《天下名山記》Vol. 3

This passage documents Su Shi (also known as Dongpo) and his efforts in managing West Lake and constructing the Su Causeway during his tenure in Hangzhou. Originally a coastal area near river and sea, Hangzhou had brackish and bitter groundwater. During the Tang Dynasty, Governor Li Bi first channeled water from West Lake to dig six wells, gradually bringing prosperity to the city. Later, when Bai Juyi served as an official, he dredged the lake again, irrigating thousands of acres of farmland.

By the Song Dynasty, however, West Lake had long been neglected. Its surface became overgrown with feng grass (an aquatic plant), covering an area of 250,000 square zhang, leaving almost no open water visible. Without lake water to replenish it, the Grand Canal had to rely on the muddy tides of the Qiantang River, requiring dredging every three years and becoming a major urban nuisance. The six wells also fell into disuse.

Upon taking office, Su Shi first cleared the Maoshan River and Yanqiao River: the former was designated for tidal water, while the latter exclusively carried lake water. He also built sluice gates to regulate the lake’s water storage and discharge, preventing tidal backflow into the city. After surveying the lake, he proposed gathering the feng grass and silt from the 30-li north-south lake surface into a continuous causeway spanning the lake—both clearing the water and facilitating travel. This causeway was later named "Su Gongdi" (now called the Su Causeway) by the people of Hangzhou in his honor.

The author, Yang Shen, laments that even local Hangzhou scholars today are unaware of this history. While reviewing Su Shi’s poetry annotations, he found the records too brief and thus undertook a detailed investigation. Finally, he alludes to the Song Dynasty’s Yellow River management, where Wang Anshi appointed officials like Fan Ziyuan and Li Zhongchang but followed the misguided advice of Li Gongyi and the eunuch Huang Huaizhong—implying that water conservancy projects must be led by truly knowledgeable experts.

This passage recounts the absurdities of Yellow River management during the Northern Song Dynasty. At that time, the imperial court used tools like "iron dragon claws" and "dredging rakes" to clear the river channels, drawing widespread ridicule as these methods seemed like child's play. After years of futile effort, expending millions in funds and grain, and drowning tens of thousands of laborers with zero results, they stubbornly refused to halt the project. Even when the endeavor completely failed, the corrupt official Li Qingchen, while serving as an examiner, attempted to cover up the disgrace through examination questions. The Song court's rulers and ministers were truly both foolish and obstinate!

In contrast, Su Dongpo's management of West Lake in Hangzhou and Yingzhou took only a few months, cost little, and created enduring benefits for generations—his administrative talent far surpassed his contemporaries by tenfold. Su once proposed cutting a canal through Shimen Mountain to bypass the dangerous Fushan Rapids, but envious opponents vehemently blocked it. He also planned to build a thousand bridges east of Suzhou to improve river flow, yet this too went unrealized, leaving people with lasting regret. Alas, the world's affairs are hard to balance—a lament shared across ages!

This section of Random Notes on Lakes and Mountains describes the author Xiao Shiwei's rainy-day visit to Taoguang Temple. On the second day of the month, he followed a mist-shrouded mountain path where trees flickered in and out of view, and cascades poured from treetops like suspended ribbons between river and sea. Weary, he rested on rocks or leaned against bamboo groves. He observed that a mountain's beauty relies on trees for contrast, its character on rocks for definition, and its vitality on flowing water—and this path to Taoguang Temple possessed all three. Initially seeking the famed Lingyin Temple vista where "towers behold sea sunrise, gates face Qiantang tides," he found it absent there but fully present at Taoguang. Bai Juyi's stele inscriptions warranted careful reading; the sound of rain-fed springs deserved attentive listening—pity the temple had too few monks for conversation. All night, pillow-side water sounds in the deep quiet revealed profound stillness, convincing him that sound itself holds neither sorrow nor joy.

At dawn on the third day, clouds rose from valleys like wisps of tea steam, soon surging in a hundred white waves—mountains seemed afloat. When mist cleared, only sky-water hues remained, incense-like fog veiling the sea. Gradually dispersing, distant blue peaks emerged as monks identified them as Haimen's ridges. After meals, visiting Li Julou's former residence, he noted Taoguang Temple's wisdom in yielding—ceding some scenery to enhance Li's retreat—while Li's estate borrowed vistas skillfully, its vantage overlooking Taoguang, thereby magnifying the temple's beauty.

The passage recounts the author's travels through mountain landscapes and the insights gained along the way. It begins with a vivid description of Bao Creek's beauty—its waters murmuring through a ravine strewn with fantastically shaped rocks. When obstructed by boulders, the stream roars like thunder; when caressed by wind, it sprays snow-white foam. In deep pools, the water settles into ribbon-like clarity, while in the valleys it rises as ever-shifting mist and clouds.

The author reflects on his own limited perspective: upon first visiting Yugong Valley, he had presumed it to be the pinnacle of natural beauty, only to realize his premature judgment upon arriving at Bao Creek. This revelation stirs in him a desire to retreat from the world and dwell here permanently.

The third section details his journey to Tianzhu Mountain. He first visits Jiqing Temple (a Daoist monastery), where he admires the simple yet elegant brushwork of a portrait of Emperor Lizong of Song. Ascending Tianzhu Mountain, he marvels at the abrupt transition from towering peaks to an unexpectedly open, level expanse. The path from Tianzhu to Longjing (Dragon Well) winds through serpentine ravines and dense forests.

Particular mention is made of the "Divinely Moved Cloud Boulder," a massive rock whose imposing presence and striking grain evoke the metaphor of a man blessed with a virtuous wife like Meng Jiang (a paragon of ancient womanly excellence). The waters of Longjing are noted for their deep azure hue and subtle, lingering flavor—unlike any other spring. Quoting the poet Qin Guan, the author observes that lakeside mountains, often seduced by scenic beauty, seldom yield fine springs, while riverside peaks, harried by rushing currents, rarely nurture bubbling waters. Only secluded places like Longjing, free from external distractions that scatter their essence (Jing) and unburdened by forces that deplete their vital energy (Qi), produce such exceptional springs.

The passage concludes with a moonlit lakeside stroll: under a clear sky, the moonlight filters distinctly through the trees. Abandoning his boat to walk, the author passes fifteen silent Buddhist temples, their faint lanterns glowing amidst shadowy foliage and murmuring streams—a scene so ethereal it seems otherworldly. Only at the second watch does he finally reach Shousheng Monastery to pay respects to the monk Biancai (a renowned master). With a sigh, the author laments that such sights are no longer to be seen today.

The Records of Famous Mountains passage describes the author's travel experiences and reflections on landscapes.

The opening conveys a sense of reverence upon entering deep mountains. At the foothills, the author hesitates to proceed rashly, carefully avoiding the domain of mountain deities (shan jun). Venturing further, Old Dragon Well appears amidst ancient trees and peculiar rocks, creating an atmosphere of desolate profundity. A simple thatched hut barely provides shelter from wind and rain. The clear sound of a mountain stream enhances the tranquility—this is the hermitage of Master Zijiang. Just as the author prepares to enter, a sudden fishy wind heralds a violent storm, trees sway violently, and though merely a small stream separates them, mountain floods make progress impossible. After long waiting, sedan chair bearers arrive, rainwater streaming continuously down hair and eyebrows like silent waterfalls of Yandang Mountain. Knowing Master Zijiang's frail health and the harsh Qin region (Shaanxi) laws, the author privately worries for this reclusive statesman. Later, seeing him sit up wrapped in quilts, gradually resuming normal conversation and laughter, the author's concerns ease. That night, they converse with several eminent scholars until late.

The West Lake Travelogue section explores the essence of landscape appreciation. The author considers West Lake's beauty to manifest in: expansive waters, elegant mountains, secluded forest paths, and most wondrously in rocky grottoes and stream valleys. Some claim West Lake can be fully appreciated in one day, but the author laments how much this would miss. Mountains take rocks as their bones, trees as garments, and waters as spirit—while foliage changes seasonally, stone endures. Distant peaks always appear more beautiful than those underfoot: ascending South Peak makes North Peak seem fairer, and vice versa. Yet most transformative are the mists and clouds (qi), which make valleys and ridges shift appearance across hours, weather, and seasons. Those touring on pleasure boats with song and dance likely miss this diurnal and seasonal beauty of shifting mists and changing rains. Thus even months wouldn't suffice for West Lake—how could one day suffice? The author spent forty-five days in Hangzhou (Wulin): five days exploring West Stream, Heng Mountain, Dragon Pool, and Cloudy Roost, while thoroughly visiting both Northern/Southern Peaks and riverside temples.

(Note: "Zijiang" may be a hermit's sobriquet; "Qin's harsh laws" metaphorically reference contemporary social strictures; "weighed documents" alludes to rigid legal codes)

He spent four days atop the flat summit rocks of Wu Hill (present-day Hangzhou's Wu Hill), while the rest of his time was devoted to lingering on Golden Ox Lake (West Lake). Setting out between 7-9 AM or 9-11 AM, he would return between 1-3 PM or 3-5 PM. He always waited until the crowds dispersed before rowing out, only returning when tavern smoke had faded and homing birds settled in their nests.

The places frequented by others were also his haunts—Brocade Embankment, Solitary Hill, Lakeside Pavilion, and Pure Compassion Temple. Yet some spots were uniquely his: Pudu Hermitage to the south, the Six Inner Bridges and Xu Family Village to the west. Precious Stone Hill, now overrun with visitors, struck him as too clamorous; each time he deliberately rowed westward to admire it from a distance. The mountains' jagged silhouettes—some slanting, some upright, their steep cliffs sharp and towering—became his reference for observing other ranges. Whether viewed head-on, from behind, sideways or obliquely, all peaks followed this basic pattern—such was his distinctive way of contemplating landscapes.

Pleasure boats shuttled like weaving threads, with music and revelry continuing day and night. While others drowned in sensual delights, he remained clear-eyed—matching their boisterousness when required, flowing with their gaudiness when necessary, for such was his way of navigating the mundane world. When skies cleared and heaven-earth stood transparent, every vessel—large or small, every acquaintance—deep or shallow, every journey—near or far—became scenery wherever his heart wandered. Fragrant herbs exhaled their secrets; birds darted while fish drew near. Tired of rowing, he walked; weary of walking, he sailed again. Watching sunset dye the ridges crimson, emerald waves shimmer softly, the crisp air sharpening the views—the interplay of light and shadow paradoxically rendered everything more pristine. Both man and objects bathed in this luminous Qi (vital energy), moving or pausing beyond conscious will, lingering helplessly in rapture. Though such sentiments clashed with worldly tastes, was his attachment to this tiny cabin not another form of intoxication?

Then came the plum rains—days of endless wind and drizzle, when the lake first stirred with ripples and the murmur of water heightened his wanderlust. Silk-clad pleasure-seekers vanished; only fishermen's straw cloaks and water-shield gatherers' bamboo rafts revealed their true colors. Now West Lake truly belonged to us. Peaks flickered in cold mist, their forms elusive and myriad—marketplaces, monasteries, singing towers, dancing pavilions, willow dykes, bamboo islets, pagoda shadows, rainbow bridges—all blurred into trembling, ink-wash ambiguity by mist and water, acquiring singular charm. Between sudden showers and clearing skies, the earlier hazy views would abruptly crystallize into clarity. A single day could compress seasons and dawns-and-dusks. Yet ultimately, he felt, no fishing fires or village lamps could rival moonlight shattering into a lakeful of golden shards.

This passage describes the author's poetic experience while touring West Lake with friends.

That evening, the moonlight was exquisite, the sky cloudless for miles around, and the surroundings utterly still. My good friends Song Xianru and Ma Meiwu brought wine as we strolled from Broken Bridge to Xiling. Suddenly, we heard a clear, melodious song drifting from the clouds. Soon after, a small boat appeared from the west, carrying several people lying down and singing in harmony. In a moment, they vanished into the night, leaving us with a lingering sense of wistfulness. Song Xianru remarked how wonderful it would be if a few Daoist priests in purple robes could play a tune like Falling Leaves and Mournful Cicadas, or if a long-bearded immortal might float by on a raft, playing an iron flute whose notes pierced the heavens. Though fleeting, this encounter between the mundane and the transcendent left an indelible impression.

As the night deepened and the dew grew heavy, we sat at the bridgehead, drinking and admiring the scenery. Gazing around, we noticed how the moonlight transformed the surrounding mountains on all three sides—tall peaks appeared shortened, broad slopes diminished, emerald hues turned silvery white, all transmuted by the glaze-like radiance of the moon. The lakeside households had already retired behind closed doors. Only three families remained settled by the lake: to the south, the distinguished Yu and Ge clans; to the west, just the humble Xu family farmstead, nestled among dense woods and tall grass for over two centuries. This perfectly matched the Daoist ideal of the "leisure pavilion and rustic dwelling" (xian ting wai she), a retreat far from worldly clamor. Even Huang Zhenfu’s former residence now lay overgrown with weeds—proof of how difficult it is to maintain a lasting abode amid lakes and mountains.

This journey began on the twenty-ninth day of the third month in the seventh year of the Chongzhen era and concluded on the twelfth day of the fifth month. Among my companions, Chen Zhongyong and Deng Erzhen were constant fellow travelers; Hu Zhongxiu, Gu Shanchen, and Wu Xunzhi joined frequently; while Wang Ranming and Zhang Qingzi appeared only occasionally. The final excursion was shared with Song Xianru and Ma Meiwu.

The text also mentions the scenery of Ziyang Cave: the southern mountains stretch from Nan High Peak to Wu Hill within the city, their rocks strikingly elegant and towering, resembling the landscapes of Dragon Well and Misty Rosy Clouds. Every cliff and cavern invites lingering admiration, making it hard to tear oneself away.

The exquisite layout of Ziyang Mountain strikes a perfect balance in every glance, truly remarkable. In the year Jihai, I wandered there with Shushi, and though I later frequented the lakeside often—weary of urban clamor—roaming freely between the two mountains, I had not revisited Ziyang for many years. It wasn't until the year Xinhai, when I accompanied Fanghui to visit friends at Yunju Temple, that I finally returned, realizing over a decade had passed. The scenery I had cherished in memory had grown indistinct, elusive.

Places of extraordinary natural beauty often induce a trance-like state, a fleeting sensation one struggles to grasp. Such experiences are hard to share with those who lack the sensibility for them. When I took up my brush to paint Ziyang Mountain, I found I had lost touch with its true essence. But is this unique to Ziyang? All landscapes defy complete capture by the brush, yet we cannot refrain from painting them. We can only strive to preserve that hazy impression in our hearts. I write these words merely to amuse Mengyang.

Yunju Temple, in the city of Wulin (present-day Hangzhou), stands as the finest among temples. Ancient pines, said to have been planted by the monk Zhongfeng, once towered before and behind its gates, their shade dense. But with the passage of time, the temple monks felled nearly all, leaving scarcely a tenth. Witnessing this stirred a profound sense of impermanence, which is why I seldom visit. Last May, Fanghui and I took a small boat from Xiaozhu to Qingbo to visit Zhang Maoliang. We drank lightly in the temple's long corridor as the sun set, then strolled along the city walls, gazing at the Phoenix and Nanping mountains before returning by moonlight, reciting poetry. The next day, I painted the scene for Mengyang, and even now, the memory lingers vividly. Inscribed in the twelfth month of the year Renzhi, aboard a boat in Lucheng.

For Mengyang, I once wrote a fan poem about Xiling Bridge:

"On Duobao Peak, the rocks seem ready to crumble;

By Xiling Bridge, the trees refuse to bloom.

Under slanting light, through mist and haze,

Our little boat once came from Xiaozhu."

The hues of the trees by Xiling Bridge remain deeply nostalgic, and the bridge itself carries an air of antiquity. Hearing it may soon be rebuilt, I fear its original charm will be lost, and this thought fills me with melancholy.

"Two Peaks Emerging from Mist" depicts the view of West Lake's western shore from Longwang Hall at Sanqiao. Layers of smoky forests and misty ridges overlap, their subtle and bold strokes shifting instantaneously. Only masters like Dong Yuan or Ju Ran could capture such ethereal charm. During my stay at Xiaozhu, I often called for a boat to stroll the embankment and contemplate the mountains, absorbing their essence deeply. Yet each time I put brush to paper, the result felt inadequate—proof of how elusive true Qi (vital energy) and Yun (resonance) can be.

These passages from Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven document the author's refined excursions with friends through landscapes, composing poetry and creating paintings.

