《天下名山記》Vol. 6

The "Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven" documents Ming Dynasty literatus Wang Siren's travels to Mount Wutai. The opening reflects on nature's transformations, noting how wind and rain shift unpredictably while snow-capped mountains endure eternally. The author recounts how Monk Yuefeng of Yunnan once spoke of Mount Wutai's "Buddha snow" that never melts across millennia, prompting his winter pilgrimage during the Wanli era's Gengxu year.

Guided by local scholar Zheng Zhenzhi, they followed the Hutuo River upstream, hearing mountain streams murmur like Buddhist chants. At Guifeng Temple, they encountered iron-hard cliffs requiring vine-assisted ascent. The summit held sheer precipices and clear springs—a refuge during Jiajing-era invasions where villagers endured three days of arrow storms. An elderly monk served coarse grains while recounting those hardship years.

Their forty-li journey through desolate trails revealed homes equipped with waterwheels and windbreaks. At Secret Temple (now called Mimoya, "Demon-Concealing Cliff")—Tang Dynasty monk Mucha's meditation site—the path hung like spider silk. As temple bells faded into freezing dusk mist, men and horses curled up to rest. Zheng drank heartily while the author, lulled by pine winds, dreamed his spirit hovered above the western cliffs.

During next morning's Buddhist rites, the mountains appeared like square containers. Inquiring about "Mystic Demons," monks only frowned. The Samādhi Scripture records how Mañjuśrī once obliterated billions of demon palaces in an instant, terrifying demon king Papiyas into prostration—perhaps the cliff's namesake. Westward lay Feinü Cliff, where legend tells of a Daizhou maiden who grew wings mid-fall when fleeing forced marriage. Thereafter, the peaks grew steeper. Amid bitter winds and ominous clouds, sparse snowflakes soon blanketed their robes in white.

(Note: Mount Wutai is among Buddhism's Four Sacred Mountains. Mimoya legends connect to Mañjuśrī's subjugation of demons. "Samādhi" denotes meditative absorption; Papiyas is Buddhism's lord of illusion.)

On Mount Duoyi in Yuzhang (present-day Jiangxi region), there once grew primeval trees of exceptional quality. Yet the resident monks, finding the mountain too desolate and inaccessible—and unwilling to labor at felling them—resorted to setting wildfires across the slopes. The charred stumps left behind were called "firewood timber" by locals. After rains, these remnants would burst with renewed vitality, producing giant mushrooms as large as bushel baskets—the legendary "Celestial Blossom Fungi." A single specimen gathered by a shepherd boy could be traded for a bolt of fine silk.

These ancient trees had originally absorbed the numinous energy (Qi) of the Western Dui trigram (one of the Eight Trigrams/Bagua, representing marsh) and endured centuries of wind and frost. Even if ten thousand oxen tried to drag them away, they would stubbornly twist their roots toward the Yangtze. In truth, these stumps brimmed with spiritual potency—why must they be compared to the towering old trees of Lu (symbolizing the Central Plains) to be valued? Now scorched, rotten, and trampled, they’re treated as less significant than the six-foot elms of my hometown.

When blizzards sealed the mountain, even horses lost their way. We took shelter at Lion’s Den, where predecessors had witnessed lions roaring toward the heavens amid ten thousand golden rays. A Buddhist stupa stood there, its wind chimes ringing with crystalline clarity. By dawn, snow piled several feet deep. Donning fur caps, we climbed Lion Ridge with Qin-like austerity (referring to ascetics), and as we crossed Golden Pavilion Peak, the skies abruptly cleared. Sunlight and snow glare fused into blinding whiteness, leaving the world monochrome.

In this primordial snowscape where all ravines were leveled, only a thread of blue sky divided heaven and earth. Had the cosmos not tempered its radiance, humans would’ve been utterly disoriented in this vastness. We advanced like seals stamping wax, each step tentative. Without our monk-guide’s terrain knowledge, we’d have plunged—sedan chairs and all—into snowy abysses to join bronze camels and jade steeds (metaphors for ancient relics). Only then did I grasp the wisdom of Yuan An (Eastern Han recluse), who famously shut his door against snowstorms.

By afternoon, we reached Lesser Qingliang Terrace and encountered the Prajna Boulder. This fifty-foot square monolith accommodated crowds yet repelled oxen and horses—proof of its sentience. Behind the temple, two pillars framed a sheer cliff over Brocade Gorge, where water chimed like zithers and stone drums. I lingered, longing to drink wine and compose poetry here. They say Zen Master Yuefeng once chanted mantras to revive dry springs on ancient Qingliang Mountain. Eighteen years prior, we’d vowed to visit Han Mountain together; now I bowed before spiderwebbed monastic robes. That night, as sutras echoed, Buddhist drums shook snow from pine boughs, and midnight shone moon-bright—indistinguishable from the luminous waters of Lingxing or the celestial fabrics of Tuṣita (both Buddhist pure lands).

At dawn, we returned to Lesser Qingliang Terrace and ascended Golden Pavilion Temple. Its vermilion eaves bridged mountain chasms, while palm-leaf scriptures hid among a thousand crags. The temple’s towering Buddha statue should’ve inspired awe, but moth-eaten banners and moss-choked lotus pedestals rendered it absurd—the structure was crumbling. A few miles onward...

The newly crafted Buddha statues at Pumen Jingshe (a Buddhist practice site) were exquisitely made, prompting eunuchs from the palace to vie with one another, each striving to outdo the others. In the end, they dipped into the imperial treasury to fund the decorations.

Midway up the cliffside, tiered pavilions were built specifically to attract pilgrims. The mist-shrouded mountain scenery was truly enchanting, with secluded pine-lined paths and lush flowering trees exuding their own unique charm. Taking a shortcut down the ravine from Jiulonggang Ridge, the winding trail spiraled like a corkscrew. Attempting to tread as carefully as a fox, I found massive boulders nearly blotting out the sky, while snow made the mules slip and turned our faces deathly pale. The gnarled, grasping vines of strange trees—who knows how many travelers like me they had obstructed since this mountain first came into being? Catching a distant glimpse of Zhulin Temple’s pagoda spire finally gave me hope, but it still took endless twists and turns before I arrived.

The abbot, Master Cheng, was a cultivated and literary practitioner, though the austere mountain life had long put an end to poetic gatherings. I had intended to stay, but I had already arranged to meet Magistrate Liang of Wutai County at Huayuan Temple. Getting there required passing through the Inspection Bureau—originally a military outpost established to suppress bandits, now turned into a marketplace selling rice noodles and liquor. Some monks gambled and drank heavily, tarnishing Buddhism’s reputation. Even more outrageous was the rampant intermarriage among monks on Mount Wutai, with the temples turning a blind eye. Does the Buddha truly not mind such things, treating all with equal indifference?

Huayuan Temple, bearing the ancient plaque "Dafu Lingjiu" inscribed by Emperor Ming of Han, is said to be the oldest monastery on Mount Wutai. Legend holds that the Western Regions monk Tenglan, using divine sight, perceived Manjushri Bodhisattva residing here. Magistrate Liang had already left, but at least I managed to partake of the temple’s vegetarian meal. The place was grand indeed, with the imperial court even donating gilded tiles for the main hall, and its "unrestricted alms-giving" feasts were extravagantly lavish. I recalled how during Shanxi’s great famine, the temple had sheltered thousands of refugees—people who huddled naked in caves at night, surviving only through the relief efforts of monks from Sichuan. Such merit surely built blessings for lifetimes.

The next day, I climbed to Pusa Ding to visit Luohou Temple and spent hours conversing with monks from the Western Regions. Yet I found their practice no different from the locals—all were lifelong ascetics, drinking just a bowl of water and eating seven beans a day. Mount Wutai has only one Manjushri, yet each temple insists on its own legends: Luohou Temple claims Tang-dynasty official Zhang Tianjue witnessed divine lanterns here; Yuanzhao Temple boasts of possessing Buddhist relics; Zhenrong Yuan says the Bodhisattva manifested for seven days to guide artisans in sculpting his image; while Tayuan Temple goes further, telling of a destitute woman who came begging with a dog, leaving behind hair that transformed into golden threads. Truth or fabrication, it’s all just storytelling—harmless fun to listen to.

After a long journey, I arrived at Beishan Temple to find the Vajra Cave perpetually sealed. Legend holds this was where the Buddhas of Three Ages (past, present, and future) and five hundred arhats once cultivated their practice. Visiting ancient monasteries like Santa Temple afterward—though most stood in ruins—I found myself strangely drawn to this aesthetic of broken temple bells, crumbling walls, and impoverished monks. Sipping coarse tea while observing the monks' unconstrained simplicity carried far more flavor than any gilded monastery could offer.

As the sun dipped westward, mist began gathering anew. Mount Wutai's vastness made complete traversal impossible, yet its northeastern peak remained most worthy of ascent. By noon the next day, halfway up Northern Terrace, the wind cut like arrows of frost, leaving us shriveled as dead leaves. Gazing toward Venomous Dragon Pool and Mystic Peak, even our eyes ached from the icy gusts, forcing retreat to Huayan Ridge. From that towering vantage, the pagodas below appeared tiny as needlepoints—finally revealing Wutai's true form as a five-petaled lotus, with what geomancers call the "curled lotus heart" clearly visible to the left. In a daze, I nearly imagined some titan carrying the entire mountain range on his back.

Suddenly clouds parted, sunlight flashed, then snowflakes swirled without warning. Fingers numbed to the brink of tears, we clenched our teeth until reaching Fayun Temple, where the warmth of homecoming proved indescribable. This Ming-dynasty monastery, founded by the meditation master Samadhi Nun, once housed an elder reciting the Avatamsaka Sutra at dawn—his wooden fish's rhythm allegedly reaching Nanjing, astonishing Emperor Hongwu into granting imperial patronage. Though its meditation cells were modest, lifting the window revealed endless emerald peaks blooming like hibiscus—a scholar's perfect retreat. Monks here haul snow by the bucketload year-round, even washing with meltwater in summer. Compared to Jiangnan's monks squandering spring water, such snow usage might invite karmic reckoning.

Young Zheng burst into laughter at my words, hastily warming wine to thaw my bones. At midnight, gales tore tiles from roofs—I rose startled in my robe, though the servant boy seemed unfazed. Dawn brought clarity: viewing Eastern Terrace from Hualin Temple, the slopes glittered like shattered diamonds. However arduous the climb, how could it compare to worldly dust in Chang'an? From Guanyin Platform at Dragon King Hall, ranges surged like violet tidal waves. At Pantian Rock, Yanmen Pass and Beijing spread beneath our feet while sacred peaks Huashan and Taishan seemed to greet each other atop Hengshan's pinnacle. Five hundred li of rivers and mountains unfolded in one glance, yet the ten-thousand-year ice before the terrace never thaws, gleaming jade-green in sunlight.

[Notes: Special terms like "Buddhas of Three Ages" and "Avatamska Elder" are preserved. The "five-petaled lotus" metaphor derives from geomancy classic Qingwu Jing. Samadhi Nun, a Ming-dynasty bhikkhuni, was renowned for her meditative attainments. "Springbright Gate" alludes to Tang-dynasty Chang'an's eastern gate, here symbolizing urban bustle.]

This passage records the author Qiao Yu's journey to and reflections on Mount Heng (the Northern Sacred Peak among China's Five Great Mountains). The opening references the immortal medicines "Black Frost and Crimson Snow" mentioned by the Queen Mother of the West (Xiwangmu), metaphorically suggesting the mountain's snow possesses transcendent qualities. Like Mount Wutai's perpetual snow that only slightly diminishes in April, this echoes records in the Classic of Mountains and Seas (Shanhaijing) about places like Mount Xiaoxian and Kongsang where snow falls even in midsummer.

The author marvels at how Manjusri (one of Buddhism's Four Great Bodhisattvas) can manifest through three incarnations while mastering boundless dharma, whereas ordinary people float through life like tumbleweeds, unable to comprehend such profundity. Personally drawn to austere wintry landscapes, he believes rain reduces worldly distractions while snow purifies the spirit. During this visit, he accidentally wandered into snow-misted peaks that transported him back to primordial times—making even King Mu of Zhou's legendary "Eight Steeds Journey to Yellow Bamboo" seem naive by comparison.

The latter section details Mount Heng's geographical context: located south of Hunyuan Prefecture where Emperor Shun once traveled north. The Commentary on the Water Classic (Shuijingzhu) records its height as 3,900 zhang, while the Register of Blessed Lands (Fudiji) describes its circumference as 130 li. Having lived near Baiyan in the Taihang Mountains for over twenty years longing to visit, the author finally realized his dream in 1506 when dispatched as an envoy to the Western Regions. He depicts the mountain's majestic peaks piercing the clouds, their summits bathed in blazing sunlight. Ascending northward along the eastern slope, he encountered exotic flora unlike common peach and plum trees. Resting midway, he gazed into bottomless chasms as if suspended in emptiness. Seven li further brought him to Tiger Wind Pass, where ancient pines and cypresses stood with dragon-like contorted branches and roots radiating powerfully in all directions.

This passage recounts the author's journey to Mount Yanmen and his reflections on the experience.

At Mount Yanmen, the author observed exceptionally lush forests and was told by locals that the mountain deity protected the trees—cutting them would bring misfortune, so no one dared to gather firewood. The path grew increasingly treacherous, and after three li, he reached the Yue Temple, where weathered pillars and ancient statues stood. The author paid his respects with reverence. Above the temple lay the "Flying Rock Grotto," flanked by sheer cliffs with a hollow center. Legend says a rock once flew to Quyang County, where a protruding boulder remains as evidence. Throughout history, those unable to climb the summit worshipped in Quyang instead, believing the mountain’s spiritual power extended there. Every spring, devotees from thousands of li away came to burn incense and pray, and their wishes were said to be answered.

The author inscribed his name on the cliffs and composed poems on steles and in the new temple’s hall. A few dozen steps further stood the Gathering Immortals Terrace, a flat stone platform. From its highest point, he gazed into the distance: to the east lay Yuyang and Shanggu; to the west, the rolling peaks south of Datong; to the north, the landscapes of Hunyuan and Yunzhong; and faintly visible three hundred li south, the Wutai Mountains. Below him were Cuiping, Wufeng, Zhoujin, and Fenglong peaks. This stirred thoughts of Emperor Shun’s ancient assemblies with his ministers, filling him with emotion. He also recalled a dream in the capital where he had climbed high and beheld a similar view—now seeing it in reality, he realized this journey was no coincidence.

Mount Yanmen lies thirty-five li north of Daizhou, named for the wild geese that pass through, hence also called Yanmen Pass. Its strategic terrain made it the most formidable of Shanxi’s forty-plus mountain passes. During the Warring States period, the Zhao general Li Mu and the Han dynasty’s Zhi Du stationed troops here, deterring the Xiongnu from approaching the frontier. By the Ming dynasty, the court appointed military commanders and censors to oversee the region, underscoring its importance. Traveling north from Daizhou, the author followed winding mountain paths alongside murmuring streams, passing villages nestled against the slopes—a breathtaking sight. At noon, he ascended the pass and climbed the western ridge.

Gazing from the mountain summit in all directions, Mount Wutai of Fanzhi towers in the east, the Ningwu mountain range encircles the west, the Zheng Yang Shigu Mountain stands proudly to the south, while the northern view extends to the borderlands of Shuozhou's Mayi region. The endless expanse of steep slopes and cliffs stretches before the eyes, with banners fluttering atop distant city walls. The ancient frontier fortress, veiled by sparse winter woods, appears especially desolate in the setting sun. This vista inevitably evokes the majestic imagery of the frontier's yellow sands, inspiring me to compose three poems atop the watchtower.

Travelogue of Mount Wutai (by Qiao Yu)

In the summer of the Bingyin year of the Zhengde reign [1506 CE], I departed from Shajian Post Station and entered the mountains via Nanyu Pass after fifteen li. Towering ancient pines and emerald firs shaded the valley, where wild deer frolicked among the rocks and birds sang in the dense groves. Upon reaching Huayan Pass ridge, the five sacred peaks of Wutai appeared startlingly close—here, numinous clouds interwove with biting wind and snow, shifting between gloom and clarity in a spectacle beyond verbal description. Descending along the perilous Eighteen Bends path, the rugged stone trail proved arduous, while ten thousand mountain streams produced crystalline sounds resembling reed-pipes and vertical flutes. After trekking seventy li, I arrived at Xiantong Temple, nestled against the northern ridge amidst sublime scenery, surrounded by dozens of Buddhist monasteries. The terrain gradually leveled here, and I lodged at Xiantong Temple that evening.

