view. At dawn on the first day of the fifth lunar month, the skies cleared, and I journeyed another twenty li along cliffs and streams. The wonders unfolded endlessly: some stone peaks chimed like qin strings under springs, others vanished in mist as if leading to immortal realms. The treacherous stretches demanded hands and knees, while gentler slopes allowed pauses to admire the pines—each vista affirming Huangshan’s title as "the most miraculous mountain under heaven."

Ascending from Songgu Valley to Shisun Gang (a famous stone peak of Huangshan), one encounters peaks as elegant as flower calyxes, their majestic beauty unchanged since antiquity. The climb from Songgu resembles entering a grand hall through its main gate, progressing from palace doors toward celestial processions—the winding path alternating between orderly and scattered sections, at once profound and wondrous. With each step, the scenery reveals fresh marvels. It's regrettable that Xu Xiake (styled Chongfu) and Mi Fu (courtesy name Yuanhui) halted at Shisun Gang in their time, never venturing deeper into Songgu Valley.

Not far ahead at Xingu, our journey was interrupted by a broken cart wheel, forcing us back to Shisun Gang—perhaps this was predestined. Climbing further to Guangming Peak (one of Huangshan's main summits), we gazed upon Haimen Peak (among Huangshan's Thirty-Six Peaks), where sheer cliffs pierced the clouds like heavenly pillars. Tiandu Peak (one of Huangshan's three principal summits) rose like a towering shoulder, while Dantai Peak connected like adjacent foothills. The Thirty-Six Peaks drifted in and out of mist, with the distant Yangtze River and Mount Lu fully visible—a spectacle so magnificent it stirred transcendent thoughts beyond worldly concerns.

Beyond this point lies the legendary Cloud Ladder. Carved into precipitous cliffs, this thousand-step staircase ascends into the clouds. Along the path, wondrous pines grow in improbable contortions—their most bizarre forms surviving precisely where inaccessibility protected them from woodcutters. At the ladder's summit, sunset bathed the peaks in violet qi (vital energy). Descending into Lotus Flower Gully required scrambling over boulder fields without proper footholds, where shifting sands cascaded into unfathomable depths. Eventually we hired local villagers to lower us using white cloth as ropes. I jested: "These mountains lack waterfalls, but make up for it with 'hanging cloths.'" Without such perils, how could the scenery claim its extraordinary reputation?

This ten-day journey revealed unparalleled wonders—Hai Zi's sea of clouds, Shisun Gang's stone pillars, and Songgu's peaks surpassed anything I'd witnessed. Viewed from Pingtian Gang, Minister's Ravine appeared merely as a depression between mountains. Xie Zhaozhe (styled Zaihang) stopped at Minister's Ravine without seeing Hai Zi; Feng Mengzhen (styled Kaizhi) reached Hai Zi but missed Shisun Gang and Songgu. Truly, experiencing Huangshan's fullness proves difficult! Those unfamiliar with these heights often equate Huangshan with Qiyun Mountain (anciently called Baiyue). Yet Huangshan's spiritual excellence stands peerless—its peaks carved as if by divine blades—while Qiyun possesses only a few orderly summits like Heavenly Gate, Pearl, and Five Elders amidst otherwise unremarkable hills. Comparing Qiyun to Huangshan resembles matching a common soldier against a legendary general—the disparity is immeasurable.

This passage recounts Tang Binyin's perilous ascent up Huangshan's Lotus Flower Ravine (known in antiquity as Haizi), the most treacherous of the mountain's four main routes—the others being Minister's Spring to the east, Emerald Bridge to the west, and Pine Valley to the north.

The author deliberately chose this most dangerous path as a personal challenge. The ravine's trail had been devastated by floods, leaving only unstable gravel underfoot. They fashioned ladders five to six feet long from tree bark, securing them one after another against the cliff face. Climbing demanded perfect coordination: hands had to grip firmly while channeling all strength into the rock, while feet moved lightly, relying on arm strength to support the body. The group advanced like geckos clinging to the cliff, at times assisting each other like a troop of mountain apes.