The first section describes Cheng Mengyang inscribing a poem on a lakeside painting, depicting a mist-shrouded pagoda faintly visible through the rain, with drizzling threads that never quite formed a downpour. The author attempted to capture this scene on a fan—the boat's window framing ink-wash tones as if carried by the wind. The moment, the scene, the companions, and the artwork all converge into something profoundly evocative.

The second passage recounts the last day of the first lunar month in the Renzhi year, when the author journeyed with Zhongxi and Ziyu from Yunqi over the Baisha Ridge to Xixi. They walked ten li between bamboo-clad mountains before reaching Yongxing Temple. The Yongxing area opened into expansive vistas—distant cottages, secluded springs, and ancient trees composing an elegant composition. Another ten li brought them to Yue Temple, where plum blossoms stretched across villages like snowfall, reminiscent of the author's hometown at Xiqishan. They dined at Yongxing Temple, ascended its tower to chant poetry, and returned that night to their lakeside cottage for revelry with Mengyang, Yinchi, Zijiang, and others. The next day, they painted from their sketchbooks. This account was inscribed aboard a Wuzhen boat in the tenth month of the Guichou year.

The third section recalls friend Zijiang's remark that the two lakeside pagodas resembled "an aged monk" (Leifeng Pagoda) and "a beautiful woman" (Baoshi Pagoda)—a comparison the author admired. During lotus-viewing by the lake in the Xinhai year, the author composed verses likening Leifeng Pagoda to a "tipsy elder," which made Yinchi clap in delight, declaring it more vivid than the "old monk" metaphor. The author's lakeside chamber faced Leifeng Pagoda daily, its crumbling silhouette particularly striking at dusk when shrouded in violet haze. Yet the poem's closing line—"This elder's spirit is faint as mist on water"—still acknowledged Zijiang's original comparison. This note was drunkenly inscribed in the tenth month of Guichou.

The fourth passage reminisces about returning from Xiling with Yinchi and brothers in a small boat, newly intoxicated beneath a rising crescent moon. Willow branches along the embankment cast trembling reflections—an ethereal scene suspended between mirror and painting that lingered in memory. Later, in the Renzhi year at the lakeside cottage, the author spontaneously painted it for Mengyang, perfectly capturing that pictorial quality.

The final segment is Lu You's Record of Fu Hermitage at Upper Tianzhu, documenting how in the second year of Jiatai, Abbot Guanghui built a retirement retreat south of the temple bridge, naming it "Fu Hermitage."

(Note: Leifeng Pagoda and Baoshi Pagoda are iconic West Lake landmarks; Yunqi, Xixi, Yongxing Temple, Yue Temple, and Xiling are Hangzhou-area sites; Mengyang, Yinchi, and Zijiang are the author's friends; "old monk" (laona) refers to elderly Buddhist clergy, while "tipsy elder" (zuiweng) describes the pagoda's drunken tilt.)

This passage describes a mountain retreat for spiritual cultivation. Nestled against Baiyun Peak with Lion's Milk Cavern Peak facing its front, the site is embraced by clear streams and surrounded by graceful bamboo groves and fine trees. Over seventy structures were built here—living quarters, lecture halls, and a central shrine enshrining the Western Buddha. Before the main hall lies a large excavated pond, flanked by lodgings for visiting students, with kitchens, bathhouses, and other facilities neatly arranged, complete with beds and washing utensils.

The founder, considering the need for balance between practice and rest, added pavilions amid flowing springs where practitioners could relax. After completion, he sent disciple Liaohuai to Mirror Lake at the mountain’s shadow to request my account. I told him: Scholar-officials often err by knowing only advancement, not retreat. Though the court honors retired officials, some still cling to power. Monks, however, dwell beyond worldly disputes—teaching in sacred mountains, their prestige grows with age, and decades of summer retreats pose no issue.

This master, renowned through three reigns, received imperial honors repeatedly between the Shaoxi and Jiatai eras (1190–1204). Students flocked to him like streams converging in a valley. Yet he resolved to withdraw, sparing no expense for retreat. To my mind, he regards Indian monastic communities as worn sandals—after perfecting his merit, the Western Pure Land becomes his true destination, and even this "Returning Hut" shall be relinquished. Life and death are transient; aged as I am, perhaps I’ll await him by the Seven-Jeweled Pond of Ultimate Bliss, where we may smile over this very record. Inscribed on the 3rd day of the 3rd month, 1205.

Excerpt from Account of Visiting Longjing: I once read Qin Guan’s journal noting how, on the 16th of the 8th month in 1079, he received a mountain invitation from Master Biancai of Longjing while returning from Wuxing to Kuaiji via Hangzhou. He left the city at dusk, crossing the lake by boat to reach Puning...

This passage records the author's journey through Hangzhou's famous mountains. That day, he encountered the Daoist recluse Canliao (a renowned poet-monk of the Song dynasty), and together they walked along the lake with walking sticks. Setting out from Leifeng Pagoda, they passed Nanping Mountain, washed their feet at Huiyin Stream, entered Lingshi Valley, ascended Fenghuang Ridge along a small path, and rested at Longjing Pavilion. Using a flat stone as a table, they scooped water from the Dragon Well to share a drink.

Along the way, they passed more than ten Buddhist temples surrounded by profound silence, with only the flickering lights from nearby dwellings occasionally visible. Lush vegetation and murmuring streams made them feel as if they had entered an immortal realm. By the second watch of the night, they reached Shousheng Monastery, where they paid respects to Master Biancai (a celebrated Northern Song monk) in the Chaoyin Hall, returning only the next day. When reading these records later, the author felt a strong urge to retrace this route.

Later, on the day of the Beginning of Spring in the Xinsi year, the author set out from Qinghui Gate, passing Jingci Temple and Bailian Monastery before ascending Fenghuang Ridge again. At the Dragon Shrine, they drew water from the Dragon Well to drink, finally arriving at Biancai's stupa. They dined at Yuelin (Master Biancai's former residence), where the monks displayed precious artifacts including portraits of Fan Zhongyan, Su Dongpo, Su Zhe, Canliao, and Biancai, as well as the ink-wash arhat painting Su Dongpo had gifted to Biancai. After tea, they collected two jars of spring water to take home.

Many temples along the route had become unrecognizable, with only Bailian Monastery remaining familiar. Evening approached without time for further visits. The surrounding rocks jutted dramatically—some resembling chaotic clouds, others like crouching tigers. Looking down at West Lake, its narrowest sections appeared as slender as a sash. Scattered dwellings emitted curling smoke, while stream waters flowed as before. Yet compared to their nighttime journey years earlier, the fantastical rocks, West Lake vistas, and rising smoke were no longer visible.

From the Yuanfeng era to the present, 137 years had passed—the landscape endured, but its people were gone. Master Biancai's thatched hut had transformed into Guangfu Temple, though the mountain retained its original character. The author meticulously recorded these details to inform future travelers. His companions included Ruoshui, Ruozeng, Ruozhishi, and their host Zhou Shuxiang.

That night, they lodged at Faxiang Temple, where the monk Huiru invited them to climb the stone steps behind the hermitage at dawn to watch the sunrise. However, the author rose slightly late, and with midsummer foliage obscuring the view, even during the fifth watch they couldn't witness the sun's first rays. They only saw West Lake—mirror-smooth amidst the trees—as if it could be cupped in one's hands.

A couple of small boats floated on the lake, drifting like ribbons tied to the bamboo grove. The breeze stirred, making the emerald bamboo shadows sway, blurring the boundaries between near and far.

I looked up at the summit of North High Peak, which seemed so close I could almost touch it. As I gathered my robe to begin the ascent, Gongliang's expression changed slightly as he asked, "What can you actually see from the mountaintop?" I replied, "The Inner Lake (West Lake) and the Outer River (Qiantang River) — the view opens up there." But Gongliang countered, "We can already see those from here. Besides, when I close my eyes and concentrate, my shen (spirit) soars beyond the highest clouds, and North High Peak appears as small as an anthill. Why bother climbing for a view?" Hearing this, I laughed and abandoned the idea.

Just then, a monk from Lingyin Temple came seeking my help. Someone had encroached on the temple's farmland, and he wanted me to petition the authorities. Monk Huiru offered to be our mountain guide, so our group gathered at Cold Spring Pavilion before stopping at Goulou Mountain Retreat for tea. When we reached Lingyin Temple, morning light bathed the hills while spring water tinkled merrily. After days of rain, pent-up travelers flocked outdoors, and I suddenly understood how Hangzhou's landscape shapes its people's temperament — character grows with nature, and thus scenic beauty never fades.

Sitting long at the spring pavilion, people began glancing around, complaining about the lack of beautiful women. I teased, "Perhaps Hangzhou's true allure lies not in fair maidens, but in these mountains and waters. Such graceful scenery welcomes all — whether you leap walls to embrace it or recline to admire it." Amid laughter, we continued our journey.

We passed through Feilai Peak's caves, drank a few cups, then headed for Phoenix Ridge. Along the way stood the wondrous "Single Cloud" rock, its porous surface carved with a chessboard and inscribed couplet: "In joy I face water to chisel the waning moon / After wine, I lean on cloud fragments chanting in the breeze." Further up stood Longjing Temple, where a square well several feet across floated with duckweed. Water flowed beneath stone steps like temple spirits playing music. Coincidentally, five or six sedan-chair-borne ladies arrived at the gate but hesitated upon hearing us inside. The distracted monk's manner made us take our leave discreetly, forgoing visits to Su Shi and Monk Biancai's historic sites.

Descending through miles of valleys, we walked among endless old and new graves, ancient cypresses and catalpas standing dense as comb teeth. Alternating between woods and tombs, we caught whiffs of wildflowers mingled with the scent of decay. Here lay the memorial shrines of Zhang Jizhi (styled Gong Boyu) and Yu Qian (posthumously titled Loyal and Reverent). A thought struck me: these bamboo clusters rooted among fox dens and burial mounds once...

This passage depicts the author's reflections amidst mountain landscapes and his perspective on restoring West Lake's Mid-Lake Pavilion. Here's a vernacular interpretation:

Once while drinking merrily among West Lake's mountain ranges, I became intoxicated by drumbeats amid misty rain and forest birds. Later it occurred to me how fleeting life is - after death we're but a coffin's occupant, and all worldly bustle ultimately fades into silence. People often claim West Lake's scenery can't compare to the capital's splendor, yet I believe a single day of quiet contemplation by these lake-mountains surpasses a hundred years of mundane toil in the red dust. Though my hometown lacks spectacular landscapes, viewing ordinary scenes with the same appreciative eye one brings to West Lake makes beauty manifest everywhere. I often told my friend Gongliang that after forty, I'd resign my post to seek famous mountains, refusing to grow old and die in the capital.

At dusk we reached Faxiang Temple, housing the golden statue of Dipamkara (a past Buddha in Buddhism), where many visitors came to pray. Gongliang considered such icons mere posthumous husks deceiving people, nearly ordering servants to reprimand devotees. The poetic monk Lingyuan often exchanged verses with visitors. Alone, I climbed to admire the Monk's Staff Spring (legend says a high monk tapped this spring with his staff), finding profound serenity amid twilight forest lanterns - regrettably Gongliang, exhausted, missed this experience.

Regarding the pavilion restoration: West Lake resembles a mirror, its Mid-Lake Pavilion the mirror stand. Mirrors need polishing; shouldn't we repair a damaged stand? Originally I thought the Crane-Releasing Pavilion should be restored by hermits, the Mid-Lake Pavilion by visitors. But Cui Zhengzhong countered: "We who frequently boat these waters - isn't the lake ours? How then isn't the pavilion?" Nowadays visitors swarm like ants, treating the pavilion as a transient posthouse to be defiled. Better to let woodcutters and fishermen (ordinary folk close to nature) row past with rainbow-hued boats without lingering, preserving the pavilion's inherent solitude and transcendent grace.

These painted pavilions with vermilion beams and beaded curtains in this famed mountain seem to have unwittingly fallen into the hands of reclusive immortals and celestial officials. While others revel in floral splendor amid flutes and feasts, I sit fishing among reeds, gazing afar by the orchid bridge, viewing such worldly pomp as but a mirage.

Temple bells echo in the distance as moonlight shimmers on the long river, where swaying boat shadows startle waterfowl. Leaning on the railing with wine in hand, watching emerald waves ripple, I half imagine seeing Sima Caizhong (Song Dynasty literatus) departing with his belle. The western peaks still slumber while the eastern sky pales. When dark clouds gather and cold mists swirl, when leaves wither and turbulent waves surge, even playing the qin becomes impossible with frozen fingers, and poking the firewood brings little warmth.

In such solitude, I board a lone skiff, sitting composed in purple fur and marten cap without disturbing my breath. Sharing verses with renowned scholars and eminent monks aboard, I feel as if following the Hermit of Lonely Mountain (Lin Bu) on his staff-assisted wanderings. Shunning pavilion clamor for crystalline quietude, transcending mundanity to return to primal authenticity—this is my communion with wind and moon, my fellowship through poetry.

The straw-cloaked shepherd, the tea-sipping transcendent, the wine-drinking recluse—they visit Marquis Ye's (Li Bi) ancient well, peruse Zhaojian's (Luo Yin) surviving texts, gathering fragrant duckweed for offerings, pouring pine-infused spring wine for libations. Thus I declare: this lake is my lake, this pavilion my pavilion. Have you not witnessed this elder's past trials? Treading tiger tails, brushing crocodile lips, surviving marten's venom, escaping mountain conflagrations—this unbending official once nearly perished. Only when icy mountains collapsed and fiery seas subsided could I return to wooded slopes and don official robes anew.

Now dwelling incognito at scenic watersides, keeping company with noble spirits—how dare I let these grounds fall to neglect or my attire to disarray? Therefore maintaining pavilions is also our duty. For this restoration, the Governor's stipend proved insufficient—he even relinquished his silver-sealed belt. Virtuous officials and righteous patrons all contributed generously. Preserving sixty percent of original materials while replacing forty percent decayed portions, the structure soon regained its splendor.

Chief collaborators included resident scholar Wang Ranming and eminent recluse Lan Tianshu, both enhancing the pavilion's grace. Upon completion, they requested my record, though the Governor's prior words suffice. I merely recall Fan Zhongyan's (Xiwen) saying: "To worry before the world worries, to rejoice after the world rejoices"...

Excerpt from "Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven" with Modern Interpretation:

This passage consists of two sections depicting the scenic beauty of Xianghu Lake and its local specialty, water shield (a type of edible aquatic plant).

The first part describes the mountain pavilion: The towering peak pierces the clouds while winding waters flow endlessly. The mountain pavilion stands with unwavering integrity, its righteous energy illuminating all directions. Some cite the Buddhist verse "Bodhi is fundamentally without trees, the bright mirror is also not a stand" to question the purpose of building such structures, considering them part of imperfect karmic cycles (a Buddhist term denoting imperfection). The author counters: If there truly were no trees, how could the Western Pure Land manifest its seven-jeweled splendor? Without stands, how would celestial beings gather? This pavilion resembles the sacred vulture peak that miraculously appeared at Feilai Feng, reflecting the lake's shimmering light—it may well be considered an embodiment of the "Immovable Lord" (a Buddhist term referring to the eternal, unchanging true nature).

The second section details Xianghu's water shield: Xiaoshan is renowned for its cherries, mandarin ducks, and water shield, with the latter being most exquisite. Though harvested from West Lake, the water shield must soak overnight in Xianghu's waters to develop its full flavor—other lake waters fail to impart the same taste. The ideal soaking area is remarkably small, spanning merely a few dozen zhang (about 100 meters). The plant's roots resemble water snowflake, its leaves mimic young lotus leaves, and its stems appear like delicate coral or sea moss. Its congealed gel resembles ice or glue, with translucent droplets about to fall—the flavor surpasses fish marrow and crab roe in aromatic smoothness. Yet this delicacy spoils within half a day and loses all flavor within one day, proving even more perishable than lychees. Its deliciousness puts lotus roots to shame, rivaled only by orchids among flowers and bayberries among fruits. Sadly, this delicacy travels poorly, rarely making it beyond Shaoxing or the Qiantang River, remaining unknown to most. When the author served as an official in Wu region and inquired about the water shield beloved by Zhang Han (a Western Jin Dynasty literatus), locals couldn't describe it. The plant grows in late spring and vanishes within days of summer's arrival—could the perch enjoyed in autumn breezes accompany a different variety? Or does Thousand-Li Lake harbor another species?

The passage concludes by locating Xianghu outside Xiaoshan's city walls, surrounded by mountains. During the author's visit, fishermen were heavily drawing water from the lake.