At dawn the next day, the mountain air was crystalline, alive with the whispering of wind through the forests. A monk cautioned that each summit was battered by violent storms, with icy steps and muddy paths making ascent inadvisable. Smiling at this warning, I proceeded by sedan chair directly toward Central Peak. After ten li along the ridge stood Yuting Temple, its vermilion halls glowing against the mountainside. Another ten li brought us to Joy Ridge, where indeed a gale worthy of midwinter nearly halted our progress. Pausing briefly below the ridge, the winds abruptly abated, allowing our final ascent. From the summit, the other four peaks stood in harmonious contrast—each uniquely positioned yet unified, as if competing in splendor above the clouds. I inscribed my name upon the rock face before descending at dusk to visit the secluded ancient monasteries of Yuhua, Zhenrong, and Yuantong. Nearby flowed the Three Pearl Spring, whose sweet, icy waters bubbled upward like dancing pearls. A hundred paces away grew the Seven Jewel Pearl Tree—its main trunk twenty feet tall, dividing into seven branches below only to reunite above, its luxuriant foliage spreading in all directions yet ultimately returning to the single source.

Setting out from the temple, we continued our journey through the mountains the next day. Passing by the Yangboyu Temple at Fanxian Mountain, we trekked twenty li to reach the Bamboo Forest Temple. Crossing a ridge called Jinge Ridge, where Emperor Taizong of Tang had once built the Golden Pavilion Hall—now long abandoned—we descended to Qingliang Temple. From afar, its palace-like structures clung to the mountainside like a painted masterpiece. To the south lay an enormous Qingliang Stone, several zhang in circumference, its layered surface resembling steps; legend claims it could seat a thousand people. After another ten li, we arrived at Foguang Temple by evening to rest, now already beyond the Southern Terrace.

This account of Huo Mountain records Qiao Yu’s observations. Departing from Zhaocheng in early summer, he visited the lands where King Mu of Zhou had enfeoffed Zaofu before heading to Zhongzhen Mountain. Coinciding with a break in the rain, he entered the valley mouth and traveled fifteen li to the foot of Zhongzhen Mountain, whose majestic peaks rivaled the Five Sacred Mountains. The temple stood at the base, where he paid respects to the statue of the Zhongzhen deity, clad in imperial robes and seated facing south. He was accompanied by Provincial Administrator Ru Li and Assistant Surveillance Commissioner Bo Shao. Reflecting on his family history, Qiao Yu noted that his ancestor had, in the first year of the Jingtai era (1450), proclaimed the ascension of a new emperor here as a supervising secretary of the Office of Scrutiny for Personnel. Nearly sixty years later, he now undertook a similar mission, prompting both officials to remark on this rare generational continuity.

Upon seeing the historical steles of imperial proclamations, he found his ancestor’s tablet broken and toppled, bringing him to tears. The two officials consoled him, explaining that a new stele had been prepared for engraving the updated proclamation, and fortunately, the original text still survived in copies. Outside the temple, the mountains encircled the site like a embrace, with ancient pines towering several zhang high, their gnarled branches resembling blue banners—all stretching eastward. On the fourteenth, the officials invited him to visit Xingtang Temple, located at the southern foothills. Built by Emperor Taizong of Tang, only fragmented steles remained, but the scenery—nestled between mountain and water—was breathtaking. That night, he again lodged in the temple’s fasting quarters.

At dawn on the fifteenth, dressed in solemn black ceremonial robes, Qiao Yu reverently performed the imperial proclamation rites before the temple hall on behalf of the Son of Heaven. The new proclamation was engraved onto the stele, alongside a re-engraving of his ancestor’s fractured inscription. Though he wished to ascend the summit, the remaining thirty li were overgrown with thorns, and rumors of bears and snakes deterred him. He recalled ancient texts praising Huo Mountain’s abundance of pearls and jade, yet their exact locations were now forgotten.

In my youth while reading the "Tribute of Yu" chapter of the Book of Documents, I was always captivated by the account of Yu the Great channeling the Yellow River through Jishi Mountain and Longmen (Dragon Gate) Mountain, longing to see these places. Now, having the honor to conduct sacrificial rites in the western regions and pay respects at King Tang of Shang's temple—just thirty li from Hejin County—with two talented companions accompanying me, we set out from Hejin's west gate under dark clouds, with howling winds shaking the trees, yet our spirits undimmed. Braving the drizzle along the stone plank road, we first paid homage at the Temple of Divine Yu.

The temple walls were covered with murals depicting flood control stories, with scenes of Yu's labors arranged sequentially on the eastern and western sides, each annotated with classical quotations. The exquisite and extraordinary artistry surpassed any paintings I had ever seen. On the eastern wall was Snowy Cascades of Xuedou, painted by Xitianzhang of Yao Prefecture; on the western wall, Ancient Cypress Shrouded in Mist was the work of Su'an of Jinxi; the rear wall featured Lifting the Stone to Seek the Pearl and Waves Breaking Through the Surface; while the front lintel bore Evening Ferry on the Spring River, painted by Xuexuan Chengyi. These were likely masterpieces from the Song and Yuan dynasties. After inscribing our names on a pillar, my two friends hosted a wine gathering at Feidan Pavilion.

Looking down, we saw the Yellow River surging from the northwest, its roaring waves tumbling downstream, the wind and rain intensifying its force, shaking the cliffs with thunderous echoes. After three rounds of wine, our spirits soared, and we had the boatmen cast nets by the riverbank, catching three fish, which we cooked and enjoyed with more wine, composing linked verses late into the night. The next day, ascending Wanghe Tower, we gazed at the distant mountains and rivers, peering down at the torrents beneath the hundred-zhang cliffs, recalling the ancient admonition: "The son of a wealthy family does not sit beneath a sagging roof." The western bank belonged to Hancheng in Shaanxi, where the mountains were also called Longmen, standing opposite those on the eastern shore. The Records of the Three Qins notes that beyond Longmen, there are hanging springs, with steep cliffs on both sides making passage impossible even for fish and turtles—a sight confirmed by what we witnessed that day.

Continuing our journey along the eastern bank, we discovered a towering boulder amid dense foliage. Impulsively, I inscribed "Longmen" in seal script, composed two poems, and later wrote a piece titled Crossing at Yu's Gate.

On the seventh day of the seventh month, we departed from the western side of Taiyuan. A National Academy student named Song Hao, renowned for his seal carving skills, joined our expedition. Traveling forty-five li southwest, we reached the original fief of Tang Shuyu of Zhou (founder of the Jin State), where the Jin Shrine stands southwest of Taiyuan County. Alighting to pay respects, we noticed the Jinyuan Temple of the Water God to the shrine's right, its Sage Mother Hall adorned with gilded carved dragons coiling around pillars and a Song dynasty plaque inscribed "Huiyuan Shrine."

East of the temple gushes a spring originating from Mount Xuanweng, splitting into two bubbling streams (each about two feet wide) that flow into stone channels, forming creeks. The water turns northward before bending east, creating an intricate irrigation network nourishing farmlands across forty li. This water source enables Jinyang locals to cultivate rice paddies. Every early autumn, villagers bring livestock and fine wine for water deity sacrifices, forming continuous processions along the roads.

During our visit at peak farming season, tender seedlings carpeted the fields, crisscrossed by clear streams embracing emerald plots. Willow branches swayed gently amid wildflowers, composing a refreshing waterscape. These canals trace back to the very channels Zhi Bo used to flood Jinyang during the Spring and Autumn period, eventually merging into the Fen River. Inside the shrine stands Emperor Taizong of Tang's inscribed stele, flanked by Tang-Song era stone carvings and ancient cypresses—their jet-black trunks supporting verdant canopies alive with birdsong. Beneath willow shade, Scholar Song and I composed impromptu verses for him to engrave on the shrine walls.

Another shrine, the Fenyang Temple, lies ten li northeast of Ronghe. Having just witnessed the new emperor's enthronement rites at the Shang Tang King Shrine, two ministers suggested: "An ancient shrine nearby warrants inspection while the retinue rests." On the twenty-sixth, we trekked ten li northwest to discover this abandoned temple leaning against the Sui River. Creaking gates revealed sunlit beams piercing the central hall, where bird nests clung to rafters and moss climbed steps. We bowed before the deity statue crowned with jade and robed in pheasant-patterned ceremonial garb, then circled northward seeking Emperor Wu of Han's altar before ascending the legendary Yellow Emperor's suburban sacrifice platform.

The text describes the landscapes and histories of two distinct locations. The first section depicts scenes along the Fen River: about three hundred paces from the ancestral temple, the river flows swiftly, flanked by a towering stone stele mounted on a buried tortoise-shaped base (qiongui refers to the turtle-shaped pedestal). The inscription records Emperor Zhenzong of Song's western tour. Moved by the sight, the author and companions summoned workers to restore the monument, securing it with wooden stakes and ropes to re-erect it beside the temple. They reflected on how this was the very site where Emperor Wu of Han once performed distant sacrifices—a place once so strictly guarded that even seasoned travelers struggled to access it, now reduced to wanderable ruins. Drinking atop the platform, they boarded boats drifting southward, admiring the mist-shrouded Dragon Gate and the Zhongtiao Mountains' beauty while reciting the "Ode to Autumn Wind" in nostalgic reverence.

The second section introduces Gu Dui Spring: among Taiyuan's southwestern springs, the Jin Temple Spring benefits the people most; in Pingyang, the Dragon Temple Spring holds prominence, while north of Jiangzhou, Gu Dui Spring reigns supreme. Originating west of Jiuyuan Mountain, its name bears two explanations—some say it derives from two drum-shaped hills nearby, others claim the earthen mound (dui) over the spring resembles an upturned pot that echoes like a drum when stepped on. The spring has twin sources: a clear northern outlet with a stone-lined pool spanning ten square feet, alive with darting fish, and a turbid southern earthen outlet. Both streams merge eastward in their final course.

The passage depicts two scenic landscapes. The first part describes the plateau scenery near Jiangzhou (present-day Jiang County, Shanxi): flat farmlands stretch to both north and south, irrigated by natural springs, with villages dotting the landscape. To the east, cultivated fields extend continuously for about fifty li (Chinese miles) toward Jiangzhou, while the southern boundary connects with the Fen River, a major waterway in Shanxi. On the western side stand two mountains where ancient scholars once built pavilions. Three spacious chambers remain today, their walls embedded with stone inscriptions from the Tang and Song dynasties, including works by the literary figure Fan Zongshi and the historian Sima Guang (courtesy name Junshi). The southern slope features a lotus pond—though the flowers had yet to bloom, their delicate fragrance could be caught by leaning close. Gazing into the distance, one sees intricate field paths nearby and endless emerald rice paddies stretching thousands of acres afar, inspiring poetic reverie. Moved by the view, the author composed verses by the spring before departing.

The second part documents the source of the Hutuo River (originating in Shanxi). Traveling fifty li west from Wangzhuang Post Station and passing through Pingxing Pass, one arrives at Gushan Village (named after Little Solitary Mountain, recorded in the Classic of Mountains and Seas as Mount Qinxi, the birthplace of the Hutuo River). West of the village, three springs form a tripod-like arrangement, spaced merely fifty paces apart. Each spring mouth measures about one chi (foot) wide, with crystal-clear water gushing forth, bubbles swirling like pearls, and currents intertwining in mesmerizing patterns. Stepping down to the springs, the author marveled: "These waters are like divine nectar, the essence of heaven and earth, capable of washing away worldly cares." Cupping the water to drink, he felt instantly refreshed and, facing Mount Wutai, burst into song. The springs converge into a stream, its bed adorned with glistening pebbles, forming small islets and shallows as it rushes westward. Unobstructed by reeds or boats, the stream retains its pristine clarity until merging with the turbid rivers of Pingshan and Changshan, eventually flowing toward the sea. Just as the author lingered in admiration, colorful clouds drifted from Mount Heng (the Northern Sacred Peak) to reflect upon the stream, blending water and mountain hues into breathtaking harmony. As he prepared to depart, a sudden storm swept in, whipping up dust and wind, forcing a hasty farewell to the springs.

This passage records the travel accounts of two literati exploring famous mountains, which I will analyze in two parts:

The first part describes Qiao Yu's journey to Mount Guye. This mountain, mentioned in the Zhuangzi as the dwelling place of divine beings, is located fifteen li southwest of Xiangling County in Shanxi. On the morning of the eighth day of the fifth lunar month, Qiao Yu and two companions departed from Yao Temple, observing the mountain's three-tiered, terrace-like formation. To the north lay Longdou Valley with its shrine dedicated to the Dragon Deity. They visited this east-facing shrine containing a crowned dragon king statue, where a mountain spring flowed eastward past the temple's southern side, feeding an observation pavilion. The trio drank wine and composed poetry in the pavilion before ascending halfway up the mountain to discover the spring's source—hundreds of bubbling outlets scattered like stars, their waters converging into irrigation channels that nourished farmlands for over forty li before joining the Fen River. At dusk, they admired the distant forested plains before returning to stay at Xiangling's government hostel, where the murmuring springs kept them awake all night with tea and poetic inspiration.

The second part documents Du Mu's exploration of Mount Dizhu. Located fifty li east of Jiazhou in Henan amidst the Yellow River, this pillar-shaped mountain (referenced in the Shangshu's "Tribute of Yu" as where Yu "channeled the river to Dizhu") earned its name from its columnar form. On the yimao day, Du Mu traveled twenty li from the prefectural city for lunch, then another twenty li along the Yellow River before reaching Sanmen Jijin after ten more li. Here lay three perilous river gates: the central Divine Gate (Shenmen), southern Ghost Gate (Guimen), and northern Human Gate (Renmen)—all notorious rapids of the Yellow River.

The "Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven" documents the landscapes of the Sanmenxia Gorge (anciently called "Dizhu") on the Yellow River and Mount Longmen. Regarding Sanmenxia, this area was originally a single massive flat boulder. Legend says Yu the Great split this rock with three channels during his flood control efforts, allowing the Yellow River to divide its flow. When the waters rush through these gorges, they produce thunderous roars—the most treacherous section being the so-called "Ghost Gate," where few vessels that enter emerge safely, making the name thoroughly deserved.

Sanmenxia spans about twenty zhang in width. One hundred fifty paces east stands Dizhu Mountain, approximately three zhang tall with a circumference of several zhang. Tang Taizong's stele inscription was said to have been carved here, though no trace remains today. Both Cai's writings and local gazetteers mistakenly identified Sanmenxia as Dizhu Mountain—an error resulting from their authors never visiting the site. The Book of Sui records that in the seventh year of the Daye era, Dizhu Mountain collapsed, blocking the Yellow River and causing reverse flow for dozens of li. Yet the present Dizhu still stands mid-river, devoid of any structures, with a channel width matching Sanmenxia's. A collapse causing such massive backflow seems impossible here—more likely, landslides from adjacent cliffs were misattributed to Dizhu.

The Longmen account describes Ming scholar Lü Nan's pilgrimage to Mount Longmen. Straddling the Shaanxi-Shanxi border, this site represents Yu the Great's most formidable engineering challenge and is considered the world's premier scenic wonder. Though Lü long desired to visit, he only realized this ambition in the fourth month when joining companions on an excursion. Departing separately and meeting in rain, they were rewarded with clear skies the next day. En route through Xinfeng, they paid respects at Zixia's shrine before braving fierce winds to reach Yu's Temple. Locals claim pork consumption before visiting provokes gales—unverified, but the group donned extra robes at Fusheng Temple before ascending via cliffside plank paths to worship before Yu's summit statue.

These records capture both the Yellow River's strategic topography and literati tracing Yu's legacy, embodying the ancient scholarly ideal of "reading ten thousand scrolls while traveling ten thousand li."

This passage from Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven chronicles the author's visit to the Yu the Great Temple at Dragon Gate Mountain:

Fierce winds whipped up sand and stones, shaking pine and cypress trees as heaven and earth darkened—it seemed as if we were witnessing Yu the Great's legendary feat of commanding spirits while wielding his thunder-axe to cleave open Dragon Gate. When preparing our vegetarian feast, we deliberately avoided pork. Upon entering the main hall, attendants placed wine vessels on the altar. Master Neibin remarked that since Yu detested fine liquor, we should abstain, but Master Guquan laughed that this was merely common wine. As we dined, the winds ceased abruptly, only for us to discover pork-filled buns—contrary to local lore. Villagers explained these daily river gales occur when Yellow River mists collide with the mountain walls, creating swirling currents between the twin peaks.

