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Tiger Leaping Gorge (July 30) · Aug 1, 09:05 AM

I don’t wake up until after seven, but pack fast and get out the door in thirty minutes. The guesthouse is still quiet; I have to sneak out an unlocked gate. At the long-distance bus station I manage — with only minor frustration — to buy a ticket to Qiaotou, the western entrance to Tiger Leaping Gorge. It’s a two hour bus ride I share with a Dutch couple and the standard compliment of Chinese passengers, including a couple smokers.

The entrance to the gorge is lined with tour buses. We disembark and are spotted by Margo. She’s the high-energy Australian who runs the Gorged Tiger Cafe. A small crowd of coming-and-going western backpackers are congregated at her place. I begin unloading everything I don’t need for the short trek into my pack duffel. I’m paying Margo five yuan to hold my bag. I stay for a muffin and a pita with cheese and tomato, then say goodbye. Margo is loving the day’s action. She’s zipping around, talking to three people at once, and running the show.

The air is hazy today, but it’s still hot and sunny. The trail follows local roads, passing small villages and homesteads where locals sell water and snacks. Then the trail cuts up the ridge. That section — the 28 Bends, it’s called — exhausts me, bhut I don’t give in like one Chinese girl I saw on pony-back. The summit is not terribly spectacular, but then again, I didn’t pay eight yuan to walk out onto the rock outcropping with views down into the gorge I can’t see the bottom of. I’ve been in a hike-hard mode all afternoon that has left me tired, exhausted, and underwhelmed with the scenery, despite large vistas across the gorge to a cloud-shrouded mountain ridge. Shorty after the summit I reach a guesthouse and stop for lunch, catching up with the Dutch couple I met on the bus. I wolf down a banana pancake, fruit with yoghurt, and two bottles of Coke. The couple eats well, too. Thus refueled, we tacked the remaining two hours of hiking. It’s easy going, and I feel great now. The views are beautiful again, and I’m in the easy rhythm of hiking, though I’m not in long-distance hiking shape, and one of my heals is going raw.

We pass through another village and stop for the afternoon at the Five Fingers Guesthouse. A French family I met earlier is here. Two Australians — James and Sophia — also arrive. We sit out on the patio atop the concrete shower and water-closet rooms, enjoying the view and the rest. We pass the afternoon chatting and taking turns under the weak shower gravity-fed from a concrete box on the roof into which family members periodically pour warm water.

In the late evening we take dinner in the courtyard — the Dutch guy, the Australians, and myself. We get James talking about China, and his life in Beijing. His stories remind us that China is a fascist state. Gay clubs are raided and shut down to prevent people from organizing and developing an identity other than that of Chinese citizen. Migrant workers are officially second-class citizens. There is no “rule of law”. The news is propaganda. Sobered by the conversation, but drunk from the Dali bear, we retire. I have a small, clean single with thin wooden walls that cost me twenty kuai.

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