This passage vividly recounts the author's travel experiences and reflections while visiting the landscapes around Shaoxing, Zhejiang:

Tao Gongwang and Wang Jingxu once praised to me the beauty of Xiang Lake, yet upon visiting, I found it rather mediocre and disappointing. The ancient Orchid Pavilion should have been nestled between mountains and waters, with winding streams perfect for the "floating goblet" drinking game (an elegant literati gathering for poetry composition). Nowadays they've simply dug a small ditch on flat ground to go through the motions—what a travesty by those vulgar Confucian scholars devoid of refinement.

The so-called Yu Cave at Great Yu's Mausoleum turns out to be just an ordinary barren hill, with the Yu Temple in complete disrepair. It's unclear what extraordinary qualities Sima Qian (the "Dragon Gate Scholar") found worth investigating here. Yet from afar, the Kuaiji Mountain Range does appear exquisitely beautiful—its peaks sharply pointed, hues delicately muted, quite charming indeed. Like Wang Huizhi (Wang Ziyou) famously described in four characters: "The Mountain Shadow Path"—perfectly capturing this region's poetic essence.

To me, West Lake's scenery resembles Song dynasty gongbi painting—meticulously detailed—while Shanyin's landscapes are more like Yuan dynasty xieyi brushwork—hazy and suggestive. From a distance, trees appear leafless, mountains seem barren, lake waters look waveless, yet they possess their own profound artistic conception. Both sceneries have distinct merits that connoisseurs can appreciate. Shanyin (ancient name for Shaoxing) flourished during the Six Dynasties but declined after Tang, while West Lake rose during Tang and continues thriving today. Do landscapes too have their own cycles of fortune?

The ancient Mirror Lake was said to span eight hundred li, yet today its traces are hard to find. Locals say the lake surface once stood higher than the fields, but after constructing sea gates, the waters became farmland. Around He Zhizhang's Pond (the Tang poet's famous site), wild grasses grow thick, frogs croak mournfully, and moonlit boat rides feel particularly desolate. Drunk, I told my friend: "In wild eccentricity you can't match He Zhizhang (Jizhen), nor in drinking capacity—only our eyes bear some resemblance. For he recognized Li Bai (the Banished Immortal), while you recognize me, Yuan Zhonglang!" The company fell silent, probably thinking me unbearably arrogant.

Xishi Mountain outside Shaoxing's walls, also called Earthen City, is said to be where the beauty Xi Shi practiced singing and dancing—now converted to merchants' villas. Once while staying overnight with friends, someone composed poetry mentioning "the mountain of tender songs and alluring dances." I jokingly said the verse needed annotation, lest it jeopardize his future posthumous honorific of "Cultured and Reverent" (a classical literary commendation).

This passage vividly depicts the extraordinary landscapes of several famous mountains and the author's travel experiences:

On the path by Washing Stream, the author jests that nowadays only "Dongshi" (a proverbial ugly woman) walks these roads, with no more beauties like Xishi to be found. The area around the Six Imperial Tombs (of Southern Song emperors) appears desolate and bleak—spring feels as cold as autumn, daylight seems like night. When riding past, one often hears ghostly wails, and reading poems by Southern Song loyalists pierces the heart with particular poignancy.

The Five Cascades present the most spectacular scenery, where water clashes against stone to form thundering waterfalls. The bluish stone cliffs rise hundreds of ren (ancient unit of length) high, like spotless lotus flowers thrusting up from the ground without an inch of soil. The waterfalls plunge straight down from the cliff tops like jade pillars ten arm-spans thick—truly one of the world's wonders. The author and his friends Shigui and Jingxu composed poems, their verses so fantastical they seemed like ghostly incantations. Deep in the night, they could still hear the roars of mountain spirits (xiao) and tigers.

Twenty-some li from the Five Cascades lies the Jade Capital Cave, its entrance spacious as a great hall that gradually narrows inward. Inside, the stones take shapes resembling lotuses and various human and animal forms. At the deepest point is an extremely narrow opening requiring crawling to enter. The author and two Tao companions were nearly blinded by thick smoke that made their tears flow like rain. Remembering old tales of people suffocating in the cave's fumes, they fled in terror. Only Wang Jingxu pressed forward like a desperate clerk, crawling past four or five ridges before being stopped by an impassable mountain stream.

"Record of Visiting Yu's Cave" Modern Interpretation:

Yu's Cave is located at the shady side of Kuaiji Mountain (present-day Shaoxing, Zhejiang), traditionally believed to be where the Yellow Emperor stored his books. When Yu the Great was taming the floods, he came to Kuaiji Mountain and discovered the "Water Classic" left by the Yellow Emperor in this cave. Following the methods described in the text, he eventually controlled the floods, hence the name Yu's Cave. Its exact location is now difficult to verify, though some suggest it may be the present-day Yangming Cave. Another tradition holds that after convening the feudal lords at Tushan to evaluate their merits, Yu died and was buried at the shady side of Kuaiji Mountain - hence the mountain's name "Kuaiji" (meaning "merit evaluation") and the cave's designation as Yu's Cave, where the burial stone (an ancient stele used in interments) remains to this day.

Over two thousand years later, Sima Qian visited this cave during his travels, afterward composing his immortal "Records of the Grand Historian." People say the mountain's spiritual energy (Qi) aided his achievement. Another millennium passed before I, accompanied by friends Zhu Jie and Wang Hu, revisited Yu's Cave to search for the Yellow Emperor's library. We admired the legendary Plum Beam (divine timber used by Yu in flood control), touched the burial stone, and identified the cave's ruins near the simple well, paying respects to these ancient traces. Contemplating Yu's austere palace and humble meals moved us deeply. Though countless visitors have come over three thousand years, only Sima Qian could channel the landscape's energy into enduring literature. Yet there are also those who don't write - what might they gain from visiting?

Since ancient times, sages have drawn inspiration from nature: inventing carts after observing tumbling tumbleweeds, creating boats by watching swimming fish, devising the Eight Trigrams (Bagua) upon receiving the River Chart, and establishing the Nine Categories from the Luo Document. Now I finally understand what we should seek from mountains and rivers.

"Record of Visiting Xuedou Mountain" Modern Interpretation:

In my youth, I read the "Illustrated Gazetteer of Siming from the Daguan Era" and longed to behold Xuedou Mountain's beauty. On the sixteenth day of the fifth lunar month in 1522 (Jiajing 1), after concluding official business in Fengchuan (modern Fenghua, Zhejiang), I journeyed there. A local elder, Mr. Jiang - father of my fellow official the Guilin Prefect - hosted a banquet for us at Riling.

At dawn we left the city, dismissing attendants as we headed north. The narrow mountain path twisted through pines and oaks that blocked the sun. Along the way, roaring valley streams sounded like countless whales and turtles cheering, refreshing both ears and spirit. After ten li we reached Riling's base, then ascended stone steps while servants pulled the sedan with ropes...

This passage depicts the magnificent scenery of a famous mountain called Wufeng Ridge (also known as Xuedou Mountain). At the summit stands a pavilion named "Black Peak," with an inscription by Yuan Dynasty scholar Yuan Jue carved on the left stone wall. The most striking feature is a hundred-foot-tall boulder resembling a woman with her hair in a bun, locally called "Bride Rock" or "Madame Mountain." It was said to be particularly efficacious for prayers, and during the Tang and Song dynasties, a shrine was built for worship, though it was destroyed in the early Ming and later rebuilt by locals during the Tianshun era (1457-1464). Behind the shrine stand two even taller rocks, sandwiching a long stone shaped like a giant fish, with another rock atop it as if poised to strike the fish. The author and his friend Old Jiang gazed at this spectacle for a long while.

Descending northwest for twenty li, they crossed Zhengjia Ford, where the stream was so strewn with rocks that the horses' legs were nearly submerged. After another six or seven li, they saw mist curling around the treetops when suddenly dark clouds gathered. As their attendants warned of impending rain, the group spurred their horses and took shelter half a li away at Baiyan Temple. When the rain ceased, they continued at a leisurely pace, marveling at the extraordinary beauty of the exotic flowers, rare herbs, and wildlife along the way. Another fifty li brought them to Cuiwei Pavilion, already within Xuedou Mountain's domain. The path grew increasingly steep, requiring them to climb by grasping vines, with dense foliage obscuring their view. After navigating dozens of switchbacks, they reached "Official's View Bend"—so named because temple monks would wait here to greet visiting officials in ancient times. At the summit stood Emperor Lizong of Song's Imperial Calligraphy Pavilion. Legend has it that after dreaming of this mountain, the emperor ordered a survey of famous mountains to compare with his vision. Upon confirming the match, he personally inscribed "Dream-Answered Famous Mountain" on stone.

A few hundred paces farther, past two stone bridges, the monastery finally came into view. The monks sadly informed them that a spring fire had destroyed all the scriptures bestowed by previous emperors. Deeply saddened, the author passed through the mountain gate, Buddha hall, and lecture hall to reach the towering abbot's quarters. Perched at the mountain's peak under a plaque reading "Heaven's Unfurled Painting," the stone tower opened wide like an immortal's abode, offering panoramic views of misty ravines and the Wanian Pagoda standing opposite like an inkstone brush holder. The author had the monks open all windows for an unobstructed view. In the afternoon drizzle, emerald peaks encircled them as he shared wine with Old Jiang, reciting Sun Chuo's "Ode to Tiantai Mountain."

Li Bai once dreamed of roaming Mount Tianmu (a renowned Daoist mountain), and upon waking, all worldly thoughts instantly dissipated. He lingered there, reluctant to leave, even sleeping straight through the next day on the meditation platform. At dawn, he strolled through the palace between two monastic lodges, where jagged rocks crouched like beasts and mountain flowers blazed in full bloom—everywhere was a spectacle of sublime beauty. Changing into light attire, he ventured out to explore. The encircling peaks resembled a celestial fortress wall, while around the temple stretched fertile, level fields. At their center rose a rocky plateau, less than an acre in size.

There, a dense grove of nanmu and cypress trees stood solemnly, where sea cranes nested, earning the place the name "Pearl-Embracing Grove." A few dozen paces west lay the "Brocade Mirror Pool," now silted into farmland. A monk sighed and remarked, "In the temple's heyday, this pool brimmed with water, reflecting blossoms like an embroidered mirror. Eminent monks were often summoned to the imperial palace, and pilgrims came in endless streams. But lately, the pool dried up and was converted to fields. With fewer monks, the temple has declined."

Another half-mile north brought us to the Flying Snow Pavilion, facing a sheer cliff a thousand zhang high. Midway down the precipice hung a waterfall, cascading like an upside-down curtain of pearls. The torrent surged violently, misting like clouds, its icy spray flying year-round. Bolstered by several cups of wine, I stood to behold this roaring cascade—its thunderous crash echoed like ten thousand galloping horses, the roar of tigers and dragons, or the simultaneous beating of countless war drums. Finally, the waterfall plunged into a deep ravine, its fury gradually calming into a white rainbow flowing northward. An old man helped me peer over the cliff's edge, leaving me speechless and unsettled for a long while.

After trekking another ten miles, we reached the Miraculous Heights Terrace, where jagged boulders resembled the dens of tigers and leopards. Once, a rattan shrine stood here, where the Yuan-dynasty monk "Abbot He'an" cultivated his practice, taming two tigers. The shrine was destroyed in the Dingle year (1307). I heard the temple once boasted structures like the Canopy Pavilion, the Serene Seat Hermitage, the Hidden Elegance Pavilion, and the Beyond-Clouds Retreat—all now in ruins. Though scenic spots like Peach Blossom Gully, Xu's Precipice, the Dragon's Hidden Pool, and the Cinnabar Grotto remain, the pavilions and towers have vanished. Surveying the crumbling walls, I felt a profound melancholy, akin to gazing upon the deforested Ox Mountain (an allusion from Mencius). At dusk, we descended to the stream mouth, where I bid farewell to the old man. After a midday meal at Jingming Temple, I boarded a boat northward to return to the prefectural city.

Xuedou Temple is truly extraordinary! Founded during the Guangqi era (885–888), it flourished under the Xianping reign (998–1003) and received imperial honors during Chunyou (1241–1252). Even the immortal abodes of Danqiu and Layered City (legendary paradises) could scarcely compare. Having visited countless famed monasteries across the land, I find few as wondrous and magnificent as Xuedou Temple.

(Note: The account of the Xishi Mountain Study, being discontinuous with the preceding text, is omitted from translation.)

West Beauty Mountain lies about five li east of the county town. Ancient texts like Records of the Lost Kingdoms and Annals of Wu and Yue refer to it as "Earthen Wall," though later generations renamed it—though some still call it Earthen Wall Mountain. King Goujian of Yue once built a palace here to train the legendary beauties Xi Shi and Zheng Dan before presenting them to King Fuchai of Wu. Concerned they lacked refinement, he deliberately constructed the palace beside a major thoroughfare, suggesting this was once a bustling crossroads. Over millennia, ownership changed hands until Merchant Bozi purchased the mountain at considerable expense.

Though modest in height—just a few dozen meters—the mountain boasts a serene landscape dotted with shrubs and bamboo groves. At its summit lies a flat terrace: to the east stands a pavilion, while the west holds the foundation of a former study. Behind the study site lies a lotus-filled pond, and the eastern bend of the waterway grows water chestnuts. Before the pavilion remains the historic "Rouge Pond," with picturesque peaks rising to the southeast and west—all renowned summits. Fields and waterways encircle the study ruins, stretching endlessly into farmland, fish ponds, and mulberry groves.

In my youth, I often came here to drink and revel. Now Merchant Bozi has asked me to record these scenes, and though illness prevents me from joining festivities, the memories remain vivid. Ah, Earthen Wall Mountain is but a modest hill—once a palace for training courtesans in song and dance along a lively highway, now transformed into a quiet village. Farmers till and fish these fields, sometimes unearthing ancient hairpins while hoeing. On rainy nights, will-o'-the-wisps flicker as cowherds sing their way home. Such sights stir deep reflection in any observer. Yet the shift from decadence to humble farming, with people devoted to honest labor and simpler customs, might turn a scholar’s melancholy into quiet satisfaction.

Merchant Bozi (given name Jun, courtesy name Jingzhe) is exceptionally bright, skilled in literature, and wise in practical matters. When taking breaks from study, he might climb this mountain to gaze afar. Perhaps, moved by the scene as I’ve described, he’ll contemplate these changes and—with a knowing smile—find his own insights.

Record of Wuxie Mountain

Wuxie Mountain stands at the junction of Wuzhou, Hangzhou, and Yuezhou, bordered by the Fuchun River to the north, Gouwu Mountain to the south, and the Puyang River to the east.

These mountains and waters are renowned for their extraordinary steepness and precipitous beauty. The Eastern Jin dynasty literatus Xie Xuan (courtesy name Xuanqing) once ventured deep into these mountains to gather medicinal herbs, while Song dynasty scholars Diao Yue (courtesy name Jingchun) and Wu Chuhou also traveled here for contemplation.

Entering from Xikeng Ridge and crossing Yulong Bridge, twenty paces north brings you to West Pool. A frigid stream bars the way ahead—its waters so icy they numb the bones, stepping in feels like treading on frozen ice. Following the stream along a narrow path reveals a small pond flanked by jagged rocks resembling overturned urns. One must clamber over these stones carefully, where a single misstep could send you tumbling down.

After another two li, the terrain opens slightly into a basin surrounded by fantastically shaped boulders, the encircling peaks appearing like meticulously carved artworks. The mountains teem with monkeys that pelt stones at passing travelers. Half a li further, a spring gushes from rock crevices with music-like murmurs, flowing westward to form a crystalline pool where tiny fish dart about as if swimming in glass. To its left stand several grotesquely shaped ancient trees whose reflections paint an ink-wash panorama upon the water.

Fifty paces onward, a massive boulder blocks the path—legend tells of an eagle-beak-shaped protrusion that once crowned it. During a stormy night long ago, thunder split this stone with a crash heard dozens of li away. Thirty paces past this into a bamboo grove, emerald light filters through the leaves to stain travelers' robes. Serpents and insects slither swiftly through the undergrowth, vanishing in the blink of an eye. Here the atmosphere grows mysteriously dim, as if one had transcended the mortal world to ascend the fabled Penglai Immortal Isles.

Clutching kudzu vines along the mountainside, one treads upon bamboo leaves piled thick as carpets where any careless step invites a fall. A dozen paces further lies a smaller pool beneath West Pool's cascading curtain of water—a seven-to-eight-foot-wide white veil descending gently between moss-clad cliffs where droplets perpetually patter. During droughts, villagers perform rain rituals here to the Dragon God, reputedly effective when taking home a bottle containing captured lizards.