At the ladder's end, they found resting stones. Turning left brought them to a sliding sand slope where companion Bo Kui collapsed exhausted. The author vaulted across using his staff, eliciting terrified shouts. Further up, a waist-high stone barrier nearly proved fatal when a portly companion almost became wedged and fell.

Countless steps later, they passed through three successive "Heavenly Gates" and three "Threads of Sky" before reaching the final "Cloud Ladder." The Heavenly Gates required crawling through chaotic boulder fields; the Threads of Sky were narrow clefts where sunlight filtered like shattered ice; the Cloud Ladder's footholds, carved into sheer rock, were smaller than a heel. At the ladder's summit, turning back revealed cliffs like inverted city walls. A resting spot at the bend, adorned with pines and stones, felt like stumbling into an immortal realm. Upon finally summiting, the attendants stood pale-faced, gasping between nervous laughter and stunned silence.

When scaling perilous peaks, one must press close to the cliff face and advance sideways, nearly risking life itself to reach level ground. Strangely, whenever I arrive at particularly gentle slopes, I feel inexplicably restless, yet when encountering the most rugged and treacherous paths, I'm overcome with exhilaration. That dangerous stretch at Lotus Gully made me feel one could die without regret—such extreme experiences leave no room to ask about scenery. Those who only know how to enjoy gentle paths and those who truly understand seeking flavor in danger ultimately inhabit two different realms. Among fellow travelers before and behind me, has anyone else tasted this authentic essence within peril?

Regarding records of Huangshan's Hot Springs: Legend says the spring's source lies at the peak summit, where immortals once bathed, before overflowing down to the mountain's base. Originally there were two spring pools, now only one remains. Fine sand drifts with the ripples, fragrance flowing with the water. Before the abandoned pool site stand several large rocks—with minimal arrangement they form superb scenery: one area for woodcutters and shepherd boys to rest, another for climbers to wash their feet. This truly is the first delightful experience upon entering the mountains.

Seeking the Medicine Dipper Ravine (named for its resemblance to a medicinal cauldron) from Peach Blossom Spring, one sees turbulent waters, one branch pouring into a stone dipper's hollow before cascading from its spout—the water's traces appear carved by centuries of erosion.

Crossing the ravine brings one to White Dragon Pool, where massive boulders seem precariously balanced yet firmly supported. The deep pool, embraced by surrounding peaks, reflects emerald hues across the entire valley. Sitting beneath rocks by the pool, thunderous roars shake the gorge, layered ripples rising like overlapping dragon scales.

Alchemy Peak behind Cinnabar Hermitage (also called Fahai Temple) resembles an overturned alms bowl, with surrounding peaks bowing reverently beneath the temple's upturned eaves. Having received imperial gifts of golden Buddha reliquaries, it was renamed "Temple of Compassionate Light." Though its gilded decorations remain unfinished, the purity of its monastic rules already carries solemn dignity.

Turning right from the temple, one must stoop beneath ancient trees with towering, twisted forms. Reaching the cliff's end reveals another ravine, and one follows the path between precipice and water. During spring-summer transition, mountain flowers blaze brilliantly amid exotic fragrant herbs. Travelers sitting on riverside stones find themselves five li deep into the mountains at Guanyin Rock before realizing—its platform below accommodates dozens for rest. Beyond this point, scattered woods suddenly punctuate the view as broad stone steps ascend layer upon layer. From here, every upward glance reveals Celestial Capital Peak.

Lotus Cave's depth holds profound stillness, sealed by monks with wooden planks. Before it, sheer rocks and ancient pines lean together, their presence piercing the clouds. Along the left path, several extraordinary pines stand intertwined. Turning to climb the cliff, one sees a lone pine spiraling atop the summit, beneath it precarious stones suspended above bottomless voids.

This passage describes the author's journey through Mount Huang (known in ancient times as the "Wenshu Temple" area), recounted in modern vernacular:

During my Jianyin year visit, I made my way up the mountain by clinging to pines and rocks. The path was steep, but after climbing several hundred steps, the view suddenly opened up. At a perilous spot, a solitary pine tree emerged between twin peaks, its roots clinging to the cliff face for over ten feet—a sight that compelled me to pause in admiration. Continuing upward through a narrow mountain crevice, the stone steps eventually gave way to a plank walkway that disappeared into clouds churning like ocean waves. On the cliffside, one rock formed a perfect meditation seat, while another lay flat as a bed; reclining mid-air brought an unexpected sense of carefree ease.