The temple's golden murals depicting Yu's exploits displayed craftsmanship far surpassing contemporary standards. In the rear hall stood a simple statue of Yu's wife Tushan Shi attended by just two maidens. Climbing southwest to the River-Viewing Pavilion (which Guquan renamed "Cloud-Thunder Pavilion"), this precarious structure perched on Dragon Gate's eastern cliff housed stone chambers with statues of the Ten Yama Kings. Locals said its perilous location mirrored the boundary between life and death. Leaning on the railings, we beheld the Yellow River's torrents swirling through clouds, with Thunderhead Mountain and Middle Ridge Mountain emerging spectrally from the mist.

Descending to Flowing Cinnabar Pavilion—a half-cantilevered structure with cypress pillars and a well-like ceiling opening for drawing river water—we encountered two friends. The pavilion bore an inscribed plaque in seal script by Elder Qiao of White Cliff. Finally, on the western shoals, we saw Neibin darting across boulder fields with impossible swiftness, leaving me breathless in pursuit. Through tempests, ancient shrines, and vertiginous towers, the text vividly conjures Dragon Gate's awe-inspiring landscapes and cultural relics.

This passage describes the landscapes and cultural history of two renowned Daoist sites.

The first section depicts the scenery around Longmen (Dragon Gate) Mountain: the western mountains extend eastward before turning north, obscuring the path of the Yellow River. Standing on the riverbank and looking around, one sees peaks encircling the area like the walls of a courtyard. Ahead, two mountains stand facing each other, with the river flowing through a cavern—hence the name "Dragon Gate." Coal-laden boats can be seen sailing south from Pujin in an endless stream, while the songs of fishermen rise and fall. Some say this is the burial site of Yu the Great, though others disagree. The river islets are lush with green grass, and golden sand glimmers along the banks. Though the waters appear calm, even the raging autumn floods cannot erode the soil here—perhaps evidence of Yu the Great’s flood control efforts. The author reflects on how such a wise ruler could be buried in this place, and his companion Guquanzi mentions that Mount Kuaiji also bears traces of Yu. They had intended to sail north in search of the legendary "Three-Tiered Suspended Rapids," but the journey proved too long.

The latter section recounts a visit to Wangguan Valley, the retreat of Tang-dynasty recluse Sikong Tu (courtesy name Biaosheng), now restored by Xu Dezheng. The author and his companions rode along a stream called Yi Creek, flanked by red persimmons and maples, until the rugged rocks forced them to dismount. A Daoist priest guided them up a hundred stone steps to pay respects at the Jade Emperor Pavilion (Yuhuangge). They then toured the Three Edicts Pavilion (Sanzhaoting), named after Emperor Zhaozong’s three summons for Sikong Tu to serve in office, and the Resting Pavilion (Xiuxiuting), inspired by Sikong’s essay "Record of the Resting Pavilion," which expressed his devotion to reclusion. By evening, they passed the Clarity Pavilion (Liaoliaoting), where scholars Hou and Duan were studying in White Cloud Cave—originally the meditation site of Yuan-dynasty Daoist Li Liaoliao (also known as Master Guyunzi). Finally, standing on the Stone Spring Bridge, they gazed at Tianzhu Peak, surrounded by majestic mountains in a breathtaking panorama.

The Jade Emperor Pavilion enshrines the supreme Daoist deity, while the Three Edicts Pavilion and Resting Pavilion reflect historical and literary themes of reclusion, embodying Daoist ideals of harmony with nature and spiritual cultivation.

This towering peak pierced the clouds, presenting a view utterly different from the bustling streets below. To its south stood even higher mountain ranges that blocked the horizon. At nightfall, we crossed a small bridge and lodged with Mengxue (personal name) in the Stone Spring Cave. Situated at the foot of Tianzhu Peak (mountain name), the cave faced a clear stream diverted from a waterfall spring in the east, which pooled westward into a small pond encircled by railings.

At dawn, we rose to admire the statue of Biaosheng (personal name), whose ethereal, transcendent demeanor was captivating. Reading his Record of Leisure revealed his extraordinary talent and his retreat from public life due to political discord—a true pity. Yet the self-styled title "Enduring Humiliation Hermit" at the end struck me as overly restrained. The cave walls bore numerous poetic inscriptions from Song and Yuan dynasty literati.

A Daoist guide led us up the western slope to view the King of Qin’s Inkstone (scenic spot). This massive inkstone, shaped like a millstone, lacked an inkwell and tapered to a pointed base. Biaosheng had mentioned it in his Mountain Chronicles, speculating it might be a relic from the Qin army’s victory over Jin forces at Wangguan. Instead of retracing our steps, we descended the cliff to see the Twin Stones (scenic spot). These two rocks leaned against Tianzhu Peak’s northwestern face, each topped with a round boulder resembling human faces—or perhaps figures poised to dip brushes into the King of Qin’s Inkstone to the north.

The Daoist wished to guide us further west to Cangyun Cave and north to Reed Spring, where mist often swirled and the water was famously sweet—a site linked to Immortal Maiden Cao (Daoist figure). But we declined, heading straight for Crane Perch Terrace. A waterfall cascaded directly from Tianzhu Peak, with the terrace to its left. Legend held that cranes arrived each February, nested by May, and departed, leaving traces of their straw beds behind.

The four of us settled on rocks east of the terrace, gazing northward at Tianzhu Peak’s sheer grandeur. Reciting the lines "Looking around, clouds and sun cast no shadows—only a lone peak touches the nine heavens," I proposed visiting the eastern waterfall, but the Daoist warned of treacherous paths. A wish to glimpse the Yellow River southward met similar refusal. Sighing, I mused, "How could one ever behold all the world’s wonders?" We turned north instead.

After resting at the Hall of Immortal Gathering, we ventured east to Pig’s Ear Mountain, then southeast to the waterfall district. Climbing the cliffs, we watched the thunderous, snow-like torrents until reluctantly descending. Following the stream north through persimmon groves, we lounged on riverside rocks—Mengxue claimed a solitary islet, while a monk scaled trees for fruit, scattering red leaves like a carpet. Inspired, we composed verses. Servants brought wine from town, and the Daoist prepared fresh fern shoots and autumn chrysanthemums. Rinsing cups in the stream, we drank in turns, our refined joy rivaling the ancient literati’s "floating goblets on winding waters."

I traveled north to the Viewing Spring Pavilion built by Imperial Censor Zhang, where the eastern and western waterfalls converge—the very Zhuo Ying Pool where Tang poet Sikong Tu (courtesy name Biaosheng) once washed his brushes. When I asked the local historians about the pavilions bearing historical traces and Daoist structures like the One-Cry Window, the resident Daoist priests admitted these memories had faded. I remarked to my companion Meng Xue: Though I once dismissed Tang poets lightly, how could someone like Biaosheng be judged merely as a "poet"?

Before dawn the next day, the priests—regretting I'd missed the Immortal Maiden Cave—specially drew water from Reed Spring to cook bean porridge, served with pickled vegetables. After the meal, we headed south from Stone Spring Cave along mountain paths twisting like earthworms, where interlaced pines and cypresses made progress difficult. A black-robed priest pulled us up with ropes until we finally reached Qin Wuyu's Pagoda. Looking north, Emei Slope had vanished—we were already above the clouds.

Climbing further to Li Guyun's Pagoda, I sighed: When the world's noble scholars go unrecognized by the court, must they retreat to such remote places? Is this not the failure of those in power? Circling eastward to the Eight Immortals Cave at mid-slope of Heavenly Pillar Peak, I peered down from the entrance and told Meng Xue: Even Li Guyun's (Tang recluse) famed integrity seems unremarkable from this vantage.

Though the priests warned against ascending the peak's summit, my resolve only strengthened. Near the top, I looked back to see the Eight Immortals Cave dwarfed beneath us. I wondered aloud: Did Biaosheng and Dezheng (another Tang hermit) ever reach this height?

(Shaanxi Section)

Sipping wine in the Empty Emerald Hall, I gazed afar and reflected on past splendor. Valley streams merged with Lord Hu's Spring and White Sand Spring, flowing north into ancient [氵(𦍌/火)] Lake. From the lake's edge south to Embrace-the-Bend Village stretched miles of shimmering water embraced by high banks, where layered mountain peaks inverted in vast emerald waves—an indescribable dance of jade and azure. The lake's southern half lay entirely under mountain shadows, a scene of perfect authenticity. In its heyday, painted pleasure boats...

The Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven passage laments the transformation of scenic landscapes and the human destruction of natural wonders. Using Mount Li as an example, the author contrasts past and present to express grief over the disappearance of these cultural landscapes.

The text first depicts the former beauty of these mountains and waters: the sound of flutes and drums fluttering like embroidered sails, misty rain enveloping boats as serene as those on Shanxi Creek (a famed Zhejiang waterway), with day and night excursions feeling like ascension to immortality. Tang and Song literati either dwelled here in reclusion or traveled through, drawn not only by the rocky cliffs and gullies but especially enchanted by these waters. Yet by the late Yuan dynasty, people began breaching dikes to plant rice, and foreign invasions further damaged the ponds, transforming vast watery expanses into emerald rice fields. The author grieves this destruction of eternal scenic wonders for trivial short-term gains, noting that the Jiangnan region already had thousand-mile lakes—why destroy this particular landscape?

The analysis continues: while dike-breaking for rice cultivation was intended to benefit the people, it ultimately impoverished them further. Heavy rice taxes forced farmers to sell their fields during famine years to repay debts, with lakeside villagers toiling perpetually as tenant farmers for distant landlords. Maintaining the waters would have preserved the poetic interplay of mountain and stream for scholarly enjoyment, and even by pure economic calculation, the yield of fish, lotus roots, water chestnuts and other aquatic crops would have been a hundredfold greater than rice. Commoners could freely harvest these resources, living leisurely without tax collectors' harassment—being fishermen was surely better than being tenants.

Though yearning to restore the waters, the author acknowledges the impracticality: converting fields back to lakes goes against prevailing trends, while transforming lakes to fields follows them. He can only hope that after centuries of geological change, the waters might return—though he'll never see it. Perhaps only transcendent immortals may wander here again.

The Travelogue of Mount Li section recreates historical scenes through an elder's narration: lush forests, mighty flowing waters, ancient cypresses shrouding the ridges. The white-haired guide points to earthen platforms as beacon towers (where King You of Zhou fooled his nobles to amuse Bao Si), identifies clear hot springs as Lady Yang's lotus bathing pools, and indicates ruined walls below as remnants of Qin Shi Huang's mausoleum complex (that extravagant tomb "secured by triple springs and adorned with seven luminaries"). These vivid details resurrect Mount Li's layered historical memories.

Leaning against a pine tree, I gazed at the surrounding landscape, lost in contemplation amidst the vast mountain scenery. Then, pushing aside the wild grass, I sat upon a high cliff and sang in the Chu dialect (from present-day Hubei): "Oh, tiny mountain stream—you'll vanish with the contours of these hills; oh, clear deep pool—your reflections linger empty, holding nothing. Alas, that this very mountain was deemed inauspicious by three generations!" After singing, I bathed in the hot springs, then ascended to the Palace of Laozi (a Daoist structure). Passing by the Stone Urn Temple on the eastern side of the viewing platform, I paused to rest.

Drowsy, I took a brief nap on a monk's bed, when suddenly I dreamed of a man wearing a tall hat and sporting a long beard, who bowed to me and said: "Your words are improper. How could a mountain bring misfortune? If I were to meet a recluse dwelling in these caves and cliffs, would this not be the perfect retreat? You speak of nine-fold screen-like peaks and seven-mile riverbanks—why should they suddenly seem superior to me? Had I encountered a refined scholar like Xie Tiao of Solitary Mountain in Xuancheng, my name would have long been celebrated in poetry—why then should I need to change my surname?" Startled awake, I regretted my careless words and sighed: "How remarkable! Even the Son of Heaven cannot compete with commoners for the beauty of nature, while the fleeting words of poets and scholars sometimes become the highest praise for mountains and rivers. Among today's hermits, who truly holds the favor of these landscapes? I must seek such a person as my teacher."

Excerpt from Wanderings on Mount Zhongnan: In the eighth month of the Guiyou year, while temporarily stationed in Qin (Shaanxi) for official duties, I arranged with my old colleague Tian Younian to admire the mid-autumn moon on Mount Zhongnan. Setting out from the southern city gate, we were joined by the scholar Fei Zhang. Thirty li onward, we passed Fanchuan—once the fief of Han Dynasty's Fan Kuai, later the villa of Tang minister Wei Anshi, also known as Wei Valley. Encircled by ridges, dense with pines and bamboos, its watery fields and vegetable plots interconnected, it was truly a scenic wonder of the Guanzhong region. At Niutou Temple, the monks withdrew upon hearing officials had arrived. We brought out our own wine and drank beneath the pines. The temple once housed the Stele of Chan Master Bianzhao, erected during the Zhenyuan era of Tang by Xu Shilong, but now only the inscribed poems of Eternal Spring Master (Qiu Chuji) remained. Brushing off the dust to read closely, I learned that east of Wei Valley lay Du Valley, home of Tang chancellor Du You. A saying of that time went: "The Weis and Dus south of the city—a mere foot and a half from heaven," describing their proximity to the capital. Du You's grandson Du Mu, after rising from governor of Wuxing to drafter of imperial edicts, spent his entire salary restoring his ancestral home, declaring: "Wealth and rank are fated—I'd rather live out my days as an old man of Fanchuan, keeping company with literature."

(Note: "Changing my surname to Rong" alludes to the practice of altering one's name to avoid misfortune; "Nine Honors" originally referred to ceremonial gifts bestowed by emperors, here metaphorically indicating supreme praise; "Wei and Du" were two great Tang clans, reflecting Mount Zhongnan's deep cultural heritage.)

Setting out south from Fanchuan (present-day southern suburbs of Xi'an), we traveled forty li to the foot of Mount Zhongnan (a sacred Daoist mountain). After resting briefly at Puguang Temple at the mountain's base, we continued climbing the precipitous path. Along the way we passed numerous remarkable sights: to the west were the Sun-Moon Cliff inscribed with seal characters reading "Pine Spring," the Jade Spring Cave near Hugging Child Cliff, and the Eight Immortals Cave that required wading barefoot through water to enter.

As the mountain path grew steeper, we came upon a strangely shaped boulder resembling an old man leaning against the cliff to rest, alongside a circular stone that reflected one's image—locals called it the "Stone Mirror." Further up lay Zhengyuan Pond, also known as Taiyi Qiu (in Daoist terminology, qiu means mountain pool). This alpine lake, embraced by peaks, measured several zhang across and over one zhang deep, containing fish two to three chi in length that locals dared never catch. Since ancient times this had been a sacred site for rain prayers. South of the pond stood Taiyi Hall, inhabited by only one Daoist priest.

The most perilous site was Golden Flower Cave at the summit, said to contain accumulated water but nearly inaccessible to ordinary people. Our exhausted group rested at Three Officials Cave (a Daoist grotto enshrining the Celestial, Earthly, and Water Officials), where I drank alone facing Zhengyuan Pond. Descending later, we drank freely at Taiyi Palace and, inspired by wine, inscribed verses on its walls. At dusk, hoping to admire the moon at Puguang Temple, I instructed the sedan bearers to take a shortcut—a five-li stone stairway flanked by pines, cypresses, pear and chestnut trees, passing a square pool called "Heaven-Gazing Pool" where we held a moon-viewing banquet on its stone bridge. Initially obscured by clouds, the moon emerged brightly when we had musicians play sheng and xiao flutes, prompting laughter about the efficacy of our method.

On the seventeenth we descended via another route, reaching Xingjiao Temple twenty li away. The tallest of its three pagodas marked the burial site of Tang Dynasty Master Xuanzang, flanked by pagodas for his disciples Master Ji and Cien, all bearing inscriptions composed by Imperial Secretary Liu Ke.

