Chángbáishan is a large series of mountains which run northeast to southwest along the Chinese-Korean border in North East China.   The huge lake, nestled in a volcanic crater at the top of one of the mountains, is one of the major attractions in this wild backwater country deep in North East China.  We traveled there by bus several summers ago.  It was the scariest and worst bus ride I’ve ever been on, but the haunting and gorgeous scenery of North East China has made this trip an unforgettable one in my mind.

That bus ride into the northern moutains of China was like taking a step back in time. Imagine lush green rice paddies, farmers tilling the wet soil with water bison, long rows of corn and giant sunflowers. It was breathtakingly beautiful and it looked like something straight out of a book. I was astonished to see how unspoiled the land was, especially after being in the dirty and polluted cities of North East China.

Farmsteads were small, low, worn down and in desperate need of repair. Flocks of poultry, pigs and other barnyard animals roamed freely on the roads. There was no electricity and most of the people were dressed in handsewn clothing or second hand clothing. We passed a creek where women were washing their clothes by hand. Obviously, these people had endured hardships that I couldn’t begin to fathom, yet they looked so at peace. There was none of the hustle-bustle rat-race of city life. Chores weren’t hurried, people took their time and moved slowly through the paces of life. It was enchanting to see and I almost wished to have such a simple existence for myself.

We stopped for a short lunch break in a small village and the news that foreigners were in town must have spread quickly.  As we descended from the bus, people came out of their houses to greet us.  Most of them were old people, many with gnarled hands from hard labor.  There were little old women with bowed legs and old men hunched forward as if they were still carrying something heavy on their backs.  We were instantly surrounded by curious brown skinned faces.  Some people smiled and called out greetings, baring their toothless gums at us.  I also saw a few suspicious stares and quite a few wandering hands. We were brought bowls of boiled pork dumplings, warm beer and tea eggs.  I was a little sad to leave this tiny village.  It was the only place where we were treated kindly on our four day adventure to Chang Bai Mountain.

Our bus become more uncomfortable with each hour that passed as we picked up more passengers along the way.  The cricketly old bus seemed to have some seriously ill shock absorbers. We spent most of the journey trying to hold ourselves down as the bus climbed and bumped treacherously across bridges and over narrow mountainous roadways.

Twelve hours later, we were bruised and aching and we still had to locate accommodations for the night.  We were able to locate and bargain for a cheap hotel room in the small city of Bei He, which is at the base of the mountain.  Although we bargained, we paid an outrageous price for our crappy little room simply because of our white faces.   Our room had four dorm style beds with a slab of wood to sleep on with a quilt thrown on top for extra cushioning.

We could barely stand the thought of sleeping there for the night and opted to go for massages to waste some time. The massages ended up making everything worse as the young Chinese ladies working on us were pounding so hard that we woke up with bruises the next day. Let me tell you, sleeping that night was not an easy feat after bouncing in a bus for 12 hours and then getting pounded by two Chinese girls for another hour before jumping onto a bed made of wood. 

We managed to get some shut-eye and woke up early the next morning to meet our guide. Our trip was ill-fated right from the beginning and we knew it. Nevertheless, we persevered in the hope that things would start to get better. Ha! Nothing is ever easy in China.  Our guide didn’t have a driver’s license and we were stopped at the foot of the mountain.

We waited at the side of the road for an hour for the driver’s friend to arrive to take us to the summit. Our new driver was a maniac and we almost flew off the side of the narrow road several times before arriving at the top of the mountain. When we arrived, he gave us 20 minutes to look around.  The view of Heavenly Lake was incredible and we would have loved more time to explore, but we were on a strict time limit.  So we snapped a few pictures and headed resolutely back to our car and driver. Alas, both had disappeared with all of our gear as we had stupidly left it in the trunk of the car. The day was getting worse.

