The Mountains Claimed Him

Last night I watched a documentary about a backpacker named Reuben who went missing in the mountains in 1998. Fearing the worst, his father traveled to Taiwan to look for him. He went with the police and local tribesmen up into the mountains looking for any sign of his son. Their only clue was Reuben’s signature in a tourist outpost near Alishan. Seems his son had taken a solo hike into the mountains and never came out.

For those not familiar with Alishan, the documentary really captures its sheer immensity. It is not one mountain, but a sprawling, wooded expanse of rippling peaks, falling away into jagged rips in the earth. If Taiwan is an old man hunching over, then Alishan is the column of ragged teeth grinning down his back.

The trails that undulate along this backbone are not the dry and dusty skeleton paths of the Rocky Mountains. Neither are they the luscious, rippling grasslands of New Zealand. Alishan is a steaming, tropical rainforest. A place where one push could cause even an experienced hiker to slip on the soaked leaves, slide down the slope, and vanish. All it takes is the perfect combination of rain, height, and mist. Even if they find you, it’s already too late.

After an exhaustive search up and down the rain-soaked ridges, the search party found a body. It was the decaying remains of a hiker, half sunk in muddy water at the base of a ravine. The police thought it was Reuben, but his dad wasn’t convinced. Beyond confirming the body was that of a foreigner, there was little more information they could gather from the few bits of flesh clinging to the bones. The body went away for examination. Rueben’s father returned to the woods.

The autopsy later confirmed what his father suspected- the body wasn’t his son. He would return to Taiwan six times over the course of the next four years, always tracing the dark, thick mist for Rueben. He never found him.

I was shocked to realize, watching the documentary, that I could have been Reuben. At around the exact same time, in 1998, I myself took a trip through Taiwan, just as Reuben had. I even hiked through some of the same mountains. Viewing the documentary made me realize how much my own life changed in those mountains. What I left behind when I finally got out.

I have never been a hiker by nature, so it was strange that in 1998 I embarked on a long excursion into the very heart of Taiwan.

The island of Taiwan is a stegosaurus. The sides are flat sandy beaches and the middle juts up into wicked thick peaks of wet woods. The trails that trace the mountains are unyielding in nature. The vines pull you in and the moist air licks your sweat.

I hiked eastward through the deadly spikes of Alishan to finally emerge on the far side. That night, I stayed at a small B&B in the shadow of the mountains. The B&B was famous for serving coffee from beans grown right outside the house. This wouldn’t have been my first choice to stay. I don’t like coffee.

My double room was huge and spacious. After I arrived, I immediately showered off all traces of Alishan. I also did my best to clean my clothes. Some clothing I even had to toss. I would have burned them if I could.

The husband and wife who owned the B&B made dinner for me, the only guest. After dinner, the husband stayed at the table, intending on introducing me to the local tribe’s culture.

The husband was himself a member of the local tribe, he explained. He talked about the old ways, the clothing, the customs. This all disappeared with the arrival of the Japanese. All that remained was a small cultural center where a few remaining members of the tribe worked and kept the traditional arts alive.

There are many parts of my excursion of 1998 that are lost to time. What follows, however, I remember almost word for word.

“I’m planning to head into the gorge tomorrow,” I told him.

“There’s a bus you can take,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “I was wondering if you can tell me about Shuilian cave.”

“What would you like to know?”

“I’ve heard some interesting stories about it.”

The husband looked at me. I wondered if he didn’t understand my Chinese.

“I’ve heard it can make you forget things?”

He didn’t say anything. My cheeks reddened a bit, out of embarrassment, but I pressed on.

“I know it sounds crazy, but people say that you can….make a wish? About what you want to forget?”

I was a different person in those days. Freshly 21, on my own for the first time, in a country across the world from my family. I have trouble even understanding who I was during that time. Even the reason I chose to travel to Taiwan seems incomprehensible to me now. I know I had this big dream that was the impetus but honestly, in the summer of 1998, all of that just felt like a heavy burden weighing me down. I remember I was constantly doing things that I would never do now, like going hiking and drinking coffee. Thinking back, I can barely relate to myself at 21. But I do clearly remember that heavy weight in my chest, a pressure that affected my days, my nights, my every moment. The pressure built up in the months leading to my excursion. In the wet embrace of Alishan, this pressure pushed me over the edge. The cave felt like a light in the darkness, a chance to save me from myself.

“People do go in there for that reason,” the husband finally said. “But it is against my advice.”

“Why?” I asked.

“We remember so that we learn who we really are,” the husband said.

“I already know who I really am,” I said. “Now I’d like to forget.”

He looked at me for a long minute. He nodded once. He told me about the cave.