Leaving Wenshu Temple for Lotus Gully, travelers moved like birds skimming the cliff walls. Along the path stood a wondrous split pine among other uniquely contorted trees, their roots tenaciously gripping rock fissures as if embodying eternal youth. Gazing toward Lotus Peak, the terrain grew increasingly precipitous, with stone railings overlooking vertigo-inducing chasms. Winding caves forced us to stoop and crawl, and voices that seemed nearby became distant echoes through the mountain's folds. A solitary monk dwelled atop the summit; straightening my robes in reverence, I ascended to stand on a toehold-sized boulder where my shout seemed to reach all surrounding peaks.

Cuwei Peak, Immortal's Palm Peak, and Cloud Gate Peak each possessed distinctive character, yet only from the Alchemy Platform (Mount Huang's famed viewpoint) could one command a panoramic view. Every extraordinary rock companion grew equally bizarre pines, with Cuwei Peak's sheer cliffs rising like the progenitor of the Rear Sea peaks. Some cliffs remained inaccessible, awaiting future trailblazers. When clouds swirled, the very mountains seemed ready to ride the wind.

Stone Bed Peak featured a natural rock couch perfectly sized for reclining, with curled stones as pillows beneath pine shade. Post-rain mists transformed into golden waves when sunlight struck, peaks appearing and disappearing like ornaments in a maiden's hair. During my Jianyin year at Bright Summit, I composed poetry to capture these cloudscapes.

Most marvelous was the "Flying Rock," seemingly suspended in mid-air. Nearby, I witnessed the "Body-Capturing Light" (Mount Huang's atmospheric halo phenomenon), realizing these stones resembled celestial playthings casually placed by immortals—now permanently grounded.

Among mountain temples, Lion Grove Monastery stood as the most orderly, though its abbot's alms-seeking felt overly insistent. The forest's recluses all shunned conventional paths, maintaining their transcendent detachment from worldly affairs.

In the Sanhua Valley, a pine tree emerges from a crevice in the rock, its crown forked like the wings of a phoenix, so mesmerizing that one forgets to return home.

Gazing at the peaks of Shisun Ridge from afar, the layered cliffs appear as if carved by a blade, each stone so lifelike it seems ready to leap from the earth. The thousand-zhang-high fantastical peaks rise in tiers like morning clouds unfurling—even the finest paintings placed beside them would pale in comparison.

Descending ten li from Songgu Valley, one is flanked by towering, extraordinary peaks. Their shadows stretch across the return path, where two sharp stones pierce the sky like servants wearing pointed hats. Upon closer inspection, each rock reveals its own unique posture: some are elegantly rounded, others show only half their faces. When viewed from behind, as travelers pass through the woods, pine branches seem to deliberately obscure the view, unwilling to grant full satisfaction. This interplay of concealment and revelation only deepens the sense of mystery.

To the west of Songgu Valley lie three pools: Qingtan, with its pristine, mirror-like clarity, rivals Bailong Pool, its waters even more serene, offering an excellent vantage point from the rocks. To the left of Qingtan is Huanglong Pool, slender in shape, its depths dark and jade-like. Further down lies Youtan, where, when viewed from the stone, the water resembles green clouds floating upon white waves.

Fangzi (possibly the author’s self-reference) remarks: The "Front Sea" (the scenic area of the front mountains) is profound and reserved, while the "Rear Sea" (the back mountains) is precipitous and steep. The mountain’s texture is lush, its spirit even more refined—it is not merely famed for its strangeness but stands alone in its beauty. Sheng Hongzhi once said: "Travelers often lament being unable to fully take in the scenery, their emotions outpaced by its grandeur"—this sentiment fits Huangshan perfectly.