The five-to-six-li journey from Yulong Bridge winds through ever-surprising vistas—just when the path seems to end, new wonders unfold beyond description. Some speak of a stone river above the pools leading to the rarely visited Santai Pagoda, though none know its true condition. Finally retracing our steps eastward past Incense Burner Peak—named for its summit boulder resembling a ritual censer—we find its northern face...

The mountain's main peak is rounded and bald, resembling an overturned alms bowl, hence its name Bowl Peak (Boduo Feng). Some say it resembles Yandang Mountain in the ancient Dong'ou region (modern Wenzhou area), giving it the alternate name Yandang Peak. Traveling south from Yandang Peak, one encounters the snow-capped White Snow Peak (Baixue Feng), the upright Jade Maiden Peak (Yunü Feng) resembling a standing figure, and the towering Sky Pillar Peak (Tianzhu Feng) that seems to pierce the clouds to prop up the heavens. This mountain range stretches continuously, with official records documenting seventy-two notable peaks.

Turning east from the cliffs and crossing the Lüe'an Bridge leads to the Three Scholars' Monastery (San Xueshi Yuan). Originally the meditation site of Tang Dynasty Chan Master Lingmo, local legend claims he subdued a dragon here—traces of which remain. A hundred paces north of the monastery lies East Pool (Dong Tan), where a seventy-meter waterfall cascades like ten thousand bushels of snow pouring from the sky, its blinding whiteness and thunderous roar drowning out nearby speech as if muffled in an earthen jar. Locals say when strong winds shake the surrounding forests and dark clouds obscure daylight, the Dragon Casting Ritual (a Daoist rainmaking ceremony involving inscribed metal plaques thrown into deep pools) performed here during droughts proves remarkably effective—West Pool (Xi Tan) shares similar properties.

Further northwest along the pool's source, past Resonant Iron Ridge (Xiangtie Ling) and Purple Corridor Village (Zilang Shan Cun), one finds villagers dwelling in thatched cottages amid hundreds of acres of arable marshland. Following the Stone River (Shi He) for over a li leads to Stone Drum (Shi Gu), where stomping the ground produces drum-like booms. Ten paces ahead lies First Pool (Di Yi Tan)—its narrow well-like mouth reveals pitch darkness within, and dropped pebbles produce jade-like chimes. Another dozen paces brings one to Second Pool (Di Er Tan), shaped like a round-bottomed wok with broad surface but wider depths, filled with flood-borne boulders that vanish when waters recede. Hundred-foot cliffs surrounding it offer no foothold. Descending via vines on the right leads to unfathomable Third Pool (Di San Tan)—even weighted ropes fail to reach its rectangular bottom. Overcast days bring rising mists that suggest lurking dragons, lending an eerie atmosphere. Fourth Pool (Di Si Tan) daunts even the brave; visitors tie themselves to trees before peering over. Flanked by maples, it resembles Second Pool but doubles in size. Nearby lies the tomb of Jin Dynasty's Liu Longzi, who supposedly swallowed a dragon pearl (li zhu) caught while fishing here before transforming into a dragon. The stone mound is also said to be his mother's grave, though time has obscured the truth.

The fifth pool is also called the Eastern Pool. Because the water flows through five cascading drops, it is known as the "Cloud-Falling Pool." Ah, the divine craftsmanship of nature in shaping mountains and waters can create such extraordinarily steep and wondrous landscapes!

(Excerpt from Record of Weeping at the Western Terrace) Back then, my late friend, Duke Lu (Wen Tianxiang), who once served as the Tang dynasty's prime minister, established his military headquarters in the south. I, a commoner, enlisted to serve under him. The following year, I parted ways with Duke Lu by the banks of the Zhang River. Another year later, Duke Lu passed through the battlefields where loyal martyrs like Zhang Xun and Yan Gaoqing had once fought. With impassioned lamentations, he ultimately fulfilled his vow, following in the footsteps of those heroes. Now, all his poems remain preserved and can be verified. I detest that I could not personally avenge him, and so I often recall the words we exchanged at our parting. Whenever I remember, I search for his presence in my dreams. Sometimes, when I see landscapes, pavilions, clouds, or plants that resemble those from our farewell, I linger and gaze around, my heart aching with grief yet not daring to weep aloud.

Three years later, I passed through Gusu City—the place where Duke Lu first established his headquarters. Gazing at King Fuchai of Wu's Gusu Terrace, I wept bitterly for Duke Lu for the first time. Four years after that, I wept again in mourning at the Yue Terrace. Another five years passed, and now, I have come to Yan Ziling's Fishing Terrace to mourn and weep once more.

The day before, I had arranged with several friends to gather the next day. By noon, the rain had yet to cease, so we hired a boat by the river. After disembarking, we first paid our respects at Yan Ziling's shrine and rested in the adjacent monk's quarters, where we saw only crumbling walls and a dried-up well, as if entering ruins. Returning, we prepared offerings with the boatman, and soon the rain stopped. We ascended the Western Terrace and set up a memorial tablet in a corner of the desolate pavilion. Kneeling, we performed the rites, and after the prayers, I wept uncontrollably three times. Rising, I recalled how in my youth, I would always visit the shrine whenever I passed by here, first accompanying my father. Now, I am old, facing the unchanging rivers and mountains and the departed friend, overcome with melancholy. Gazing eastward, I repeatedly knelt and bowed, tears streaming. Just then, dark clouds drifted from the south, mist enveloping the woods as if joining in my lament. I struck the stones with a bamboo ruyi scepter and sang the Chu dirge for summoning the soul: "Where does the soul wander at dawn? By nightfall, the river runs dark. Transform into a crimson-beaked vermilion bird—will you find sustenance?" When the song ended, both the bamboo scepter and the stones were shattered. Sighing together, we climbed the Eastern Terrace to touch the bluestone, then returned to the boat. Only then did the boatman exclaim in surprise, "A patrol boat just passed by—why didn't you hide?" So we rowed to the middle of the river, raised our cups in a toast, and each composed poems to express our sorrow. By evening, snowflakes drifted down, and the biting wind made it impossible to stay long. We disembarked and departed.

That evening, I stayed at Mr. Yi's residence and composed nostalgic poetry. The next day, with wind and snow intensifying, I bid farewell to Mr. Jia by the riverside and began my homeward journey alone with Mr. Bing. After traveling thirty li, I spent another night elsewhere before reaching home. Later, Mr. Jia sent me a letter with parting verses, recounting how the boat had raced swiftly with the wind that day, taking unusually long to cross the river—as if aided by divine intervention, making our journey all the more extraordinary. I sighed: Alas! Since the passing of renowned scholars like Ruan Ji, these empty mountains have stood unvisited for a thousand years. Though we cannot know whether spirits truly assisted us, this journey was indeed rare. That we expressed our innermost feelings through writing is profoundly moving. I once considered emulating Sima Qian's "Monthly Records of the Latter Han" to document contemporary history, just as he recorded events from the Qin-Chu interregnum. Though people today may not understand my intentions, future generations will surely find kindred spirits. Thus, I should record these events to append to the annals of the Latter Han. At that time, twenty-six years had passed since my late father ascended the platform. My father, named [X], styled [Y], took office in the yichou year.

Account of Tongxi (by Li Daoyuan):

When the Zhe River flows north past Xincheng County, it meets Dongxi. Dongxi originates from Mount Tianmu north of Yuqian County in Wuxing Commandery—a towering peak with layered cliffs. To its west lies Houjian, where mulberry trees centuries old grow in what is called Xiangfeng Forest. To the east, a waterfall plunges into a deep pool spanning several mu, known as Jiaolong Pond. The pond's waters flow south past the county's western border, forming the county's West Stream. Continuing southeast, it converges with Zixi.

Zixi emerges from Baizhang Mountain (also called Qian Mountain) west of the county. Its waters flow southeast, named Zixi ("Purple Stream") for the massive amethyst boulders lining its bed (stretching over a hundred zhang, appearing like dawn clouds from afar) and called Chilai ("Red Rapids") for their crimson reflections. Flowing further southeast past Baishan's northern slopes (a precipitous peak overlooking Zixi), the stream winds between towering cliffs where grotesque rock formations face each other across ten li of rugged terrain. Stones in the stream stack upward like pillars over a bed of white sand and pebbles pure as frost. Here, water and mountain hues interplay as springs vie with rocks in splendor—a stretch called Loulin.

Zixi continues southeast past Tonglu County's eastern border, becoming Tongxi ("Paulownia Stream"). Sun Quan established Tonglu County using this stream's name, carving its territory from Fuchun. From Yuqian to Tonglu counties, sixteen treacherous rapids mark the route—the second being Yanling Lai, which encircles a mountain.

At the foot of the mountain lies a stone cave, traditionally believed to be the dwelling of the Eastern Han recluse Yan Ziling (a famous hermit who refused official positions during Emperor Guangwu's reign), after whom both this mountain and the nearby rapids are named. Nearby rests a massive boulder, over ten zhang in circumference, reclining beside a deep pool—said to be Yan Ziling's favorite leisure spot in ancient times.

The Gu River flows eastward past the Dingyang Creek. This creek originates from Sumabu in Xin'an County (modern Quzhou, Zhejiang), which was originally called Xinan County until its renaming to Xin'an in the third year of Emperor Wu of Jin's Taikang era (282 CE). The waters cascade down hundred-zhang-high cliffs in a spectacular waterfall-like descent. Beside the rapids lies a stone bed, upon which rests a three-chi-long stone tablet inscribed with intricate, colorful patterns resembling text. According to the Dongyang Records, in Xianshiban of Xin'an County, during the Western Jin dynasty, a woodcutter named Wang Zhi entered a stone cave while gathering firewood and encountered four immortal youths playing the qin and singing. Leaning on his axe handle to listen, Wang Zhi was given a date pit-sized object by one of the youths—when placed in his mouth, it banished all hunger. Soon after, a youth remarked, "Time to return," and no sooner had the words been spoken than the wooden handle of his axe rotted away. Upon returning home, Wang Zhi discovered decades had passed, and none of his relatives remained alive.

This creek gathers numerous tributaries, surging eastward through Dingyang in a mighty flow. Its banks are thick with bamboo groves and fragrant trifoliate oranges, interspersed with frost-touched wild chrysanthemums and golden kumquats. White sands and pebbles gleam like snow, while the ceaseless roar of water against stone deepens the secluded charm of the landscape.

Two hundred paces southeast of Huzhou City lies the Zha Creek (in modern Huzhou, Zhejiang), connected to a sandbar. Originally named White Duckweed Islet after the Southern Liang-dynasty governor Liu Yun's poetic line "Gathering white duckweed on the islet," it remained a desolate, overgrown place for centuries, its name the only remnant of its past. It wasn't until the eleventh year of the Tang dynasty's Dali era (776 CE), when the calligrapher Yan Zhenqing served as prefect, that the thickets were cleared and the creek dredged, with an octagonal pavilion erected for leisure. Floods later destroyed the structures. By the third year of the Kaicheng era (838 CE), when Governor Yang Hangong took office, he restored four waterways and two ponds, planted three gardens, and built five pavilions, complete with flowers, bamboo, lotus ponds, bridges, winding corridors, and resting lodges for visitors. Spanning the creek and linking to Long Islet, this garden became a fully equipped retreat, offering every amenity for enjoyment.

Here are records of several pavilions and natural landscapes. The pavilion called "White Duckweed Pavilion" stands between two gardens, offering views of various flowers; "Gathering Fragrance Pavilion" faces a broad pond with distant mountain vistas; "Mountain Light Pavilion" is ideal for admiring the dawn; "Morning Glow Pavilion" nestles beside clear waters; while "Jade Wave Pavilion" is built right at water's edge. These five pavilions are artfully scattered, presenting ever-changing scenery with excellent views from every angle. When gentle breezes ripple the stream, moonlight spills across the landscape, flowers bloom amid birdsong, and lotus fragrance perfumes the air, guests gather here—singing, composing poetry, boating leisurely, drinking and reveling—making it hard to distinguish whether this is celestial paradise or mortal realm.

Feng Mengzhen's travel notes describe the Flying Bridge standing opposite the Riverside Pavilion. Sitting in the pavilion, one can watch the stream meander like an unrolled bolt of white silk. On the return journey across Pingxi Stream, the author encountered Zijing and Jixiang sitting on large rocks. He intended to praise the Flying Bridge's beauty but was interrupted by Shenfu. Passing an extraordinary wood-and-stone formation, he concluded the Flying Bridge paled in comparison—though without personal inspection, such judgments remain difficult. Resting briefly at Pingxi where monks served tea, they enjoyed delicious noodles upon returning to Black Donkey Spring, reaching Zhaoming Temple by noon.

Jixiang remarked: "West Tianmu Mountain is famed for its extraordinary rocks, East Tianmu for its springs—only Yan Dang Mountain in Wenzhou combines both excellently." When asked if he'd visited Yan Dang, Jixiang admitted knowing it only through paintings. The author observed that true understanding can't come from pictures alone, though "dominated by springs" does capture East Tianmu's essence. Its waters descend from the summit, splitting at Little Immortal Peak: the left branch forms Upper and Lower Dragon Pools, White Dragon Pool, and Jade Sword Spring before flowing beneath Flying Bridge; the right creates a waterfall passing Rainbow Bridge to merge below Riverside Pavilion, both joining at Dragon Pool. The right branch is short, the left long—with major scenery concentrated leftward. Most visitors only reach Great Immortal Peak; few summit the mountain, fewer still explore wonders like Echo Furnace and Dragon Pool. While Great Immortal Peak itself isn't extraordinary, stopping there is like a guest lingering in the reception hall. True treasures hide in inner chambers—discoverable only through careful searching. Yet crude, commonplace sights are sometimes mistaken for marvels, like confusing the Shi family's latrine for a nobleman's mansion—truly laughable.

On the morning of the fifth day of the fifth lunar month, we set out from Shuangqing and followed the stream upstream in search of the mountain path. The stream was filled with countless bizarrely shaped rocks—some resembling stars, others like clouds—scattered like pieces on a chessboard. After passing five pavilions, we reached Qianzhang Cliff, where we paid respects to the High Peak Pagoda.

At the second pavilion, we saw Xiangshui Rock (named for the sound of rushing water striking it) standing upright in the water. The torrents crashed against it like boiling waves, and the rock bore the inscription "Valley Clouds." Beside the third pavilion was a small bridge called Half-Mountain Bridge. Standing beneath an ancient cypress and looking up, we beheld a sheer cliff face of extraordinary grandeur. A monk pointed out that this was the former site of Liyu Pavilion, later rebuilt as Western Nunnery.

Earlier, while at Dongmu Mountain, Shenfu had remarked that the scenery of Ximu Mountain rivaled that of Purple Sun Mountain in Wu. Now, seeing it with our own eyes, we understood why it lived up to its reputation. Next, we came upon a massive boulder called Sleeping Ox Rock, where legend says the eminent monk High Peak once stopped upon hearing an ox's bellow. But if there was an ox's bellow, why wasn't it named Bellowing Ox Rock? Opposite Sleeping Ox Rock was another peculiar stone shaped like an angry frog, covered in moss, with one side particularly striking—inscribed with the words "Half-Face Cloud."

After passing another pavilion, we descended stone steps to Lion Cliff. A hundred paces eastward, we saw Jade Pillar Peak soaring like a stone bamboo shoot into the sky, its summit crowned with an ancient dwarf pine. Local herb gatherers, who harvested stone ear (a medicinal fungus), often climbed it to gaze at the river views. Continuing north, we reached Middle Peak Pagoda Monastery. The halls had once been magnificent, but tragically, the entire Buddhist canon and buildings were lost to fire. Though rebuilt, the pagoda remained undecorated. Inside the courtyard stood a simple, archaic stone statue of the founding patriarch, encircled by four towering fir trees.

Further east lay Broken Cliff Pagoda Monastery, and beyond that, Lion Temple, where the scripture hall and Buddha hall had been rebuilt a decade prior, adorned with exquisitely crafted Buddha statues. Still farther east, we arrived at Illusory Abode Hermitage—though the scenery was sublime, the dwellings were humble. (All of High Peak Monk's retreats bore names with the character "illusion.") To the south, chaotic rocks bristled like a horse's mane, earning the inscription "Mane Cloud." This was the very site where High Peak Monk had meditated for three years, the original location of Liyu Pavilion. Now, only a few monastic cells remained, and we paused there for tea and rest.

The path to Western Nunnery was as thin as a strand of hair, with a sheer drop on one side. At the most precarious points, wooden planks bridged the gaps—both thrilling and wondrous. All around, fantastical peaks and sheer cliffs encircled us, as if cutting us off from the mundane world. Behind us loomed an abrupt high peak inscribed with "Utter Peril," while ahead, a precarious overhanging rock bore the words "Letting Go at the Cliff's Edge."

