Twenty years ago today our family hiked along the Mutianyu section of the Great Wall of China. A couple of days earlier, we had flown to Beijing from Hong Kong. Our good friends, Doug and Becky, who were living in Beijing with their four children, graciously hosted us in their spacious apartment and served as tour guides extraordinaire. We had explored the nooks and crannies of the Forbidden City, and walked across the massive Tiananmen Square. Becky helped me bargain for pearls at the Pearl Market, and we ventured to the lovely Summer Palace. One evening, we accompanied Doug and two of their sons to a Chinese acrobatic performance at a dusty, worn theater where the audience was mostly local Chinese people. China was decades into its strict One-Child policy, and as we filed into our seats—with five young boys—we made quite a stir. Wrinkled hands reached out and caressed the boys’ faces, dark eyes crinkled at the corners, and faces broke into smiles. Nodding approvingly and chattering excitedly, the Chinese gazed at our children, and our good fortune, with fondness. It was a little unsettling for our boys, and a bit humbling for me.
The Great Wall was next on the jam-packed itinerary, and our excursion began early on a Friday morning. Both our families piled into a hired van. Swallowed up by Beijing’s chaotic and exhaust-filled traffic, we were carried along by the sluggish current of taxis, bicycles, buses, cars and pedestrians and finally disgorged outside the city. For the first time since we arrived in China, the sky was clear and blue, and we could see mountains. Ninety minutes later, our driver deposited us at Mutianyu’s public entrance where we bought tickets for a cable car ride up the side of the mountain. We stepped out onto the ancient Wall built fifteen centuries earlier along the undulating spine of the mountain ridge.
For the next couple of hours, we hiked up and down narrow and uneven stairs, through little passageways, and along open stretches with expansive views. It was early spring, too early for the trees to leaf out, or the mountain slopes to turn green. But, maybe because the sun was shining and the air was clean, it was beautiful up there. When we had hiked back to our starting point, Doug suggested we explore the “back side” of the mountain, along a trail which he said led to a tiny village in the valley.
For 45-minutes, we worked our way down, past little terraced fields, a few sheep, and one ancient Chinese man. Finally, we arrived at a cluster of cinder block buildings built around some man-made trout ponds. The first person to appear was a wizened old grandmother—selling fireworks! The boys begged to buy poppers (or bang-snaps), then excitedly ran off leaving a trail of noise. The grandmother, deciding Becky and I needed more potent explosives, held out real firecrackers. We shook our heads, “No.” She sized up her potential customers, nodded knowingly, retreated into a little house, and returned—with fireworks the size of dynamite! Good grief! We could have blown up the village with one of those things. “No! No! Dangerous!” Becky told her in Chinese. Dejectedly, she wandered away.
Soon a few more of the villagers appeared, and Doug arranged for our kids to go fishing. A man brought out bamboo poles, and a woman mixed up meal bait. Within minutes, the boys had caught about eight trout. The couple inquired if they could cook the trout and serve us lunch—and so Doug negotiated the meal. Before long, the ten of us gathered around a picnic table laden with platters of seasoned grilled fish, marinated cucumbers, braised eggplant, and bowls of steamed rice. High above us, stretching off into the distance, towered the Great Wall. It was a remarkable meal.
Finally, it was time to hike up the steep mountain trail to The Wall where the cable cars had deposited us hours earlier. Instead of taking the lift back down to the parking lot, however, we flew down a twisting luge track riding in sleds. It was so much fun—and such a wacky conclusion to the day’s adventures.
Tired and dusty, we met up with our driver, climbed into the van, and returned to the apartment in Beijing.
Within 72 hours, we were home in suburban northern Illinois, and the boys, bleary with jet lag, returned to school. Everything was back to normal—everything, that is, except for us. We were different. Like elastic stretched to an extreme, we never did snap back to our original state. Expanded and loosened, we could and did tackle more adventures with the boys. But of all the meals eaten across ultimately six continents, the picnic at The Great Wall remains one of my favorites.
