Pubugou

　　In Wangqing, “Pubugou” is a well-known name. Countless times I dreamed of walking alongside her, yet just as many times I narrowly missed her. Fearing the long trek, I told myself, “The best scenery always comes last.” The distant mountains are perfect for autumn. Having missed the lush greenery and abundant waters of July and August, I could no longer resist the call of “frosted forests and red trees, autumn waters and white duckweed,” and finally embarked on the journey to Pubugou.

　　Pubugou is located in Chunyang Town, Wangqing County, under Forest Farm 70 of Nangou Forest Farm, managed by Wangqing County Forestry Bureau. It is 76 kilometers from the county seat and sits at an altitude of 1,250 meters. Locals also call it the “125 Waterfall.”

　　Just leaving the county seat, everything is still an expanse of green—vibrant new greens born of autumn, and deep dark greens like a hero in twilight, all blending into an ink-wash painting. At this moment, every pore on your body opens up, breathing in the air of nature, your visual senses overwhelmed by these greens, feeling the pulse of the wild. As you go further, entering Nangou Forest Farm, a few cheeky maple leaves leap out from the sea of green, shyly shedding their green attire and waving translucent, golden soft fingers.

　　We abandoned the car, hearts filled with both trepidation and anticipation for the unknown journey ahead. But that feeling quickly faded once we delved into the mountains. What captured my attention first was the faint sound of running water. Always a believer that “mountains are the soul of water, and water is the spirit of mountains,” I felt an instant kinship with Pubugou. Who would have thought our journey would be accompanied by her all along?

　　The meandering stream, the makeshift wooden bridge. Fallen leaves drift by; the log path, weathered over time. Carelessly glancing down, you can see the stream rushing beneath your feet, crashing against the bridge pillars and sending up white splashes, like a mischievous country boy waving to you, occasionally lifting his smiling face to greet us, the outsiders. There are bridges along the way, some appearing rickety; trees line the bridges, reaching skyward. The deep mountain path is flanked by miles of tall pines guiding the way, often with massive, embracing pines lying across the road, like dragons raising their heads, roaring through the woods. Suddenly, a fluffy blur darts past—it’s a little squirrel hopping and darting by your side, occasionally stopping to stick its tail up playfully, tilting its head to look at you, panting and out of breath, as if laughing at your lack of agility.

　　Drunken snow is best enjoyed at night to clear the mind; drunken water is best savored in autumn to embrace its crispness. When tired, squat on a rock by the stream and listen to the vast, murmuring, glistening, and cool sound of water—it’s like a natural symphony, making you wonder if sprites from Changbai Mountain are dancing and playing music in the water. When thirsty, cup your hands and scoop up some spring water from the rocky stream, letting its sweetness and coolness dance on your tongue. It not only refreshes your body but also washes away worldly worries. There are also wild dogberry fruits growing by the roadside. With a shake from the guide, we wait on the ground for them to fall, then search the grass carefully, enjoying a veritable “feast.” Suddenly looking up and bursting into laughter, we realize we’ve all turned into “black bears foraging for food.” At this moment, you’ve become one with the mountain, part of its very being.

　　According to the locals, just follow the stream and you’ll find the waterfall. Thinking back on the journey so far—the stream that alternates between roaring power and gentle whispers, the mountains that shift between playful and profound—this only heightens my anticipation for the waterfall.

　　Twenty minutes pass unnoticed until the guide suddenly stops by a cliff edge. Is this it? Wasn’t it supposed to take three or four hours? The guide smiles: as long as we’re on the right path, the waterfall is right here, close by. An ordinary path, an ordinary cliff—can it really be here? Listening closely, the thunderous roar of water echoes through the mountain stream beside us. Pubugou? Are we really about to meet today? Gathering my thoughts and adjusting my gear, I peer down the forest trail—and suddenly, the view opens up. Towering peaks pierce the clouds, crystal-clear streams reveal the bottom. On one side, a cliff face looks as though carved by gods, naturally formed; on the other, layers of massive logs stacked high are covered in moss, forming a green wall. From a cliff dozens of meters high, the waterfall cascades down, a silver ribbon clashing with giant rocks, scattering countless pearls—some lost in the enchanting play of sunlight, some merging and separating, dancing bigger and smaller, some plunging into the deep pool and creating rippling circles. This “Pearl Waterfall” lies hidden in the tranquil mountain valley, only illuminated by the generous light of the sun. In the interplay of light and shadow, the large and small pearls shimmer brilliantly, five colors intermingling (like mist, like smoke, like dust). At this moment, I just want to sit quietly on the grass by the pool, letting the droplets gently touch my skin, gazing at the cascading waterfall and drifting clouds—when the clouds part, I’ll drift along with ease; when birds chirp, I’ll resonate joyfully; when leaves fall, I’ll feel a serene sense of gain.

　　Emptiness and stillness surround, free of all things. Have a spiritual dialogue with the master of these waters. Words grow feeble, leaving only a thread of connection, a hint of mutual understanding, a little secret just between us...

　　Waving goodbye. The crows perched on old trees, the migrating geese cutting through the blue sky—are they the messengers Pubugou sends to detain its guests? I believe that when the peaks are piled with jade and valleys blanketed in silver, there will surely be another myriad of charms to behold.