Then he wanted to show me something. I followed him outside the large kitchen where we had been talking. We walked through the long rows of trees that surrounded the B&B. Past a line of coffee trees in a corner of the yard, he pointed to a small white stone, about the size of a child’s head.

“This is where I buried my daughter,” he said.

“She died when she was 3 years old. It was the worst day of my life. I have thought about her every day for the past 18 years.”

I didn’t say anything.

“If I forget about her, then it’s like I’m killing her,” he continued. “And I’m killing that part of me that knew and loved her.”

He looked like he wasn’t going to let me leave until I said something, so I did.

“I’ll remember that,” I said.

I don’t remember what I dreamed that night, but I do remember waking up multiple times, the blankets wrapped around me like dark, wet vines. In the months leading to Alishan, I suffered from insomnia. I remember crying through the night, either out of frustration or fear. I wet the air with my tears and soaked my pillows.

The next morning, completely unrefreshed, I stumbled downstairs to breakfast. The wife was waiting with a pot of coffee and a plate of fresh fruit.

“Some coffee?” she asked, holding out the pot.

I nodded and sat down at the table. She poured the dark liquid into my cup. Now I would have to drink it.

“You’re going into the gorge this morning?” the wife asked.

“I’m still deciding,” I replied.

The wife hovered over me, watching me pick at the fruit. I took a big gulp of hot coffee, hoping she’d take the hint and leave.

“You know, umm, we were surprised when you came alone last night,” she said. “When we booked the room we thought that-“

“I’m sorry about your daughter,” I interrupted. She stared at me, then blinked and shook her head slightly.

“What do you mean?” she said. “My husband and I don’t have any children.”

I caught the bus that carried tourists into the gorge. It was a big bus built for many travelers, but that day I was alone. The bus deposited me at the foot of a wide dusty road, far different than the trails I’d hiked in Alishan. This one was covered in a rocky gravel that kept the forest at bay and made the hiking easy. I flew along the trail, brimming with anticipation.

Taroko gorge was formed by a waterfall that raged into a river and ripped apart the mountains. In Alishan, the mountains trapped the water. In Taroko, the water won. Over centuries it has cut and cracked and cleaved the rock until it tore the mountains apart. The river running through the gorge pierces the mist and parts the trees. In the gorge, the air flows freely. In the gorge, you breathe easy.

As I rounded the last curve of the path, I reached a dark opening in the rock. The cave stretched into the inky black. Water pooled on the floor.

I took off my shoes and socks, abandoning them by the side of the trail. My pack came off as well. I remembered I had two plastic ponchos in there, but I decided to do without.

I stepped into the freezing water. It reached my knees. Deeper than I had expected. Carefully, I made my way into the cave.

The footing was so slippery I had no choice but to cling to the curving, wet cave wall. I had thought the light from the other side would guide me, but no such luck. There was only darkness.

I pushed on. At first the only sound was my splashing feet. Then I heard a soft rumbling coming from all around me. As I advanced, it grew to a roaring thunder that splintered the darkness. The noise must mean I was approaching the waterfall, but still no light was visible. Only the noise grew.

Suddenly, a freezing cascade of water struck my head, pushing me off balance. I scrambled back a step and clung to the wall, regretting my choice to abandon the ponchos. Apparently, the ceiling of the cave couldn’t contain the surging waters above and cracks had begun to form.

I gritted my teeth and pressed onwards, through the torrents of water raining down. I was soaked in a matter of seconds, but I kept my hand on the wall and kept walking.

Finally, I saw a sliver of light. The opening was ahead, with light leaking through the curtains of water. Guided by the light, I pushed ahead to the mouth of the cave. The vast expanse of the gorge lay below that shimmering window.

One hand gripping the cave wall, I stretched out one hand toward the opening. My finger brushed the cascade. I felt the force of the water run up my arm, electrifying me. I held my breath.

Eight heartbeats.

I let out my breath.

Nothing changed.

Nothing.

I trudged back out of the gorge. By the time I had reached the bus stop, my clothes were dry.

Back in Taipei, I returned to a one-room apartment that didn’t feel like home. I looked around at the books, the coffee maker and the pictures of strangers and I realized I didn’t know this person anymore.

I filled bags with hiking boots, clothing from some old boyfriend, magazines I didn’t read, books I didn’t like and tossed them all. These were all part of someone else’s life. That person didn’t come out of the mountains.

The night I threw out half my apartment was the first night I slept through.

I remember it didn’t take me long to realize that the weight pinning me to Taiwan had vanished. I left the very next day. I never went back.

Watching the documentary about Reuben brought 1998 flooding back to me. I remember the thick mountain vines; I remember the wet mountain air. Reuben wasn’t the only person who never made it out of those mountains. I see it so clearly now, the person I left behind and the person I am now. There’s only one thing that still troubles me.

Whose body did they find?