I faded to the back of the hiking group, hoping to walk alone and in silence.
I had only enjoyed a few minutes of solitude when Mr. Lee came bumping up the trail on his motorbike, goosing and braking as he negotiated the rocks and roots. At the sight of my stooped, sweating figure, he popped out of gear, doffed his helmet and cast me a schoolmaster's disapproving look.
"You aren't far enough yet. You left too late. No good, no good," he scolded, muttering the last few words and shaking his head. Then he donned his helmet again, shook his head once more and gunned the motorbike forward, leaving me in a thin haze of blue exhaust.
PHOTO: MIKE CLENDENIN, TAIPEI TIMES
Our group of four had been hiking steadily for an hour out of Lushan, heading for a state-owned mountain hostel to which Mr. Lee had the key. We hoped to spend a few quiet, uneventful days there, exploring trails that wander through some of central Taiwan's most beautiful alpine landscapes, an area full of spiny ridges and deserted mountains whose massive, 3,000-meter plus peaks play hide-and-seek among the roving banks of cloud that swallow their steep, piney slopes.
But rain had started to drip through the canopy of bamboo, birch and pine that fringed the trail by the end of the first hour, and it was shaping up to be a grim hike. And that's how we ended up taking Mr Lee's advice and staying at a closer shelter used by Taipower workers.
We were greeted warmly by the dozen or so Taipower workers, who put us up in a nearby steel shack that came with amenities like a packed earthen floor, raised wooden slats for sleeping and a makeshift kitchen. A fire burned on the floor, slowly smoking out the room and causing our eyes to perpetually water.
PHOTO: MIKE CLENDENIN, TAIPEI TIMES
Mr. Lee wasn't far behind us. He quickly settled himself in, apparently pleased with his captive audience, chatting profusely, lapping up bowls of gin proffered by the Taipower workers and regaling us with claims of having climbed Mt. Everest -- twice -- and K2. He was a weathered mountain guide, he assured us, just the type of fellow who could lead us on our "dangerous" hiking trip. All we'd have to do is buy him a case of beer.
"C'mon baby!" he yelped. "Yeah, c'mon baby!" He stood up, sat down on the counter next to me and then leaned over and grabbed my hand.
"He says he likes you," someone said. Mr Lee, his eyes glassy from too much drink, looked into my eyes. I had been crying -- because of the smoke -- but Mr Lee seemed to misconstrue my tears as touching appreciation of his fondness for me.
PHOTO: MIKE CLENDENIN, TAIPEI TIMES
I got up to mix another Tang and vodka, but before I could give it to Mr Lee, he snatched it from my hand and thrust his arm around my neck.
"Coomon beebe!" he yelled in my ear. If I wasn't mistaken, that was the 15th time.
I escaped Mr Lee and wandered outside. On my way, I bumped into my friend Wong Wong.
PHOTO: MIKE CLENDENIN, TAIPEI TIMES
"Every conversation we have is the same," he said of his exasperating encounters with Mr Lee. "He starts saying something, then after five minutes, he returns to the beginning and says it all over again." He reached into his pocket and brought out a small bottle of vodka. "I thought I was going to save it for tomorrow, but I think I must use it today." He twisted off the cap and drank half of it. "Where's the beer?"
"Cooomon bayyby," Mr Lee screamed again from inside.
An hour later, with Wong Wong drunk and Mr. Lee having screamed "C'mon baby!" for what seemed the 500th time, he finally declared that he must go home.
Everybody slapped him on the back and said thanks for coming. Nobody seemed too concerned that he would be driving his bike down a narrow trail, along cliffs and over landslides, in total darkness.
That night, each time I was awoken by a roomful of men snoring and farting, I imagined Mr. Lee barreling down a mountain path and off a cliff, yelling "Coooomoooon, beeeebe!" as he plunged to his death. And perhaps that was his fate, because, although he said he would return the next day with a case of beer, we never saw him again.
We set out the next day, thinking that once we reached the mountain hostel, we would finally get the solitude and quiet we sought. We reached the place in just under three hours, and, after unloading our packs, set off on separate hikes, from which I was the last to return.
It had proven to be an uneventful day, and I thought it would remain so. But walking back alone from my hike, just a few hundred meters from the shelter and my friends, I was startled by a shotgun blast.
It roared through mist and mountain silence. A second later, its echo rebounded back down the deep valley.
Were my friends being robbed? Murdered? Another blast erupted. The second of my companions dead?
There aren't thugs in the mountains. I reasoned to myself; they stay down where it's warmer, in KTV parlors or the Legislative Yuan.
A third blast. My last friend? The sound of voices. I crept slowly toward the compound.
I rounded the corner and came upon the kind of party that might be popular in Kentucky, where guns and liquor are the main entertainment.
A group of Aborigines had stopped by on their way into the mountains for a week-long hunting trip to find game for the holiday season. By the time I arrived the rot-gut rice whiskey had been broken out and my friends, far from dead, were taking turns firing off the homemade muskets.
"Want some," one of the hunters said, offering some moonshine.
The guns, about 2.5 meters long, towered over even the tallest of the Aborigines. The barrels were made of thick steel tubing that made standing to shoot the thing a Herculean feat. They didn't fire bullets, but scraps of metal they kept in a film case.
"Can he try," asked my friend, pointing at one of the guns.
"Sure."
I took a long sip of moonshine and hefted the gun. I looked down the long barrel at a tree where a cup had been set as a target. A second later, I was looking down the long barrel at the ground. The gun was too heavy to level.
Setting it on a motorbike seat, I aimed again at the target -- an expired cup of whiskey. I might have been nervous if it wasn't for the alcohol. Without the drinks, it might have occurred to me that the homemade cannon in my hands had a high probability of exploding in my face.
I pulled the trigger. A fire-flash erupted just before my face.
BOOOOOOM!
The gun kicked into my shoulder. When I opened my eyes again, and the smoke cleared, the cup was gone and, to my surprise, so was my hearing.
People talked to me, smiled, offered me more whiskey, and I smiled, too, like Charlie Chaplin in my own silent movie. I had finally found the silence I was looking for.
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