A Hike in the Hills Offers An Escape From the City
Beijing is endlessly fascinating but hardly beautiful. The sprawling metropolis is, however, surrounded by majestic vistas. You can get into some truly scenic mountain areas just over an hour from my front door, and exploring them more fully is one of my goals for the year.
Last spring, Lesley Walter, a longtime American expat who lives in my neck of the woods, responded to a column with an emailed introduction and invitation to join her on one of her regular Wednesday hikes. With my 40th birthday looming last Thursday, it felt like the right time to pry myself away from my computer for an outdoor adventure. So I dropped Jacob off at school and raced a few miles north to meet up with Lesley and her group for an 8:30 a.m. departure.
Eight of us piled into two vehicles and headed northwest out of town. After about 40 minutes, we got off the expressway and drove due west, up into the mountains on a twisting road. We passed through increasingly picturesque surroundings, a haze hanging over the hills to the left [southeast, toward the city] while the air was blue and clear to the right.
Raquel Martins
Alan Paul in the mountains near Beijing.
We drove down the other side of the mountain and landed in a beautiful valley, the road dappled in light filtered through overhanging walnut trees. Locals in wide straw hats walked down the road with long sticks for poking down the nuts, which they gathered into burlap sacks and sold to brokers, who sat with their scales by the side of the road. We were probably less than 60 miles from downtown Beijing and still within the city limits. [Beijing is a "provincial level municipality" covering 6,336 square miles.]
We drove into a very pretty, very small village, which we explored while Lesley's driver, Zhao Jian, went off to find the local party secretary to seek a guide. The village was occupied then destroyed by the Japanese in the '30s and '40s, though it looked ageless.
Zhao returned with our guide, a tiny man who looked 70 but said he was 52. After bargaining us from 20 to 40 renminbi ($2.50 to $5), he promised excellent service and off we went. He carried no food or water, only cigarettes, which he smoked one after another. He calmed several severe coughing fits with yet another smoke, all the while plowing straight up at an impressive clip.
Just outside the village, a beautiful old temple sat atop a small knoll, with a gnarled, ancient conifer growing in front. The guide said that in his grandfathers' time it was a temple but it was converted to a school after the Liberation in '49. Faded Buddha statues remained in the central building, while a room in the back was used to store intricately carved, brightly painted wooden coffins. Flowers grew on the complex's tile roofs.
Leaving the temple, we headed straight up hill, moving through tall, overgrown grass and bushes, along a narrow path that was little more than a water runoff. It felt good to suck big gulps of clean air into my lungs. We passed by several mules grazing on the end of long ropes and a couple of villagers returning with bundles of cut grass. The guide pointed out several medicinal plants and said he often takes "Beijingers" out here to pick herbal remedies.
Raquel Martins
Alan Paul takes a break from hiking.
We stopped for lunch atop the mountain, in a beautiful, meadowy saddle which reminded me, surprisingly, of Wyoming's Gros Ventre Mountains, absent the looming white-capped peaks. We were right on the border of Beijing and neighboring Hebei. The guide pointed to the middle of the saddle and said, "If the rain rolls that way it's Hebei and if it rolls that way it's Beijing." One of my companions, Wendy Lewis, impressed me by pulling a beer out of her pack. She said she had founded the Tokyo Hash House Harriers, an organization dedicated to running and drinking, not necessarily in that order.
We hiked down the hill and into Hebei. The guide had a big stick with which he beat back armpit-high grass "because there are a lot of snakes here." We reemerged onto a path and eventually reached a gravel road. He pointed left and told us to head that way before waving goodbye and turning right, back to his village.
We passed through sunflower and crabapple fields tended by a handful of elderly couples, who explained this was slow time of the harvest. After about 30 minutes of easy walking I saw a crumbling wall wrapping around the hillside to our left. We were nearing a village and the wall was what remained of its ancient past as an important military garrison, astride a pass into Beijing. Located between the city and the Great Wall, it used to house generals. Today, most of the residents seemed to be aged, with their kids off to the city.
