The Tao of Tourism

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“It’s quite light. Looks pretty fancy how many people has it killed？” I ask. I’m standing in one of many tourist-trap sword shops that line the town at the foot of the Wudang Mountains. The weapon merchant emits a labored laugh at my attempt at humor. She’s probably heard that joke a hundred times. “No-one，” is the reply， but despite my sinister line of questioning she still offers me the blade for the cut-price amount of 400 yuan （US$66）.

I wasn’t expecting weaponry to be the souvenir of choice at Wudang. The small mountain range in the northeast corner of Hubei Province， about midway between Xi’an and Wuhan， is famous as the birthplace of Daoism and the predominantly non-combat internal martial art taijiquan （often referred to as taichi in the West） and its offshoot， qigong， a form of breathing exercises. Many Chinese regularly make the pilgrimage to this holy spot， and the collection of temples and monasteries are home to some 200 hundred practicing monks.

Chinese New Year is a popular time to make that pilgrimage， and that’s when I’ve chosen to make my own not in a religious context， but more in commitment of witnessing the area’s outstanding natural beauty. （The site is often used for film sets： the 2010 Hollywood remake of The Karate Kid had scenes shot here.） Due to the national holiday， the town， called Wudangshanzhen， which sits just outside the gate to the Wudang temple site （entrance 240 yuan， US$40） is bustling. Walking back out of the sword shop （unarmed）， the crowds， noise， hollow grey shells of future hotels （estimated percentage of hotels here that have taiji in the name： 70） and general commercialism are starting to plant doubts in my mind that just above us can be the famed sacred temple complex that I’d seen on film. The sword seller told us not to worry a 40-minute bus ride plus a three-hour climb meant the peak was still some distance away.

Early the next day we take the bus up the winding mountainous road to just below the peak. The area is called Zhongguan， home to a few hotels， shops and restaurants options， as well as the starting point for the 5-minute cable car （80 yuan， US$13） to the summit. As sunlight starts flooding the valley， the vertical drops on either side of the snaking road become ever clearer. I realize why there is a large bunch of plastic bags attached to the wall of the bus， and it’s not long before a queasy passenger makes a dash for one.

The ascent through the trees to the summit provides us with a much-needed way to warm ourselves up. It does indeed take three hours， and although strenuous， it’s well paved all the way. I presume that is a big help for the many women who see no problem in making the climb in high heels and tight jeans. We stop to banter with some local vendors on the mountain. Sedan chair to the top： 200 yuan （US$33）. Whole， peeled cucumber to quench your thirst： 5 yuan （US$0.80）.

After finally making it over the crest of the hill you catch the first glimpse of the Golden Palace and its surrounding structures： this largest and most captivating set of buildings will be the highlight of any trip to the Wudang Mountains. Built in the early 15th century， they pay homage to the most significant Daoist deity， Xuan Wu， who was said to have attained immortality at this site. The hordes of smartphone-wielding tourists flocking around the resident monks， who are dressed in traditional garb， make for an interesting China disparity snapshot. It’s a shame that not more consideration has been made here to better accommodate tourists a few tacky souvenir shops are the only source of food and drink， and the ground nearby is littered with instant noodle wrappers.

I ask one young-looking monk if all the tourist clamor detracts from the spirituality of his adopted home （acutely aware， of course， of my own contribution to said clamor）. “As long as they came here with good intentions and to pray for the well-being of themselves and their family， I don’t mind，” he tells me. He’s only 24 and made the pilgrimage from Sichuan Province to “come and enjoy the peaceful mountain life.”

As most of the crowds make their way back down the mountain well before sunset （there is no accommodation for visitors at the peak）， the joys of the place espoused by our Sichuanese friend start to make themselves apparent. The setting is undeniably enchanting spiritual， if you so believe and the vast expanse of the valleys beneath you， together with the sheer weight of the mountains shaping them， holds our attention for some time.

The setting sun forces us to make our descent aided eventually by the torch of our smartphone. At the bottom of the cable car， we visit one of the many restaurants inside the site， that mainly offer home-style food with local wild vegetables yecai. Our elevation and remoteness from major dwellings mean that the prices are high， but we bargain hard with some success.

We start our second day the same way we started the first careering around the mountains in a bus while trying not to get vomited on. It’s worth mentioning that these free buses that shepherd tourists around the mountain are incredibly frequent and easy to hop on and off they certainly help justify the high price of the site’s entry ticket.

Our vehicle took us to the Cloud Temple， which dates back to the Song Dynasty （960-1279）. The Pilgrimage Hall， which housed traveling Daoists in the Ming Dynasty （1368-1644）， is dedicated to the semi-mythical monk Zhang Sanfeng， said to be the founder of taijiquan. As the story goes， after witnessing a fight between a snake and a crane， he incorporated the animals’ movements into a martial art. The picture-perfect image of taijiquan disciples all crouched in formation in the courtyard is something you’ll have to leave to your mind’s eye. Although the views aren’t as spectacular as the peak， the aesthetic of temples set against the fir-speckled misty mountain backdrop is as close to a realization of a traditional ink-and-wash Chinese landscape painting as you’re going to find.

A little further up takes us to the last major site， the South Peak， where gravity-defying constructions peer precipitously over jagged crags. By this time we’ve spent a large portion of the last 48 hours climbing up or down staircases， but we’re sustained by a local Wudang tea tasting（50 yuan， or US$8， for a small box）. It’s sold to us by a charming young lady who’s clearly preyed on a few impressionable young western tourists before. We leave with five boxes of Wudang tea after absolutely no effort to bargain at all.

Heading back into town （witnessing our third unlucky traveler reach for the sickbag）， I was reminded of my earlier doubts as to the integrity of the sacred site， which thankfully proved to be misplaced. Of course somewhere this special is going to be visited by droves of tourists， and who am I to criticize any local entrepreneurs for wanting to make a buck or two from it. They have one of China’s most sacred sites in their back garden， one that attracts pilgrims and tourists alike.