The wind has picked up in recent days, and the autumn chill really bites to the bones. Yet more people than ever are hiking up Elephant Mountain, or Xiangshan, here in Taipei. Supposedly, they are there to catch the sunset, immortalizing the dying rays of the sun in their camera lens. Among the throngs of tourists and locals alike, not many watch their step—just last week, I saw someone trip over the remains of what was once a hillside grave, look up, and scream.
I was busy suppressing my laughter on the sidelines, but finding yourself on the ground in front of a tomb, especially around Halloween, is undoubtedly a scarring experience. That man was foolish, but I do feel sorry for him.
Wooded Turns
On the top of Xiangshan is a gazebo overlooking the hillside. On most days, there would be at most two or three retired men doing sit-ups and lifting weights with rusted plates. Yet the last time I went, it was packed with people of all ages holding their phones, snapping away. Annoyed, I slipped out of the crowd.
That’s when I looked down and found a path I hadn’t noticed before, just a few feet below the foundations of the structure. There was nobody around, and I eased myself over stone steps downwards. The first thing I noticed was the path construction. It was paved with the same material as the rest of the hiking trail, but the design was obviously different. This felt…respectable. And despite it being no more than five meters beside the bustling mountaintop, this path was overrun with vines and weeds. Walking a few steps ahead, I came upon a discarded baseball cap tucked within the shrubs. It seemed to have been here for a long time. Oddly enough, despite the abandonment, there were no spider webs overhead.
I looked up to see an old oak tree ahead, its thick trunk blocking my view of the path twisting away beyond. I took a few strides forwards, but just at this moment—
“Get back here, kid.” I turned to see a man, hair whitening but physically fit for his age, beckoning me from where I’d entered. When I got back to the start of the path, he patted me lightly. “Good thing I saw you when I did!” he breathed a sigh of relief. Then his tone dropped, serious:
“This road lies.”
“The cap was mine once, before I passed it to my hiking partner,” he began once we had found some shade. “We used to explore these deserted paths together, and register them officially.”
He told me that it was their main source of entertainment after retirement. Each time they found one, they’d mark it on their map; just like that, they discovered almost a hundred forgotten trails across no fewer than two dozen mountains.
Then one day some summers ago, they stumbled upon this hidden groove, but just as they were about to make the turn beyond the tree I’d spotted, he tripped over a root, realizing as he got up that he had a severe limp. There was no way he could continue—there was a steep slope downwards right ahead; he stood no chance of catching up, if he could even walk the path at all—but he had no idea when they might next meet up.
His partner offered to scout ahead and do a rudimentary mapping for today, leaving him to wait at the entrance. Grudgingly he agreed, but not before taking out a baseball cap. “Take this with you,” he said. “I’ve got shade to wait under, but you’re doing the heavy lifting under the sun.”
They parted ways, one limping back to find a seat stop stone steps, the other disappearing behind a bush, leaving behind only clanks of a hiking staff until even those too faded away.
Things felt normal at first. The wind picked up a bit, and the leaves rustled in response, but that was all. But thirty minutes later, he was getting impatient; forty minutes later, the wind started chilling him; an hour into the wait, he was getting worried. Reception was nonexistent in the mountains they frequented, hence they never brought their phones, but he was starting to seriously reconsider the decision.
That’s when he noticed something. The wind had only picked up, yet the trees were silent. Not even a rustle.
Everything was eerily still.
He forced himself to his feet and hobbled towards the turn, but movement out of the corner of his eye made him stop and look at the treetops. Just as he raised his gaze, a little ball of something fluttered to the ground.
His cap. The one he’d lent to his partner was at his feet, caked with mud, yet there was no sign of its last wearer.
The silence of unmoving trees was swept into his face by the mountain gales, crashing with the strength of a tidal wave as his eyes widened in incomprehension, then terror. Ignoring the pain shooting up his ankle, he sped up towards the tree. Something was amiss, very badly so.
That “something” was immediately visible when he broke past the turn, freezing in his tracks. His friend was nowhere to be seen. As the wind died down and birds resumed their mild singsong, he slumped to the ground.
Where there was once a slope downwards, he found himself looking at a steady uphill climb. The stone steps were just as cracked, and the mess of overhanging tree branches as unbroken as before, as if nobody had ever been here at all.
The Story Behind the Story
Taiwan is mostly made of mountains and hills. As such, there are many winding mountain paths that are unexplored, for one reason or another. Most of them aren’t even marked, save for the occasional signpost a few meters away from their entrance that typically state nothing but “Road ahead.”
This may be why, in traditional folklore, most spirits reside in mountain ranges.
These spirits originate in indigenous legends, much like many other cultures. Some safeguard the boulders. Others protect the woods. A handful watch over the whole region. And there are even some that tell humans and their descendants how to harmoniously coexist with the rest of nature. One thing in common is that they punish their people one way or another when humans have severely wronged them, and, in turn, the earth.
In light of recent events, I started thinking: if these spirits were real, how might they respond to the current destruction of their habitats and homes?
One instance sticks out like a sore thumb: the island of Lanyu, or Orchid Island, is home to the Yami people. They are a friendly seafaring tribe, with legends and traditions that revolve around the oceans. Yet at the same time, Orchid Island is where most of Taiwan’s depleted nuclear power cells are offloaded. This has led to reports of pollution, particularly in the form of radiation. There has been public outrage in the past, and protests still continue, but aside from all this, I can’t help but wonder about the spirits. Do they feel pain? Disrespected, perhaps? How long before they become truly enraged?
The same goes for similar entities in many other tribal cultures. Development often is built upon the blood of nature. Woods are logged, rivers are dried, and some say in the depths of the night, you can hear the land itself sob and cry. This rather fits our theme of Halloween, except this kind of terror is much more real, and happens year-round.
According to indigenous tribes, these spirits have been here long before us, but we scar them as we mar the earth. With or without the legends, this is a sad truth: damage to natural resources and ecosystems is rampant, both in Taiwan and in other corners of the world. Across the globe, over countless cultures, spirits—and people—are screaming in agony over what has been lost.
If it is of any comfort, though, awareness has also peaked in recent years. More people are taking to the streets and the internet than ever, and everyday busybodies, including netizens like you and me, are able to make a difference. And maybe, just maybe, it is not too much to hope that one day, such destruction will be a thing of the past.
And these spirits, wherever they are, real or not, may finally rest easy.