Taroko Gorge is Lonely Planet's top pick for Taiwan (and the book's editors struggled to come up with a full list of 20--fruit?--Come on), an unmissable stop for anyone visiting the island. Ten million years of rising mountains and winding rivers carved the narrow track through sheer limestone rock face. We've been left to marvel at 19 kilometers of the will of nature.It's gorgeous, breathtaking, unforgettable... and yet I left somewhat disappointed.
Taroko sits at the crux of the modern dilemma between nature and development. In this case, mainland China--the nation in hyper-development with a nature-be-damned (or be dammed) attitude--wins, at least in terms of gorges.
I've done the Tiger Leaping Gorge trek twice and for me, it's perfect. Two days on a peaceful trail along the Yangtze, whose churning waters has carved a scenic canyon through the Jade Snow Mountains. I'd do it again--and another time, too, every day for the rest of my life.
I constantly find myself comparing the two and in every instance, Tiger Leaping Gorge came out on top. Taroko is an example of what could have been, the endless possibilities lost along the raging river.
I constantly find myself comparing the two and in every instance, Tiger Leaping Gorge came out on top. Taroko is an example of what could have been, the endless possibilities lost along the raging river.
I arrived in Hualien after a two-hour train ride form Taipei. Sunshine and clear skies greeted me after days of gloom and rain in the capital. They'd had plenty of rain in Hualien, too. It was the start of the rainy season. In fact, all of Taroko National Park had been closed the day before.
Renting a motorbike was a little harder than I imagined. Taiwan is not Southeast Asia. They at least pretend to have safety standards and thus, I needed a driver's license. A driver's license I have, but proof of that I do not. I believe my ID is somewhere floating around Penang, which is the last place I can recall seeing it after my ill-fated attempt to scale Penang Hill.
Renting a motorbike was a little harder than I imagined. Taiwan is not Southeast Asia. They at least pretend to have safety standards and thus, I needed a driver's license. A driver's license I have, but proof of that I do not. I believe my ID is somewhere floating around Penang, which is the last place I can recall seeing it after my ill-fated attempt to scale Penang Hill.
I had to pay a little more, but I still got a bike. The woman who rented it to me was shocked that I wanted to go to the park so late in the day (It wasn't much later than 1 p.m.) and she was absolutely floored when I told her I intended to hike the trails.
"These high mountains," she said.
"That's kind of the point."
I cruised north on Highway 9 to the park, passed every so often by a roaring tour bus that assured me I was on the right track. The buses only got worse inside the park. Chinese, both from the mainland and locals, love tours. They will follow the man--who most depend on for communicating with the non-Chinese-speaking world--holding the teeny flag on a stick to every corner of the earth.
You hear the roar of the coach before you see it, the relative silence shattered, before the bus whips around a curve into view. The buses stop at designated spots, let the people off to wander for a set period of time and then proceed to the next.
It was much better by bike, when I could stop as I pleased, narrowly crouched on the shoulder to take a picture of in the middle of an empty road. But I longed for just a long walk through the woods (Since reading that book, I am determined to hike the Appalachian Trail, all 1,000-plus miles). It would be similar to Tiger Leaping Gorge--roughly two days-- minus the local farmers living as they have for hundreds of years, only supplementing their meager incomes with weed and 10-kuai Snickers bars. A few guesthouses would pop up, or hikers could camp. Taiwanese are outdoor enthusiasts and unlike their mainland counterparts, enjoy physical activity that isn't limited to competitive baijiu drinking. (They're not big drinkers period, which is a shame since Taiwan Beer, at least in my opinion--and I cannot tolerate beer--isn't half-bad.)
Maybe it's the rugged terrain or the battering of typhoons and earthquakes, but there isn't a very natural way to explore Taroko. Sure, the park is dotted with trails, but they take you, again, to someone's idea of a special spot. The longest hike--if it's open--is three hours, but it's vertical rather than along the river. On the first day, nearly all the trails were closed.