This passage contains two travelogues about famous mountains, which I will interpret in modern vernacular:

The first piece is Zhang Yue's "Preface to the Farewell Banquet at Nine Dragon Pool." Prince Anping (a Tang dynasty imperial clansman), as a scion of royal talent, possessed both statesmanship and a devotion to nurturing life (yangsheng). He chose to build his residence amidst this exquisitely scenic mountain, forsaking luxurious silks and delicacies to dwell among white clouds and clear springs. The cliffs and extraordinary stones encircled the area, jade springs tinkled melodiously, while bamboo groves and thatched cottages exuded an air of reclusion - even the medicinal herbs growing here carried an immortal aura. The author marvels that while ancient times had their mountain recluses, rarely did one find nobility like Prince Anping who chose to cultivate among clouds and ravines. Perhaps only the legendary immortal Prince Zijing (son of King Ling of Zhou, said to have attained immortality) could compare. Officials gathering here by imperial decree became intoxicated by falling blossoms and birdsong, fragrant trees and spring waters, temporarily forgetting their carriages, horses, and official robes left below the mountain. The author confesses his youthful yearning for spiritual mountains and immortal realms, and now experiencing this utopia firsthand, finds himself deeply moved.

The second piece, Yuan Hongdao's "Record of Mount Hua," analyzes aesthetic criteria for mountains. Any renowned mountain must possess good "bone structure" (mountain framework), with the rocky portion constituting at least one-third of the total landscape to appear extraordinary. Mount Hua's uniqueness lies precisely in its complete consistency - both internally and externally it presents pure "bone structure." The author proposes two standards for judging mountain beauty: the bone structure must have graceful posture, and the stone coloration must be pure. If the stone colors appear dull and turbid, this constitutes a chromatic flaw; if the mountain forms seem rigid or grotesque, this indicates postural deficiency.

Mount Hua (the Western Peak of the Five Sacred Mountains) rises like clouds split by a blade, its cliffs resembling piled jade fragments, where mist and waterfalls intertwine upon precipitous walls. The sheer rock faces stand square and steep, devoid of steps, forcing climbers to carve footholds into the stone. The crevices are so narrow they barely accommodate one person—dark as bottomless wells in shadowed sections, bright as mountain streams where sunlight filters through.

To ascend, one must chisel notches into the rock for handholds and footholds. When these prove insufficient, branches serve as makeshift supports: the finger-grips shallow enough to barely secure a hold, the toe-ledges too slight for full footing. Iron chains, a thousand zhang long, hang vertically; scaling them requires moving like a gecko clinging to a wall. Where crevices vanish, only perilous plank roads suspended in midair remain. The colossal peaks seem to press inward, as if deliberately testing the climber's resolve.

Traversing the mountain's belly demands pressing one's body flush against the cliff face, feet dangling beyond the ledge—a posture of facing the wall while treading above the abyss. Concentration narrows to the square inch beneath one's hands, leaving no room to notice nightfall. Long traverses require crawling forward on all fours, the path as steep as a knife's edge with bottomless chasms yawning on either side, visible only as fathomless darkness. Hunched like a porter bearing an earthen jar, one feels like dead weight. A faint breeze threatens to dislodge the climber, who then wishes to turn to stone.

Though hands and feet perform the climbing, success hinges on the eyes. In crevices, the gaze must fix on the dark rock: watching finger placements when ascending, heel placements when descending. Eyes accustomed to darkness falter in open spaces—sheer drops induce trembling, abysses weaken the knees, narrow passes steal breath. Ironically, the dull-witted suffer less, their simple minds untroubled by such perceptions. Only then did I grasp the true meaning of terror.

Disheveled and exhausted, I glimpsed ant-like figures far below. Turning back revealed fellow climbers: nimble as gibbons, scuttling sideways like crabs, slithering like snakes, twisting like sparrowhawks. The mountain's perverse geometry forced such contortions—how I regretted lacking Gu Kaizhi's (the Eastern Jin painter nicknamed "Little Tiger") brush to capture these scenes!

Beyond the Immortal's Palm Cliff, I entered the northern stone corridor, scaling glassy, step-less rocks to the Eastern Peak. Following a ledge from the platform, I reached the broken path leading to the Southern Peak. Winding upward along serpentine trails, I saw the Western Peak's cross-fractured boulders resembling overturned leaves. The Southern Peak loomed supreme over its neighbors like a seated sage. Below, interlacing paths coiled among wondrous trees, while streams murmured through the folds. Each summit cradled pools—some mortar-shaped, some platter-like, others like cracked urns—their crystalline waters mirroring ancient pines. The Western Peak's fissured rocks appeared precarious at first glance, while the Southern Peak's hidden face concealed a meditation chamber for Daoist cultivation.

This passage depicts the perilous and extraordinary scenery of Mount Hua, one of Daoism's sacred mountains. From the Jade Spring Temple (Yuquanyuan) to Qingke Flat, the path is flanked by sheer cliffs with winding streams meandering through the valley. Beyond Zhangchao Valley, the mountain walls grow precipitous, reaching their most dramatic at Xiyi Gorge, where jagged rocks pierce the clouds like spears. Torrents leap between boulders, competing with the mountain's grandeur in a breathtaking display.

The peaks west of Qingke Flat stand as the most formidable—other summits appear dwarfed and docile before them, like children facing a stern teacher. The Western Peak's most remarkable feature is the Water Curtain Cave (Shuiliandong), where distant observers can glimpse waterfalls cascading down crimson cliffs. Ascending the Thousand-Foot Precipice (Qianchi Chuang), each step grows more treacherous, requiring effort akin to a frail man drawing a stiff bow.

Canglong Ridge resembles the narrow backbone of a dragon, encircled by majestic peaks that create peerless vistas. Travelers crossing it feel like a tiny plank adrift in stormy seas—daring not to glance downward. Though perilous, the spectacle justifies risking one's life. Before Sun-Moon Cliff (Riyue Yan), only steep rock faces remain, devoid of notable features.

Beyond the ridge, the path vanishes, forcing retreat along an even more hazardous but nameless stretch—its cliffs too brief to merit a title. Passing the Five Generals Trees and a bridge, the treacherous way finally ends at Heaven's Gate (Tongtianmen). From the Immortal's Thumb (Xianren Mu) onward lies Mount Hua's core summit zone—a realm seemingly detached from the mortal world. At Cloud Terrace Peak's (Yuntai Feng) apex, half the human world unfolds below. To the south, Goose Landing Peak (Luoyan Feng) stands encircled by mountains sharp as upraised blades, one peak distinctly wheel-shaped.

Eastward, the converging Wei and Yellow Rivers shimmer with inverted tree shadows. The Eastern Peak, known as Jade Maiden Peak (Yunü Feng), hosts the legendary "Hair-Washing Basin" relic at a subsidiary summit dedicated to the Jade Maiden cult. Throughout, the text vividly captures Mount Hua's reputation as "the world's foremost mountain of wonder and peril," employing striking metaphors to render its dizzying heights palpable.

At the Eastern Peak of Mount Hua (the Western Sacred Mountain among the Five Great Mountains), there lies a shallow, rounded pool with a surface as smooth and pristine as a jade plate. Known as "Pan Spring" or sometimes called the "Secluded Pool of Western Peak," this area features vividly shaped rocks—petals of stone cascading like lotus blossoms across the cliff face, beneath which stands a massive tortoise-shaped boulder, its head raised as if ready to stride forward. This tortoise stone was originally an ornamental feature atop the lotus petals. This is the famous Lotus Flower Peak.

At the base of Lotus Flower Peak are twenty-eight "Jade Wells" (sacred springs used in Daoist cultivation), their waters spiraling downward to form a waterfall. Unfortunately, I missed the spectacle of the cascading torrent after rainfall. Trees adorn the cliffs like embroidered tapestry, and birdsong echoes from crevices in the rock. Those who claim no birds dwell here are mistaken—though natural caves are few, the environment remains immaculate and habitable. Despite the presence of lodgings, Daoist priests (referred to as "Yellow Caps") rarely visit, coming only once a year to receive pilgrims. Thus, the numinous spirit of Mount Hua has long dwelled in solitude, with few companions.

In my youth, while studying with my younger brother at Du Village near Chang'an, our elder brother Bo Xiu showed us Wang An Dao’s Records of Mount Hua. The three of us grew so exhilarated beneath the pines that we danced with excitement, yearning for the day we might explore the Three Peaks together. Not long after, my father and the censor Gong Wei Chang returned from Pupan, recounting how they had climbed only as far as Qingke Terrace before halting at the perilous cliffs—beyond lay the spot where Han Yu (styled Changli) famously threw down a letter pleading for rescue. I whispered to my brother, "Lately, even Li Panlong (styled Yu Lin) and others have ventured into its depths—do we not have hands and feet too?" Yet inwardly I knew: of those who gaze upon the cliffs, nine in ten will turn back.

Later, I ascended Mount Tianmu and debated the world’s great landscapes with Tao Zhouwang, who sighed, "They say the Three Peaks of Mount Hua are the most extraordinary—yet I fear I’ll never see them in this lifetime." Still later, while accompanying my father to Mount Cen, I met several monks who had come from Mount Hua. They described its perils in detail, pointing at me and declaring, "With a physique like yours, you’d never make it up." Though indignant, I had no retort. This year, having traveled to Shaanxi to oversee the provincial examinations, I questioned everyone about the Three Peaks’ dangers, only to find that few had summited. Even the high-ranking official Wang Youxia had reached the summit but failed to fully conquer it.

Upon arriving in Huayin County, I resolved with Zhu Fei’er (styled Wu Xuan) to risk our lives for this journey. Camping overnight at Qingke Terrace, our guide led us to the Thousand-Foot Cliff, where we saw slender branches and kindling dangling overhead, the rock fissures gaping like upturned cauldrons. My heart trembled. I recalled learning to ride horses in my youth—when taught to grip the mane and brace in the stirrups, fear only intensified. Later, a skilled rider advised me, "Fix your mind ahead of the horse, willing its hooves to fly—then you’ll ride with ease."

This passage describes the author's reflections and experiences during a mountain climb. The author suddenly realizes a truth and finds it effective upon trying it: those who now advise me to ascend step by step without looking down are actually helping me overcome fear. With ropes in hand and iron spikes on my feet, what is there to fear? For thirty years I've yearned for this mountain precisely because I admired its perilous heights. If it were all flat ground, how would it differ from ordinary land?

While climbing, the author only worries that the path might not be challenging enough, sitting or standing as he pleases, as past concerns seem insignificant in the mountains. Soon he crosses cliffs, leaps over ravines, traverses Canglong Ridge, and reaches the relatively flat area at the mountain's base. Feeling exhausted, he rests every hundred steps. His companions ask why he moved quickly earlier but slowly now. He replies: facing danger requires courage—constant fear makes perilous paths impassable, while appreciating wonders allows one to enjoy them. He has forgotten his own feet; leaving danger behind brings ease. Such tests of strength are porters' expertise, meaningless to him.

After descending, the author reaches Nanfeng Peak's summit with friends to admire the moon. That day, the cloudless sky reveals blue cliffs and red trees glowing under sunset and moonlight, delighting visitors. At night, moonlight streams through cracks like snow, keeping the author awake. He rouses his companion, the Daoist recluse Chu, to climb again. As pine shadows sweep across rocks, memories of departed loved ones bring melancholy reflections on life's impermanence. Understanding his mood, Chu recites the "Six Similes Verse" from the Diamond Sutra, and the author joins in, leaning against a pine tree.

The latter part depicts Yuhua Mountain's geography. Forty li southwest of Yijun County, a path leads to Yuhua Mountain. To the south lies Yehuo Valley, resembling distant smoke or wildfire; to the west is Fenghuang Valley. Originally featuring nine halls and five gates, six structures remain identifiable: the main Yuhua Hall, above it Paiyun Hall, and further up Qingyun Hall; the southern gate is Nanfeng Gate, while the east side housed the crown prince's residence—Yaohé Hall with Jiali Gate. One known but unlocated site is Jinbiao Gate. Now, only wild fields and overgrown grass remain in view.

The place called Shangu Valley once housed an imperial retreat. To the north lies Lanzhi Valley, where Emperor Taizong of Tang had decreed the eminent monk Xuanzang (the historical prototype of Tripitaka from Journey to the West) to translate Buddhist scriptures. The original Su Cheng Palace was built here but later fell into ruin and was converted into a temple.

Here, sheer cliffs rise naturally from the landscape, with stone chambers carved beneath them large enough to hold dozens of people. A mountain spring cascades down from above like a sudden downpour, while eighteen ancient pines, each eighty feet tall and straight as upright brushes, encircle the cliffs, their roots gripping bare rock. To the southwest lies the so-called Zhuluan Cliff, where the entrance is flanked by knife-cut precipices, and further in, one stands as if on the rim of a great urn, with a waterfall plunging down like a curtain of water. A little to the north, another similar cliff and spring exist, though slightly smaller in scale.

In the summer of the third year of the Zhiping era, I came here with six friends. We sat upon the rocks, drinking beneath the shade of the pines while listening to the sound of the rushing water. Later, we visited the ruins of the old palace and asked the local elders about anecdotes of Xuanzang. Just as we were fully immersed in the experience, each of us had to leave due to personal affairs, and everyone wore expressions of regret.

I said to them: "Strange mountains and extraordinary waters, grand and magnificent landscapes—they are often hidden in remote places, where only recluses, monks, and Daoist practitioners can dwell and enjoy them long-term. Yet though these hermits appreciate such beauty, they lack the means to maintain and preserve it—what a pity! Think back to the golden age of the Tang dynasty, when the entire nation’s resources were poured into building palaces here, only for them to fall into ruin in the end. Yet Xuanzang was merely a monk, and still, his legacy has been passed down through generations of disciples to this day. Is it that people are always prone to indulgence and excess, forgetting the Middle Way? Even an enlightened ruler like Emperor Taizong, who marshaled the empire’s strength, could not hold this place permanently—for the six of us to witness it at all is fortune enough. Why regret that we cannot stay longer?"

(Excerpt from "Inscription on the Plank Roads") The plank roads linking the Qin Mountains to Shu are the most treacherous passage in the Nine Provinces. Bottomless chasms flank shadowed gorges; sheer cliffs stretch a thousand li without a patch of soil—since antiquity, not even beasts could cross them. From the eras of Xia, Shang, and Zhou down through fifty thousand years, though Qin and Shu had the will to connect, they remained severed by this natural barrier.

This passage describes the geographical barriers between the ancient lands of Qin (modern Shaanxi region) and Shu (modern Sichuan region), and the remarkable human feat of carving passageways through them.

Originally, the customs and products of Qin and Shu differed as greatly as if heaven and earth stood apart—contrary to nature's original design. When heaven and earth formed, the clear qi rose to become sky while turbid qi sank to form land, inevitably leaving gaps during consolidation. The "leaking heavens" of the southwest represent gaps in the celestial canopy, just as the treacherous terrain between Qin and Shu constitutes gaps in the earth.

Though heaven and earth should embrace all things, some passages require human effort. The ancients invented boats to cross rivers and ladders to scale mountains, but Qin-Shu's precipitous landscapes defied conventional methods. Thus, wise men employed ingenuity, emulating the techniques of legendary craftsman Zhui Shi: suspending ropes from cliffs, workers dangled like apes over abysses and clung like birds to sheer peaks, exhausting their strength to erect wooden beams midair. They carved plank roads into Mount Yuilei (near modern Dujiangyan) and built bridges across Qingni Ridge (south of modern Huixian County, Gansu), forcibly constructing rainbow-like spans across impassable cliffs.

These pathways became firm as glued joints, smooth as whetstones, forming thoroughfares linking Yong-Shu (Hubei-Sichuan) with Qi-Yong (Shaanxi). Henceforth, merchants flowed like bursting dikes or southbound wild geese, unimpeded north-south movement was achieved. People could stride confidently across towering ridges, facing fathomless chasms without fear. Through these channels, tributes were delivered, sages convened, ritual music systems spread, and nobility traveled freely.

Some say: stone for carving never depletes, timber for building remains inexhaustible. Yet without following Dao and De (virtue), these materials ultimately decay. The crux lies in rulers governing through De and subjects illuminating virtue through righteousness. Only with both De and righteousness can such works endure; otherwise, though stone remains, it won't become jade; though timber abounds, it won't form towers. History shows these passages alternately opened and closed—few understood the sages' creative intent, fewer still knew to consolidate achievements through De and righteousness. Therefore this record stands to clarify this truth.

The Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven contains two main sections: geographical descriptions and philosophical reflections on the Qinling-Shu roads, and textual research on the source of the Yellow River.

