Mount Wutai of the northern Shanxi province makes for good trekking in the warm months, but somehow my friends felt the need to go in the middle of winter. For three days we stomped on icy trails in below freezing temperatures and took refuge at night in Buddhist monasteries. The six of us emerged with sore bodies and wind burnt faces, but our lungs thanked us for the time away from the smog and my thirst for mountains was quenched.

 

 

My decision to join the trek was even more last minute than my mom’s decision to take me back to China for winter break. With final exams, no gear, and a weather forecast of something very un-Floridian, I got myself together just in time for my domestic flight. I went from visiting relatives in the humid Guangdong province to landing in Taiyuan, the capital of Shanxi.

 

 

Day 0

I met with Bufan, my best friend from Kilimanjaro, and his friends from middle school. It was cool because we were flying in from all over the country; they were with family as well. I stored my non-trekking luggage for just dollars at the airport before we took a local bus to the train station. We purchased train tickets for that night and reunited with the last member of our group, Mei, who I also befriended in Tanzania.

Always hungry, we had giant bowls of noodle soup, a typical meal of the Shanxi cuisine. The lifeblood of northern China was noodles. It’s normal for locals to not feel full without wheat-based foods, even if they had plenty of rice (one of the reasons I disagree with arguments made in Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers).

I bought lü dou gao, a mung bean pastry, fresh from the frying oil and it was the best I’d ever had.

We had the cheapest type of train tickets, meaning we didn’t get seats and had to stand. In the dining cart we could sit for a bit if we ordered from the menu consisting of three items, one of which was eggs and tomato, the unofficial national dish. Every Chinese household makes it a couple times a week, I promise. It’s so easy, nutritious, and affordable.

Our stop was Wutai Shan, but we were in a small town called Shahe and still a good distance away from the mountain itself. I was feeling feverish and had a sinus infection from the air pollution. We got rooms in the first cheap hotel we saw and went straight to sleep.

 

 

 

Day 1

I hit a new low. By the end, the winds were blowing me in zig zags on the trail. When I say end, I mean the end of my physical endurance for misery.

I’d been breathing through a layer of snot covering my sick and sniveling face for hours, watching it turn into icicles on my buff. My headband kept sliding over my eyes so I was staring at the ground using my crack of vision and had to bend way back to look ahead. Yuchen later told us it was -24ºC, or -11ºF. I guess it literally was a new low.

Wutai means five terraces. A temple sits atop each, housing Buddhist monks and their staff. We hiked uphill to the East Terrace for breakfast. The monks eat simple and mostly vegan, sharing their food for around $2 per meal. In other words, my next few days were about to be lots of mantou rolls and potatoes. Some temples collected our dirty dishes, others expected us to the washing, which was more like rinsing in questionable water and again in less questionable water.

 

 

Temperature set aside, I enjoyed the views and occasional company of stray dogs or foxes begging for food. We were obviously hiking in low season, beating the crowds and guided tours.

Just after crossing the high point, we cooked some instant noodles in a shed full of snow and broken bunk beds. We later realized this was the North Terrace.

The unexpected appearance of a sanctuary saved our frozen asses just before sunset. For $8, the monks took us in, and they had indoor heating.

 

 

Day 2

One monk was sassy. The guys spilled some water washing their faces out of plastic bins and were demanded in a harsh tone if they’re also “like this” at home, which quickly turned into an inside joke for the rest of the trek.

A begging fox saw that my hand I had put out was empty and decided to bite my finger. Also sassy.

We gave prayers and donations at the Middle Terrace and found the West Terrace to be lifeless before sharing sips of liquor and sliding down shortcuts on fallen snow. In the afternoon we stumbled upon more temples. Bufan and I had the privilege of being shown a bone from the finger of Buddha—this time the interaction was with a sassy nun.

 

 

At night we found Nong Jia Yuan, a hostel owned by very sweet farmers. They treated us well and let us decide what to pay. It was the first meal in the mountains where it wasn’t taboo for Mei and I to sit at the same table with the guys. We could talk and drink as loudly as we pleased. Bufan told us about his trek through Mont Blanc, France and how the tour companies limited portion sizes of meals. By the time he was using his chopsticks to mimic Europeans cutting meatballs fork-and-knife style, we were crying.

 

 

Day 3

Our hosts drove Yuchen and our heavy packs for the final ascent, and during that ride they asked him where all we were from. Apparently they gasped “What?? An American?? Why didn’t you properly introduce us?!” Such was the warmth and respect East Asians offer to Westerners on their soil, a reaction that sadly does not apply in the opposite direction and is perhaps becoming less of a possibility in certain countries after certain elections.

I’ll admit cakes, chocolate, and Oreos were what got the rest of us to the South Terrace. We sat in an awkward silence waiting for a monk to finish reading aloud his prayers before he turned to us. Yes, we would like a hot lunch please, and yes sir, noodles sound great.

 

 

Down down down until the exit of the park. Then thousands of cement stairs. Two months later, my IT bands still feel the strain and my fingernails are still healing from frostbite damage. Yet I was thrilled to have been able to reconnect with hilarious company. Just like when we were in Africa, I was grateful for my proficiency in mandarin. I could completely understand the jokes and slang of our generation (significantly different from my parents’ vocabulary) on a level that is still far away for me in the realm of Spanish.

I also learned that the Chinese way to treat ourselves after72 kilometers of ungodly weather was always (always!) hot pot and baijiu.