The Tenth Crossing

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Before you even arrive in Shidu， the mountains overtake you. I couldn’t help but press my nose against the glass of my vehicle to gaze at the craggy karsts looming through the mist as if squished together by some cosmic hand. This whole area is three hundred and sixty degrees of breathtakingly， jaw-droppingly gorgeous views.

Even on paper， Shidu looks like a dream： there’s seemingly nothing you can’t do. Travelers can hike the hills for stunning vistas of the karsts， and then bungee-jump off the peaks. Where the streams run fast， you can raft down them； where they slow down， hop aboard a bamboo raft and lazily soak in the views as you’re punted along. I won’t trouble you with all of the geological reasons scientists flock to this place， but the peaks are， even to the untrained eye， one of a kind. Add in the ten parks around the area， and you’ve got North China’s largest national park zone. Shidu is even referred to as the “Guilin of the North” due to scenic similarity with the more-famous sugarloaf mountain region of southern Guangxi Province. In terms of image， the local tourist associations have plenty to work with.

Souvenirs

Back in ancient times， the roaring Juma river was too wild for bridge building， so a series of ten ferries was constructed to allow the valley’s residents to get in and out. Even though man latterly won out with modern construction methods， the vistas only become more impressive after each bend in the road feeding the new（ish） bridges. The first few du C river crossings C are less developed and known for their scenery， with the later stops on the road boast man-made splash pools and even a massive Chinese character hewn into a mountainside.

All of this beauty associated with Shidu is well-attested by Beijingers， and this was the reason that a small group of friends and I rented a van to spend a day there. While the North’s megacity has its fair share of parks and lush scenery， its overcrowding and pea-soup air pollution can stress tourists out to the point they find the return home a blessed relief.

There are few things in life more infuriating than trying to relax with a cold beer when you can’t see the sky. So， when my friends waxed poetic about the landscape and the natural activities in Shidu， I couldn’t help but hop on board.

Unfortunately， this area’s outdoorsy appeal is also a magnet for the city’s ever-growing， ever-demanding middle class. After toiling away in the office， there’s a real need for some family-friendly entertainment out in the wilderness. Most see the parks as a part of a corporate training event designed to get people out in the open air. What could have been a summer escape from the heavy drag of the city became a carnival specializing in groan-inducing， manufactured “fun.”

We arrived at the rafting location before we even unloaded our lug-gage. The area was teeming with others who were seemingly just as excited as us， gazing starry-eyed at souvenir stalls before they’d barely alighted from their conveyances. A top seller were the wicker cowboy hats emblazoned with the name of retired soccer star Ronaldinho C an item bizarrely ubiquitous in China C yet we didn’t see one game of soccer on our jaunt.

The long row of impatient vendors also stocked a collection of water guns to drench your friends with. I readied my inner commando to obliterate my enemies. Yet when it came time to open fire， the gun’s barrel was smothered in a mysterious greasy film， making it unusable. When I finally got the obstruction clear but before I had a chance to let fly， I heard the cry： “Look， a foreigner！”

I never found out who soaked me.

Not-so-Rapids

The rafting itself awaited us at the end of a long line of local tourists， many of whom somehow did not realize that being on the water required a bathing suit. It quickly became clear that most， especially the women， had no intention of getting wet， or even damp. The “rapids” pitched to me were actually little more than a languid stream. At its deepest the water went halfway up my shins， and the torrent moved slowly enough to make a boat something of a superfluous luxury. Most enjoyed the ride with the same fervor you’d see in the faces of shoppers on an escalator. I shrugged， and decided to relax anyway. However， when we left the tourist clamor behind us， all was forgiven CShidu is about its peaks， and once you’re among them， all else melts away. Getting to the best bits， however， takes patience. On entry to the main geological park， seeing a soaring waterfall pouring down like a horse’s tail， we finally had our Kodak moment. That was until someone apparently turned off the faucet ten minutes later.

Never mind， we thought， let’s get climbing. Stairs carved into the rock wove up the first trail we came to， with ponies available to carry the indolent or infirm. Vendors toting bottled water and overpriced corn awaited at every intersection， and battery-powered carts zoomed other travelers to the top without stopping. The road up to the trail-head was a small menagerie of artificial attractions： carousels， waterslides， even a mechanical bull. The latter was also symbolic of most of the fauna we ran into throughout the park C nearly all of them were made of fiberglass.

We ploughed on， the trail snaking up higher into the mountains， populated by an unceasing tide of tourists shucking sunflower seeds and snapping photos. This wasn’t the wilderness C it felt like the crush of the subway！ Our team of explorers navigated our way up a hill to a small cave just narrow enough to shimmy a single body through. The wait was infuriating， but the reward after passing through made up for it： grand， soaring vistas of the surrounding mountainsides， covered in lush green foliage and adorned with crowns of cottony clouds. We stood， agape， unwilling to move forward until the crowds made it unavoidable. However， they were starting to thin out， the exertion proving too much for all but dedicated climbers.

Resting Place

Finally， we reached our hoped-for sanctuary. While there are hotels in the area， it’s much more pleasant to stay in a farmer’s hostel some- where in the town itself. Many local residents have refurbished their modest properties into two-story courtyards. I was assigned to what was called the “honeymoon suite，” fittingly bedecked with adorable hearts， flowers and additional blankets. Our gracious hosts promised us a banquet of cold beer and kabobs charred over hot coalsC after such an exhausting day， such delights were irresistible. It would， however， prove a DIY affairC we’d have to prep and cook our food ourselves. All part of the fun！

While two of our group fiddled with a lighter， leaving the rest to stare at the piles of lamb hunks and chicken wings on sticks， our hosts vanished and we were left in the silence and faint rush of the mountain air. To pass the time， one of our group had brought out a few floating lanterns to set off into the clear， cobalt-blue sky. The first one hit a power line and set itself alight. But the second， and the third， and every one after that sailed effortlessly to add another star to the dome above us. I ended the night looking off into the mountains， absorbing scarlet rays as the sun dipped behind the peaks.

This， I thought， as the aroma of grilling meat tingled my nostrils， is what I came to see.