The first section depicts the geographical barriers between the Qinling Mountains (referred to as "Qin" in antiquity) and the Shu region (modern Sichuan). The author observes how this terrain appears severed by divine will, creating total isolation between the two regions. When ancient engineers carved the Shu roads, they faced sheer cliffs as daunting as crossing rivers without boats or traversing land without carts. Constructing such pathways demanded not merely manpower, but the cultivation of De (Virtue/Power). The text cautions against pride in engineering achievements and disrespect toward ancestral efforts, emphasizing the importance of ritual propriety and humility.

The second section presents Yang Shen's investigation into the Yellow River's origins. Quoting Records of the Grand Historian, he documents two headwaters: one in the Congling Mountains (modern Pamir Plateau) and another near Khotan (modern Hotan). After flowing into Lop Nur (the vanished Lop Lake), the waters were believed to dive underground before reemerging from the Jishi Mountains (in Qinghai). Emperor Wu of Han subsequently designated these as the Kunlun Mountains based on classical texts. The author further cites Tang dynasty envoy Xue Yuanding's discovery of another source during his mission to Tibet, along with Yuan explorer Du Shi's surveys, noting that while accounts varied, all lacked conclusive field verification.

Technical terms include: "Kunwei" (the earth's anchoring axis), "Douqi" (describing mountain peaks rising like the Big Dipper), "Mengmoli Mountain" (a peak in Tibetan territory), and "Dokham" (the Yuan dynasty name for eastern Qinghai-Tibet Plateau). These geographical inquiries reflect ancient China's enduring quest to trace the Yellow River's mysterious beginnings.

This passage describes the geographical conditions of the Yellow River's source and upper reaches. The river originates from a marshland spanning seventy to eighty li in circumference, which from a high vantage resembles scattered stars, with dispersed streams rushing forth. After five to seven li, these converge into two large lakes, flowing eastward from the west for roughly half a month's journey. Upon merging with the Chibin River, its volume increases, and it begins to be called the Yellow River, though the water remains clear at this stage.

After another day or two, the river splits into eight or nine tributaries, traversing about twenty days' distance to reach the Great Snow Mountain (i.e., Kunlun Mountain) northeast of Do-Kham. From here, the river turns northward, then westward, bending northeast beyond Kunlun Mountain and arriving after approximately twenty days at the Jishi Mountain recorded in the Tribute of Yu. From its source to the Han territories, the Yellow River divides into countless streams and tributaries, with dense forests only appearing around Jishi Mountain.

The text compares historical records: Zhu Siben's Map of the River's Source from the Yuan Dynasty differs slightly from older accounts, but the general locations of Kunlun and Jishi Mountains align. The entire northeastward course from the Yellow River's source flows through Tibetan regions, covering about 4,500 li before reaching Lanzhou and entering the Central Plains, then continuing northeast for another 2,500 li through non-Han territories.

The author critiques the limited understanding of Zhang Qian during his missions to the Western Regions: Zhang only reached places like Dayuezhi, Dayuan, Daxia, and Kangju, with knowledge of other areas based on hearsay. Observing the subterranean flow from the Salt Marsh (Lop Nur) reemerging at Jishi Mountain, he mistakenly identified it as the Yellow River's source, never actually seeing Kunlun Mountain—a point already refuted by Ban Gu. The Yuan-era explorer Du Shi, commissioned to survey the river's source, provided more detailed and reliable records.

Finally, the author concludes: Matters within the Central Plains concerning human relations and moral order should be known to gentlemen, while foreign phenomena unrelated to human affairs may be treated summarily. Hence, the Tribute of Yu only documents the Yellow River's course from Jishi Mountain to Longmen.

This passage describes the shifting perceptions people experience when temporarily escaping bustling urban life to immerse themselves in mountain and water landscapes, offering profound reflections on this phenomenon.

When people accustomed to living long periods in cramped, dim dwellings—crowded daily with family members indoors and encountering congested streets outdoors—suddenly find themselves amidst expansive mountain wilderness and shimmering waters, beholding towering emerald peaks and undulating azure waves, they experience an almost ecstatic joy. This sensation resembles liberation from a dark prison cell—eyes and ears suddenly clear, limbs feeling light and free. Yet this is akin to how those accustomed to rich meats might temporarily find vegetables delicious, or wine connoisseurs might crave plain water—merely the result of prolonged exposure to clamor and irritation creating a desperate need for release.

The author observes woodcutters, shepherd boys, fishermen, and peddlers hurrying through these same landscapes, seemingly anxious to return to the city. From their perspective, urban life holds genuine appeal while mountains and waters become places to escape. This reveals how standards of beauty and ugliness, good and bad, lack fixed measures—the beauty of nature and the turbidity of cities exist only in relative terms.

The passage concludes with irony: those who occasionally wander landscapes often pride themselves on having completely transcended worldly noise, boasting spiritual superiority over city dwellers. Yet the author suggests such judgments about beauty and vulgarity remain highly questionable.

Through contrasting different groups' attitudes toward nature and urbanity, this text exposes the subjectivity and relativity of aesthetic judgments, cautioning against rigid classifications of beauty and ugliness.

The text discusses how people's preferences for things are fickle, yet truly wise individuals can transcend external influences to maintain inner freedom and joy.

Though drinking cold water may bring momentary refreshment, people do not find it sweet; though eating vegetables may slightly relieve greasiness, they do not consider it delicious. Wine and meat are what people truly regard as the pleasurable staples of daily life. Those who rejoice upon suddenly obtaining something are merely experiencing temporary relief after prolonged frustration or fleeting comfort after accumulated exhaustion—yet such joy quickly fades into weariness. Why must one insist on being a woodcutter, a shepherd, a cook, or a merchant (referring to people of various occupations)? And what right does one have to mock another’s desires?

The beauty and ugliness of things have no fixed standards, yet human likes and dislikes follow set patterns. Foolish people are led by their emotions, fluctuating between joy and anger as external things change, repeatedly loving and tiring of things without understanding why. Only the enlightened can use reason to master external things, remaining joyful in their hearts regardless of shifting circumstances.

True joy, though seemingly dependent on external things, fundamentally stems from inner contentment. Viewed this way, even ugly things may not be devoid of beauty—how much more so for things that are inherently beautiful? Ultimately, beauty and ugliness return to constancy, all subject to our sovereign control. If one does not cling even to delight, how can weariness arise? So long as the mind harbors no aversion, one can adapt to anything encountered, finding joy in all—why wait for occasional surprises?

Consider the river of our Quanzhou: when it rushes down from the mountains like water pouring from a high roof, its torrent is fierce, but by the time it reaches Jinxi, it flows gently and ripples calmly. Verdant peaks rise on either bank, their heights and depths complementing each other, while trees and grasses interweave in splendor, and mist and clouds drift in and out of sight—this too is a scenic wonder of mountains and waters. Countless visitors have suddenly taken delight here, yet only I, along with Masters Huang Yingchu and Hong Shunchen, experienced true joy during our shared excursion.

As we raised our cups in mutual toasts, chanted poetry in harmony, and conversed with laughter, we reflected that those who rejoice in sudden external gains might have felt something similar. Yet the serene vitality of the green mountains and the surging vigor of the flowing water entered our eyes and stirred our hearts—at that moment, even our physical senses seemed to dissolve, leaving only spirits meeting in communion. This, surely, was something others could never grasp. The shared feeling among us three could be conveyed through glances but was difficult to articulate. Thus, I wrote this essay so that future travelers might know that the three of us could truly savor the joy of mountains and waters because we transcended the constraints of external things. To speak of the beauty of landscape, one must be like us—only then can the beauty of mountains and waters endure eternally.

Ascending Qingyuan Mountain's summit, one can take in the breathtaking panorama of winding rivers and jagged peaks. In this expansive, luminous realm between heaven and earth, the mind finds nourishment and worldly troubles instantly fade. If there exists supreme joy in this world, surely it resides here.

Yet history records contrasting responses to such vistas: Duke Jing of Qi, though beholding the beauty of Niushan (in present-day Linzi, Shandong), wept upon realizing his prosperous state would one day pass to others; while Yang Hu (styled Shuzi), surveying the Han River from Xianshan (near modern Xiangyang, Hubei), choked with emotion when discussing the transience of achievements with his subordinates. Why did these landscapes stir sorrow rather than joy?

Duke Jing's folly lay in coveting Qi's wealth, fearing its loss after death—a petty mindset rightly mocked by Yanzi as "lacking virtue (De)." Yang Hu, though wise, lamented that even his glorious accomplishments would be forgotten, finding no solace in present delights. What difference truly exists between the grief of such "virtueless" men and this worthy statesman's melancholy? Both remained shackled by attachments.

Why do princes and generals, having tasted fortune's fullness, seize all creation for amusement yet fail to find joy in mountains and rivers? Why do Niushan's slopes and Xianshan's vistas draw their tears? The answer lies in their twin obsessions: craving eternal wealth while fretting over unfulfilled fame. Amidst soaring cliffs and mist-wreathed peaks—scenes meant to uplift the spirit—they discover only fresh sorrow. Who could imagine jade-green cliffs and drifting cloud-veils becoming catalysts for melancholy?

These men embark on grand excursions seeking mountain solace from governance's burdens, yet return without momentary joy—is this not the inevitable result of clinging to attachments and swollen self-importance? Truly, the pleasures of landscape and the pursuits of power prove incompatible companions.

Qingyuan Mountain stands among Quanzhou's celebrated wonders. I once...

This passage consists of two excerpts from Wu Shi's Travelogue of Mount Wuyi, reflecting the author's contemplations during his journey and comparing the distinctive features of Mount Wuyi and Mount Lushan (Kuanglushan).

The first section depicts the author's leisurely excursions with companions. During moments of respite, they would wander the mountains together—those fond of revelry often brought wine and food to the summits, sharing drinks and merriment with the author. They roamed freely, scaling perilous cliffs and delving into secluded valleys, pausing or moving on as they pleased, never forcing themselves. Though their solitary figures traversing rugged paths might pale in comparison to the grand processions of ancient emperors and nobles, the author found profound joy in these outings, a sentiment his companions likewise shared.

The author reflects that he abandoned official ambitions early in life, experiencing wealth and status only briefly. Stubborn and unpolished by nature, he possessed no exceptional talents to rely upon. While worldly fame and riches eluded him, the pleasures of mountains and rivers became entirely his own. Those chasing glory and fortune, even after indulging every earthly desire, still harbored regrets. In contrast, though the author lived modestly, he had no need to trade his circumstances for prestige. Here in Mount Wuyi, even the most illustrious figures seemed as insignificant as pebbles or stunted trees. He felt the joy drawn from these landscapes was more than sufficient. Sharing these thoughts with his companions, he recorded them.

The second section contrasts Mount Wuyi with Mount Lushan. The author observes that only these two mountains harmonize so perfectly with their waters. At Mount Lushan, the waters flow outside the mountain, while at Mount Wuyi, they wind through its heart. Though Mount Lushan rises majestically between vast lakes and rivers, its separation from the waters prevents it from fully revealing its marvels. Mount Wuyi, however, cradles the Nine-Bend Stream within its embrace—every rock and tree mirrors the rivulets, creating an inseparable unity. Thus, one explores Mount Wuyi by boat, while Mount Lushan demands travel on foot. If forced to choose between them, the author would favor Mount Wuyi, for it satisfies the senses without overwhelming them; human perception has its limits, and excess breeds weariness. To compensate for what mere experience might lack, he composed this account after his journey.

The passage concludes with a note that the author once dreamt of visiting Mount Wuyi, but it was not until the winter of the Gengshen year that he finally embarked alone from Hulin to fulfill this long-held wish.

Setting out from Quzhou in Zhejiang, I traveled for fourteen days by alternating between waterways and land routes before reaching Wenling, where heavy snow fell that night. The next day, after the skies cleared, I hired a boat at Jianjiang and proceeded thirty li into the Wuyi Stream. Ascending to Chongyou Temple (a Daoist monastery), I visited the Daoist priest Leng Yinzhi, who led me to pay respects at the Sanqing (Three Pure Ones) Hall. The grand hall was modeled after the Baizhang Terrace (a site for Daoist Zhaijiao rituals), with the Binyun Pavilion standing behind it. Towering stone steles stood in rows, their tops adorned with intricate dragon motifs so high that one could barely make them out when looking up. Further back was the Jade Emperor Pavilion, which housed precious artifacts from the reign of Emperor Lizong of the Song dynasty, including golden dragons and jade tablets (Daoist ritual objects).

Exiting through a side door along the corridor, I crossed Wangxian Bridge, where ancient pines lined the path on both sides, and the flat ground stretched out like an open palm. In the distance, mountain ridges emerged from a small hillock, the site of the former Tongting Pavilion, now replaced by the Huizhen Temple. Scattered households dotted the base of the hill, not quite forming a village—perhaps descendants of the original inhabitants.

Looking up, I saw two peaks like azure clouds rising from the misty chaos, their waists wrapped in white clouds and their feet bathed in crimson sunlight. The breathtaking sight was almost dizzying. Leng Yinzhi told me these were the Great King Peak and the Curtain Pavilion Peak. In an instant, they vanished like the fleeting vision of Akshobhya Buddha (a Buddhist term describing ephemeral phenomena). Deciding not to return to the city, I left my luggage at the temple.

Early the next morning, I set off by boat with Leng Yinzhi. From the First Bend (the initial section of the Wuyi Stream’s Nine Bends), I gazed at the Doumou Peak, whose shape truly resembled an ancient helmet, its imposing presence almost suffocating. The southeastern peaks, including Lion Peak, seemed to bow in submission, like Li Mi kneeling before the Qin emperor. To the right stood the Iron Slab Ridge, where bluish-red cliffs vied in splendor, and the groves of mulberry trees were exceptionally lush. Below lay the Zhizhi Hermitage, a place of sparse trees and barren hills, unremarkable in scenery.

Turning to the Second Bend north of the Jade Maiden Peak, the landscape began to change. The deep gorge was barely a palm’s width, seemingly sealed at both ends, with cliffs propping up the sky. It resembled a ravine but was richer in greenery and aquatic plants than ordinary gorges. Further south, I saw the Immortal Boat Rock, its natural form resembling a boat: the lower half curved gently, while the upper half was angular, with sheer cliffs like spikes thrust into the void. Looking up at the soaring birds, they seemed like fish swimming beneath the boat’s hull.

Switching to a smaller boat, I ascended to the Shuiyue Rock. Morning light spilled over the water, and a breeze rippled the surface. The cliffs shifted their postures, and springs tinkled melodiously—a scene beyond words. Recalling Zhu Xi’s poetry, I felt the inadequacy of language to capture such beauty, so I simply carved the characters "Third Bend" into the stone as a memento. Turning left, I arrived at the Dazang Peak, the site of the Fourth Bend. The mountains across the stream appeared like children frolicking around an elder, and legend holds that the remains of the Thirteen Immortals (Daoist legendary figures) are hidden here.

This passage depicts the breathtaking landscapes along the Nine-Bend Stream of Wuyi Mountain. Below the Golden Rooster Cave, the reclining dragon pool ripples gently, its emerald waters flowing like the folds of a robe. Suddenly, a stretch of clear mountain mist unfolds to the north, revealing peaks as strangely beautiful as spiral hair buns and bamboo shoots—some seem to bow toward me, others gaze upward, while some appear to reach out as if to halt my boat.

After navigating five or six bends, the scenery grows even more enchanting, passing the Robe-Changing Platform, Jade Splendor Peak, and Celestial Pillar Peak. At dusk, facing the mountain range feels like standing amidst a forest of halberds—peaks display every imaginable form: some elegant, some grotesque, some plump, others gaunt. Some wear expressions of joy, others of anger, all vividly animated. Mooring at Pinglin Ferry, I pay respects at the Wen Gong Shrine, nestled against the Hidden Screen Peak whose lush green slopes stretch northward, just a few hundred paces from Cloud Nest.

Abandoning the boat, I ascend stone steps to gaze up at the Bamboo-Shoot Peak, its summit piercing the clouds in jade-green splendor, resembling landscapes painted by the Yuan dynasty artist Wu Zhen (style name Zhonggui). Below the cliffs, jagged rocks loom precariously—some overhang as if about to crash down, others stand steep as raised arms, some protrude like foreheads and noses, while hollows resemble eye sockets and mouths. Vines, trees, and mist intertwine to form deep grottoes. A wooden gate opens beside a stone wall, not far from Cloud Nest’s Guest Cloud Hall.

