That could’ve been a really nice metaphore. But it not, because we really did climb a chinese mountain. Two days ago me and some girls in our project group (Hanna, Emma, Marie and Maral) decided to climb the QingCheng Mountains as we were visiting the area. We had three hours until sunset and weren’t exactly dressed to climb. 

We set out together, heading for a distant temple a couple of hundered meters up the slope. As we began the stairs were broad and thick with people. But about the same time as we started to sweat heavily the crowds began to disapear. At some point by our remote temple we lost Hanna och Maral, and we had to continue without them. And when the staris turned skew and petit Emma turned on another path.

Now, Marie and I were determined to reach the top. And as we got higher up we found ourslevs mostly alone, sometimes in company of chinese workers rushing past us carrying heavy loads on their backs. And finally, trough rocky sections, closed entries and slippery stairs we reached what was the highest point possible, at 1180 meters above ocean.

This took approximatly two hours. The slide down took 30 minutes. I don’t know if it was becuse we took a straighter way down or if gravity just works that way.  But it was amazing, rushing down on slippery steps in light rain. Again watching chinese workers carelessly flying down past us, with steady feet on wily ground. For fractions of seconds we were lost, picked left or right by chance, found a lake with boats resting on the dry bottom and then finally realised we were out. Back where we started, laughing at the hilarious events of the past three hours.

At 1180 meter!

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