We visited the home of a "da ma," a kind old woman some of the hikers knew from a previous visit. She lived alone in a rambled courtyard house with flowers and vegetables growing between the cracks of her patio. She picked and gave us flower seeds and offered string beans, cucumbers and eggplants. I filled a Ziplock bag with beans and gave her five renminbi, as did another hiker who had received several flowers. She refused the money and when we insisted, went inside her cluttered living quarters, illuminated by a single low-watt bulb hanging by a fraying wire, and brought out cucumbers squashes, gourds and more beans.
As we made our way out, I had a one-track mind and it ran toward beer. We walked through the village -- older and larger than the one we started in -- past a few ladies and about a dozen men squatting on the ground playing cards. Entering an old general store on the main road was like stepping into 1964. A large poster of Mao hung on the back wall, overseeing stock that included everything from farm implements to ice cream -- and cold beer. Typically, they only had liter bottles of TsingTao, which cost two renminbi, or exactly one quarter. I asked Wendy if she wanted to share one. "Surely you can drink one by yourself, Alan," she replied.
The first swig tasted as good as anything can taste. I offered up sips before tipping back the rest of the brew, all the while softly, inwardly singing, "Happy Birthday to Me." I won't wait a year to hit the hills again.
北京郊外有洞天
北京城虽说有数不清的让人眼花缭乱的新奇事，但它实在说不上美。不过有一点，这个向四面八方伸出很远的大都市周围却被一片片壮美的景色包围着。从我家开车出去也就一个多小时的车程，就来到了风景非常不错的山区。而我今年的目标之一就是对这些山区好好探究一番。
去年春天，很长时间以来一直在国外生活的莱斯利?沃尔特(Lesley Walter)在回复一篇专栏文章时在邮件里介绍了她每周三雷打不动的远足，并邀请大家找时间加入她的队伍。上周四，眼看着自己40岁生日快到了，我琢磨着该让自己从电脑屏幕前挪动挪动，到户外去探探险了。于是，一大早我开车把雅各布送到学校，然后向北飞快行驶数英里，赶在8:30前跟莱斯利的人马会合，然后出发。
我们一共8个人挤在两辆车里，向西北方向出了城。40分钟之后，我们下了高速向正西方向进发。我们沿着弯弯曲曲的山路进到山里。沿途的景色越来越美，我们的左面可以看到云雾缭绕在山间（远处正是城市的方向），右面则是清澈的蓝天。
