Spot the Flying Rock

21. April

Like everyone else at White Cloud Hostel we get up at 4.50am to watch the sunrise. In the dark we totter up to 'Bright Summit Peak'. It's gusty and freezing and too cloudy to see the actual sun but some magical light appears over the mountains. On the way back, we spot the sign which says you are not allowed to go there when it's windy...

 

 

We are not as sensibly dressed as most others, but then we also don't race down the mountain straight away. We have booked for another night and Jeannine & I opt for a snooze in the still warm beds in a now empty dorm while Wayne enjoys the Chinese version of a hot chocolate.

 

Our day trip takes us to West Sea Canyon via a most scenic ridge walk. The mountains are more jagged on this side, matching the rougher weather.

Most of the way we can see 'Flying Rock', a 12m tall solitary boulder. We enjoy the fact that we are not carrying backpacks, amble along and take loads of photographs. 

 

windy day

The leisurely walk, however, means that we never get properly warm and only reach the entrance to the canyon after a cold and windy picnic lunch. The narrow steps down into the canyon are built hanging on the side of the rock. It would be extremely vertigo-inducing even without the strong gusts of wind. Jeannine, cold & a bit knee-sore, decides to slowly make her way back with Wayne. I promise I will not go all the way into the canyon and carefully carry on. It's slow going, making sure that the steep steps are not slippery and squeezing past tourists who are so scared they are practically crawling. 

West Sea Canyon (spot the Flying Rock)

 But it's also completely breathtaking. With nothing below my feet and across but the vast expanse of the canyon and the wind tearing on my clothes, I feel like I am flying. 

I take photographs holding on to a chain with one hand. To one lookout point, I only edge out on my bum. 

A further lookout point to be reached via bridge with only knee-high railing is my personal bridge too far. Below the bridge is nothing but abyss and I turn back and head back up.

Some other tourists don't have the same qualms. The steps they pose on hang over the void.

On the way back it starts to rain, but I have to stop and watch a bird whisperer. He is whistling on a blade of grass – and the birds are hopping around him, chirping in reply.

Back at the hostel Wayne and I go for a massage next door. Although I am fully clothed for my back pounding, massages, like dorms, are a gender matched. My female therapist moans and groans while she elbows the knots between my shoulder blades. It must sound like quite different kind of massage from the corridor, I think, grinning through the pain. I am unsure if I am culturally expected to moan in return and limit myself to the occasional appreciative little shriek.

Dinner at the over-priced soup kitchen below our dorms is a simple affair. 

If you ignore the presentation, the food is actually quite edible. We jolly things up with a prize-giving and award Wayne the gold-medal for outstanding cheer and sacrifices for the greater good, ie Jeannine's and mine.

Before lights-out Jeannine and I watch a local soap opera set in imperial China with our newly arrived dorm mates. It's entertaining to follow the intrigues without understanding the words. It's still raining, so instead of getting up for the crack of dawn, chances are we'll sleep in tomorrow.