He also notes that Huangshan’s myriad forms ensure no two visitors see the same mountain, nor does any single journey yield the same experience. Huangshan is not merely its thirty-six peaks; its waterscapes are equally remarkable, such as Jiulong Pool and Xiaoyao Stream. Even in my brief passage, I sensed the thunderous rush of cascades and the misty exhalations of the clouds. As for the scattered springs that crash against the rocks, travelers gaze up and down in awe, while the more adventurous bring rice-pounding tools or drag bamboo rafts, often visiting in the crisp autumn air. In spring, the trees flush with new green, and floral fragrances drift by in fleeting moments; by early summer, the mountains still seem in bloom. Twice I ascended Huafeng, regretting that I could not invite the Moon Palace’s immortal to join me or admire the snow from the Immortal Bridge. Reflecting on the ancients who hacked through thorns and dangled from ropes to explore, I feel ashamed to have barely touched a corner of Tiandu Peak before rashly describing the mountain’s beauty. Yet these are but fragmentary notes, a mere record of today’s wanderings.

Cheng Minzheng's travelogue recounts his journey to Qiyun Mountain. Departing from Xiuning County town, he traveled twenty li west to reach Baiyue Ridge, where the mountain terrain began to reveal its towering and extraordinary character. The mountain path twisted like a thin thread, with visitors ascending by sedan chair along stone steps. At particularly steep sections, two ropes were needed fore and aft to pull the chair, while some stretches required dismounting to climb while holding the carriers' backs—or proved completely impassable on foot.

From Baiyue, five li southwest brought him to Taoyuan Ridge, an area of overlapping peaks where a small structure called the "Central Harmony Pavilion" perched between cliffs. Looking down from the pavilion revealed an abyss hundreds of ren deep, with orderly fields and thatched cottages below arranged like a painting. Below the pavilion crouched two dark boulders streaked with white vein patterns resembling eyes, known as the "Stone Turtle Hollow." Nearby yawned a bottomless chasm where only the murmur of water through trees could be heard—the famed "Peach Blossom Ravine."

Another li or so south stood the Solitary Soaring Cliff, its sheer bluish-gray face stretching horizontally before viewers. On its western side gaped a perfectly square natural crevice resembling a gate, flanked by an ancient stone nanmu tree several arm-spans in girth. Below this "gate," numerous rocks lay like crouching rhinos and docile elephants—untouchable presences. Passing through the stone gate revealed southeastward cliffs linking like city walls, with overhanging boulders seemingly poised to crash down.

The text meticulously documents four major scenic features: First, the Amitabha Cliff, its rock shelter less than three meters tall; second, the slightly smaller Guanyin Cliff, fronted by an emerald-hued stone resembling a parrot with raised head and drooping tail—the "Parrot Stone"; third, the Arhat Cave, marginally larger than the previous two, where two stone dragons flanked the entrance with faintly visible scales. At first glance these appeared artificially assembled from pebbles, but closer inspection revealed them as natural formations. This cave extended over twenty li deep—torchlight could follow its eastern passage to Lan Ferry Creek, but the narrowing tunnels deterred further exploration; fourth stood the Dragon King Cliff, slightly smaller than Guanyin Cliff, featuring a perennial pearl-curtain waterfall that pooled in the western ravine as the "Dragon Pool." The western precipice bore tiger-paw impressions seemingly stamped in mud—the "Black Tiger Ledge."

Finally, the author reached Chehong Ridge, twice as perilous as Baiyue Ridge. Another two li south brought him to the Dark Warrior Temple, behind which a single peak rose screen-like to pierce the heavens.

This passage depicts the majestic scenery of Mount Qiyun (also known as Baiyue). Ancient pines stand tall across the mountain, their gnarled branches coiling like dragons, all centuries-old specimens. To the left stands Shigu Peak (Stone Drum Peak), to the right Shizhong Peak (Stone Bell Peak), while two screen-like mountains called Nianlu Peak complete the panorama—all named according to their distinctive shapes. Before the Daoist temple, a winding stream flows eastward like a ribbon, spanned by a stone bridge. Several hundred paces southward, Xianglu Peak (Incense Burner Peak) suddenly rises from the misty mountains, standing solitary beyond the clustered summits.

A few hundred paces west of the bridge, a towering cliff splits abruptly to form an isolated pinnacle above the ravine—this is Sheshen Cliff (Cliff of Self-Sacrifice). Another two li westward, five peaks stand in staggered formation like five jade-adorned immortals descending from heaven to face Mount Qiyun: the Wulao Peak (Five Elders Peak). Northwest lies the legendary Chenxiang Cave (Aloeswood Cave), inaccessible due to dense vegetation and rumored serpent-dragon inhabitants, rarely visited by humans.