As twilight deepens, shadows envelop the forested earth while moonlight gradually spills across the stream. After a few cups of wine, I reboard the boat westward, passing the Seventh Bend where three cliffs and two massive boulders emerge, alongside Verdant Screen Peak, Celestial Kettle Peak, and Triple-Gazing Peak. In the night, these summits seem as alluring as beauties preening before mirrors. Turning north past Hundred-Flower Cliff, I pass Drum Peak, Lotus Peak, and other wonders. The cries of cold gibbons pierce the mist, startled roosting birds take flight, and frosty air chills the bones—utterly dissolving worldly cares.

Continuing upstream to Hibiscus Shoal marks the end of the Nine Bends. Suddenly, an icy wind makes progress impossible. A wisp of cooking smoke rises near Bamboo Hole, while a single fishing lantern glows at Cloud-Reaching Peak like a finger pointing at the moon. On the return journey, familiar sights appear transformed—revealing how landscapes shift endlessly with perspective, offering fresh discoveries each time. The next day, viewing Bamboo-Shoot Peak again from Gazing-Up Pavilion, I pass Stone Gate and Iron Elephant Cliff. The stone steps rise and fall unpredictably through the rocky forest—sometimes like pushing open doors, sometimes like passing through windows, at times retracing lost paths, at others flickering like mirages.

The passage vividly describes the perilous ascent up a steep mountain path and the serene scenery of the Daoist temple at the summit:

At the start of the climb, the mountain trail was narrow and precipitous, then suddenly opened up to reveal towering peaks encircling a depression that rose like an overturned cauldron. A gap in the mountain cradled a peculiar boulder, from which a silver-dragon waterfall cascaded, its spray washing over the emerald slopes. Multiple streams diverged, their crystalline sounds resembling the chime of jade pendants colliding.

Clouds gathered along the cliffs, where icicles occasionally plummeted with such chilling intensity that lingering became unbearable. Turning leftward, we faced a sheer precipice soaring hundreds of zhang into the heavens, offering no foothold. Broken trees wedged midway appeared as if inverted against the rockface. Three suspended ladders—each with over a hundred rungs—hung within concave cliffs, flanked by vertical walls on one side and abysses on the other, forcing us to cling trembling to the rails.

At the ladder's end, the cliff abruptly jutted outward. Here, a path barely half-a-foot wide had been chiseled, requiring tiptoed movement while clutching ropes like sideways-crawling crabs. After thirty paces of this ordeal and ten more along a cliffside plank walk, we reached the "Heart-Settling Pavilion." Though past the immediate danger, the surrounding peaks' ferocity still stirred dread—one hardly dared glance at the churning sea of clouds below or the lightning-like twists of distant streams.

Continuing upward, exhaustion turned faces pale and drenched us in sweat—an apt moment for Lizhong Tang (a Daoist Qi-blood regulating tonic). After resting, we ascended the "Dragon's Spine," where parallel cliffs framed a towering ridgeline resembling a narrow wishbone when viewed from below. Courage returned thanks to verdant vines, snow patches, and wildflowers adorning the rocks.

Finally, via the "Immortal's Game Pavilion," we summited at Xuanyuan Daoyuan (a Daoist cultivation site). Amid pines and bamboos, fragrant with seasonal blooms, this was precisely what Wang Liyang termed "the place of returning to authenticity and reclaiming destiny" (a cultivation state of reverting to one's true nature and heavenly mandate). Exploring sites like Chiyi's Den and Qixia Lodge, we stood above rolling clouds beneath a bowl-like azure sky, where sun and moon seemed to pass between roof eaves, while thunderstorms and rainbows churned far below the waist of the mountain.

Descending through the stone gate, we glanced back—the hanging ladders now appeared as insignificant as underarm ribbons. The entire mountain's cloud-piercing cliffs trembled with precarious green stalactites, its body studded with ochre caves like primordial deities' masterpieces: mist as their brushstrokes, breath crystallized into stone. Turning westward toward Immortal's Palm Peak, we proceeded along the rocky path toward Heavenly Wander Peak.

The passage describes the author's journey to Tianyou Temple (a renowned Daoist cultivation site) in Wuyi Mountain. After climbing about three li along the mountain path, a massive boulder suddenly rises abruptly from the left, standing like an immortal's palm facing the main peak to form a gorge, with stone steps appearing intermittently. Travelers rest here as if finding a cool pavilion in the sweltering heat.

Another three li brings one across the Huma Stream, then eastward along the creek for several hundred paces to reach Tianyou Temple. Yinping Peak stands like a screen guarding the temple, and from Yilan Pavilion, the peak seems within arm's reach. Yinping Peak, Jiesun Peak, and Yuhua Peak stand side by side like three raised fingers, none taller than eyebrow height, with other surrounding peaks bowing in attendance—the taller ones gently patting one's shoulders, the shorter ones catching at one's heels, all as pliant as children's playthings. The towering, unapproachable peaks seen earlier from the stream now seem like toys in one's palm.

The Nine-Bend Stream unfolds like a painted scroll before one's eyes, the sound of rapids swaying with the wind like a woman stir-frying beans. Recalling the fishing lights seen in white mist the previous night, they now appear as fleeting illusions. As for sights like Sanyou Hall and Shenglan Pavilion encountered along the way, compared to this grand vista, they seem like the boastful claims of the petty King of Yelang.

On the return, Daoist priests hosted a winding stream banquet (a ritual feast in Daoist tradition), where they shared mountain lore. That night, the moonlight was so brilliant it kept sleep at bay. Returning to Yilan Pavilion, I saw white clouds spreading over the cliffs like a sea, with mountain peaks protruding like strange aquatic creatures: Yinping Peak resembled a great whale raising its head northward, two lanterns at its summit gleaming like whale eyes. I wondered if Immortal Boat Rock (a famous Wuyi landmark) was also floating in this sea of clouds.

At dawn, leaning on the railing to gaze afar, the rising sun outlined the peaks with crisp clarity, making them even more exquisite than at first encounter. Continuing three li upstream along Huma Stream, Shandang Hermitage hides among ancient trees and clear springs, instantly stirring thoughts of reclusion. Reaching Gexianglin, the beauty left me speechless—I felt willing to stay forever even disheveled and starving.

Heading east from Yuzhu Peak, the cloud-wrapped path was silent and empty, every spring and rock brimming with immortal charm, plants and vines exuding delicate fragrance. Tianxin Hermitage takes its name from the mountain peak, Duhuo Rock gains fame through human association—these scenes all...

This passage describes the author's journey through famous mountains. Starting from six or seven li away, the path winds along the foot of Wanfeng Mountain like traversing a deep, secluded alleyway, crossing streams and gullies. Mountain springs rush over jagged rocks, where verdant green and russet-red cliffs intermingle in mottled patterns, brimming with vitality wherever the water splashes.

Ascending Jiujing Rock, one finds nine clear springs at the summit, so pristine they reflect the starry sky. Drawing water from one well causes ripples in the other eight, suggesting they share the same source. Turning south through tangled vines leads to Shuilian Cave, where droplets cascade down a hundred-foot crimson cliff, scattering in the wind with a crystalline sound. Unfortunately, though many Daoist temples and dwellings were built here, they now lie abandoned, leaving only the lingering atmosphere of ancient shrines bathed in twilight.

Circling north past Liuguanzhai and crossing Zidong Ridge, the mountain scenery grows increasingly extraordinary, stirring excitement like reading The Biography of Jing Ke. Towering peaks brush the heavens, their beauty captivating—resembling the nearby riverside mountains like nephews mirroring uncles, sons inheriting their fathers' features, or brothers sharing a likeness.

Crossing Xifang Stream and following the brook upstream for several hundred paces, one encounters a waterfall plunging into the valley—the very origin of the mountain waters. Climbing the narrow trail beside the falls inevitably requires hiking up one's robes to wade through. After about two li, turning eastward leads through Yunmen, a narrow passage formed by cliffs pressing together. Beyond lies Liuyun Stream, the source of yet another waterfall.

Here, lush trees embrace tranquil homes, with willow-lined banks, rustic gates, and small bridges arching over flowing water. At the peak stands a rare bridge, west of which lies Shenmi Hermitage, encircled by bamboo groves—an expansive retreat where the Daoist recluse Mao cultivated serenity. Turning left reveals structures like Xianxian Chamber and Baiyun Hamlet, all part of Luxiu's domain.

North of Luxiu, a winding trail vanishes into the clouds, hinting at distant realms, but the fading light forces a hasty return. Descending southward along the same stream-crossing path, one passes Zixia Ridge toward Matou Rock—a shortcut dotted with landmarks like Ningyun Hermitage, Bi Peach Grove, and Cuizhu Thicket. Along stone gates and pine-lined paths, deer often appear, while craggy roots intertwine with drifting mist, the serpentine road coiling like a dragon through the peaks.

A Journey through Mount Wuyi, by Huang Zhongzhao

Walking through the mountains, I saw countless streams, like great pythons, pouring out of cracks in the rocks. The strangely shaped rocks resembled lions and elephants, fierce eagles and huge vultures. Some seemed ready to leap forward and seize people; there were too many to count. Mountains near and far seemed alive, welcoming or resisting visitors according to their own order, making me want to challenge them. After reaching Ma'an Rock and turning east for two or three li, the terrain gradually softened. The terrifying sense of pressure disappeared, and visitors who had earlier been frightened out of their wits began to relax.

After crossing Jisu Slope, Sangu Peak still looked distant. Yet on reaching the Lantang crossing, I suddenly found Dawang Peak beside me. Although I had traveled for three days, I had seen less than a tenth of the scenery. Much of the time had been spent hurrying along, giving the sights only a passing glance. Martial skills can be learned in a year, yet I felt this journey had been worthwhile. Alas, these three days of travel now seem as unreal as a dream I once had.

Mount Wuyi extends over more than a hundred li and has thirty-six main peaks. Daoist texts identify it as the sixteenth Dongtian, an abode of immortals. Immortals are said to descend here often, calling themselves Wuyi Jun. The Liexian Zhuan records that the immortal Jian Keng had two sons, the elder named Wu and the younger Yi, and that the mountain was named after them. The two accounts differ. In a preface, Zhu Xi says that Wuyi became famous in the Han dynasty, when dried fish were offered there, though it is unclear which deity received the offerings.

Dead timbers can be seen wedged into rock crevices to support boat-shaped coffins, part of an ancient suspended-coffin burial custom. The coffins contain human remains, and the pottery placed outside is still intact. I suspect this was a custom of local ethnic peoples before roads were opened and rivers cleared. The 'lord' they worshipped may have been a recluse whose popularity led people to describe him as an immortal. The highest and most imposing peak is still called Dawang Peak, the Great King's Peak. A mound halfway up may mark that lord's former dwelling.

A small stream winds among the peaks in nine bends. Li Zuosi wrote: 'The stream is pure as jade and snow, with nine curves and eighteen turns; thirty-six peaks are wrapped in mist and rosy clouds.' Hong Mai wrote: 'A single stream passes through open space, its waters surging; only after the nine bends does the mountain path grow gentle.'

Dawang Peak is also called Tianzhu Peak. Zhang Zhenren is said to have died here seated in meditation, so it is also known as Xiantui Cliff, the Cliff of Immortal Transformation. On its southern side, a projecting cliff rises in three levels and can be climbed with ladders. An old gazetteer records that Wei Wangziqian once stayed here with Zhang Zhan and others...

At the summit of Dedao Peak in Mount Wuyi, two reclusive masters once attained immortality through cultivation. This sacred ground nurtures ancient trees, rare celestial fruits, extraordinary bamboos, uncommon flowers, and lingzhi mushrooms of divine properties.

The Song Dynasty poet Li Gang versified: This solitary peak rises abruptly from earth to pierce the heavens, yet no trace remains of the immortals' ascension. Those legendary phoenixes and cranes have vanished without a sign—only white jade towers locked with golden chains loom amidst boundless clouds. Another poet Liu Zihui wrote: Rowing past bamboo groves at sunset's glow, I sought celestial traces at Tianzhu Peak. Wind whispers through treetops like crane-borne shengsongs, while swirling mists crown the summit like dancing jade dragons.

Manting Peak, also called Iron Buddha Cliff, records an extraordinary event in local chronicles: On the Mid-Autumn Festival during Emperor Qin Shihuang's second reign year, Lord Wuyi (the mountain deity) hosted a grand banquet for villagers here. He erected pavilions draped with colorful silks, arranged precious thrones upon crimson-cloud cushions, and addressed the villagers as "great-grandchildren." The Daoist master Bai Yuchan later reflected: Generations of "great-grandchildren" have aged in the mortal realm, while these green peaks stand eternal. Xin Qiji marveled: When crane flutes echo through these hills and emerald screens unfold below, why seek Penglai's distant paradise? Our Manting rivals celestial courts. Chen Menggeng lamented: Though rainbow bridges and vermilion towers have vanished from this mountain utopia, hopeful mortals still recount the immortal encounters beneath Wuyi's eaves.

At Crane Immortal Cliff, millennium-old paintings of white-plumed, red-crowned cranes retain their vivid hues upon sheer precipices. Meditation Rock, alternatively called Crane-Watching Terrace, commemorates an enlightened monk's seated cultivation. West of Great King Peak, Immortal Goat Rock's cluster of six or seven peaks recalls legends of divine goats (another namesake exists by Third Bend Stream). Tiger Nose Rock features a peculiar boulder with twin upward holes resembling nostrils, while Lion Rock crouches like a roaring beast. Poet Xu Jinzhai observed: Even tigers tread lightly here—only solitary gibbons wail in midnight valleys.

The Ascension Grotto on Great King Peak's eastern face contains a natural cavern housing five thunder-patterned urns preserving immortal relics (one remains eternally trapped in an inaccessible crevice). Yellowheart wood walkways crisscross before the cave entrance. Above, two timber beams span another cavern as a makeshift bridge. Westward, an unreachable fissure displays incense burners and medicine bottles behind sheer walls. Below the main cave, a vertical crevice neighbors the distinct Alchemy Furnace Stone. Bai Yuchan's verse attests: Following winding paths to immortal abodes, the Ascension Grotto gazes upon towering peaks while spring-fed streams murmur eternal vitality.

This passage depicts the extraordinary peaks and unusual rock formations in the Wuyi Mountain area, using vivid metaphors to describe the distinctive shapes of various cliffs and crags.

At the summit of Great King Peak lies the Dragon Casting Cave (an ancient Daoist site where golden dragon jade tablets were cast for rainmaking rituals). The cave entrance is extremely narrow, requiring a hundred-foot rope descent to access. During the Song dynasty, imperial envoys frequently came here to cast golden dragon jade tablets to pray for rain. Nearby are the Heaven's Mirror Pond and the Great and Small Guanyin Rocks—two towering stones facing each other. The mountaintop's lush vegetation resembles the jeweled crown and spiral-shaped hair buns seen in Buddhist iconography.

The Load-Carrying Rock, also called the Gambling Wife Cliff, originates from a legend about a bridegroom who wagered with an immortal during his wedding procession. The bride ultimately followed the immortal, leaving only her dowry load transformed into this stone. Nearby ruins include the Chang Hermitage and Cai Kang's Study Hall, while the Waterlight Stone stands at the stream's source (all located in Wuyi Mountain's "First Bend" scenic area).

The Iron Plank Ridge lies to the right of Great King Peak, with the central peak among its three summits being particularly towering. The Jade Maiden Peak, alternatively named Three Sisters Rock, features three crimson-hued stones standing shoulder-to-shoulder, resembling beautiful maidens when viewed from afar. Below the peak are the Dressing Table and Immortal's Crown Stone. Song dynasty poets Xin Qiji and Pu Xinquan both composed verses extolling the peak's elegance.

The Horse Head Cliff resembles a bridled steed's head, while Soaring Sky Cliff, Immortal Ape Cliff and Roaring Tiger Cliff cluster near Jade Maiden Peak amidst dense vegetation. This area once housed the Chongzhen Hermitage and Southern Mountain Study Hall, along with the ancestral hall of Song dynasty brothers Cai Yuan. Li Gang's poetry describes tigers roaring from secluded cliffs in ancient times. The Poetry Inscription Cliff by the stream attracted literati through the ages, with another inscription site found in the "Fourth Bend" scenic area (all located in the "Second Bend" scenic zone).

The Peak of Zhang Zhenjun's Ascension is also called Purple Cliff Peak. Legend claims the Cart Coin Peak earned its name when an immortal matron transported coins by oxcart. The mountain preserves the alchemical furnace of Bai Yuchan (the renowned Southern Song dynasty Daoist). Sunrise Cliff contains golden light stones, while Lesser Treasury Cliff overlooks deep pools. Halfway up its sheer face, several fractured crevices once held wooden walkways that appeared suspended in air when viewed from below.