This passage from Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven is a travelogue by Ming Dynasty literatus Yuan Hongdao describing his visit to Tianmu Mountain (located in present-day Lin'an, Zhejiang), vividly portraying the mountain's extraordinary scenery. Here's the modern interpretation:

The journey began at Dragon Gate, which is actually two mountains facing each other with only a narrow passage between them. Along the path from Jade Pillar Pavilion to Dragon Gate, bizarre rocks were everywhere—some resembling bamboo shoots, others like wild beasts or ancient weapons, each uniquely shaped. Towering ancient pines stood with a beauty that seemed painted by hand.

When reaching Thousand-Zhang Cliff, the crescent moon already hung by the mountain's edge. After supper, several companions and I mistakenly took the wrong path to the Fifth Pavilion for moon viewing. Upon turning back, we leaned against the railings looking west—the moon hadn't yet set. On the sixth day, we arrived at Layered Cloud Nunnery, where the "Dressing Pavilion" displayed simple, archaic architecture, pristine as if freshly washed. Heading north for three li, we saw a gigantic stone screen standing erect, spanning over ten zhang in length. Supported by slanting rocks, this fractured yet unbroken monolith formed a true wonder.

Another two or three li upward brought us to the mist-wreathed summit, where stone pillars rose in even greater marvel—some vertical, some horizontal, some seemingly poised to take flight, defying description. Though people had assigned names to these formations, all labels fell short. The "Stone Hut"—a massive horizontal boulder sheltering one or two—was said to have housed immortals.

Descending the western slope revealed countless stone slabs resembling sawn timber, locally called "Immortals' Sawcuts." The summit's most astonishing features were its stone screens and flagstone paths. The earthen trail from Peak Right to Immortal Hall proved steep and slippery, lacking scenery. Eastward along the main path lay scattered boulders under blazing sun, barren of trees for four or five li—until crossing the ridge suddenly revealed a tree-ringed valley, refreshing as sweet springwater to parched lips.

West Peak's highlights—Thousand-Zhang Cliff, Western Nunnery, and Jade Pillar Pavilion—competed in splendor within a few square li, while flanking peaks appeared restrained and plain by comparison, like countryfolk awed in the city.

The subsequent Tianmu Travelogue section notes: Continuous rainy days had soured our moods until skies cleared at Twin Purity Villa. This foothill retreat's monks hosted us in exquisite quarters where the all-night sound of streams pounding rocks made companion Shi Kui (Tao Wangling's literary name) mistake it for rain in his dreams, fretting sleeplessly.

(Note: "Shi Kui" refers to Yuan's friend Tao Wangling; "Jade Pillar Pavilion," "Dressing Pavilion" etc. are scenic spots; "countryfolk peaks" metaphorizes ordinary mountains overshadowed by the main peak)

Unable to sleep, the next morning a mountain monk brought tea and congee, inviting Shike (a Ming Dynasty literatus) to rise. Shike sighed: "With such torrential rain, how can we return? We may as well lie here and let our spirits wander." The monk laughed: "The sky cleared long ago—it's sunny with a gentle breeze. What you heard was the mountain stream, not rain." Shike burst into laughter, hastily threw on his robe, drank several bowls of tea, and went out with them.

Tianmu Mountain's profound seclusion and ancient marvels defy description. The journey from the mountain lodge to the summit spans about twenty li. Typically, remote mountain depths appear desolate, and steep peaks lack winding charm. Where mountains are ruggedly archaic, they forfeit lush beauty; where their bones are massive, delicacy is scarce. As for heights lacking water or jagged rocks with withered trees—these are all mountain flaws. Yet Tianmu's ravines overflow with cascades like ten thousand silken ribbons, its first wonder. The bluish-green stones, warm and moist with exquisite veins, twist along winding paths between towering cliffs—its second wonder. Even temples perched in hidden valleys and on precipices are exquisitely crafted—its third wonder. I've never liked thunder, but here it sounds faint as a baby's cry—its fourth wonder. At dawn, clouds churn in deep valleys, white as cotton, surging like waves, turning the earth into a glazed sea while peaks emerge like floating duckweed—its fifth wonder. The clouds' ever-shifting forms create rare spectacles; only long residence reveals their full splendor. Trees here are so vast they require forty men to encircle; pines shaped like canopies stand barely a few feet tall, each worth ten thousand coins—its sixth wonder. The first flush of tea surpasses Longjing in fragrance, while bamboo shoots rival Shaoxing's Potang variety yet taste cleaner—its seventh wonder. I believe no place south of the Yangtze rivals this for cultivation and seclusion, and I suddenly longed to build a hut here.

On my second day at Huanzhu Temple, I rose early to watch clouds before ascending the summit, spending the night at Gaofeng's "Death Pass." The third day, I retraced my path from Huomai Hermitage. The monks marveled at the unbroken sunshine, congratulating me as I descended. Over four hundred monks dwell here, all impeccably courteous, vying to offer meals. At parting, they said: "Our crude mountain hardly merits your regard." I replied: "Tianmu's beauty graces us all. Masters need not humble yourselves, nor dare I boast before you." With laughter, we bid farewell.

("Record of Wuxing's Clear and Distant Landscapes" by Zhao Mengfu)

In the past, people said the landscape of Wuxing (modern Huzhou, Zhejiang) possessed a clear, distant beauty that could only be truly understood by those with a tranquil mind who wandered alone and grasped its subtle charm. The southern stream flows from the sunny slopes of Tianmu Mountain (a famous peak in Zhejiang) and converges three li south of the city into Jade Lake, spanning about a hundred qing in area.

Upon Jade Lake stands a small, rounded hill resembling an ancient chariot canopy, hence named Chariot Canopy Mountain. West of this hill, the terrain gradually rises to form Daochang Mountain. Gazing further into the distance, undulating mountain ranges unfold with countless scenic vistas. To the north lies a low, gentle hill called Xian Mountain, rocky and sparsely vegetated like ox hair. These mountains all border the water's edge, their winding footpaths tracing the contours—from afar, one sees only vegetation following the mountain's form.

In the lake rests a large rock resembling an earthen mound, perpetually crowned with reeds regardless of water levels, earning it the name Floating Jade Mountain. South of this rock stand two uneven peaks called Upper and Lower Fishing Mountains. Further south stretches Long Ridge Mountain. Crossing the lake eastward, opposite Chariot Canopy Mountain, lie the Upper and Lower River Mouth Mountains. Further east stand four small hills that appear scattered when viewed horizontally but tightly layered like fish scales vertically—Shenchang Mountain, Siyu Mountain, Shu Mountain, and Wu Mountain. Northeastward rises Pi Mountain, its silhouette hazy in the distance like an inverted cauldron.

Jade Lake's waters flow north into the city, merging with Tiao Creek in the northeast before entering Lake Zhenze (ancient name for Taihu Lake). In the fine days of spring and autumn, boating upstream to the city's south reveals mountains encircling like carved jade, seemingly suspended above the water, rising and falling with the boat's motion. Even the distant Dongting mountain ranges appear vividly clear—this is perhaps the landscape's most serene and exquisite vista.

Liu Ji's (founding statesman of the Ming Dynasty) travelogue: Journeying from Cloud Peak to Deep Dwelling Hermitage, passing Pure Distant Tower at Universal Relief Temple. Leaving Ling Peak and following the stream upward for nearly ten li brings one to Cloud Gate; another two or three li through farmland leads to Universal Relief Temple. Viewed from outside, the terrain appears so precipitous as to leave no foothold, yet ascending several dozen stone steps suddenly reveals the temple in its entirety. Within, ancient pines and cypresses create profound shade, and winding paths seem to transcend the mortal realm. Inquiry reveals this was where Hongming, a Jin Dynasty Chan master, delivered sermons. General He Chong once attended his lectures, and his son He Yun studied here—hence its alternate name, He Mountain Temple. In the western wing stands the "Latent Distance Tower," built by the monk Yunfeng.

The Records of Famous Mountains describes the historical changes and natural landscape of Shimen Cave.

Now residing in the cave is Monk Di (a practitioner), who invites guests to sit in the upper chamber. Opening the window, one can overlook the mountains of Taoshan, Lafu, Kegong, Qinwang, and Zixia. A spring flows from the roots of bamboo, murmuring beneath the chamber. Outside, there is also the White Stone Ridge, where the rocks are as pure as jade. Monk Di, in high spirits, asks his guest to compose poetry and requests a preface describing the meaning of "clarity and distance." The guest laughs and replies: "The name of this chamber was given by you—how could I know your intent? The mountains and waters intertwine before us—how can we distinguish what is clear and what is distant? On sunny days, one can see far, but on cloudy or rainy days, the view is obscured. There is no need to see with the eyes—one must perceive with the heart." At first, Monk Di does not respond, but later suddenly realizes and says: "I understand."

The history of Shimen Cave dates back to the Jingping era of the Liu Song dynasty (Southern Dynasties), when Xie Lingyun, serving as the governor of Yongjia, discovered the cave and composed poetry about it, making it a celebrated site in the eastern Wu region. Later, during the Liang and Tang dynasties, literati and scholars came here to leave their verses. After the turmoil of the late Tang, the cave was abandoned until the first year of the Huangyou era (1049) of the Northern Song and the third year of the Shaoxing era (1133) of the Southern Song, when officials restored it. Yet this place remains far from the clamor of the world—its streams and mountains are secluded, its pines and bamboo flourish, and its waterfalls cascade like rain. Even the colors of autumn are unseen here, replaced only by a refreshing qi (vital energy). The immortals and spirits (referring to recluses) have made this their home, detesting human voices and counting their fortune in undisturbed solitude. Woodcutters and fishermen secretly make their living here, but if passing travelers seek to visit, they lie and say, "Leave quickly—tigers and leopards roam here!"

Later, when the official Du Ying investigated the area, he cleared the dense overgrowth and discovered a flying spring, marveling that it was a paradise on earth. He then ordered the monk Shaobin to oversee its restoration. After completion, the curling smoke of tea, the barking of dogs, and the rhythmic knocking of wooden fish filled the air. The intrusion of official affairs unsettled the hermits, and the woodcutters' expressions changed. It was as if the strength of a single finger had roused the spirit of one long lost in illness and drunkenness.

Though I never witnessed these marvels with my own eyes, I dream of visiting them. My term here is ending, and who knows what will become of this place afterward? Should it fall into neglect, surely in fifty years another devoted soul will come—one destined to become the new master of these mountain forests and springs. Thus I write this travel account, addressing the mountain immortals, woodcutters, and fishermen: Why cling to permanence? Why not share the joy of the present moment?

On the Stone Sheep of Chisong Temple (by Xie Ao)

Legend says Jinhua Cave is where Huang Chuping (a Daoist immortal) commanded stones to turn into sheep. I heard this tale as a child, yet only when my hair turned gray did I finally visit—only to discover the true site of the miracle lies not within Jinhua Cave. Fifteen li from the cave stands Chisong Mountain, where the Baoji Temple now stands. Beside it, two immortals (the brothers Huang Chuping and Huang Chuqi) are enshrined—this is the true location.

The stones atop the mountain were originally shaped like sheep, strange and wondrous, but most were taken by woodcutters and curiosity-seekers. The Daoist priests gathered the remaining ones and placed them in the temple. I saw three groups of stone sheep:

The first lies east of the Heavenly Well—over a dozen pointed stones scattered like a flock grazing peacefully, moss-covered like a green carpet, allowing close observation.

The second rests on the northern bank of the Winding Pool, piled like a miniature mountain, jagged as dog’s teeth. About eighty or ninety percent lie in reclining postures, while others lock horns or tumble dynamically, resembling ancient bronze motifs.

The third group is arranged even more exquisitely, with poses similar to the first two, but notably includes a stone shaped like a person bowing in reverence. The priests gave it a separate name to distinguish it from the sheep.

I remarked that the stone need not be renamed—just as Zuo Ci (an Eastern Han mystic) transformed into a sheep before Cao Cao, these stone sheep might also conceal spiritual vitality. Gazing at them now, one might wander the cosmos in spirit or observe them like silent cicada husks. We face them daily yet never know their desires—perhaps one day they will truly transform? The priests stood solemnly, agreeing with my words. Thus I record this for future travelers.

The Daoists guarding these three stone sheep groups are surnamed Ni, Tang, and Wang. It is said that years after Huang Chuping attained immortality, these stones became famous through the tales of woodcutters and shepherd boys.

This passage is Xie Ao's "Account of Moon Spring," documenting his visit to this remarkable site and the insights he gained there.

In my youth, I admired the Taoist immortal Huang Chuping's legendary ability to command stones into sheep. Though I knew of the magnificent Jinhua Cave waterfall in Wuzhou, I had never heard of Moon Spring. Located two li northwest of Pujiang County, local elders say its waters rise and fall with the moon's phases. From the first to fifteenth day of the lunar month, if you place a ladder in the spring, the rising waters will gradually lift it, with ripples swaying aquatic plants like boats drifting on lakes. From the fifteenth to month's end, bamboo poles marked with lunar measurements show the receding water level precisely matching stone carvings each dawn.

The spring walls bear half-dry moss and duckweed, resembling tide marks on seaside houses. Driftwood and mooring traces linger among rocks and trees like fading memories. Visiting two days after full moon with my friend Master Chen, he pointed to floating plants as proof of the moon's influence. This cosmic interplay of Yin-Yang perfectly mirrors the mountains' breathing rhythms—no need for fanciful tales about giant fish controlling the waters.

Originally, a shrine here honored Neo-Confucian masters Zhu Xi and Lü Zuqian, surrounded by railings and poetry pavilions. From these vantage points, misty bamboo groves encircle the spring while distant Mount Xianyan resembles a floating lingzhi mushroom—all seemingly awaiting celestial rendezvous. I resolved to return often, making pacts: with the moon to observe its phases, with the spring to record its tides, with the mountains to witness eternal truths, versifying Xianyan's mystic traces.

A companion invited me to the mountain's base, proposing reed-pipe music like the "Deer Cry" ode and crane-call imitations. "You crave mountain vistas yet fear the climb?" he teased. Delighted, I agreed. Thus I record Moon Spring's wonders and this journey's auspicious beginning.

On the twenty-sixth day of the eighth month in the autumn of the Xinmao year (according to the celestial stem-branch calendar), Changxiaozi (the author's self-styled name) journeyed to North Mountain with companions. Three li from Chisong Mountain (a sacred Daoist peak), we came upon Xu Xianzhi's mountain retreat. A solitary peak rose abruptly from the plains, prompting our astonished party to push open the wicker gate and ascend along the winding path. The mountain sprawled like a reclining ox, and looking south, Daoshan resembled an overturned cauldron, with all surrounding ridges echoing Chisong's contours.

We wandered beneath pine shadows, meandering between twin peaks where babbling streams and dense bamboo groves muffled worldly clamor. Entering Baoji Temple, I spontaneously recited the "Summoning Reclusion" verse: "Autumn winds blow through the golden season, yellow clouds drift over open fields. Time hastens forward—why exhaust our mortal frames? The noble one rolls his mat, commands his carriage straight to North Mountain. Dawn's crisp qi swirls, dispersing worldly miasmas, bamboo staff dispelling sorrows. Passing through deep pine gates, we enter the mysterious palace (the temple). The Dao's profundity eludes grasp—how few attain enlightenment through the ages! Ancient sages stand silent in effigy, evoking visions of Master Chisong and Great Immortal Huang's cultivation."

We drank jade-dark dew of the immortals, chewed lingzhi essence, rinsed mouths in the Hua Pool (celestial waters). Driving our flock of sheep (symbolizing scattered thoughts) toward transformation, we rode phoenixes in shared wanderings. At dawn we reached Kunlun (sacred Daoist mountain), by dusk arrived at the Mystic Garden, paying respects to Immortal Xianmen and the Cinnabar Mound. Riding eight-direction winds through celestial realms, lingering where twin streams embrace. Alas, even Pengzu (the long-lived) and Shangzi (the short-lived) share the same fleeting dream; Emperor Shun and Xiang were of one qi yet different fates. Before Zhang Liang (Han strategist) comprehended the Dao's ways, he picked up shoes for the Yellow Stone Elder (immortal) on Yi Bridge. Though promised nobility, even yellow stone yields to impermanence.

Reflecting on life's hardships—how often fate thwarts desire. With white hairs already sprouting, why delay preparation? When shall I thatch my hermitage, sustain myself by well and stove? Ingest solar-lunar essences, ride azure dragons through purple palaces (celestial abodes), dwell in jasper towers. Will you companions join this journey?