The travelogue describes the ascent: starting from Baiyue, one reaches Taoyuan with Baiyue already beneath one's feet; proceeding to Chehong, Taoyuan appears lower still; finally arriving at Qiyun, Chehong lies far below. This progression creates the transcendent sensation of heaven's height and earth's expanse, as if dwelling in an immortal realm.

Ancient stele records from the Southern Song Baoqing era (1225-1227) recount how Daoist master Tian Guzi came from north of Yi County to dwell at Mituo Cliff. One day he encountered a mysterious stranger who declared the high peaks ahead suitable for reclusion. Following the advice, Tian Guzi discovered a pre-existing statue there. Locals marveled at its resemblance to Xuanwu (the Dark Warrior, northern water deity), prompting temple construction. Though fires and lightning struck subsequently, the divine image remained miraculously intact, enhancing the mountain's numinous reputation.

The author laments that such splendor lies in remote obscurity—were it in the Central Plains, its fame would resound universally. These records serve both as guidance for future travelers and as an expression of nostalgic longing for his homeland's landscapes. He modestly concludes that his literary skill cannot fully capture the mountain's wonders.

Another section describes Qishan Mountain three li southeast of Chiyang. With fields to its left and lakes to its right, the area abounds in bizarre rock formations and deep caverns. Among its most extraordinary sites are Cangyu (Azure Jade), Yunti (Cloud Ladder), Shangqing (Upper Clarity), and Huagai (Canopy of Heaven)—with Huagai Cave standing preeminent among the grottoes.

This passage recounts the author's journey with friends to explore Qishan's Cuiwei Cave. Several literati, initially thwarted by overgrown mountain paths in their search for scenic wonders, eventually discovered this forgotten grotto-heaven with a woodcutter's guidance.

Among mountain travelers, some abandon their climb from exhaustion, while others merely sigh at sunset vistas. The trail lay buried under brambles, rendering the cave nearly unrecognizable. My friend Shaoguo and I often spoke of Qishan's beauty yet lamented never visiting. That summer, as my southbound boat moored by Chiyang's shores (modern Anhui's Chizhou), emerald peaks even haunted my dreams. When Shaoguo and Master Hu Wanfeng visited, hearing of my longing for Cuiwei's wonders, they brought provisions for our expedition.

We ascended stone paths, traversed jagged ridges, crossed Chaotian Peak and Cloud Gate, reaching Shangqing Peak's base. As cool breezes stirred, we drummed rocks and sang freely, composing poetry amid southern slopes' splendor. At sunset, I regretted missing Huagai Cave's marvels—until a farmer revealed its decades-long neglect. But Master Hu declared "human effort shapes destiny," immediately ordering attendants with axes and hoes to clear the choked path with gong strikes.

Entering the cavern's mouth, we found monumental stones framing a gateway to sudden vastness: its dome arched like an imperial canopy, the floor smooth as a whetstone, seating dozens. A rear passage led thirty paces to swallow-nest rocks on the ridgeline. Refilling wine cups in echoing emptiness, we shed worldly cares. Master Hu marveled: "How wondrous! Our chance mooring, spontaneous path-clearing, and this miraculous encounter—all testify to the grotto's affinity with us."

I replied: "Mountains and humans share vital breath (Qi). Most, blinded by turbid energies, remain lifetime prisoners of mundane alleys. True appreciation transcends formal visits—landscapes thrive or fade through human interaction. Some need thousand-horse entourages yet feel lacking; others sigh over ruins across millennia. These fluctuations don't touch a mountain's spiritual core. Today we gathered like drifting duckweed—the cave's unveiling, whether by us or others, required no deliberate intent from either party."

This passage records the journey of Ming Dynasty literatus Wang Siren to Mount Jiuhua (anciently called Jiuzi Shan). While on official business to Qiupu, he took the opportunity to travel there with friends.

