Like many other people, most of my mountain expeditions have been peak-bagging treks. Even so, I’ve yet to get a quarter of the way through Taiwan’s baiyue (台灣百岳), the 100 peaks — all more than 3,000 meters above sea level — that outdoor types hope to conquer.
Recently I’ve been spending far more time on my bicycle than on mountain trails, but when my wife and I received an enticing invitation, we jumped at the chance to dust off our hiking gear. The family that runs the popular Sisters Restaurant (姊妹小吃) in Kaohsiung’s Namasiya District (那瑪夏) asked if we’d like to join a 48-hour expedition in their backyard. Rather than aim for a peak, we’d tramp up what’s known as the Cishan River (旗山溪) or the Nanzihsian River (楠梓仙溪). The former name is preferred by officialdom; the latter is thought to be derived from the river’s name in the indigenous Tsou language.
The source of the river is near Jade Mountain (玉山), around 2,700 meters above sea level. Flowing southwest for 117 km before joining the Gaoping River (高屏溪), it’s one of Taiwan’s 10 longest waterways. We knew that by sticking close to the water, we wouldn’t have to bushwhack or tackle steep gradients.
Photo: Steven Crook
LAND OF THE TSOU AND BUNUN
A few centuries ago, this beautiful valley was dominated by the Tsou, a tribe more usually associated with the Alishan area. After local Tsou clans were decimated by epidemics in the 19th century, groups of Bunun moved in. Bunun people now form a majority, while the Tsou account for about one sixth of the population. Mixed marriages aren’t uncommon, however — Alas and Abas, the twin sisters in charge at Sisters Restaurant, had a Bunun father and a Tsou mother.
The ethnic map in this part of Taiwan became even more complex in 2014, when the government recognized as distinct tribes the Kanakanavu (who live in two of Namasiya’s three villages) and the Hla’alua. About a fifth of the latter tribe, who number around 400, live in Namasiya, the majority being in the neighboring district of Taoyuan (桃源).
Photo: Steven Crook
We became a party of 13: We three; Alas and Abas; Alas’s husband (Rich John Matheson, a Canadian photographer best known for his images of local temple culture) and their two boys; a 17-year-old niece; and a teacher from Kaohsiung, her husband, and their twin sons.
Using his battered but reliable truck, Rich shuttled us to the river and a short distance north. Driving was the least of his responsibilities, I realized when I tried to lift his backpack. “My wife brought the kitchen,” he quipped. But he builds houses when not lugging his camera to religious events, and without his strength, we would’ve struggled with the inevitable river crossings.
Like many mountain creeks, the Cishan River swells massively after each typhoon, and has filled the bottom of the valley with gravel and cobbles. Once the waters have subsided, the terrain is generally quite flat and walkable, but the river zigzags from one side of the floodplain to the other. Twice before reaching where we’d camp, the bank ended at a cliff, and we had to scout for a spot where the waterway wasn’t too deep. On both occasions, we got across without any backpacks getting wet — a key achievement.
Photo: Steven Crook
The tributaries of the Cishan River are numbered from south to north: First Creek (一溪), Second Creek (二溪), Third Creek (三溪) and so on. Two local peaks take their names from these side streams: Second Creek Mountain (二溪山, 1,454 meters) and Fourth Creek Mountain (四溪山, 2,117 meters). The former is quite popular with hiking clubs.
At an altitude of between 900 and 1,000 meters, just beyond Fourth Creek (四溪), we pitched our tents. Or, rather, the city slickers among us pitched tents. The Namasiya contingent gathered long branches over which they spread the tarpaulin Rich had carried up.
That was our base for the next day and a half. I’ve been on backcountry expeditions where a relentless focus on onward movement gets in the way of enjoying the scenery, so having time to really soak up the surroundings was deeply satisfying and relaxing. The following morning, carrying nothing but lunch, we moved slowly upriver, pausing at a waterfall and then at a pool where the youngsters skipped stones.
Near the latter, Rich spotted something in the undergrowth. He dug with his fingers, and pulled out two pale blue bottles. The glass of both, we noticed, had various slight imperfections. The metal on the swing-tops had rusted away, but the stoppers themselves (which appeared to be Bakerlite) were intact. Guessing these bottles had been dumped decades ago, we washed them out and took them home as souvenirs.
HUNTERS EMERGE
On the second evening, well after dark, we saw flashlights moving up the valley toward us. As the lights got closer, Rich’s niece called out a greeting in Bunun. This seemed to reassure the strangers that we weren’t law-enforcement officers pretending to be hikers so as to catch people hunting illegally. The trio walked over to say hello.
When, where, by whom and of what hunting is permitted is a complicated issue, but one thing is for sure: Thanks to Taiwan’s strict gun laws, the weapons available to hunters aren’t nearly so powerful as those available to US sportsmen. When one of the men offered to discharge his rifle, we could see the projectile fizz and flare it’s way across the valley. It looked more like a firework than a tracer bullet. I wondered if it could actually kill a sizable animal.
A century ago, hunting expeditions were often multi-day affairs. William Pickering, a British resident of Tainan in the late 1860s, described indigenous men setting out on hunts with, “nothing but a few balls of glutinous rice in their hunting wallets.” They supplemented the rice with foraged greens, as well as meat from animals they killed.
Nowadays, many hunters get home before dawn, thanks to their motorcycles and the farmers’ roads that penetrate deep into the hills. Since Pickering’s era, Taiwan’s wilderness has shrunk to a fraction of its former size. Nonetheless, as our hike up the Cishan River proves, it isn’t that difficult to reach places where there are no roads or buildings, and where no artificial light disturbs the night.
Steven Crook has been writing about travel, culture, and business in Taiwan since 1996. Having recently co-authored A Culinary History of Taipei: Beyond Pork and Ponlai, he is now updating Taiwan: The Bradt Travel Guide.
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