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In the Central Plains, tall mountains were few and far between. Even the Yunding Mountain in Pingzhou could not compare in height to the snow mountains of the West, which were capped with centuries of accumulated snow. Mount Ding was considered relatively high; though it was no match for the peaks Song You had climbed in the West, it was still a difficult ascent.
By “difficult,” it meant that those with weak constitutions would find the climb exhausting, since it still took half a day to reach the summit. For those in better health, however, it posed little challenge.
Of course, one could always hire porters. For a small fee, two sturdy men accustomed to hard labor would carry you to the top.
It was the dead of winter, and the summit was snowbound, so much so that in the deepest spots the snow was said to reach over the knees. The cold was biting, and the ice and snow made the mountain paths slippery, the steps treacherous. As it was not a festival day for mountain worship, few people were climbing.
Whether because there were branching paths up the mountain or because many climbers gave up halfway, the higher one went, the fewer people there were.
Yet at the summit, there were still a few souls. They were scholars, bundled in thick clothing, seemingly in good shape, and one even had a sword at his waist.
Upon reaching the top, they dared not stay the night. Instead, they strolled the circuit of the summit, admired the silver-clad scenery, spoke of the miraculous descent of immortals by crane and the...
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