We had to wait for another hour before we could secure a ride back down the mountain. When we finally found someone to take us down, we were crammed like sardines in a can.  I couldn’t believe it when the driver stopped to pick up another passenger!  I actually had to sit crossways on my friends laps to make room for the new guy.  When we were dropped off, we wandered around dejectedly for a few hours looking for our driver and as luck would have it, we finally found him and he still had our stuff.  We still had some time left, so we decided to take our things and make the hike up the mountain to the volcanic lake. Needless to say, the lake was spectacular and well worth the hike. 

Heavenly Lake (??)  The magnificent glass-like surface of ‘ti?nchí’ also known as Heavenly Lake.  If you’d like to know more about China’s largest nature reserve, Beijing Expert has written a fabulous article about the the local attractions and numerous sightseeing treks in the area. 

Our driver actually stuck around this time and he stopped off at a few other scenic spots on the way back to our hotel.  To be honest, we weren’t even interested in seeing anything else that day.  We just wanted to go back to our guesthouse and figure out what to do next.  Our energetic driver insisted on taking us to four other nearby attractions.  We thought he was just being nice after messing up our day so badly.  Boy, were we ever wrong. He was busy racking up a bill of seismic proportions. We politely refused to pay the total bill and offered him what he had originally quoted us with a generous ‘tip’ thrown in for good measure. He took off in his car and returned an hour later with three friends and threatened to beat the hell out of us if we didn’t pay up. By that time, we were thoroughly disgusted and although we hated to do it, we paid up. There was nothing else we could do.

The next morning, we decided to cut our trip short.  We high tailed it out of there and climbed back on the bus from hell. The ride back to Changchun was easily the scariest ride I’ve ever been on. As we came down out of the mountains, there was very little road to be seen between us and a long drop into a deep valley. The roads were marked with piles of sand. Drivers are supposed to stay inside the sand piles but our driver had a death wish.  We counted ourselves lucky when he actually hit the middle of the pile. Our faces were glued to the window as we watched the pebbles and dirt from our passage tumble into the depths below.

To top it off, the bus stopped every 15 minutes for anyone who was standing on the side of the road. The driver made a hefty amount of cash by picking up peasants and villagers that were headed into the city for a few days to find work. Soon, our bus was packed to the brim. People were sitting in the aisles, on the stairs, on each other. One woman was crammed against the front window. About two hours in, a man threw up and it caused a chain reaction. By the time the driver stopped, people had the windows rolled down and were squeezing out the windows to escape the foul air.

We were stopped twice on the way home by the police. Each time, the driver had to pay a fine for overcrowding. He would yell at everyone to get off and they would start walking. As soon as he had dealt with the police, he would drive up the road and pick everyone up again. I have never been more relieved to arrive safely home in my entire life. 

Despite our travel mishaps, I would love the opportunity to go back to Chángbáishan.  I missed out on a great deal because of our misfortune and while it certainly made for an interesting and memorable trip, none of us were able to enjoy it completly.  John and I are returning to China in the summer of 2008 for the Beijing Olympics and we plan on returning to Chángbáishan after we’ve spent some time getting re-aquainted with our old friends in Chángchun. 

Photos by John Kellenberger

I flew to North East China on the 23rd of March, 2003. I’d been on plenty of long flights before, but this one was special because I wasn’t coming home for a year. I remember feeling scared and nervous. I had a hard time concentrating. I spent my time alternating between writing in my journal and reading my beloved copy of “My Several Worlds,” by Pearl S. Buck.

I remember that a kind-looking middle-aged woman came over to ask why I was writing so furiously and wondered where I was heading on my own. When I told her I was starting my first year of teaching English in a remote city in Northern China, she was shocked. I stood up to stretch and we chatted for several minutes. As I was making my way back to my seat, she stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. Then she gave me a hug and told me that it was from my mother, who would always be thinking of me. I tell you, I wanted to turn around right then.