A motorbike is the best way to explore the park, but getting in touch with nature, it is not.
That first day I was relegated?? to following the hordes up to the temple along Changchun Trail, where I continued climbing (stairs, since so many of Taiwan's trails have been carved into steps) alone to Changguang Temple. It didn't reassure me that the narrow, rickety bridge, suspended 200 meters above the raging water, could only hold five people or 350 kilos at a time. I crept along, my heart pounding in the back of my throat, taking short, deliberate steps while clutching onto the railing. No sooner did I get across and reach the monastery and I turned around and had to make the crossing all over again.
I drove along the gorge until the light started fading and I reached a point I couldn't pass, one where the road narrowed to one lane without a stop light along an S-curve. I waited for a break in the deafening tour buses but found none.
Stopped at a light on the way back, I ran into Ben, an English teacher in China on his National Day holiday. I had met him in the parking lot of the Visitor Information Center when I inquired on the state of the trails. We wandered the streets of Hualien looking for food, but didn't find much. Even he as a meat eater was unimpressed with the selection. In the land of night-markets-as-a-social-event, we couldn't find a night market.
I woke up early the next morning hoping for better luck.
Another trail was open, to Lianhua Pond, but with one caveat: the road, bisecting a construction site at the far end of the gorge, was only passable for a 10-minute window each hour on the hour. To return my bike within the allotted day, I was on a tight schedule, although I wasn't too concerned with paying a small penalty. But I wanted to make it through that first hour.
I leisurely cruised and snapped photos along the area I'd been the day before--and flew through that one-lane stretch; it was much too early for many buses anyway--before realizing I needed to rush to make my window. It was close, but I passed through without seeing so much as a worker.
I had to traverse another rope bridge near the trail head. This one was a little wider and looked a bit sturdier. It could hold 10 people.
"You walk very slowly," a man waiting to take a picture on the other side said to me after I remarked how scary it was.
He was part of a group of Germans who were coming back as I started along the trail. They told me it was closed ahead. And, it was. But there were, in fact, two trails--one to Lianhua Pond and another to Meiyuan and Zhucun. The latter was closed, and two park rangers sat guard. I took the left fork and could continue on--across another rope bridge.
This one was by far the worst. The river raged below, and the wind whipped violently through the gorge. I hyperventilated the entire way across, just one short gust from a full-on panic attack. I considered pulling a Kate Shelley and crawling across on my hands and knees. (Fun Fact: That was my favorite book as a child and every summer, when we passed a bridge as we drove to my grandpa's house in Iowa, I asked my mom, "Is that the Kate Shelley Bridge?" Every bridge, for years. And yet I've never actually seen the real one, the longest and tallest double-track bridge in the U.S.!)
I pushed myself along the whole 3.5 kilometers to make the 10-minute construction window back and also to challenge the estimated three-hour duration. I was to the top in an impressive two hours, 15 minutes. I could barely catch my breath to sing along to my iPod. The hike to the top was a steep set of stair switchbacks, and I was rewarded with views of Lianhua Pond, which closely resembled a cesspool of industrial sludge.
You hear the roar of the coach before you see it, the relative silence shattered, before the bus whips around a curve into view. The buses stop at designated spots, let the people off to wander for a set period of time and then proceed to the next.
It was much better by bike, when I could stop as I pleased, narrowly crouched on the shoulder to take a picture of in the middle of an empty road. But I longed for just a long walk through the woods (Since reading that book, I am determined to hike the Appalachian Trail, all 1,000-plus miles). It would be similar to Tiger Leaping Gorge--roughly two days-- minus the local farmers living as they have for hundreds of years, only supplementing their meager incomes with weed and 10-kuai Snickers bars. A few guesthouses would pop up, or hikers could camp. Taiwanese are outdoor enthusiasts and unlike their mainland counterparts, enjoy physical activity that isn't limited to competitive baijiu drinking. (They're not big drinkers period, which is a shame since Taiwan Beer, at least in my opinion--and I cannot tolerate beer--isn't half-bad.)
