Symphony of Ups and Downs -- West Sea Grand Canyon of Huangshan
On Mount Sanqing, I met a seasoned photographer. When asked about the difference between Mount Sanqing and Mount Huang, the photographer pondered for a moment and said: 'Mount Sanqing is a violin concerto, with a sincere and moving main melody, tinged with a hint of sadness. It is like a melodious song coming from afar, allowing one to smell the fresh breath of nature. As for Mount Huang, it is a symphony performed by a large and complete orchestra, with a grand musical structure, powerful sonic strength, rich, varied, and ever-changing, profound and mysterious in meaning.'
Really? Is it that profound? At the time, I did not understand. It was not until I finally had the opportunity to see its beauty for myself that I realized this symphony of ups and downs was only played in the West Sea Grand Canyon.
First movement, sonata form. The melodious music unfolds in a drizzling rain. Strolling on the Immortal Bridge, I watch the mist slowly rise beneath my feet, light and soft, barely there, gently colliding with the rock walls, scattering into a misty fog, blurring the steep cliffs before my eyes. The rain begins as barely enough to dampen the clothes. Only occasionally, a large droplet falls from a high spot by the roadside, landing unexpectedly on the collar, bringing nature's greeting—casual yet fresh.
The rain gradually intensifies, like hands speeding up on a keyboard. The raindrops go from scattered to dense, and finally, when the rain turns into a steady drizzle, the cheap raincoat can no longer withstand the assault. So we take a short rest in a cave, watching the wind and clouds change, watching the pine trees stand proudly in the wind and rain. The first movement clearly establishes its theme from the start, pushing the breeze, thin mist, drizzle, stone peaks, and ancient pines right before us, yet still hazy, not allowing us to see them clearly.
Second movement, adagio. The rain stops. We follow a winding, zigzag path for viewing and sightseeing, spiraling along the sheer cliffs where no one treads. It feels as if we are slowly walking from the top of the cliff to the middle of the precipice, then gently circling back to the top of the cliff, like an eagle, freely soaring through the West Sea.
The greatest feature of the West Sea is its serene seclusion, especially on such a rainy day. We can walk while carefully observing and slowly savoring, as if facing a constantly changing landscape painting, not daring to blink for fear of missing one exquisite scene after another; not even daring to breathe loudly, for fear of disturbing this tranquil space.
Now we are deep inside the canyon, surrounded by strangely shaped pines everywhere—some small and delicate, some in pairs, side by side, standing together against the wind; others in clusters, dense and varied in form. Accompanying the pines are numerous peculiar rocks, some standing, some lying, some looking up, some looking down, some vying for uniqueness, some echoing each other from afar—an endless feast for the eyes. The pines and rocks often combine ingeniously to form exquisite 'bonsai' scenes, yet these scenes are like viewing flowers through a mist—sometimes clear, sometimes hazy, sometimes hidden deep in the clouds, knowing they are there but not knowing how to see them, almost wishing to blow hard on them to make the clouds disperse quickly.
Third movement, minuet. It's time to go up the mountain. A rest at the bottom fills everyone with energy. The clear sky and the crisp air that makes one want to gulp it down make our steps lighter and quicker.
The higher we go, the more we are deeply impressed by the West Sea Canyon's grand beauty, desolate beauty, pristine beauty, wild beauty, and majestic beauty.
The mountain here differs from the front mountain's towering peaks, which are known for their majesty. Instead, they seem chopped by knives and axes, stacked like building blocks, forming fragmented peak forests that appear precarious yet stand firm as Mount Tai, thousands of feet tall. Among the peaks, beams of slanting sunlight stand still, wisps of mist rise quietly, waves of forest undulate silently, and strains of nature's music linger without a sound. This is a vast space, both towering and magnificent, delicate and unique.
The majestic stone peaks, the tender mist like water, the proud and upright pines, set against the azure sky as if dripping with color—a perfect ink-wash landscape. Yet this ink-wash landscape is still dynamic. If you encounter clouds and mist on the first or second ring, do not leave. Just sit down and wait. Watch the wind rise and clouds surge, the canyon like a giant dragon spitting mist. Clusters and tufts of clouds roll in like surging waves and turbid currents, sometimes rolling and tumbling, sometimes ethereal and intangible, sometimes veiled in thin gauze, sometimes clear and breezy. And the moment the clouds disperse is a miracle, a classic, a once-in-a-lifetime scene.
Fourth movement, finale. It plays out at Paiyun Pavilion (Cloud Dispelling Pavilion). Paiyun Pavilion is one of the best spots to view the sea of clouds and sunset. At the cliff edge, you can see high mountains, mid-mountains, and low mountains; distant mountains, nearby mountains, and the mountain beneath your feet. Mountains beside mountains, mountains within mountains, distinct in layers, clear in outline, magnificent and unique—breathtaking. Unfortunately, the sun is deeply buried in the clouds, so the golden scene remains unseen, turning the finale into a rondo, making the clouds the theme, and the sun a dream, a hope, an excuse and reason to come again.
