I looked up and met your squinting eyes peeking over the cliff edge, smiling. The climbing rope tied around my waist was anchored to you—you were belaying me. “Don’t be afraid,” you blinked as if to say, “Just put your full weight down, and that’s the path.”
I suddenly realized:
If I could step beyond my own body, I would bloom into a riot of blossoms—
—A Blessing (James Wright)
I looked up toward the sky and whispered inwardly: Thank you, Kexiao. I’m grateful for your care.
Last year, several families with teenagers planned a holiday trip and chose a one-day camping excursion in Wuta, Nan’ao. Not long ago, your book was published. It depicted people’s pursuits and realizations in nature, the deep bonds formed among companions venturing into the mountains and forests—these are all things worth remembering for young people. Moreover, you used “finding the path” as a metaphor, sharing your own pioneering journey, which must have resonated with many stagnant and bewildered middle-aged hearts—God knows who else was there that day besides me.
The group set off from Taipei, dawdling along until we finally arrived in Nan’ao in the afternoon. But Teacher Xiao Wei had been waiting in the classroom since early morning. “Because Brother Lin asked me to,” he said, a phrase that foreshadowed the thoughtful arrangements throughout our trip—and the gentle nature behind them.
During the day, the children played a friendly baseball game, and the evening activity was “Introduction to Hunting.” By the campfire, under the intent gaze of bright eyes, Teacher Xiao Wei spoke eloquently about traditional Atayal beliefs—the importance of understanding and respecting the ecology in the mountains. Then we set off to look for nocturnal animals. We walked along a trail by the creek, the group bustling with energy. When the searchlight shone on a distant cliff face across the stream about a hundred meters away, a tiny dot of red in the dense forest—“That’s a flying squirrel’s eye,” Teacher Xiao Wei said. He went down to the creek bed and gathered the children around him. In the cold night, under the starlight, I stood behind the group, barely able to make out the large white boulders and the dark little figures of the kids. The youths followed Teacher Xiao Wei, facing the forest, and gradually fell completely silent. Watching the scene before me, something stirred faintly in my heart, and suddenly I envied you. What an earnest and sincere young man—you would truly be a hiker’s blessing to have by your side in the mountains.
I always remembered my concern for you.
Several months passed after that, and the typhoon season arrived. One day, I received a call from you saying you were about to head to Nan’ao again, this time planning to explore deeper into an old tribal village. … But that would require at least half a day of trekking, and at the moment, a storm was raging across northern Taiwan, likely to continue into the next day. “…Yeah,” you said lightly, but your tone revealed an inner determination and fearless courage that left me unable to say another word. Only confusion came rushing in with my imagination: With weather so fierce, just driving along the Su-Hua Highway would take immense bravery. What had transformed you into someone so impassioned?
I remember you as always gentle and tender-hearted. I recalled how, after university, you served as a reserve officer stationed on the outlying island of Penghu. One day, I received a thick stack of handwritten poems from you. Each poem was a gentle whisper, brimming with your love for the mountains and forests. At that time, what captured your heart was Smangus.
We lost touch for a long time. The last time I saw you was more than ten years ago at the entrance of Gongguan Campus. You were waiting for the bus, and we sat together on a metal bench. You talked about life and death during your time in the U.S., and I could sense you hadn’t yet moved past the grief. After that, we reconnected just before the publication of Finding the Path. When I called, the first thing I said was, “Do you still have those poems? Are you planning to publish a poetry collection next?” In that moment, I was overwhelmed with youthful thoughts, while you remained thoughtful and noncommittal. When the book was finally published and sent to me, I opened it to the inscription: “This is the book. I secretly included some marketing for the poems from my student days.” Ah, so you had always remembered my concern.
I just wanted to tell you these little stories.
Because
a long-standing, casual remembrance
can quietly turn into something deeply sincere.
This must be the one, from those manuscripts in Penghu.
When the news of the tragedy came, I immediately pulled out another poem.
If I hadn’t taken the wrong path that day, would I have missed all of this?
We might have found a shortcut,
the shortcut that spares three cycles of rebirth.
Did you take the wrong path this time? Or did you make some other mistake? These are the kinds of things people have been discussing lately over casual chats after meals—who knows, maybe even bringing up ideas like “a self-fulfilling prophecy.” But I stayed silent, offering no rebuttal, knowing full well you had already gone far beyond all that.
I looked up, searching for you.
Our earlier encounter—you had just returned from studying abroad. During a gathering of old poetry club friends, I was often traveling to and from mountainous areas for work and had been living with a young man from an Atayal tribe. Perhaps that’s why you spoke to me alone about the following story:
“A group of university students went hiking. They had to cross a wide valley before reaching the trailhead. Dark clouds loomed upstream, but they ventured forward anyway and were soon trapped on a sandbar by rapidly rising waters. With no way forward or back, rescue appeared—a group of young Atayal men from the nearby Sìjì Tribe. They quickly found a section of the river that looked turbulent but was less dangerous, guiding the university hikers—carrying the female students on their backs—safely back to shore. They had just returned from a mountain hut where they grew mushrooms. The wooden racks were stacked with mushroom spawn. At the first clap of thunder, they headed into the mountains, walking along the logs covered in spawn and tapping each one with a stick—they called it ‘waking them up.’”
The scene remains vivid in my mind to this day. Your eyes sparkled as you told the story—perhaps some kind of ‘spawn’ inside you had been ‘woken up’ and began to grow. What could it have been? After Finding the Path, we spoke a few times, and you mentioned your wish to become more Atayal—to be a hunter, to be a preserver of culture. But only now do I understand that the true meaning of that ‘spawn’ must have been to become someone who “steps beyond oneself.”
Ah, I couldn’t help but look up, searching for you.
Put your full weight down, and that’s the path.
Memories flooded back—yes, back in college, I had enthusiastically joined the rock climbing training sessions you led, at the Beitou Artillery Rock Crag accessible by bus.
It was a crag no more than ten meters high, not even intimidating for beginners. I ran my hand over the rough surface of the rocks, watching seasoned climbers effortlessly move up and down various routes, never once doubting how difficult it could be.
“Three points static, one point moving.” The moment I learned this phrase, I was eager to give it a try.
Sure enough, it was as easy as I’d imagined—at first. But when I climbed up to about seven or eight meters, my eyes spotted the next foothold, yet my body couldn’t figure out how to shift its center of gravity. Flustered and fumbling, I found myself stuck, unable to move either up or down. After struggling for a while, a voice came from above: “Haha, we can see your underwear!”
What kind of encouragement is that?! I thought awkwardly as I dangled midair. Looking up, I met your amused, squinting eyes peeking over the edge of the cliff, and the climbing rope tied around my waist was anchored to you—you were belaying me. “Don’t be afraid,” you blinked, as if to say, “Just put your full weight down, and you’ll find the way.”
(Lin Kexiao’s memorial service will be held starting at 2:00 PM on September 6th at Taipei City Second Funeral Parlor)