下山时我们走的是山另一侧的路线，山脚下是一片很漂亮的山谷。阳光透过高高的核桃树枝杈在路面上，在我们眼前呈现着变幻的景象。
当地人戴着宽宽的大草帽，沿着山路慢慢走着，时不时停下来用手里的长棍摘些核桃。他们把核桃收在麻袋里，攒的差不多了就卖给路边随身带着杆秤的小贩。那里离北京城可能还不到60英里，应该还属于北京境内。不过，要知道北京是“省级直辖市”，全境面积有6,336平方英里。
后来我们进了一个很小但看起来很不错的村子。我们一帮人在村子里到处转悠，莱斯利的司机赵健（音）则去找村支书帮我们找个向导。上世纪三、四十年代，这个村子曾被日本人占领，后来又被整个毁掉了，不过，现在它看起来好像没多长历史。
过了一会儿，赵健带着向导回来了，这位瘦小的向导看上去足有70了，不过他自己说是52岁。他在导游费上面跟我们一番讨价还价之后，答应会让我们享受最好的服务。然后我们就动身了。他没带水也没带吃的，只是一支接一支的抽烟。甚至在一阵剧烈的咳嗽之后，他又会点燃一支。但是咳嗽丝毫不影响他迈着快步一直不停地向前进发。
紧挨着村子的一个小山包上，有一座形态优美的古老庙宇，庙前生长着一株树皮疙疙瘩瘩的老松。向导说，在他祖父生活的年代这是一座庙宇，但1949年解放以后它被改作了学校。脱了色的佛像依然盘坐在大殿里，而大殿后的一个房间则停放着几只漆得油光口亮、刻着复杂图案的木头棺材。庙宇的屋顶上开着野花。
离开庙宇，我们径直向山上攀去，一路穿过高高的杂草和灌木丛，脚下那条狭窄的山路就像一条蜿蜒而下的小溪。大口将清新空气吸入肺中感觉真好。途中我们看到几头拴在树上的骡子在着草，还遇到几个肩上背着一捆柴禾的村民。向导指着路边的几种药用植物对我们说，他经常带“北京人”到这里采草药。
我们把用午餐的地点选在了山顶，那是一片绿草茵茵的凹地，很奇怪，它使我想起了怀俄明的葛罗文提山，只是这里没有覆盖在山顶的皑皑白雪。我们正处在北京和河北省的分界线上。向导指着这片凹地的当中说，流到那边的雨水属河北，流到这边的雨水属北京。我的一位同伴温迪?刘易斯(Wendy Lewis)从背包里拿出一罐啤酒，这引起了我的注意。她说，自己创办了一个名为Tokyo Hash House Harriers的组织，专门举办休闲跑步和饮酒活动。
我们沿山坡下行进入河北地界。向导挥舞着手中的长棍子在齐胸高的草丛中扑打着，他说这是因为草里有很多蛇。我们又走上了一条小道，最终来到一条砾石路上。向导示意我们走左边那条路，然后就挥手和我们告别，向右转回他的村子去了。
我们穿过一片向日葵和山楂树，其间劳作的都是一对对老年夫妇，他们解释说现在还是农闲的时候。就这样漫步了大约30分钟后，我看到一段破碎的城 在我们左边的山顶上蜿蜒而过。我们这时已离一座小村庄不远，山上的残垣断壁提醒人们这个村子古代曾是一个重要的军事要塞，扼守在从长城通往北京的要道上，过去驻扎在村子里的都是些军事将领。如今，村中的居民似乎大多是老年人，他们的子女都到城里谋生去了。
我们拜访了一位同行的人以前到访时结识的大妈，她独自住在一座农家小院里，在她家院子开辟出来的地里还种着一排排的花卉和蔬菜。这位大妈向我们赠送了花籽、豆子、黄瓜和茄子。我把豆子放进一个拉链袋内，并学一位同伴的样子给了她五块钱人民币，老大妈送了这位同伴一些鲜花。大妈拒绝收钱，我们坚持要给，老人返回到她凌乱的居室内，又拿出了些南瓜、葫芦和豆子给我们。她的屋子里只点着一盏低瓦数的白炽灯。
当我们又上路时，我满脑子想的只是啤酒。我们穿过这个村庄──它比我们此前到过的那个村子历史更久远，规模也更大──看到有几位老年妇女站在路边，十几个男人正蹲在地上打牌。踏入村中主路边的一个杂货店就像回到了1964年。挂在后 上的一张巨幅毛泽东画像俯瞰着小店，店中的所有东西──从农具到冰激凌，还有冷冻啤酒──都在它的视野中。店里通常只有瓶装的青岛啤酒，每瓶人民币两元，合25美分。我问温迪是否想与我分享一瓶啤酒，她回答说，你自己就能喝下一瓶。
第一口啤酒入口，那感觉就像喝到了最美味的佳酿。我很快就从小口吸吮转为仰脖畅饮，心里默唱着“祝我生日快乐。”我简直等不到明年就想再来造访京郊的山野了。
Alan Paul
（编者按：本文作者Alan Paul是《吉他世界》(Guitar World)的高级编辑，同时也为美国篮球杂志《灌篮》(Slam)撰写文章。因妻子工作需要，他举家从美国新泽西迁住中国，现居北京。）