The group set out under gloomy skies, their spirits initially dampened, but the monk Daran insisted they proceed despite the rain. Soon the clouds parted as predicted. Their first glimpse of Mount Jiuhua revealed crescent-shaped peaks piercing the heavens, layered clouds resembling lotus petals, with nine principal summits standing together like twin brothers amidst countless smaller peaks.

Passing through Shilongkou, they encountered increasingly dense clusters of jagged rocks. At Shanxitun, the mist grew so thick that heaven and earth seemed inverted, making day indistinguishable from night. After dining at Qiao'an Temple, they discovered a flat Zhuhu Stone where a thirty-zhang-long stream flowed across its surface like rosy clouds. Wang recalled how his predecessor Wang Yangming (Master Bo'an) had once held a winding stream wine-poetry gathering here, leaving behind stone relics.

Further along, they witnessed cascading waterfalls like unrolled silk, reminiscent of the Three Gorges scenery near Lushan's Qixian Temple. At Yongquan Pavilion, mountain springs flowed like celestial wine; Banxiao Pavilion offered views of spiral-shell-like peaks. Crossing Xiaoxian Bridge, Bixiao Pavilion provided panoramic views of all ninety-nine peaks. Young novice monks greeted them with xiao flute music, the valley echoing with birdsong and springwater—an atmosphere of extraordinary charm.

Finally at Wangjiang Pavilion, Wang recognized through the mist the same bluish mountain haze he'd once admired from distant boats, now finding himself physically immersed in it. Entering Xuanlan Pavilion, they beheld the Yangtze's shimmering waves harmonizing with emerald peaks—a beauty that made departure unthinkable. Turning left downhill brought them to Huacheng Temple, where all paid reverent homage to the Buddha statues.

(Notes: "Qingyang Yiwei" refers to Wang's official post as County Lieutenant of Qingyang; "Jiuzi Shan" is the ancient name for Mount Jiuhua; "Master Bo'an" denotes the Ming Confucian scholar Wang Yangming; "Huacheng Temple" is Mount Jiuhua's founding Buddhist monastery)

This passage recounts the author's travels to Mount Jiuhua, a sacred Buddhist mountain, and his reflections along the way.

The opening describes the scenic bamboo pavilions where two companions, Zhongrong and Zhonglü, are engrossed in a game of chess, while Zhonghao laments how wasteful it is to carry manure instead of appreciating the mountain’s beauty. The author muses that these two are as stubborn as the unyielding boulders of Jiuhua. After drinking and reveling, they visit the Taibai Shrine at dawn the next day, where they spot fresh tiger paw prints. A foreign monk from the Western Regions patrols the mountain at night with a rattan staff—when he encounters a tiger, the beast bows in reverence.

At the Dizang Hall, an elderly monk recounts the mountain’s origins: during the Zhide era (under Emperor Suzong of Tang), a prince from the ancient Korean kingdom of Silla cultivated his practice here. Geomantically, the mountain resembles a tightly wrapped flower bud, protected by countless petals—a sanctuary where Buddhist blessings shield it from the eight winds. Though tales of white eels may seem fantastical, records confirm that the mountain’s blue clay is edible.

The author recalls his childhood on Mount Conggu by the Xu River, where two "rice-fat caves" emitted an unearthly fragrance, proving that divine manifestations—whether Daoist or Buddhist—should not be dismissed lightly. Regrettably, he lacked the karmic affinity to witness the miraculous glow of Buddhist relics. From Shenguang Ridge, he gazes afar at Dongyan, where the ascetic monk Jinzang once practiced, and at the Dragon Head Rock inscribed by Wang Yangming. Below the perilous Self-Sacrifice Cliff, a solitary monk dwells in meditation, sustaining himself solely on pine nuts.

Landmarks like the Alms Bowl Peak, Cloud Gate, and Tiantai Terrace, along with the surrounding peaks, stand like countless banners guarding the heart of Buddhist teachings. Deeper within lie untrodden realms where apes and bears roam. Mocking his own timidity and weak legs, the author longs to explore further but must return due to official duties. He marvels at Jiuhua’s ever-shifting vistas—its rocks often resembling humans or beasts—a breathtaking spectacle across a hundred li. Yet upon closer encounter, these grotesque forms grow tiresome, echoing the ancient adage: "admirable from afar, but unclimbable." The truest convergence of mountain and water beauty lies near Five Streams Bridge. His only regret is missing seven other scenic wonders, including the Nine Sons Temple.