We observed Abbot Jiang's cliff-carved stone chamber, its rugged steps named "Realm of Pure Coolness." White cranes perched in simplicity, pine winds congealing distance—a true cultivator's dwelling. Later we toured temple quarters: a towering pavilion crowned the western peak, vermilion beams and painted brackets supporting cloud-like corridors and layered galleries. Interconnected chambers revealed exquisite implements of refined elegance.

This passage recounts the author's journey through a renowned Daoist mountain. At dawn, opening the pristine window, he encountered a Daoist priest named Ma Anzhu, who warmly prepared tea and lit incense. Later, while seeking the dwellings of fellow Daoist companions like Zhou Xiaguan and Ding Dongyuan, he found the places unchanged but the people gone, sighing over the passage of twenty years.

Ascending to the abbot's quarters of the Daoist temple, he wandered to the "Hermitage Studio" beside the bell tower, where an exquisitely shaped remarkable stone lay beneath the steps. Behind the studio, artificial rockeries were artfully arranged, adorned with flowers and trees, creating an elegant scene. To the right of the bedchamber stood three pavilions, among which the "Moon Invitation Pavilion" faced the bell tower directly. Outside its windows, countless tall bamboos encircled the view, beyond which a babbling stream flowed, filling the pavilion with verdant hues and the soothing sound of spring water—a sight so captivating it made one reluctant to leave.

Next, he arrived at the Dream Immortal Hall and rested briefly at the Pillow Stream Pavilion, playing a game or two of chess while sipping wine. Reading the stone inscriptions of poetry left by predecessors, he was moved by admiration and spontaneously composed a forty-character verse: "The Two Sovereigns [Fuxi and Shennong] are no longer seen, / A modest drink to express pure joy. / Late autumn mountain paths lie empty, / Courtyards suffused with autumn fragrance. / Clear springs flow over white stones, / Emerald bamboos frame vermilion railings. / Walls covered with sages' verses, / Reading intently, forgetting to return."

After savoring tea at the "Transcendent Purity" teahouse, he ventured to the Little Peach Blossom Spring scenic area, washing his face in the cascading waterfall's pure waters to cleanse worldly weariness. Exiting the temple gate eastward, he paid respects at the Two Immortals Shrine and drank the sweet, refreshing well water behind it. Ascending the scripture platform to the shrine's right, he marveled at the majestic mountain vistas. On the return journey, he met Daoist Jiang, who invited him to drink beneath the Hermitage Studio, where he stayed overnight at the Moon Invitation Pavilion and composed another forty-character poem: "The Daoist guided me to admire the view, / Hand in hand we climbed the high tower's stairs. / Remote and quiet, far from human noise, / The lofty tower made mountain shadows lower. / Tall bamboos stood ranked outside the window, / A clear stream flowed beyond the railings. / Amid springs and rocks, wind and rain sounds, / Poetic inspiration held me captive all night."

At midnight, faint light filtered through the paper window. Pushing it open, he beheld the radiant moonlight, bamboo shadows reflected in the stream, and twinkling stars. Sitting in stillness for a long while, immersed in the sacred mountain's pure Qi, he felt as if transported to the Penglai Immortal Isles. Finally, he chanted a quatrain: "Wind and dew chill as night nears its end, / Moonlight pierces ten thousand bamboos. / Such silence belongs not to the mortal realm— / Lost in this fairyland, I forget the way home."

This passage depicts the majestic scenery and cultural heritage of a renowned Daoist mountain. At dawn, immortals (Daoist practitioners) ascend the Dan Mountain in mountain litters (a type of climbing vehicle), drinking from the Dan Well. Though shallow and turbid, its waters are far less sweet than the spring behind the Two Immortals Shrine.

When climbing the Cloud Nest, visitors pay respects to the stone statue of Lao Jun (Lord Lao, one of the highest Daoist deities) and touch the ancient remains of alchemical furnaces. A Daoist priest recounts how during heavy snowfall in previous years, while other areas accumulated snow several feet deep, this small square area never gathered any. The mountain islands wind in circles, ridges stretch across valleys, ancient pines require two people to embrace, and the forests are lush and verdant.

From the right side of Dan Well, the mountain range splits into two branches, coiling like wandering dragons. The mountains and rivers encircle the area, finally converging and locking at Chisong Plain (legendary cultivation site of Master Chisong). Woyang Mountain forms the southern face where the Two Immortals Shrine stands, while Liandan Mountain serves as the main peak of Baoji Temple. Backed by Pingfeng Mountain and facing Jinhua Mountain, these landmarks outline the general contours of Chisong Mountain.

Turning right from Liandan Mountain, one sees the towering Guo Gongjian Peak piercing the clouds with majestic grandeur. Legend says Guo Jingchun once practiced divination here. The undulating ridges resemble galloping steeds that only halt at the Great Stream's edge—this is Mapu Ridge, ancestral burial ground of the Wang clan.

Further northwest, mountain ranges stack like folding screens amid flourishing vegetation. The cliffside path stretches long and silent. From high above Qian Peak, a winding trail threads through the valley between two mountains. Half a li before reaching Shanqiao lies Jiang Village, with its neat fences, orderly houses nestled against mountains and waters, expansive fields, and the tranquil sounds of chickens and dogs—an ideal environment for hermits to spend their twilight years.

Though situated on a high ridge, Shanqiao appears emerald-green and precipitous, soaring into the clouds. In the distance, city walls flicker in and out of view under clear sunlight. Leaning on a staff through rugged mountain paths, the weary traveler arrives at Wang Village with its dozen or so households living modest lives. An elderly man serves tea, and when asked about the origin of Qipan Mountain's name—the tallest peak behind the houses—even he doesn't know. At its summit lies Xu Gong Lake, where people from near and far come to pray during droughts or floods. The jagged cliffs and rising mist seem to conceal celestial intentions within their forms.

(Pointing at the distant clouds, the fellow traveler) told his companions it would rain soon, though none believed him. I happened to compose a quatrain spontaneously: "Daily in the city I most adore mountain views / Climbing peaks to gaze beyond the dusty world / Where do white clouds transform into rain? / Still lingering amidst the emerald ridges." So we crossed the mountain ridge and descended to Lutian. This was originally a temple complex, now divided into eastern and western compounds. The inscriptions "Nurturing Emptiness" by Chancellor Ye Gong (Ye Mengde) of the previous dynasty and Master Pan's calligraphy were both carved on stone. Behind stood broken cliffs and towering boulders amid bamboo groves, where Ye Gong had inscribed the plaque "First Pavilion."

Surveying the scene: jagged rocks encircled the area like city walls, while fish-shaped drums and ritual implements resonated within the temple. The flat highland spread like an unfurled mat, with cottages and fields scattered about—though these fertile lands stretching for miles had long lain fallow. The Chaozhen Peak rose precipitous as a crown, the Horse-Face Mountain squatted like a mortar, the Chessboard Mountain extended continuously, and the White-Gaze Peak crouched like a tiger, while serpentine ridges coiled downward and frog-shaped boulders seemed to leap in alarm. To the left loomed the majestic Yang Family Mountain; behind coiled the ascending A Mountain, with Twin Dragon Peaks girdling its waist and sharp summits dotting its slopes like elbows—truly worthy of being called "First."

Resting briefly at the eastern temple, before our midday meal was ready, thunder suddenly rumbled. In moments, clouds darkened, fierce winds howled, and torrential rain fell, obscuring heaven and earth in primordial chaos. I improvised a forty-character verse: "Since treading the mountain bridge path / Verdant peaks grow wondrous with each step / Exploring depths, fatigue forgotten / Escaping peril, finding level ground / Incense divides east and west temples / Seeking broken steles of bygone grace / I arrived midst furious storm / Sublime views barely glimpsed." After the rain ceased, we hurried through the dampness to Jinhua Temple, where the Dharma Hall was being renovated—its painted beams and white walls radiantly bright. Daoist priest Xu Qingchen came to offer wine, though already quite drunk himself, so we lodged overnight at Shuangxuan Pavilion. Beyond the window stood a solitary peak where mist and clouds shifted mysteriously. The night grew chilly, with pine waves shaking the valley and cascades sounding like jade rinsing—all sleep fled.

At dawn the next day, we hastened to prepare breakfast before heading to Twin Dragon Cave. Before the cave, on the peppercorn courtyard's stone wall was carved: "One stream pierces rocks at the cavern's base / A single raft leads to heaven within the grotto"—truly sublime verse! Gazing further: sheer cliffs embraced the earth, hidden valleys vanished into the sky's edge, clear springs murmured, and tree shadows deepened. The outer cavern could hold a thousand people; the inner cave's depths were unfathomable, its rock formations like ghostly craftsmanship—some resembling interlocking dragon scales, others like...

The mountain boasts extraordinary formations—some crags curve like elephant trunks, others loom as fiercely as lions, while jagged rocks resemble tortoise shells. Overhanging cliffs form natural canopies, and mist swirls through the valleys like embroidered ribbons.

Here one finds pools where immortals bathed, stone grooves where celestial robes were dried, and meticulously tended "immortal fields" (legendary plots cultivated by transcendents). Striking the rocks produces resonant echoes like temple bells and drums. Most marvelous is the perennial water curtain cave, while the most breathtaking sight is the Yaolin Forest, its crystal-clear formations glittering like snowy peaks—rose-hued quartz and silver-veined cliffs so luminous they seem otherworldly.

In the lowlands lies an unfathomable spirit abyss (dragon pool), its churning waters said to house divine serpents inaccessible to mortals. Midway up the winding path, moss-covered steps lead to an ice-jar-shaped cavern. A newly built pavilion overlooks the steep staircase descending to waterfalls. Further ascent toward Chaozhen Peak reveals a threadlike westward trail from Lutian, overgrown with wild grasses and so precipitous that climbers must support each other.

Deep in the clouds yawns an immense azure grotto with three interconnected stone chambers, culminating in a natural bridge spanning hundreds of feet. Below it, a circular abyss echoes with unfathomable depths. Moonlight filters through a skylight in the vaulted ceiling, illuminating the cavern walls. A side passage requires stooping for a dozen paces before opening onto two facing chambers on a slope. Nearby, a crevice permits only sideways movement, leading to a perennial spring dripping ceaselessly. Outside, fantastically arranged boulders offer vantage points for observing nature's grandeur.

This realm gathers heaven's dew and exhales mountain mists, where streams and fields interlace like warp and weft, while dappled shadows weave brocade patterns—a spectacle of unparalleled wonder. Its profound mystery eludes comprehension: numinous beauty arises from eccentric forms, while tranquility dissolves boundaries, washing away worldly cares and awakening aspirations for transcendence. Such heights remain untrodden; were it not for divine guardians, surely beasts would claim it. Though reluctant to leave, we bid farewell as the Stone Well Cataract thunders like snow, the pavilion spreads winglike over a rustic bridge, and the cavern peaks vanish into clouds—regretting only the absence of bamboo groves. Passing finally by Taiguo Chang (likely a Daoist temple), our journey concludes.

The passage describes the author's observations and reflections while visiting famous mountains and historic sites. It begins with the sight of an abandoned noble's tomb, where the stone-carved sheep, tigers, and warrior statues are all damaged, surrounded by wild grass—a poignant reminder of how fleeting wealth and glory can be.

Next, the author visits Faqing Temple and meets a monk named Fenqian. His dwelling is nestled in a tranquil setting, embraced by emerald-green mountains, with a winding pond and a low bridge leading to the Yangkong Retreat (a meditation chamber). Behind the Immersed-in-Jade Pavilion stands an elegant little arbor, adorned with meticulously arranged flowers, trees, and rockeries, along with a spring enclosed by stones called "Jade Milk." Monk Fenqian, with his long beard, is exceptionally wise and enjoys copying ancient calligraphy and reciting letters from past scholars. The two converse delightfully.

The journey continues to Mubin Pavilion, where the author admires four poetic inscriptions by the monk Yangkong. The calligraphy is fluid and graceful, the sentiments lofty and profound—truly awe-inspiring. At Zhizhe Temple, the author explores the origins of Twin Streams at the Thunder Sound Pavilion, one of which originates from the Ciyuan Spring beside the ruins of an old temple. The landscape here is majestic, with mountains and rivers encircling the area, a place where spiritual energy gathers and outstanding individuals emerge. While dining at the Twin Purity Hall, the author watches turtles and fish swimming in the pond, breathes in the fragrance of ancient trees and wild grasses, and sees the walls adorned with poetic exchanges by four renowned officials.

Finally, the return journey passes through Ge Village, where autumn scenery unfolds in all its splendor: maple leaves painting the mountains red, osmanthus blossoms perfuming the air, rice stalks bowing low, and chestnuts and dates hanging heavy on branches, while citrus fruits display hues of green and gold. The weather is pleasantly mild—sunny without dryness, rainy without chill—marking the most beautiful season of the year. These four days of travel refresh the spirit, freeing it from worldly troubles, as the author shares the joy of nature with like-minded companions. Accompanying them on this journey are two friends, Yang Yuanding and Xu Yancheng.

Wang Bixian (styled Huizhi), a disciple of Wang Bai (also styled Huizhi) of Jinhua, was skilled in producing prolonged, resonant whistles.

"Listening to Rain at Lutian" – by Xie Ao

I once heard a monk from Mount Heng, the Southern Sacred Peak, describe how standing atop the mountain to watch the sunrise over the sea, observing clouds swirling around rocks and trees, or listening to the sound of wind and rain within caverns felt utterly different from the human world. At the time, I suspected the monk was exaggerating—until this journey to North Mountain in Jinhua, where I stayed overnight at East and West Lutian and personally heard the sound of wind and rain. Only then did I understand.

The sound was sometimes like a babbling brook, sometimes like crashing waves; now scattering, now gathering, now surging, now halting. At times it was sharp as an arrow loosed from a bowstring, at others deep as an undercurrent. Passing through empty spaces, it rode the wind like a soaring bird; striking solid objects, it swelled as if about to overflow. Shaking withered branches, it seemed ready to snap them; brushing past leaves, it clung gently. When rushing into valleys, it roared like an avalanche, yet when circling back to tap lightly at the window, it resembled a boat tossed in a storm. Such sounds defy description—one can only question their origin.

It turns out this place lies near a dongtian fudi (a Daoist celestial abode), where the spiritual energy (qi) of mountains and rivers converges. Tigers, leopards, flood dragons, serpents, spirits, mist, clouds, water, and stone all gather here, so the sounds linger densely. The rocks, riddled with hollows and crevices, inhale and exhale like mouths and nostrils, producing deep reverberations. Trees, whether fresh or withered, thriving or decayed, with knotted trunks oozing sap, emit tones now clear and bright, now muffled and hoarse.

The wind and rain arrive from different directions, howling with varying intensity, and dispersing into all things, they generate endlessly shifting harmonies. Those solitary souls who sit wrapped in blankets, listening, find sorrow welling up within them until tears fall. Precisely because of this, the sounds they hear are exceptionally vivid. Now I finally believe the monk of years past spoke no falsehood.

Yet the monk heard these sounds differently from ordinary people, and I, in turn, hear them differently from the monk. If one could understand why my experience, the monk’s, and the common folk’s diverge, perhaps this journey might lead me to someone whose heart resonates with mine—someone who truly grasps the wonder of this rain. Thus, I record this account.

"Account of the Liu-Ruan Grotto" – by Zheng Zhidao

The legend of Liu Chen and Ruan Zhao encountering immortals has circulated for ages. While serving in this region, I inquired among local elders about the grotto’s location, yet none knew. Later, consulting maps, I pinpointed the site and asked the monk Jiefeng of Huguo Temple, who revealed that the grotto lay two li northeast of the temple, requiring a diagonal crossing of the valley to reach.

This passage describes a hidden Daoist paradise deep in the mountains. Within the dense forests of a secluded valley, far from human traces, the Mingzhao Master (a renowned Daoist adept) once gathered medicinal herbs during the Jingyou era of the Northern Song dynasty (1034-1038). There, he witnessed a golden bridge spanning the waters, where two youthful immortals frolicked upon the surface—echoing the ancient legend of Liu Chen and Ruan Zhao encountering celestial maidens. This confirmed the site as an abode of water immortals.