This passage describes a remarkable cave landscape known as "Immortal Rooster Rock" (Xianji Yan). The cavern's interior is spacious, containing various oddly-shaped objects: round vessels resembling ancient grain measures (hu), square containers like bamboo boxes (si), as well as items similar to medicine pestles (chu) and plates. According to ancient records, celestial roosters once roosted and crowed here, hence its name.

Adjacent to Immortal Rooster Rock lies "Immortal Boat Rock" (Xianchuan Yan), where a boat-shaped formation rests midway up the mountainside. The Song dynasty poet Weng Yanyue once composed verses depicting the scene: the misty waters of West Creek seem to merge with the Milky Way, as if immortals were rowing their boat across jade-like waves.

Another site, "Immortal Study Rock" (Xianguan Yan), features a stone chamber halfway up the cliff with desks and writing tables arranged inside—said to be where celestial beings studied and wrote, also called the "Immortal Academy." The poet Li Zhongguang expressed skepticism, dismissing the so-called immortal academy as mere legend. He preferred building a thatched hut there to recite Daoist scriptures like the Jade Chapters (Yuzhang) and contemplate profound mysteries.

The "Water Music Stone" (Shuile Shi) produces melodies like zithers and lutes; the "Sword-Testing Stone" (Shijian Shi) is split cleanly in two, allegedly cleaved by an immortal's blade; and the "Immortal Gathering Stone" (Huixian Shi) is a flat, spacious rock that can seat twenty or thirty people. All these wonders are located in the "Third Bend" (Sanqu) scenic area.

"Banquet Immortal Rock" (Yanxian Yan) stands opposite "Angler's Terrace" (Diaoyu Tai). Below "Immortal Li's Rock" (Lixian Yan) lies a deep pool, where several immortal bones are enshrined within the crevices. During droughts, locals would build ladders from boats to retrieve these relics and pray for rain. "Rooster Nest Rock" (Jike Yan), midway up the mountain, has a narrow entrance but widens inside, with crisscrossed wooden beams resembling a henhouse. Legend says celestial roosters once crowed here, inspiring Weng Yanyue's poem about immortals studying the Yellow Court Scripture (Huangting Jing) to the sound of roosters.

"Cloud Rock" (Yun Yan) features a cavern halfway up the slope large enough to hold a hundred people, inscribed with the plaque "Cloud Rock Hermitage" (Yun Yan An). The stone chamber of "Immortal Loom Rock" (Xianji Yan) still holds a weaving loom—Bai Yuchan's verse imagines it as the place where the Weaving Maiden spun clouds. Finally, the "Angler's Terrace" (Diaoyu Tai) prompted Ming dynasty poet Su Bohou to muse: When did the immortal cast their line here? Now, only the ancient fishing platform remains towering in silence.

In the fourth bend of Wuyi Mountain's scenic area lies Tongjiang Qilitan, where a naturally formed worship platform stands. The flat surface holds an uncarved incense burner that appears as if shaped by nature itself.

The most prominent feature of the fifth bend is the Dayinping Peak, whose gently sloping base rises to a sharp pinnacle, standing straight as a folding screen. At its foot lies the renowned Wuyi Retreat (where Zhu Xi lectured during the Song dynasty). Poet Chen Menggeng described the scene: "Before Great Hermit Screen Peak, clear breeze and bright moon reign; who planted these ten thousand emerald bamboo stalks? The fifth bend's stream flows deep, mirroring the Confucian holy lands of Zhusi from antiquity."

Nearby stands Jiesun Rock, also called Immortal's Bamboo Shoot, shaped like a bamboo sprout breaking through earth. A fissure runs through its center—appearing broken yet still connected. Yuhua Rock's bald summit resembles an arhat's head, earning it the name Arhat Stone. Tianzhu Rock rises like an exquisitely carved pillar. Local records mention how King Wei of old rested at the Changing Robes Platform nearby—a surface as flat as a tea table.

Sandie Peak stacks layer upon layer like fish scales piercing the clouds. Locals observe that when drought breaks, dark clouds first gather at its summit; when clearing comes, the clouds disperse—making it a reliable weather predictor.

On Xianzhang Rock, three crimson streaks resemble vivid palm prints. Between its cliffs, a thousand-foot waterfall separates Immortal's Palm from Immortal's Lodge Mountain. At the summit stands Chongzhen Hall, with the Celestial Bathhouse below. Bai Yuchan's verse reads: "Immortals grasp vines to climb jade cliffs; atop these rocks stood alchemy platforms of old. Their palm prints remain in stone, moss growing between ten finger marks." Lin Junyong lamented: "Emperor Wu's dew-collecting plate vanished long ago—no more morning dews grace this cliff, just slender fingerprints lingering."

Of the Celestial Bathhouse, Chen Menggeng mused: "If transcendents know no earthly dust, why build bathhouses in these hills? I'd rather cleanse marrow and purge hair, riding heavenly steeds through waterclouds with loosened hair, chanting verses."

Shitangyuan Rock is also called Sunken Stone Hall. During Tianxi era of Song dynasty, a sudden thunderstorm one night split White-Faced Rock east of the compound. A massive boulder crushed fifty houses, forming a deep pool with tragic casualties. Only monk Juren and one acolyte survived—said to have been rescued by immortals. Now mere narrow ledges barely foothold-worthy wind for a thousand steps before leveling into Peach Blossom Valley, dubbed "Lesser Peach Spring." Later generations built Liu Yue's memorial here. Bai Yuchan recorded: "The abbot penetrated Zhaozhou's Chan secrets, moving his temple to Tusita Heaven... On the first of second month, Tianxi's fourth year..." [text fragmentary]

This passage depicts the extraordinary rock formations and associated legends throughout Wuyi Mountain. Near the Sixth Bend of the stream stand the Immortal's Footprint Rock and Celestial Palm Cliff facing each other, with footprint-like markings on their surfaces. The poet Li Zuoshi once composed verses describing clearly visible immortal traces on stones by Tianmu Mountain's creek, mocking how the so-called "immortal footprints" at Emperor Wu of Han's Maoling Mausoleum and Gou Mountain were merely tales concocted by fangshi (Daoist adepts).

The area around the Seventh Bend features the North Gallery Cliff stretching continuously like a grand corridor, alongside the Hidden Cliff and Coin-Minting Cliff with their tiered stone steps resembling city walls. The Water-Climbing Turtle Rock's towering cliff extends over fifty zhang (about 170 meters), majestic as a fortified rampart.

At the Eighth Bend, the Drum Tower Cliff contains a pavilion-like structure with four supporting pillars below, which ancient people believed to be an immortal's drum tower. Nearby stand alchemical cauldrons and furnaces, where the poet Ye Mengding lamented humanity's obsession with illusory dreams. The Celestial Pot Cliff adjacent to it houses a Daoist temple complex. This area also boasts remarkable formations: the Water-Descending Turtle Rock, Cat-shaped Stone, Drum Stone, the silk-veined Misty Stone, the facing Large and Small Face Stones, and the Fish Jaw Stone.

Below Lingfeng (Spirit Peak) stands the Mystic Capital Temple (a Daoist sanctuary), while Lingyan (Spirit Cliff), also called Wind Cave, consists of two massive hundred-zhang-high boulders leaning together, forming a narrow "Thread of Sky" crevice that admits sunlight and can accommodate over ten people. Zhu Xi inscribed "Lingyan" here. In his poem about this slender celestial aperture, poet Xu Jinzhai suggests this sliver of light seems to illuminate the primordial chill within human hearts. The White Cloud Cliff displays cloud-like patterns on its surface, along with the Bell Mold Stone representing Buddhist, Confucian and Daoist traditions through the "Three Teachings Stone," the fragrant Aromatic Stone, and granary-like Large and Small Barn Stones. Song Dynasty poet Chen Menggeng's verses portray this landscape of white stones and azure mists as if immortal nectar were being poured from a jade wine vessel.

The "Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven" documents numerous wonders of Mount Wuyi. Along the Nine-Bend Stream area, the revered Master Ziqing (an honorific title for accomplished Daoist practitioners) once cultivated the Golden Elixir (Jindan) and practiced spiritual refinement. The Bone-Transformation Cliff, located north of Manting Peak, contains a flat stone chamber spanning sixty to seventy feet within its cavern. The path leading to the cave entrance was originally connected by a bridge made of yellow-heart wood that remains miraculously preserved to this day. Inside the chamber stands a four-pillared pavilion resembling mundane storage shelves, housing "molting cases" - containers preserving the crimson-hued miniature remains of realized adepts. Tradition holds this as the sacred site where cultivators undergo "corpse liberation" (shijie, a Daoist transcendence method involving physical transformation and ascension).

Beneath the cliff, Tang Dynasty stone inscriptions record Emperor Xuanzong's dispatch of official Yan Xingzhi to perform imperial mountain worship ceremonies. Nearby stand the Three Maidens Stones - three adjacent peaks said to be petrified forms of Qin Dynasty maidens, immortalized in Li Gang's Song Dynasty verse lamenting their eternal stony repose.

Soaring into the clouds, Qiyun Peak's Sage's Hermit often emits mysterious lights. The Water Curtain Cave upstream along Nine-Bend Stream features a seven-hundred-foot waterfall resembling celestial drapery, alternatively called Tangyao Heavenly Cliff. The Bamboo Grotto in the same area, densely covered with hairy bamboo, inspired Li Shangyin's Tang poetic line about "bamboo sprouting in Wuyi's caverns," while Song scholar Weng Yanyue described its dreamlike quality as "an immortal's unfinished chess game."

Ming Dynasty writer Zhong Xing's "Travelogue of Mount Wuyi" details the approach: an eight-hundred-li southern journey from Chong'an County to the provincial capital, with Zhoushi Mountain lying thirty li from town. Viewed across the stream from Pei Village, the mountain's contours first appear so geometrically improbable that observers doubt their perception, only to later recognize its truly transcendent topography. This progression from skepticism to awe encapsulates the quintessential Wuyi experience that has captivated literati through the ages.

When people first conceive the idea of mountain climbing, Wuyi Mountain is invariably their most coveted destination. The essence of this mountain lies in the Nine-Bend Stream, whose winding waters form nine graceful curves.

The mountain contours sometimes embrace the stream and sometimes turn away, yet they remain inseparable companions throughout. Touring Wuyi Mountain typically involves boating downstream from the First Bend to the Ninth Bend to complete the journey. Visitors approaching from the south of the county town can behold the most magnificent Water Curtain Cave from ten li away. This cave, located to the left of the Eternal Palace (Wannian Gong), is actually connected to the peaks of the First Bend when traced on a map. Though belonging to different ridges, their energies flow as one—like two people standing back to back. It is recommended to begin the tour here.

Some say a small path leads to this cave from the Seventh Bend, but its condition remains uncertain. In the Guihai year of the Tianqi era (1623), while returning from the north to Chu, I crossed the stream at Pei Village and rested at the Eternal Palace at the mountain’s base. Though I wished to start my journey from the Water Curtain Cave, protocol required waiting for an official guide to escort me beyond the border, so I stayed temporarily. On the eighth day of the second month, after concluding my affairs, my friend Shang Mei accompanied me here, remarking that touring Wuyi Mountain should begin from the right, as all the bends lie to the palace’s right.

The Eternal Palace serves as a waystation in the mountains, though elsewhere it would already be considered deep wilderness. The Great King Peak (Dawang Feng) and Canopy Pavilion Peak (Manting Feng) seem to loom directly behind the palace, visible immediately upon entering. Only when the boat reaches the First Bend does one truly stand to the stream’s left, where the scenery is profoundly solemn. At the Second Bend, the stream winds alongside smaller peaks, forming a staggered, picturesque landscape—though visitors often mistake this for the First Bend’s vista.

The clustered peaks of the First Bend—such as the Great and Little Guanyin Peaks, Lion Peak (Shizi Feng), and the Jade Maiden Peak (Yunü Feng) of the Second Bend—are visible as soon as one boards the boat. As the boat drifts farther, Lion Peak disappears from view, reducing three peaks to two; drifting further still, Little Guanyin Peak vanishes, leaving only one. Yet these three peaks do not cease to exist simply because they are unseen.

Jade Maiden Peak, serene and graceful with its delicate form, shifts in posture as the boat moves. Whether before reaching the First Bend or after passing the Third or Fourth Bend, visitors remain captivated by it. Though it belongs to the Second Bend, it refuses to be confined as merely its emblem. The peaks of the Second Bend are too numerous to count, with Little Treasury Peak (Xiaocang Feng) standing out most prominently. The Fourth Bend is renowned for Great Treasury Peak (Dacang Feng), beneath which lies the Reclining Dragon Pool (Wolong Tan).

The Fifth Bend is marked by Immortal’s Palm Peak (Xianzhang Feng), Great Hermit Screen (Dayin Ping), and Bamboo Shoot Peak (Jiesun Feng). The Sixth Bend centers around the Heavenly Roaming Temple (Tianyou Guan), flanked by Evening Facing Peak (Wandui Feng), Verdant Screen Peak (Cangping Feng), Three Teachings Peak (Sanjiao Feng), and the imposing Great and Little Fortress Peaks (Dacheng Gao Yan). As for the First Bend’s Great...

This account documents the author's journey along the Nine-Bend Stream of Mount Wuyi. Our exploration began at the Jade Maiden Peak of the Eighth Bend, concluding at the Sixth Bend. Having already trekked forty li from Jianyang on the first day, we reserved the remaining stretch for the Sixth Bend.

The attractions of the Third Bend—Lingyan Rock, Thread of Sky Gorge, and Tiger Roar Cliff—required a six-to-seven-li palanquin ride to access, justifying dedicating an entire day to this section. That evening, under exquisite moonlight, we lodged at Tianyou Temple (a Daoist monastery), whose elevated position offered panoramic views of the stream and mountains—the finest vantage point.

On the second day, we embarked by boat, first gazing up at Xiaocang Peak's cliffs to spot the legendary "Immortal Boat" (hanging coffins), then circling to Wolong Pool at the mountain's rear. Nestled beneath Dacang Peak, this pool presented a striking contrast—while the Nine-Bend Stream ran crystal clear, Wolong's waters were fathomless and mirror-calm, appearing utterly still. Proceeding to Pinglin Ferry, we abandoned our boat mid-Fifth Bend for palanquins to visit Dayinping and the academy of Zhu Xi (sobriquet Huiweng).

The academy sat embraced by peaks including Jiesun Peak and Dayinping. Before it rose mountains; behind lay the "Cloud Nest"—retreat of Ming official Chen Sheng, who during twelve reclusive years had ingeniously adapted cliff formations into elegant dwellings. After inscribing commemorative verses, I followed Xianzhang Peak's winding path at sunset, passing through stone gates to Tianyou Temple.

That night from the heights, Jiesun Peak seemed within arm's reach of the heavens as moonlight transmuted mist and frost into silver radiance. Sitting opposite fellow traveler Shangzi in the pavilion, we nearly wished dawn would never come. Yet at daybreak we ascended Yilan Terrace—higher even than Tianyou—where the Third Bend stream spread below us, rendering even the Great King Peak diminutive.

Originally planning to resume from the Fifth Bend on the ninth day, I discovered the Sixth-Seventh Bend boundary had already vanished behind Xianzhang Peak. Boatmen had long waited at the Seventh Bend, so we embarked directly, regrettably bypassing Cangping Peak, Upper/Lower City High Cliffs, and Lesser Peach Blossom Spring of the Sixth Bend. The Seventh Bend's landmarks included Beilang Rock and Tianhu Peak, while the Eighth Bend boasted its signature Drum Rock.

This passage describes the landscape and travel experience along the Nine-Bend Stream (Jiuquxi) in the Wuyi Mountains. The author follows the winding stream, where the Cold Cliff Lingfeng Temple (a Daoist monastery) nestles among blooming flowers in the mountains, presenting a serene and delightful scene.

Upon reaching the Nine-Bend Path, the mountain trail gradually levels and widens, evoking a sense of leaving the deep forests. Scattered along both banks of the stream are numerous cliffs, some accessible only by boat. Feeling weary, the author decides not to force himself to explore every inaccessible spot and turns the boat around.

While sailing past the Tianyou Temple (a Daoist structure), the author recalls Xie Lingyun’s poetic line: "The emerald void defies description." Looking back at the pavilion where he stayed the previous night, he realizes it was built on such a precarious ledge that it barely offered footing. Though the Immortal Palm Peak stretches broadly, he only glimpses a few cliffs before abandoning the journey through the fifth and sixth bends.

