Arrival at the Mountain: First Steps Back into the Tao
Post 2 in the Qing Cheng Mountain Journey
Four days later than planned, I finally boarded my flight.
Strangely, there was no frustration left—only contentment. I was in the air, heading toward Chengdu, and that was enough. The Tao moves when it moves.
I arrived late in the evening. The airport felt unfamiliar, disorienting. Everything was clean, expansive, and new. I later learned why: Chengdu now has two airports, and I had landed at the newer one—on the opposite side of the city from where I expected to be.
Still, I managed to find a driver willing to take me to the foot of Qing Cheng Mountain, where I had stayed on previous trips.
It was after 10 p.m. when we arrived.
I had to wake the concierge at the front desk. Through a mix of phone translation, gestures, patience, and kindness—between myself, the driver, and the hotel staff—I was able to secure a room.
At last, I lay down in a real bed.
And then it happened.
Qing Cheng Mountain has a distinct smell—one you never forget. A damp, ancient, wooded scent. Fog carrying the richness of earth and old trees. A living forest breathing around you.
That smell wrapped around me like reassurance.
I had arrived.
The next morning, I woke early and went downstairs to the hotel restaurant. I was nearly the only one there.
Breakfast was simple and traditional:
● boiled corn
● purple potatoes
● a bowl of rice porridge—congee
I stood quietly, holding my plate and chopsticks, staring at the toppings. Some looked spicy, others sour. Unsure—and a little daring—I chose one and poured it over my congee.
Sitting alone at an empty table, I took my first bite. Relief washed over me.
I had chosen wisely. Everything tasted exactly as it should.
After breakfast, I returned to my room and dressed in my priestly robes.
Once dressed, I sat in a chair by the window. Outside, the mountain rose gently upward. In the distance, I could see Tai Shang Lao Jun Temple near the summit—quiet, steady, watching over everything below.
I felt nervous.
It had been several years since my last visit. I had no contacts. No interpreter. No advance notice. I didn’t know how—or even if—I would be received.
And I did not speak the language.
Just a ten-minute walk from my hotel stood Jian Fu Gong Temple, where I hoped to find my Master. The odds didn’t seem to be in my favor.
Or so I thought.
Sitting there, robes on, heart steadying itself, I remembered the lesson that had already begun before I ever boarded the plane:
Trust the path.
With that, I gathered my courage and prepared to step outside.