In the spring of 1087 (Yuanyou era, second year), locals cleared the mountain paths to build pavilions upon the ruins of the immortal bridge, planting hundreds of peach trees along the route to perpetuate its divine connection. By the third month of the following year, temple monks reported the trees in full bloom, inviting literati to compose verses. Local officials and scholars, wearing their traditional headscarves and carrying wooden staffs, strolled along the winding stream, admiring the emerald ripples and listening to the murmuring waters. When the breeze stirred, the water's melody rang like jade pendants chiming—pure and far-reaching, akin to celestial music heard in heavenly courts. Thus, they named the site "Jade-Chiming Gorge."

East of the gorge lay a peach grove where falling blossoms adorned fragrant grasses, petals drifting downstream—legend held this to be the very place where ancient sages consumed peaches to attain immortality, hence its name "Peach Blossom Hollow." Continuing northward several hundred paces, one encountered a winding mountain brook encircled by peaks. At its source lay a miraculous pool: its waters so clear they reflected every hair, with mountain shadows shimmering beneath the surface. A hidden cave at its bottom tunneled deep into the mountain, its water level unchanging through storms or droughts—precisely where monks had witnessed the golden bridge manifest. It became known as "Golden Bridge Pool."

At the pool's southern shallows, three massive stones broke the water's surface. When wine cups were floated downstream, they invariably passed between these rocks, allowing drinkers to bend and retrieve them as if partaking in an immortal banquet—thus named "Immortal Gathering Stones." Gazing upward from these stones, one saw three towering peaks piercing the clouds, their icy gleam merging with mountain hues. To the east stood another peak (the original text here is incomplete, likely introducing another scenic marvel)...

This passage depicts a fantastically scenic mountain peak and its surroundings. The Twin Maidens Peak derives its name from two boulders atop the summit resembling women's coiled hair buns. To the west, Sunrise Peak earned its moniker by being the first to greet the morning sun, while the central Emerald Convergence Peak was so named for gathering the verdant hues of surrounding mountains. Between these three peaks lies an expansive woodland called Immortal-Bewildering Vale, where extraordinary flora grows—connected on the left to the Jade Terrace Twin Pillars Mountain and on the right to Stone Bridge Confluence Stream. The serenity of this place evokes a desire to ride the clear breeze beyond worldly cares, forgetting all mundane troubles.

Emerging from the vale toward Sunrise Peak's base, one finds a flat stone several zhang wide where monks built the Floating Cup Pavilion. With its upturned eaves reflected in the water, one can still discern traces of the ancient "winding stream drinking game." On this particular clear day, the author and companions brought wine and provisions up the mountain for a riverside picnic—catching fish from the stream, picking wild ferns, drinking freely as they pleased. At the height of their revelry, their unrestrained singing drew the attention of woodcutters and shepherd boys who paused to watch, half-believing Liu Chen and Ruan Zhao (the legendary mortals who encountered immortals on Tiantai Mountain) had returned from the celestial realms to wander among men. As sunset painted the sky and evening mist coalesced, the fairyland scenery gradually faded from view, and the group descended along cloud-veiled paths by moonlight.

The "winding stream drinking game" (曲水流觞) referenced here was an elegant pastime where participants floated wine cups down a meandering stream—whoever the cup stopped before would drink and compose poetry. The allusion to "Liu's scion and Ruan's descendant" draws from Tales of the Hidden and Visible Worlds (《幽明录》), recounting the legend of Liu Chen and Ruan Zhao encountering celestial maidens on Tiantai Mountain.

East of the Qiantang River lie numerous towering mountains. Those stretching southeastward to the seashore present particularly magnificent scenery, with Tiantai, Siming, Yandang and Tianmu Mountains being the most renowned. These peaks pierce the clouds with their precipitous cliffs, forming spectacular landscapes so breathtaking they resemble the legendary Penglai fairy isles, their fame spreading far and wide.

Scholars and refined gentlemen who delight in exploring sublime landscapes naturally seek out these famous mountains. Yet curiously, many who dwell at their foothills never visit them in their lifetime. Is it because the daunting heights discourage ascent? In Taizhou city stands a modest solitary hill, gracefully rounded like an ancient scholar's headscarf when viewed from afar, hence its name "Scarf Hill."

Pavilions and towers adorn its slopes, attracting every visitor to Taizhou. Nearby residents invariably build elevated platforms to admire the ever-changing misty vistas at dawn and dusk. Its accessibility and modest height make its beauty easily appreciable, requiring no extraordinary effort to fully experience—hence its universal appeal.

The recluse Lu Dinggu, whose residence directly faced Scarf Hill, named his study "Thatched Hall of Scarf Hill." Though erudite and capable, Master Dinggu possessed a serene, uncompetitive nature, far from being content with superficiality. Had he perhaps realized that distinctions of size and elevation ultimately matter little?

Nothing in heaven and earth surpasses the Dao (the supreme cosmic principle), yet the Dao manifests equally in humble, ordinary things. While resigning to limitations due to difficulty is unworthy, neither should one neglect subtlety in blind pursuit of grandeur. Filial piety and fraternal love may seem commonplace, yet they embody human nature and heavenly principle. The governance of sage-kings Yao and Shun aligned with celestial order, yet such attainment begins with daily attentiveness.

Though Scarf Hill's rocky ravines cannot rival Tiantai or Siming's grandeur, its capacity to endlessly delight the contemplative mind—does this essence differ fundamentally? Master Dinggu surely understood this truth. I recall on the fifteenth day of the seventh month in the Renxu year, accompanied by friends Ye Yizhong, Zhang Tingbi, Lin Gongfu and others...

That evening, I ascended the mountain peak with Master Ye to drink wine beneath the moon, discussing past and present throughout the sleepless night. I remarked to him: "When Su Dongpo (Su Zizhan) once climbed Yellow Tower by night with Wang Dingguo and others, ascending Huan Mountain where they played flutes and drank wine before returning moonlit, he sighed 'In the three hundred years since Li Bai's death, there has been no such joy.' Now three hundred years have likewise passed since Dongpo's death, making such refined gatherings even rarer." Our company laughed heartily at this, though calculating carefully, that outing was already fifteen years past. Of those present that evening, only old friends Zhang, Chen and I remain, all now approaching twilight years.

Bound by official duties thousands of miles from home, I cannot but feel deeply moved remembering Wang Dingguo's thatched hall in Ding Valley. Dingguo had a son named Xin Shen—bright and studious—who once told me: "When I return east to our homeland, I shall gather kindred spirits to revisit these sites, roaming all maritime mountains to behold heaven-and-earth's grand vistas." The joy of such future gatherings should surpass even our past pleasures.

Among Ninghai's surrounding peaks, Clear Spring Mountain stands nearest the city, most suitable for excursions. On this Double Ninth Festival of the Renxu year, when old friend You Shan and I sought convenient nearby scenery, we chose Clear Spring Mountain. Carrying zither and wine, we exited the western gate and turned north after a hundred paces. Though lacking towering ancient trees or perilous gorges, the rounded hills displayed white reeds flowering like egrets taking flight. The slippery mountain path proved challenging as we vied to ascend first. At the summit lay two remarkable half-buried boulders—their moss viridescent, flanked by lovely dappled trees. Seated in rows upon the stones, we discussed antiquity and modernity in perfect harmony.

When westerly winds whipped our sleeves violently during our westward descent, we paused in a hollow to play the zither. Its notes answered the wind's voice—now murmuring like spring-wells, now surging like ocean waves—lifting our spirits immeasurably. Rising to gaze around, we saw sunset gilding northeastern peaks where cloud-sea met ocean, radiant ripples too dazzling to behold directly. Returning to the northern slope's thatched pavilion, we drank as zither music resumed until dusk's return. Though all reveled in the moment, I alone reflected: throughout Ninghai's territory exist peaks surpassing Clear Spring Mountain tenfold, a hundredfold...

This passage recounts the author's journey to Mount Tianmu and his reflections, which can be understood in two parts.

The first half discusses the common mindset of travelers visiting scenic landscapes. The author observes that many secluded springs and pristine sites receive few visitors because the climb is too arduous. People tend to favor easily accessible, ordinary spots, unaware that the truly lofty and profound places hold boundless delight. This mirrors how people in general chase after small, readily attainable pleasures while neglecting the pursuit of higher, more genuine joys.

The second half details the author's pilgrimage to Mount Tianmu, a sacred Daoist mountain said to be inhabited by immortals. Entering from Nanming into the Taishan range, the winding path spirals upward like peeling bamboo shoots. Along the way, he encounters peach blossoms floating on flowing streams, bamboo groves veiled in misty clouds, and even a beautiful innkeeper at a mountain tavern. Passing by Taiping Temple, he marvels at bamboo trunks as thick as well buckets, their leaves swaying in the rain like phoenix plumes.

When the author finally reaches Tianmu Peak, he finds it deserted and in ruins, with only broken steles and wild grass remaining. Local farmers and monks don’t even recognize the name of Li Bai—who famously wrote Dreaming of Wandering the Tianmu Mountains in Farewell—let alone grasp the celestial realms described in his poetry. The author laments: In Daoist lore, Mount Tianmu was the gateway to Tongbai Mountain, famed for its wonders—"half the cliff reveals the sea, and cocks crow in mid-air"—with traces of Ge Hong’s (the renowned Jin dynasty Daoist) alchemical practices still faintly visible. Yet now, this peak that once rivaled the Five Sacred Mountains in Li Bai’s verses has been reduced to an unremarkable hill.

In closing, the author poses a poignant question: Has the mountain changed, or have we? At this solitary isle, the relationship between nature and human culture invites deep contemplation.

North of Jiudou Mountain City lies a solitary islet called Guyu (meaning "isolated island") in the river, where the Southern Dynasties poet Xie Lingyun (also known as Xie Kangle) often lingered. The island is about a hundred oar-strokes away from the city.

Two mountains stretch east and west like ears piercing the sea, with deep waters forming between them—hence the name "Guyu" for the mountains and "Middle Stream" for the waters. During the Song dynasty, the Shu monk Qingliao once preached Buddhist teachings to dragons here, sanctifying the land. Later, the two mountains merged, and the Jiangxin Temple was built, causing the original solitary islet to fade into obscurity. Nowadays, people no longer speak of Guyu but only of Jiangxin Temple.

To the left of the temple stands the shrine of Wen Tianxiang (Prime Minister Wen). Back then, Wen Tianxiang crossed the sea here in search of the two exiled emperors of the Southern Song (the "Two Princes") and inscribed an eight-line poem on the temple wall—each word dripping with blood and tears, moving heaven and earth. Today, his solemn statue and echoing words lend a profound weight to the surrounding landscape. Before the shrine stands the Haoran Tower; from its heights, the rivers and mountains appear especially vast and majestic. To the right is the shrine of Vice-Minister Zhuo, a native of Yongjia who died upholding his principles during the Jingnan Rebellion of the early Ming. His moral integrity rivals that of Wen Tianxiang, and the shrine still preserves the words "Qinghui" ("Clear Radiance") inscribed by Emperor Gaozong of Song.

East and west pagodas face each other. I climbed to the top of the western pagoda, the Chengxian Pavilion, and gazed at the distant sea and mountains, which stood like iron fortresses, layer upon layer of purple ridges and blue peaks guarding the Central Plains. A boundless wind swept through, instantly soaking my sleeves with the sea's mist. Among the reefs, the crescent-shaped Moon Grotto is where fishermen come and go, cheering as giant fish suddenly leap from the water, flashing silver before vanishing back into the depths. Who can say these aren't the transformed flesh of white dragons? Or perhaps the sea god (Hairuo) commanded the immortal Qin Gao to host a feast for mortals?

The temple gate bears the plaque "Dragon Sea Pearl Grove." Wang Jizhong invited me for wine and had a boy sing his father's lyrics to the tune "Eight Sounds of Ganzhou"—truly evoking the grandeur of "the Great River flows east, its waves sweeping away heroes of a thousand ages." The temple's front courtyard is flat as a whetstone, with old pines casting dappled shadows like an ink-wash painting. At dusk, we watched the sunset from Chuitai, the monks' quarters half-hidden in bamboo and clouds. Our small boat glided steadily back as if floating in the heavens, dazzling yet free from the perilous waves of Jinshan or Jiaoshan.

Here, noble scholars gather, literati converse freely, and drinkers revel. Among immortal mountains rising from waters, aside from Penglai, this solitary islet surely ranks supreme.

Sailing from the Evil Stream up the Kuocang Mountains, even a foot of water beneath our boat appeared turbid. The sky's light was obscured by the mountain's imposing form as rapids dashed against jagged rocks—only when we entered the Xiaoyang region did the vista suddenly open. My friend Wu Hanzhong escorted me to the prow with his children, where we sat on the deck drinking. The boatman sang rowing songs to lift our spirits. Just as we lowered our heads in merriment, an abrupt upward glance made us all gasp in unison—realizing this sight belonged to no mortal realm, yet finding no celestial name to call it, we could only clumsily compare it to earthly hues we knew.

The setting sun resembled half a cake of rouge, as if freshly drawn from flames. The western mountains flanking the stream displayed parrot-feather emerald and raven-wing indigo, their peaks crowned with five-thousand-foot scarlet clouds. These clouds split open vast hollows revealing bluish-white sky reflected on water like unfurled crimson agate silk. The shoals showed soft azure-white tones, while across the shallows, reed catkins merged with moonlight into indistinguishable haze. The mountain mass revealed aged-melon-rind gray-green, punctuated by seven or eight golden cloud fragments like scattered goose down or heaped brocade-covered lychees. Two crystalline grape-purple cloud clusters stood out vividly, while multiple layers of night mist, fish-belly white, rose through silver-and-ruby furnace-hued clouds where golden light shimmered unpredictably.

Here heaven and earth, mountains and streams, clouds and sunlight fused in steaming splendor—what divine artificer conceived such grandeur? Was it jealousy of mirage beauty that inspired this surpassing spectacle? Or deliberate staging for boat-bound travelers to witness nature's metamorphic wonders? Mortal pigments number but five primary colors; even compounded, they yield mere dozens of variations—nothing approaching this inconceivable chromatic alchemy. Though I strain to match these hues with familiar references, my heart has never truly comprehended them, nor my eyes beheld their like, leaving only limited perception to describe them. Yet how can such "clumsy comparisons" convey even one ten-thousandth of their numinous essence? Ah! Never having witnessed heaven-and-earth's opulence, how could we know humanity's poverty?

(Supplemental note by Li Xiaoguang from "Record of Viewing the Stone Bridge at Mount Yan": My home lies but five li from Mount Yan, which I visit three or four times yearly—each ascent feels like reuniting with an old friend returned from ten-thousand-mile wanderings.)

In the winter of the first year of the Taiding era (1324) during the Yuan dynasty, I traveled again to Mount Yandang with my friends Zhang Ziyue and Chen Shuxia. We brought along two young attendants carrying bedding and luggage, strolling leisurely with walking sticks. The winter sunlight was warm and gentle, the ground carpeted with yellow leaves. In the distance at the northern mountain pass stood a rock resembling a Buddhist pagoda (futu), its central bulge evoking the image of a wandering monk shouldering his pack, prompting us to exchange amused glances. As the setting sun dipped below the horizon, purple mist swirled among the southeastern peaks while returning birds called to one another.

The Stone Bridge (a natural rock formation) rose abruptly from the earth like a colossal ladder leaning against a roof eave. Beneath this rocky overhang yawned a cavernous space capable of sheltering a thousand people. The stone pillars at its base were hollowed out like decayed tree roots. A small tree grew precariously from the cliff's edge beneath the overhang, its frost-reddened leaves so brilliantly crimson we initially mistook them for azaleas (zhizhu flowers), their beauty breathtaking.

Below the Stone Bridge stood a temple where monks served us hot tea and rice wine. As moonlight faded, clouds flowed westward like running water while acorns, blown onto roof tiles, ricocheted down to a small hut below the crag. Wind-tossed leaves produced metallic, almost musical sounds that seemed otherworldly. We sat silently facing each other by lamplight. At midnight we arranged two beds opposite each other—Zhang Ziyue, thoroughly drunk, kept calling for his student at dawn, completely unaware he was already in bed.

Mount Yandang resembles some divine child's toy collection, every feature as delicately charming as confectionery. Or perhaps it's the surviving remnant of some primordial deity's private garden, spared from the cosmic conflagration of creation. Its bizarre rock formations manifest endless variations: some compact without excess, others distinctly textured yet irregular, some gaunt and angular lacking softness, others with protruding veins, some completely bare—all appearing as deliberately arranged masterworks. Two mountain streams intertwine like silver chains, flowing like molten tin.