Selected Passage from "Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven" – Modern Interpretation:

Wang Shipeng gazed at Mount Jiuhua from the city tower of Chiyang, initially seeing only a single peak. It wasn't until his boat sailed out from Qingxi River that the full mountain range came into view, though mist still veiled half its majesty. When mooring at Meigenpu at dusk, the silhouette of multiple peaks finally emerged clearly. He concluded that Mount Jiuhua's true beauty wasn't found within the mountains themselves, but rather in their distant view from the river – particularly when sunset painted the waves and the mountain shadows stretched into poetic distance. Each time his boat anchored by wooded shores, he fancied he could hear Li Bai's (Taibai) legendary chants echoing through time, the nine peaks leaning closer as if greeting travelers with familiarity.

Cheng Minzheng recorded a perilous night journey through two mountain passes: On the sixteenth day of the tenth month during the Chenghua era, while traveling south, he crossed Dajangling Ridge and arrived at Daliushu Post Station past noon. The posthouse attendant falsely claimed he could reach Chuzhou before nightfall, yet within three li of travel came warnings of Qingliu Pass ahead – notorious for tiger attacks. Darkness had fully descended when they reached the pass, forcing them to hire a local courier with copper gongs and torches as guide. Towering cliffs flanked the ravine as the party dismounted, linking arms to climb treacherous stone steps, agreeing to shout warnings if danger arose. Suddenly a meteor streaked across the sky while fierce winds extinguished their torches, leaves rustling ominously until terrified shouts and clanging gongs echoed through the valley. After six or seven li they reached the summit, where the sudden appearance of a silver-dollar moon illuminated their path, bringing collective relief – though shaken nerves lingered even after descent. Reflecting how this was the historic battlefield where Zhao Kuangyin (Inspector Zhao) defeated Southern Tang and captured enemy generals, Cheng deemed the harrowing experience a rare adventure of his lifetime. By next noon, safely passing through Quanjiao to Hezhou, he counted himself fortunate to have escaped unharmed.

(Note: "Nine Sons" refers to Jiuhua Mountain's nine principal peaks; "Inspector Zhao" was Emperor Taizu of Song's official title before his reign)

This passage recounts the author's perilous nighttime mountain journey:

Our party traveled forty li to cross the river, where we glimpsed faint mountain silhouettes in the distance. Upon inquiring with our attendants, we learned we must traverse these peaks to reach Xianglin Temple in Hezhou (present-day Hexian County, Anhui). As the sun sank behind the mountain ridges, our horses entered a valley surrounded by peaks, where orderly mulberry fields and several villages resembled the legendary utopias of Wuling and Qiuci. Just as we were marveling at this idyllic scene, dusk fell completely.

Entering the deep mountains, we found the path completely overgrown with dense vegetation, its end nowhere in sight. Cold sweat broke out as fear gripped us. At an abandoned temple, we met an elderly man who informed us this was ancient Zhaoguan Pass, still thirty li from Xianglin Temple. We had to hurry. Fires burned on distant slopes—locals setting mountain aflames to drive away tigers. Without proper tools like gongs or torches for tiger deterrence, we could only follow mountain streams. Jagged rocks startled our horses into retreat; when the terrified animals balked, our whole party stumbled backward in panic, imagining tiger ambushes. Our feeble cries for help were useless, and even forced shouts proved ineffective.

After prolonged delay, we resumed our journey along cliff paths, peering into bottomless ravines where stream sounds fluctuated with the wind. Under a star-filled sky, I contemplated our likely demise, recalling how even the ancient hero Wu Zixu had faced danger at this very pass—was this place inherently perilous? Only at the second night watch did we finally reach Xianglin Temple. By lamplight, the experience felt like rebirth after transmigration.

Alas! Having been away from home too long, I acted without proper consideration, recklessly traversing two passes at night and entering the tiger's den. Though repeatedly endangered, I escaped by sheer luck—this was truly the height of imprudence. I record this expressly as a warning to future travelers.