We’ve been winding our way up the lush slope for about half an hour now. Our bus makes impossibly tight turns around a narrow, twisting road ascending the most breathtaking mountains we’ve ever seen. As we meander through the steep incline, we get to see the surrounding area from every possible angle. Keeping our eyes fixed out the windows, we wait eagerly for the brief moments when the trees give way, allowing us a glimpse of the land we’ve covered so far. If the angle is just right, we can see all the way down to the base of the mountain, out to where the earth levels off and the many buildings of nearby cities huddle together. So much green in one place seems impossible, but here it is, all around us. We’ve made impressive progress, but we still have a way to go before we can get off the bus to embark on the next stage of the journey: a short train ride ascending even farther up the verdant cliffs of Alishan.
Some of us are glad when the moment comes sooner rather than later. The bus ride up the mountain, while a feast for the eyes, is not as easy on the stomach. We brace ourselves for every turn, every wobble and shake, every bump in the road. The small plastic bags given to us by the tour guides are not for keeping our belongings organized. We try not to think about it, fixing our gaze on the scenery.
Walking into the train station, we take a group photo. Dizzy, still drowsy, unaccustomed to the thin air at such a high altitude, but happy to be here and eager to see more, we huddle together and put on our best smiles. As we turn to face the camera, we’re greeted by yet another brilliant view, and the tour guide captures our awed faces. The sky is a watercolor with a hundred shades of blue seeping into one another. The white clouds are like stark paper, where the ink has yet to flow.
Getting off the train, the clouds are larger, the breeze stronger, and the air more fragrant. Our guide says the different kinds of trees in the area give off different aromas, and the change is instantly noticeable. It’s no wonder a landscape so magnificent enchants all of the senses. The whirring of insects in the trees and the rustling of leaves in the wind compete with the area’s beauty for our attention. Some of us stop to take photos, but others don’t even know where to begin. There are so many perfect shots, so many angles and views that taking a single photograph almost seems daunting.
But in the span of only a few minutes, the panorama of the mountains disappears entirely, as a dense fog envelops us. It’s beautiful in its own eerie, unsettling way. The moisture in the air settling on our skin is a refreshing relief from the heat of the summer sun, but it’s also unnerving - an embrace from a stranger. From our new perspective, the world beyond the grey mist drops away even sharper than the already precipitous cliffs that we spent nearly an hour climbing. For all we can tell, we’ve been cast off the mountain, isolated to a small island. Things seem quiet, and the fragrance of the trees is replaced by the smell of dew and humidity. We wander in the fog for a few minutes, looking back at the places we visited already from a new perspective. So much grey in one place seems impossible, but here it is, all around us. We find ourselves taking pictures anyway, finding new ways to play with hue and perspective as we take snapshots in the chiaroscuro of our new surroundings. Under the dim, obscured light, the trees cast different shadows and the cliffs gain new profiles. The longer we spend in the fog, the more alluring it becomes.
But eventually it disperses, the forest returns, and we’re back at Alishan… on a larger, small island. And it’s beautiful.
Taiwan Intensive Summer Language Program
Summer 2022