Waterfall Gully

Waterfall Gully

As mountains fade in color with autumn’s arrival, and autumn sharpens the mountain hues, there’s no better season to meet the Chunya Waterfall Gully than golden September.

In Wangqing, “Waterfall Gully” is a name that commands attention. Countless times I dreamed of walking hand-in-hand with her, yet just as often she slipped through my fingers. Fearing the long journey, I’d console myself: “A great view always saves the best for last.” The distant mountains are at their best in autumn. Having missed the lush greenery and abundant waters of July and August, I could no longer resist the allure of “frost-kissed forests and red trees, autumn waters and white duckweed,” and finally set off for Waterfall Gully.

Waterfall Gully is located in Chunya Town, Wangqing County, under Forest Farm 70 of the Nangou Forest Farm under the Wangqing County Forestry Bureau. It is 76 kilometers from the county seat, at an elevation of 1,250 meters, and is also locally referred to as the “125 Waterfall.”

Just outside the county town, everything was still green—new greens born to greet autumn, dark greens of fading heroism, a landscape like ink wash painting. At that moment, every pore opened up, breathing in the air of nature deeply, my visual senses overwhelmed by these greens, feeling the pulse of the wild. As we traveled further and entered Nangou Forest Farm, a few irrepressibly vibrant maple leaves leapt out from the sea of green, shyly shedding their green attire and raising translucent, golden soft fingers in a beckoning dance.

We left the car behind, filled with both trepidation and anticipation for the unknown journey. That feeling was quickly forgotten once we ventured deep into the mountains. What captured my attention first was the faint sound of water. As someone who has always believed that “mountains are the soul of water, and water is the spirit of mountains,” I instantly felt a kinship with Waterfall Gully. Little did I know our journey would be accompanied by her all along.

The winding stream, makeshift wooden bridges. Fallen leaves drifted, resting on logs laid long ago, weathered by time. Without warning, you might catch sight of the creek rushing beneath your feet through the gaps, crashing against bridge supports and sending up sprays of white foam, like a playful country boy waving at me, occasionally lifting his smiling face to welcome us, the outsiders from the mountains. There were bridges along the path, precariously charming; trees by the bridges, aspiring toward the sky. The deep mountain road stretched on, with ten miles of tall pines guiding the way. Often, massive ancient pines lay across the path, like dragons raising their heads, roaring through the woods. Suddenly, a fluffy blur darted past—little squirrels hopping and darting around you, occasionally stopping to cock their tails mischievously, tilting their heads to watch you, panting, as if mocking the city folk for not being nimble enough.

Drunken snow is best under night skies, to clear the mind; drunken waters are best in autumn, to embrace the cool. When tired, I’d squat on a rock by the stream, listening to the rushing, gurgling, gleaming, and clinking of water—an orchestra of nature itself, as if spirits of Changbai Mountain were drumming and dancing in the currents. When thirsty, I’d cup a handful of spring water from the stone brook, letting its sweetness and crispness dance on my tongue. It not only quenched my body but washed away the worries of the mortal world. There were also wild dogberry fruits growing by the path; the guide would shake the branches, and we’d wait on the ground for them to fall, then scour the grass to collect them, enjoying a veritable “feast.” Suddenly looking up, we’d burst into laughter—we had all become “black bears foraging.” At this moment, you felt one with the mountain, just another creature of the wild.

According to locals, just follow the stream and you’ll find the waterfall. Reflecting on the journey so far—the stream sometimes surging passionately, other times whispering softly; the mountains shifting between spirited and solemn—my anticipation for the waterfall grew even stronger.

Twenty minutes or so passed unnoticed until the guide suddenly stopped at the edge of a cliff. Is this it? Wasn’t it supposed to take three or four hours? The guide smiled: “As long as you’re on the right path, the waterfall isn’t far!” An ordinary path, an ordinary cliff—could she really be here? Listening closely, the thunderous roar of water echoed from the nearby ravine. Waterfall Gully? Were we really about to meet today? Collecting my thoughts and gear, I peered down the forest path—and suddenly, the view opened up. Towering peaks pierced the clouds, crystal-clear streams lay exposed, one side of the cliff carved as if by divine craftsmanship, naturally formed, while the other side displayed layers of thick tree trunks, moss-covered, forming a green wall several meters high. And there, from a cliff dozens of meters high, the waterfall cascaded down. A silver ribbon battled with giant rocks, colliding into countless pearls—some lost in the shimmering sunlight, others merging and separating, dancing in size, some diving into the embrace of the deep pool, sending ripples outward. This “Pearl Waterfall” scene, hidden within the tranquil mountain ravine, could only be illuminated by the generous sun. In the interplay of light and shadow, the large and small pearls sparkled brilliantly, a riot of colors (like mist, like smoke, like dust). At this moment, I just wanted to sit quietly on the grassy bank by the pool, letting droplets gently touch my skin, gazing at the flying瀑布 and drifting clouds—when the clouds gathered, I’d drift along with them in leisure; when birds sang, I’d resonate joyfully; when leaves fell, I’d feel a sudden enlightenment.

Emptiness and nothingness—have a heart-to-heart dialogue with the master of these waters. Words grow feeble, leaving only a thread of connection, a hint of understanding, a little secret just between us…

Waving goodbye. Returning, the few crows perched on old trees, the line of migrating geese slicing through the blue sky—are they the messengers that Waterfall Gully sends to keep visitors? I believe that when the mountains are blanketed in jade and valleys paved with silver, there will be an entirely different kind of charm.