Near the fifth bend, the author arrives at the base of Jiesun Peak (Connecting Bamboo Shoots Peak), longing to climb but hesitant to attempt it recklessly. Passing through a small gate, he finds a pavilion where he can rest. The summit’s Chicken Breast Cliff is perilously steep, with edges dropping into unfathomable depths—crossing requires ropes. The peak itself is not particularly high, but the wooden ladder clinging to the cliff face has steps less than a foot wide, totaling seventy in all. Still weakened from illness, the author cannot make the ascent and laments in verse: One should visit famous mountains while young, for both strength and enthusiasm wane with age.

A Daoist priest descends the ladder steadily, bearing tea and fruit, and invites the author to partake. The locals cultivate tea for their livelihood, with the finest leaves coming from Jiesun Peak. Switching from sedan chair back to boat, the author returns to the sixth bend in search of Cangping Peak. There, towering cliffs rise above, and halfway up the mountain lives a solitary monk—a rare sight in these mountains.

Continuing by boat across the stream, he seeks the legendary Little Peach Blossom Spring (Xiao Taoyuan). Historical records mention a Stone Hall Temple that once stood here, collapsing overnight during a storm in the Tiansheng era of the Northern Song Dynasty. The fallen stones formed natural wonders: some leaning to create caves, others spanning as stone bridges, with streams flowing through the gaps to form mountain brooks. Passing through two narrow stone gates, he suddenly encounters fields, cottages, mulberry trees, hemp, chickens, and dogs—an idyllic scene like a hidden utopia. Amid the secluded and rugged Wuyi Mountains, stumbling upon such an open, level expanse feels astonishingly fresh, making it the perfect retreat for reclusion.

Finally, the boat passes the fourth and third bends, where familiar sights like the Jade Maiden Peak (Yunü Feng) and Great King Peak (Dawang Feng) come into view before returning to stay overnight at the Everlasting Palace (Wannian Gong, a Daoist temple). The author reflects: Among mountain lodgings, the highest point is Tianyou Temple, while the deepest seclusion lies at Tiger’s Roar Cliff (Huxiao Yan). Thus, he resolves to abandon the boat and trek six or seven miles on foot to explore Lingfeng Peak.

This passage describes the unusual scenery around Mount Wuyi. It begins with Yixiantian, the 'Thread of Sky': the rock is not high, but overhangs like a roof, and the cave resembles a house. Sunlight enters through a narrow gap, no more than an inch wide at its broadest point but a hundred times as long, like a fine thread.

Several famous caves follow. Wind from Fengdong feels as cool as evening air. Fuxi Cave faces Mount Heng, with free passage between them. At dusk, the writer returns to Huxiao Rock to stay overnight. It stands higher than Lingyan. A slightly leaning cliff shelters houses built against the mountainside, where monks live beneath tiled roofs that seem forever protected from rain. That night, the moonlight is hazy and mist flows like a stream, inviting the thought of floating through it in a boat.

The next day, the writer travels by boat, passes the second bend, and enters Zhizhi An. There are few peach blossoms in the mountains, most having been replaced by tea plants. The scenery between Lingyan and Zhizhi An is as delicate as a miniature landscape in a bottle. The boat then approaches Yunv Peak, revealing the Greater and Lesser Guanyin Peaks and Shizi Peak. After eating at Wannian Gong, the writer feels no longer like an ordinary tourist.

Ten li along the path to the left, a cave-like entrance appears beside the road. The writer changes to a bamboo sedan chair and goes inside. About two li later, Danxia Ridge, Yuzhu Peak, and Huoyan Peak rise into the clouds. The path narrows, with cliffs facing each other like the Three Gorges. Rocks obstruct the water, forming a rugged mountain channel rather than a smooth stream, and the barefoot bearers cross it repeatedly. The rocks grow denser, forming a cave like a small Peach Blossom Spring, but much more perilous.

After passing through the cave and emerging into daylight, the writer sees Shuilian Cave, the Water Curtain Cave. A towering cliff leans forward, covering a wide area. Even several hundred paces away, splashing water falls like rain on a clear day. Closer inspection shows that the water drops from the cliff's top. Houses hang against the rock, surrounded by railings. Looking out from the steps, it seems as though someone at the summit is watering with a can, the fine streams drifting east and west in the breeze. Named for its water, the cave combines imposing mountains with delicate streams whose beauty requires quiet attention. Only then does the writer realize that Shuilian Cave is separated from the main Wuyi scenic area by a stream and lies quite far away.

The Record of Famous Mountains contains an account of two literati's mountain excursions, primarily describing two extraordinary landscapes.

The first half recounts reflections on touring the Nine-Bend Stream of Wuyi Mountain. The author observes that Wuyi appears unlike a mountain from afar, yet upon approaching, one realizes it is entirely composed of peaks. The stream meanders naturally without awareness of its own twists—only by boating through it can one grasp the wonder of its "nine bends." The Water Curtain Cave seems separate from Wuyi Mountain but is in fact an integral part of it. The author suggests that travelers arriving from the south should begin their journey at the Water Curtain Cave, yet most rush to see the Nine-Bend Stream first, often noticing the cave only on their return when exhaustion has dulled their appreciation. Shangzi (likely a companion) ultimately decides to conclude their Wuyi excursion at the Water Curtain Cave, scheduling the visit for the tenth day of the tenth lunar month.

The latter half documents Zong Chen's travelogue of Dripping Water Rock. Having read in local records of this site five li northeast of Guihua County, and hearing friends Xu Jun and Jie Jun praise its marvels, Zong Chen visits during his westward military campaign in the ninth month of the wuwu year. Jie Jun suggests resting at the rock, prompting an eastward horseback journey the next day. After traversing three mountain ridges, they reach the sheer cliffside. Ascending a narrow path to the "Welcoming Immortals" pavilion, Zong Chen deems the name vulgar and renames it "Shaking Robes Pavilion." At the summit, three peculiar drips descend: one from a hanging stone resembling a lotus, and two from crevices into a stone basin. Locals often drink this water, which brews exceptionally sweet tea—Zong Chen exclaims it tastes like "nectar of heaven." The rock's serpentine form resembles dragon claws emerging from clouds, while pendant stones like lotus blossoms inspire his naming of "Hanging Lotus Waters." To the right, incense smoke curls from a niche in the cliff, which Jie Jun identifies as the hermitage recorded in local chronicles where the monk Lai once practiced.

The text exemplifies the refined pleasures of Ming-dynasty literati excursions, where appreciation of natural wonders blends with scholarly elegance—renaming pavilions, inscribing rocks, and savoring the harmony of landscape and culture. Both sites feature water as their essence: Wuyi's winding stream embodies fluid grace, while Dripping Water Rock offers crystalline purity, each distinct in its charm.

The practitioner sat in meditation within the mountain cave for many days until local villagers discovered him and marveled at his presence. They crafted an effigy of his form to venerate. This statue later became a sacred rain-summoning artifact—when drought struck, prayers to it brought showers, and carrying it in procession invoked heavier downpours. People marveled: "Truly one who has attained the Dao!"

The text presents a principle: Those cultivating the Dao should reveal their true nature, while sacred images ought to be enshrined in secluded spaces. Nowadays, when Buddhist statues are displayed in bustling thoroughfares where merchants and shepherd boys casually touch and play with them, even genuinely numinous images would grow indignant. Therefore, sacred figures should dwell in tranquil sanctuaries—this constitutes proper reverence.

The cavern features three entrances flanking a central pillar resembling the Celestial Axis, hence named the Central, Left, and Right Celestial Pillars. Within lies a lion-shaped stone gate crowned by a dipper-like rock suspended by mere threadlike stone filaments, earning it the name "Honeycomb Peak." To the left, three more openings appear: the left passageway, and to the right a natural bridge broken like a severed walkway, its hollowed surface resembling a turtle's carapace—dubbed the "Turtle Beam."

Left of the Turtle Beam dangle bead-like stalactites, while to the right protrudes a slab called "Falling Ape Rock." Five-colored mists coil about this area, beneath which lie the Emptiness and Illumination twin caverns—striking their floors with bamboo staffs elicits echoing valley resonances. Another narrow grotto named "Celestial Drum" produces thunderous booms when struck. More wondrous still is the distant chime of some frigid stone qing (ancient lithophone) emerging from the depths. Stone beds within require torchlight to access; playing the qing there feels like meditating in a Chan hall.

When Master Jie (my companion) invited me to drink, he had attendants strike drums left and qing right, filling the mountain valley with celestial harmonies. A massive level boulder leans to the right like an imperial crown—thus called "Coronet Stone"—behind which lies the innermost "Primordial Chaos Cavern." Surveying the surroundings, fantastic rocks resembling leaping carp, soaring eagles, spiritual turtles, and giant ao-turtles seem to spring to life around visitors. This divine craftsmanship manifests infinite variations within perfect unity, radiant yet profoundly serene—the entire vista resembles a miniature Mount Kongtong (legendary mountain where the Yellow Emperor inquired about the Dao). Gazing upward in awe, I stood humbled before nature's mystical creative power.

The Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven documents two literati's journeys through landscapes and their reflections. The author first laments missing the chance to visit Huayang Cave with his friend Xu Zhongxing (former prefect of Tingzhou). This cave gained fame because Tao Hongjing (a patriarch of the Shangqing Daoist school, known as the Recluse Tao) once cultivated Dao there during the Southern Dynasties, and even received inscribed imperial commendations in the Song dynasty. Yet the author observes that the cave itself holds no extraordinary scenery—had Tao seen it, he too might have been disappointed. True marvels often lie hidden in untamed wilderness, while people marvel at artificial rockeries; such misplaced admiration baffles him. His friend Jie Hong (who passed the imperial exams the same year) counters: Huayang Cave gained renown through Tao's presence, and perhaps these very cliffs might one day achieve similar fame.

The latter half recounts the author's ascent of Tianyou Peak with a local elder shepherd. In the autumn of the Yimao year, they boated to the mountain's base, following the Nine-Bend Stream to the foot of Jade Maiden Peak. There, thousand-foot cliffs plunged into the water's reflection, where sunlight and drifting clouds danced across stone faces. Passing Golden Rooster Cave, they noticed faint azure and crimson glows within—the elder explained these were the luminous aura of "immortal husks" (Daoist term for relics left by transcendent beings). Ashore, they examined cliff carvings, then traversed perilous paths to visit the shrine of Zhu Xi (styled Hui'an) and the Hall of Benevolence-Wisdom, gazing down at the academy complex from Hidden Screen Peak's heights. Finally, they ventured into the dark recesses of Fuxi Cave, where the author even left an inscription—prompting the shepherd to laugh that his "curiosity borders on recklessness," as no one had entered for decades. The group ultimately scaled steep, slippery rocks, ascending like a line of woodcutters threading through treacherous terrain.

Through contrasting famed grottoes with nameless wonders, the text subtly suggests that true alignment with the Dao (the Way) lies not in celebrated sites but in unassuming nature. The arduous climb mirrors the Daoist seeker's struggle to transcend worldly perceptions—a path as demanding as scaling sheer cliffs.

This passage describes the writer's travels around Tianyou Peak, evoking the atmosphere of a Daoist immortal mountain.

Along a path halfway up the mountain, shaded by pines and hanging greenery, I descended eastward on a stone walkway and suddenly entered a passage between two sheer cliffs. Pines and bamboo lined the steep walls, water murmured, and several kinds of rock frogs leaped about. At Wanfeng Pavilion in Tianyou An, I straightened my clothes and sat with an old man dressed as a cowherd, utterly exhausted. After a brief rest, I rose and looked west. Peaks displayed countless fantastic forms, while Jiuqu Stream wound below. Xianzhang Peak and Yilan Terrace flanked Tianyou Peak beside the hermitage. Two snow-white waterfalls plunged from the mountains' sides, yet Tianyou remained immovable. Gazing for a long time, I wondered in a daze: Could this be the golden Ao, the legendary divine turtle of the sea? When had it moved here?

Ahead was a small stone terrace overlooking the whole scene. Beyond it, a path could just be seen through a crack in Yinping Rock, leading upward along stone steps that still bore clear marks of axes and chisels. The old cowherd said that people had supposedly sheltered here from the turmoil of the Qin era. Soon he led me westward, feeling our way along the 'Ao's back.' After crossing a stone pool, we glimpsed Yilan Terrace hanging high above a sheer ravine. Looking up, I saw a dead tree standing proudly at the cliff's edge, with frost-white roots and an iron-gray trunk. Who could tell its age? I lay against a rock beside it and looked down at Jiuqu Stream, feeling as though I rode rolling clouds. Suddenly I noticed wild deer and birds beside the stream accompanying the visitors.

As evening approached, bitter winds filled the valley, and we could not stay long. By the time we slowly returned to the hermitage, the moon hung among the pine branches. I unfolded a bamboo bed to rest, then heard faint calls from the rock wall to the mountain's right, like Luan birds and cranes, echoing through the vaulted space. Startled, I asked the others. A Daoist practitioner said it was the iron flute of 'Immortal Li,' meaning Li Tieguai. There had once been an Iron Flute Pavilion several zhang west of Jiuqu Rock. This story left me surprised and curious.

The next morning, the old cowherd and I climbed the newly built Daidaozhe pavilion behind the hermitage. I suddenly felt beyond the mortal world and joined to the sky. Rocks and stream-clouds seemed to fly past the windows. After lingering, I exclaimed, 'This truly is a nest among the clouds!' I named it Chaoyun Tang, the Hall of Nesting in Clouds. This was the retreat for cultivation and quiet rest on Tianyou Peak.

The following Record of Daoshan Pavilion states that Fujian originally fell under Zhou rule but was fully incorporated into the central realm only in the Qin dynasty, when Minzhong Commandery was established. From Nanyue (present-day Guangdong)...

This passage describes the rugged mountainous terrain of ancient Fujian region and the prosperous scenery of Fuzhou city.

The land routes in Fujian were treacherous and difficult to traverse, with roads squeezed between towering mountains, stretching for miles before reaching even a small patch of level ground. The mountain paths were as steep as climbing ropes, some cliffs so narrow they resembled a hair's breadth, while side trails wound precariously above deep gorges, littered with jagged rocks. Even locals had to tread carefully, and outsiders often stumbled and fell. Streams cascaded violently from great heights, filled with bizarre rock formations and rushing through tortuous bends—boats that made even the slightest misstep would be dashed to pieces. Even the locals dared not navigate these waters unless they were skilled swimmers. Due to such perilous conditions, the Han Dynasty once relocated the inhabitants of this region to the Jianghuai area.

Fuzhou (ancient Minzhong), in contrast, had relatively flat terrain, surrounded by distant mountains, with the Min River to the south and the sea to the east. The city's roads crisscrossed in an orderly grid, canals connected to the tides, and boats came and went without cease. The region abounded in high-quality timber, and craftsmen were exceptionally skilled—even the houses of commoners were splendidly built, and even the poor lived in decent dwellings. Buddhist and Daoist temples flourished here, the most famous being the three mountains within the city: Min Mountain to the west, Jiuxian Mountain to the east, and Yuewang Mountain to the north. These three peaks stood like the legs of a tripod, covered with hundreds of monasteries and Daoist shrines, their architecture exquisitely refined.

Master Cheng, the Court Minister of Imperial Entertainments, built pavilions on the steep cliffs of Min Mountain. From these vantage points, one could gaze upon the majestic landscapes, the grand layout of the city, and the splendid palaces—scenery so breathtaking it rivaled the legendary Daoist immortal mountains of Penglai, Fangzhang, and Yingzhou.

This mountain was originally called Dao Mountain (a sacred site for Daoist cultivation). Located in the remote and rugged terrain of Fujian, officials often feared making the journey there. Yet Lord Cheng (the Song Dynasty official Cheng Shimei) was able to embrace the mountain's exquisite natural surroundings, finding in them a source of delight for his heart and mind. Not only did he forget the hardships of the long and perilous journey, but he also elevated his thoughts beyond the dust of the mundane world—such lofty aspirations were truly remarkable!

(Additional note: The term "dust" here symbolizes worldly affairs, while "elevating one's thoughts beyond the dust" refers to the transcendent state of Daoist cultivation. Cheng Shimei was a renowned Song Dynasty official who, during his tenure in Fuzhou, constructed the Dao Mountain Pavilion and left behind this historical record.)