Maybe it's the rugged terrain or the battering of typhoons and earthquakes, but there isn't a very natural way to explore Taroko. Sure, the park is dotted with trails, but they take you, again, to someone's idea of a special spot. The longest hike--if it's open--is three hours, but it's vertical rather than along the river. On the first day, nearly all the trails were closed.
A motorbike is the best way to explore the park, but getting in touch with nature, it is not.
That first day I was relegated?? to following the hordes up to the temple along Changchun Trail, where I continued climbing (stairs, since so many of Taiwan's trails have been carved into steps) alone to Changguang Temple. It didn't reassure me that the narrow, rickety bridge, suspended 200 meters above the raging water, could only hold five people or 350 kilos at a time. I crept along, my heart pounding in the back of my throat, taking short, deliberate steps while clutching onto the railing. No sooner did I get across and reach the monastery and I turned around and had to make the crossing all over again.
I drove along the gorge until the light started fading and I reached a point I couldn't pass, one where the road narrowed to one lane without a stop light along an S-curve. I waited for a break in the deafening tour buses but found none.
Stopped at a light on the way back, I ran into Ben, an English teacher in China on his National Day holiday. I had met him in the parking lot of the Visitor Information Center when I inquired on the state of the trails. We wandered the streets of Hualien looking for food, but didn't find much. Even he as a meat eater was unimpressed with the selection. In the land of night-markets-as-a-social-event, we couldn't find a night market.
I woke up early the next morning hoping for better luck.
Another trail was open, to Lianhua Pond, but with one caveat: the road, bisecting a construction site at the far end of the gorge, was only passable for a 10-minute window each hour on the hour. To return my bike within the allotted day, I was on a tight schedule, although I wasn't too concerned with paying a small penalty. But I wanted to make it through that first hour.
I leisurely cruised and snapped photos along the area I'd been the day before--and flew through that one-lane stretch; it was much too early for many buses anyway--before realizing I needed to rush to make my window. It was close, but I passed through without seeing so much as a worker.
I had to traverse another rope bridge near the trail head. This one was a little wider and looked a bit sturdier. It could hold 10 people.
"You walk very slowly," a man waiting to take a picture on the other side said to me after I remarked how scary it was.
He was part of a group of Germans who were coming back as I started along the trail. They told me it was closed ahead. And, it was. But there were, in fact, two trails--one to Lianhua Pond and another to Meiyuan and Zhucun. The latter was closed, and two park rangers sat guard. I took the left fork and could continue on--across another rope bridge.
This one was by far the worst. The river raged below, and the wind whipped violently through the gorge. I hyperventilated the entire way across, just one short gust from a full-on panic attack. I considered pulling a Kate Shelley and crawling across on my hands and knees. (Fun Fact: That was my favorite book as a child and every summer, when we passed a bridge as we drove to my grandpa's house in Iowa, I asked my mom, "Is that the Kate Shelley Bridge?" Every bridge, for years. And yet I've never actually seen the real one, the longest and tallest double-track bridge in the U.S.!)
I pushed myself along the whole 3.5 kilometers to make the 10-minute construction window back and also to challenge the estimated three-hour duration. I was to the top in an impressive two hours, 15 minutes. I could barely catch my breath to sing along to my iPod. The hike to the top was a steep set of stair switchbacks, and I was rewarded with views of Lianhua Pond, which closely resembled a cesspool of industrial sludge.
I was back through the construction site early, but still didn't see any workers. They were on lunch, maybe? The stop at Tianxiang on the way back was a total waste of time. The view from the top of the pagoda, after another anxiety- inducing climb up a narrow, winding set of stairs, was the same as at ground level. I headed back down and back to Hualien.
0 comments:
Post a Comment