I wasn’t sure what to think. Was I making a mistake? Was the leap that I was taking too big for me to handle on my own? Would people like me? Would I be able to teach? Would I be able to go for a whole year by myself without family or friends? I wrote in my journal non-stop, jagged entry after jagged entry. I barely slept because I didn’t want to miss a thing. On each connecting flight, I met people who were flabbergasted that I was moving so far away for so long. I had to keep pinching myself to keep it real.

When I arrived in Beijing, I was greeted by two young Chinese men who barely spoke any English. They whisked me through the airport and bundled me onto a bus before I even had time to think. I think we talked about Yao Ming that night. I have vague recollections of agreeing to a basketball game with them later in the week.

We spent that first night in a youth hostel and I was absolutely spooked. We would be boarding the train the next morning at 10am in order to make the 15 hour train ride to Changchun. Yun Ming and Frank turned out to be the nicest guys in the world, despite the language barrier. However, I have to admit that I was putty in their hands. I had no choice but to trust them and I had already heard all the stories about westerners being ripped off at the airport by strange men. I barely slept a wink that night, wondering whether I was stark raving mad. I was in the middle of Beijing with two Chinese men and I was further away from home than I had ever been in my life. It was too late to turn back.

The next day, I stumbled onto the sleeper train and lasted an hour into the journey before I fell unconcious. So much for seeing the countryside. I slept like the dead for the entire trip and barely saw anything worth noting. I arrived at 2am and was met at the train station by our teacher supervisor. I remember what Nell was wearing that night. She was wearing a blue ski jacket and purple ski hat riding low over her beautiful blue eyes. Her gear made me a little nervous. It was the end of March and she was all bundled up for the deep cold. Oh, and her accent. She’s from Tazmania. This also explains the heavy layers of winter clothing.

Nell was terrific with me. She took me under her wing and I stayed with her until my apartment was ready for me to move into. She organized soccer matches and dinners with the other teachers at our school and other foreign language schools within the city. When I moved to Changchun, there were barely 300 Westerners living in a city of 7 million. It was quite intimidating. I didn’t speak Chinese and I didn’t know anybody.

I spent a lot of time at the park those first six weeks. I liked to sit on the grass and watch people flying their kites. I couldn’t talk to anybody. I couldn’t do simple things like shop for food or answer the phone. I couldn’t even work the lock on my door and on more than one occasion, was locked outside. The first time I locked myself inside my apartment was a real treat. I waited for hours for someone to come and get me out. I couldn’t take the bus or take a taxi anywhere because I didn’t know how to get back to my apartment. By the end of my first week, I had had enough and finally hopped on a bus and rode it to the end of the line and back just to see some of the city.

Then, a month after I arrived, SARS hit and almost all the foreign teachers in the city were sent home. My school offered to let me stay on at reduced pay and I accepted. The city was like a ghost town. No one was in the streets and when people did go out, everyone wore hospital masks. Everyone was terrified of getting sick.

I also learned how truly messed up the media is. I’d hear accounts of what was happening in China from my mother in Canada and it wasn’t even close to the information we were getting in China. I finally stopped reading the news. I figured I was more likely to get sick on an crowded airplane than in China. Meanwhile, my family and friends were freaking out. They wondered why I wasn’t coming home. It was really a trying time and by the end of six weeks, I was wondering if I had made a mistake. SARS had put a hold on absolutely everything. I stuck it out though. I found myself a tutor and started learning Mandarin. I spent more time with my new Chinese friends and became accustomed to getting around the city. And, I was given a Chinese name, “weixiaotianshi” which means “Smiling Angel.” Eventually, everything returned to normal. That first year in China was one of the most pivotal years of my life.