Legend says the arhat Nāgārjuna from the Western Regions practiced asceticism here. The Tang dynasty monk Guanxiu praised it in verse: "Through Yandang's paths the misty clouds drift low / By Dragon Pool seated in drizzling glow." Not until the Song dynasty, when people felled trees to build temples, did a woodcutter trek forty li to the summit and discover geese inhabiting its great lake—hence the mountain's name. The landscape poet Xie Lingyun, though calling himself a "mountain-and-water addict" while serving in Yongjia, never knew of Yandang's existence. Shen Kuo (courtesy name Cunzhong) explained that the valleys were then buried in silt, much like Shaanxi's loess plateau before erosion revealed their true forms.

This passage vividly describes the author's travels through a famous mountain, blending observations with personal reflections. Here's a clear interpretation:

The mountain spans less than thirty li, bounded by Ma'an Ridge. The eastern side contains inner and outer valleys, as does the western side. Since the Song dynasty, eminent monks have built eighteen temples here, though only three remain today due to unfavorable feng shui (the "malevolent Lianzhen star" refers to an inauspicious geomantic influence). Visitors from Yueqing enter from the west, while I approached from Huangyan, entering through the east.

Crossing Panshan Ridge to Juegang Ridge, I began encountering fantastically shaped rocks. At Dajing Station, towering bluish stones rose abruptly—some pointed like writing brushes, others rectangular like ceremonial tablets. Though I'd long admired Guilin's famed "thousand peaks vying in beauty," this scenery surpassed even that. Standing on a stone bridge overlooking the crystalline stream, I could discern every whisker on the fish below. How I longed to build a pavilion here, gazing at this view day and night—though I feared ending up like Wei Jie, the Jin dynasty beauty said to have been "gazed to death" by admirers.

When visiting Tiantai Mountain earlier, the Peach Blossom Waterfall had made me want to sell my property and retire here with my chickens and dogs. Though my wife disapproved, I nearly abandoned everything. Now facing this new splendor, I toss and turn, uncertain where to settle.

The station boasts an ancient camphor tree ten arm-spans wide—a true monarch among trees. We plucked canna flowers to accompany our wine, using red candles when night fell. The next day we forded a great river and two small streams, passing through Ling Village market where rice prices rivaled celestial treasures. Mountain monks survive on wild herbs, though porters say they're fortunate to have any grain at all.

Entering the mountains, wild vines and ancient trees, aged pines and fresh bamboos all gleamed vividly in the stream's reflection. Suddenly we spotted a waist-high boulder resembling a bald, praying monk—our group burst into laughter, knowing instantly this was "Old Monk Rock." Two li further brought us to Stone Beam Cave, its arched rock bridge sturdier than the Magpie Bridge of legend. Inside the spacious cavern, water droplets pattered like rain on the walls, where two ascetic monks practiced. The external bridge held no special features, though facing Old Monk Rock gave it warmth.

Another three li brought us to Xie Gong Ridge (named after some forgotten Xie, but otherwise unremarkable). Crossing this ridge transformed the landscape—as if heaven and earth had inverted, with jagged rocks provoking continuous exclamations of wonder, surpassing even our awe at Thunder Cliff.

This passage describes the author's observations and reflections while visiting Nanshan (a renowned Daoist mountain):

On the southern slope of Nanshan lies a Wind Cave, where warm air rises from its mouth in winter, and shepherd boys use it as a makeshift stove for warmth. The rock formation at the cave entrance resembles the headwear of ancient officials (襆头), prompting contemplation on whether one should pursue courtly honors or reclusive mountain life. The Lingzhi Peak at the summit stands clearly visible, as if one could pluck its mystical mushrooms—could this be a heaven-sent opportunity? Why are the lingzhi mushrooms (known as the "Five Luminosities and Three Excellences") here so exceptionally abundant, contrary to the Huainanzi's assertion that "lingzhi doesn't grow on ordinary rocks"?

At Twin Bamboo-Shoot Peak, where the stone formations have just shed their bamboo-sheath-like layers, the author sits in meditation (cross-legged, 趺坐) to admire the Reflecting Gallbladder Pool—a name inelegant yet apt, for its waters are as clear as the legendary mirror of the Yellow Emperor. Looking northward, a waterfall cascades in three tiers like the Milky Way pouring from the heavens. During the rainy season, mist swirls through the ever-shifting scenery, making the author lament his lack of painterly skill to capture its beauty. Lingfeng Temple proves to be merely a thatched hut, where monks brew tea with Yanshan leaves and pool water, creating a nectar-like brew.

Though the Five Elders Peak lacks the serenity of Baiyue Mountain, its orderly arrangement resembles examination hall seating. Ascending to Arhat Cave initially seems easy, but the climb requires scaling over six hundred steps. Inside, statues of Guanyin (the Great Being) and arhats are enshrined, with the most striking being the ancient statue of尊者诺讵那 (one of the Eighteen Arhats). A square pool carved with "Place for Cleansing the Heart" (浣心处) likely bears the mark of the same recluse who named the Reflecting Gallbladder Pool. The cave's damp depths, overgrown with moss, make the descent more arduous than the ascent.

Finally passing through Echoing Ridge, the author encounters unnamed wondrous trees whose bark seems colored by otherworldly hues. A few households dwell in the mountains, living the hermetic life of gathering herbs and "plowing clouds." The author muses that planting peaches and plums here would bring sufficient contentment—why seek the Daoist transcendence of "ascending in broad daylight" (白日飞升)? The long-unfulfilled wish to find Jingming Temple lingers as well.

(Note: Special terms like "趺坐" (cross-legged meditation), "诺讵那" (arhat name), and "浣心处" (Place for Cleansing the Heart) are preserved. "Five Luminosities and Three Excellences" refers to lingzhi mushrooms, while "ascending in broad daylight" denotes Daoist immortality—both explained contextually at first occurrence.)

This passage vividly depicts the majestic landscapes of the Lingyan Mountain area, skillfully blending natural wonders with cultural imagery through striking metaphors. As the author travels through the region, waterfalls cascade like beaded curtains, their shifting sounds resembling an old poet chanting verses. The mountain winds howl like a roaring river or arrows cutting through the air (the "Jinpugu" refers to a famous ancient arrow)—these natural symphonies prove more awe-inspiring than poetry itself.

Passing through the Echoing Cliff, reverberations layer upon each other in the canyon like multiple orchestras playing simultaneously. The terrain grows increasingly precipitous, with sheer cliffs flanking the path, forming wonders such as the "Cavern of Mystical Passage" (a natural stone chamber leading to the profound) and the "Cleft of Fleeting Clouds" (a fissure where clouds seem to escape). The streams and mountain flowers clash and frolic, their lively commotion gradually fading after a long while.

Entering the Lingyan territory, two guardian-like peaks named White Cloud Fortress come into view. The mountaintop boulders resemble Buddhist prayer beads, while other formations include the aptly named "Monk's Salutation Stone" (shaped like an elder monk bowing to the Buddha), the iron-plate-like square cliff, and the solitary Alms Bowl Rock. Crossing the stone bridge into the temple, the author is so overwhelmed that his steps falter, admitting that among all the landscapes he’s witnessed, only Mount Hua had ever made him feel so small—yet Lingyan presents an entirely new realm of grandeur.

Beneath the main peak, Pingxia Barrier, stands the Jade Screen Peak like an unfurled folding screen, flanked by the Banner Peak and Celestial Pillar Peak, each towering thousands of zhang high. To the right, the Writing Brush Peak and Twin Phoenix Peaks gather like a celestial convocation, with the Little Dragon Waterfall plunging over two thousand zhang. Craning his neck until it nearly breaks, the author sees only the upper third of the waterfall vanish into mist, while the remaining seven parts cascade with the haughty grace of noble youth. The mountains’ hues of azure and crimson stretch like unrolled brocade in the distance—the Banner Peak resembles a folded fan, while the Celestial Pillar Peak rises abruptly from the plain, its sheer verticality dwarfing all surrounding peaks.

Confronted with such magnificence, the author’s chest swells as if a great river surges within him, compelling him to call for wine to match the moment. Through dynamic metaphors and progressively unfolding perspectives, the passage masterfully captures Lingyan Mountain’s sublime fusion of grandeur, peril, and elegance.

This passage recounts the author's extraordinary encounter in the deep mountains. As dark clouds gathered overhead, the author hurriedly sought shelter—before reaching any dwelling, hailstones already pelted the rooftiles. This experience taught him the necessity of mastering mountain survival skills.

After a meal, he met a local monk who spoke of the miraculous Dragon's Nose Spring. Packing his belongings, the author followed the monk through treacherous bamboo-covered paths. Jagged rocks and indistinguishable vegetation created a sea of green. The monk used his wooden staff to disperse dozens of coiled snakes before pushing aside a massive boulder, revealing an open space with inscriptions by the reclusive Huian Elder.

After another half-mile into the valley, their path became carpeted with southern star grass and hibiscus leaves, tangled with slippery, foul-smelling vines. Water cascaded horizontally across the rocks, creating the illusion of a ruptured sky. Crawling on all fours through the difficult ascent, they finally reached a cave. Suddenly, a colossal dragon emerged coiling from the southwestern gorge—its scales bristling like a porcupine's quills, lowering a gourd-sized nose with two nostrils.

One nostril dripped springwater into a square stone basin, while a bronze-colored dragon claw protectively cupped the nose, its surface so polished it blurred the line between stone and living dragon. The author stood terrified, hairs standing on end, as the opposite Dragon Pool roared like naval warfare, with lightning striking the cave mouth. Companions cried out to Bodhisattvas for mercy, and though the author maintained outward composure, he feared revealing himself like Lord Ye who professed love for dragons yet fled from the real thing.

Legend claims this dragon-nose water brightens vision, perhaps transformed from ten-thousand-year-old stone marrow. The cave entrance faces the Jade Maiden Peak, evoking images of celestial maidens washing their hair daily in these waters. Yet the treacherous paths forbid light-footed lotus steps. The Writing Brush Peak stands with vigorous poise, while the Twin Phoenix Peaks seem to have flown from Mount Tai to roost here. The Solitary Beauty Peak pierces the clouds, its summit crowned by ancient pines amidst sheer cliffs—prompting the lament: "I cannot ascend, nor can you descend; why such extremity?" The old pines seem to whisper in reply: "Not arrogance, but refusal to be cultivated by human hands."

Heading west past the Immortal's Bridge, they witnessed a waterfall churning like a white serpent, its snow-white rapids too terrifying for prolonged viewing. Two miles away, a geyser erupted two feet high, falling like sword rain. Returning with brief respite, the author remained perplexed by these profound mysteries.

This passage recounts the author's visit to Tianzhu Mountain, a renowned Daoist sacred site. Waking at dawn before the Great Hero Hall, the writer hurried outside to admire the mountain scenery, discovering Tianzhu Peak appearing ever more wondrous veiled in mist. The text describes numerous extraordinary sights: the Meditation Valley shrouded in swirling clouds, the Heaven's Ear Cave shaped like a human auricle, and summit boulders resembling vivid toads, rabbits and tortoises. Outside the mountain gate, an ancient iron-hued tree captivated lingering gazes.

While crossing the bridge to leave, the author observed clouds between two peaks drifting like precisely cut purple brocade. Suddenly understanding the origin of the "White Cloud Fort" place name—where perpetual mists envelop the area like a mountain stronghold. Further along, the Flowing Rosy Cloud Cliff appeared with walls like moving dawn light, while the Guanyin Cliff stood perilously sheer, its shifting mists playing hide-and-seek with visitors.

At the abandoned Stone Gate Temple ruins, local legends tell of stone arhats in Luohan Cave that flew from Fujian—likely celestial beings in disguise. The Ever-Cloud Peak remained perpetually fog-shrouded, and Daoist Pine Cave derived its name from ascetics who cultivated there. Along the path stood peaks resembling an angry standing giant, cliffs called "Cloud-Linking Barrier", and jagged summits piercing the sky like crab claws or scissors. Finally passing the Tiger-Head shaped King Yan's Nose Cave, the author traversed deep valleys where only thunderous echoes could be heard, until rounding a bend to behold white water pillars—whether dragon or waterfall uncertain—cascading down sheer precipices. The vivid account captures this Daoist mountain's fairyland scenery of ever-shifting clouds and fantastical rock formations.

The text recounts the author's experiences and impressions while visiting famous mountains and scenic landscapes.

The opening describes the awe-inspiring sight of the Nuojuna Waterfall Viewing Platform: the waterfall roars with majestic power, while the deep pool below appears perilously dark and unfathomable, evoking a sense of reverence. Only after some familiarity does the initial fear gradually subside. Painters, no matter how skilled, can only capture a fraction of its divine essence. The author observes quietly—at first glance, the waterfall resembles gray salt pouring through mist; its midsection churns like windblown snow, while the cascading spray resembles white smoke enveloping wonders akin to "a hundred falling stars" and "nine dragons playing with pearls."

The text mentions an accomplished monk, Master Jun, who was exceptionally eloquent. From the viewing platform, one can see the "Never-Enough Pavilion," with strange peaks towering behind and roaring waves stretching before. The author muses about building a small retreat here for summer respite and even whimsically considers borrowing a ten-thousand-foot pine from Mount Kuocang. Five li above the Great Dragon Waterfall lies an emerald pool where, during the Zhengde era of the Ming dynasty, two monks from Mount Wutai once cultivated their practice. After their passing, the pool was said to be reclaimed by dragons.

Thirty li further up is Dang Lake, where Song dynasty travelers reportedly spotted wild geese. Though a bird's path leads there, heavy rain and overgrown grass prevented the author from venturing onward. Instead, he exits the mountains via Jinxi Stream, feeling as though his body has been cleansed by the cascading mists and waterfalls. After traveling seven li, he passes the Ancient Pagoda Temple but, pressed for time, does not ascend to Huayang Cave. The scenery of Plum Rain Cliff is overshadowed by the Great Dragon Waterfall; Zhuo Dao Peak resembles the dagger of Lady Xu, while Pearl-Cradling Peak looks like a playful pearl nestled between valleys.

Crossing several streams, he arrives at Nengren Temple, where the howling of countless trees fills the mountain air, yet an uncanny stillness lingers behind the temple. Descending along the left ridge, he encounters an eight-foot water screen. Crossing Xingchun Bridge into the temple grounds, he gazes at Flaming Peak—unapproachable in the distance—while Dachen Peak seems close enough to pluck stars from the sky. Swallowtail Spring sprays jade-like droplets, often shrouded in mist. Inside the temple stand two massive cauldrons, said to be imperial gifts from the Song dynasty, capable of feeding a thousand monks—a poignant reminder of its former glory, now faded into desolation.

Finally, he ascends Danfang Ridge via Jinzhu Ravine, traditionally believed to be where Xie Lingyun (Duke Kang Le) halted his mountain explorations. Mountains and waters reveal themselves by fate, appearing and vanishing in their own time, beyond human striving. Danfang Ridge is treacherously steep, requiring forty-nine winding turns to reach the summit.

Standing atop the mountain and gazing back, I saw hundreds of extraordinary peaks resembling the dormant army of Tang dynasty general Guo Ziyi—though their banners were furled, their spear-tips and halberd-blades remained keenly visible, as if ready to spring into action at any moment. Midway down the slope, these peaks transformed into ritual vessels displayed in Zhou dynasty ancestral temples—the vermilion bows from the Eastern Chamber (ancient eastern wing of temple complexes), the bronze sacrificial tripods from the Western Gallery, and the celestial jade orbs symbolizing the Mandate of Heaven, all arrayed with solemn dignity.

From the summit's vantage, the eastern and western valleys appeared like a walnut shell ingeniously cradling its kernel. Along the path, purple tea plants, golden thread-like ferns, fragrant houttuynia herbs, silver pheasants, mountain songbirds, and white-whiskered gibbons revealed themselves in fleeting glimpses. Though merely skimming the surface of Yandang Mountain's wonders, these encounters were profoundly arresting.

Some claim autumn best suits Yandang excursions, yet I deliberately came in May. While certain sea-of-clouds spectacles might elude me, I prefer not exhausting all marvels in one visit—preserving some mist-veiled mystery proves more rewarding. Places like White Cloud Cave and White Cloud Fortress atop Ling Peak possess an ethereal quality that even Tang painter Li Sixun, given months to contemplate, could scarcely capture. It's precisely these ever-shifting mists that forge Yandang's transcendent beauty.

Gathering clouds condense into rain; pooling waters converge as waterfalls. Tasting these springs reveals their origins—they nourish Dragon Pool Falls' thunderous grandeur. Without this season's abundant flow, who could witness such magnificence? Come crisp autumn days, I'll scale summits and traverse foothills with the vigor of Ge Slope's legendary dragon-riding immortals. Autumn has its clarity, but these swirling mists are this moment's exclusive spectacle—what room remains for regret?