Oh, and by the way, I don’t know if you missed the connection or not. That dog-eared copy of “My Several Worlds” has traveled with me throughout the past four years. It represents where and when the inspiration for my Chinese dream took flight. “My Several Worlds” is a personal account of the author’s childhood while growing up as the daughter of American Christian missionaries in rural China in the early 1900′s. Buck straddled the Eastern and Western worlds that she lived in for most of her lifetime and recounts every glorious and mind-stretching detail with poignancy and beauty. If you haven’t read this book, you might want to try it. It was life altering for me, and came highly recommended by my Grandma Louise, who I share a tremendous love of reading and writing with. It has also become the perfect name for my blog.

It was dark that night. Only a few clouds marred the inky blue darkness of a clear night sky. We were seated on the broken curb of a sidewalk outside my apartment breathing deeply of the cool night air. We had just spent four hours with our Chinese co-workers, eating a huge meal of Korean BBQ and washing it all down with large amounts of bai jiu. It was Craig’s 32nd birthday, and they weren’t going to let us sneak out early. After what seemed like dozens of glasses of the awful tasting brew, we were trying to clear our heads. The night was still young and we were looking for some excitement.

Chris was edgy. His cigarette was burning slow ash as he flipped a one kuai coin over and over in his hand.

Craig broke the silence first. “It’s still early guys. What are we going to do for the rest of the night?”

Each of us stopped to ponder over the rather short list of exciting activities we could do in North East China.

“I want to make this day memorable. I want some excitement,” he continued.

Chris looked my way and raised his eyebrows. I knew exactly what he was thinking. We had been planning a trip to the old gas tower for a few weeks now. Surrounded by a high rock wall and guarded by three guards with vicious looking dogs, the gas tower was located at the far south east corner of the park. It was an eyesore that could be seen for miles. We were planning to climb the rusty stairs to the top some night to enjoy some cold beers and a smoke while looking out over the entire city. Was tonight the night? It seemed so.

After quickly explaining our plan to Craig, we ran upstairs to grab some provisions for the rest of the evening. Black trousers, shoes, a sweater and cap for me. Chris had on dark combats and Craig stuck out like a sore thumb in his bright red T-shirt. He snatched an old black sarong off the back of the sofa and knotted it around his neck to hide his garish shirt. It hung down like a long black cape over his shoulders.
Craig and I stuffed some cold pints into my knapsack, while Chris raided my fridge for Korean bulgogi sausages and eggs to throw at the dogs. He was convinced that this would keep them quiet enough for us to make a quick getaway.

The gas tower is a short ten minute walk from my apartment. On the way there, we discussed our plan of action. Chris took the lead when we arrived and vaulted easily over the high rock wall to land quietly on the other side. I followed quickly with a leg up from Craig and then he came crashing and rolling over the wall. He looked so comical sitting on his butt with the sarong thrown backwards over his head. Chris and I were often treated to Craig’s frequent displays of klutziness. We were quite impressed that he had agreed to the night’s adventure.

We trotted 500 yards across the grass to the foot of the stairs, keeping a close watch out for the dogs and guards. The stairs were worn, rusty and breaking away from the tower in places. In several places, the stairs had rusted out completely. They sent a dizzying wash of fear over me every time I looked down. The staircase swayed gently in the night wind and the space between me and the ground looked menacing. It was too late to go back. I wondered how my mother was going to react when she got a phone call about my terrific plunge from a gas tower in North East China.

We were 100 feet in the air when we saw our first guard, but he never looked up. The wind was blowing hard enough to make the stairs sway precariously as we climbed upwards on the spiraling metal staircase. The guards passed beneath our feet several times. Their black billy clubs gleamed in the moonlight. Chris’ pants were soaked with egg white when we finally pulled ourselves over the edge. We grabbed a hold of the 12 inch rail that extended around the edge as a safety precaution and hand pulled our way up the thick steel cables running to the center of the tower. Elatedly, we settled down on our jackets and pulled out our celebratory bottles of beer. There seemed to be no end in sight to the quiet, sleepy city and the night sky glowed with a million stars. The sparkling city lights extended well past our view – all along the gas tower.