The Unexpected Journey into Mati Si

We arrived at Mati Si at night, and all we saw through the fog, wet, and dark was small lamps that lit the way to the only accommodations at the park. This was paired with the heart-sinking notice that all the cabins were taken up by a company employee-bonding outing.

This was a mistake, I thought, damp-chilled clothes sticking to my arms and rainwater-burdened backpack digging into my shoulder, as my friend Cate and I were directed to a dining tent. We watched, numbly, as two workers gave us a suspiciously reddish-brown stained blanket with the lingering scent of sweat and smoke and left us for the evening.

We never fully wanted to come to Mati Si, in Gansu Province, China. We had heard of brilliant rolling green landscape against spectacular peaks, but it was too out of the way. However, one official army stop on a lonely road in the rain later (where we were informed we were no longer allowed to go to our intended Tibet-bordering monastery towns – 2008 was a strange time), and Mati Si seemed like the best option for an overnight stay.

Our night was cold and damp, huddled together under the blanket buffered by layers of our extra clothes. I tried not to think of the blanket's mysterious red brown stains.

The first hint of dawn cracked our misery. Sleep crusted (NOT bloody blanket crusted, I said to myself), we crawled out from under our cocoon, out of the tent, and into the sun.

Breathtaking. It was worth it. It was absolutely worth the detour, the sideways jaunt, with the gold rays peeking over jagged red rock with pine trees jutting against a brilliant blue sky, topped with the lingering gray wisps of rain cloud. The air was crisp, and tasted of green.

It was perfect for a short hike to the crowning jewels of Mati Si park, which are the centuries-old Buddhist grottos carved into the mountain faces, complete with small temples and stairwells, colorful prayer flags flapping with the breeze. Carved gods with flaking gold paint sat in wooden frames nested with bright scarves, while worn stone Buddhas guarded the doors.

I felt like I was crawling through the heart and history of the mountain.

The rain had discouraged the larger crowds typical of tourist spots in China – even the company entourage left – and so we found ourselves largely alone on the green hills with just the clouds and the faint smell of incense, forever seared into memory.

And that was it. My favorite spot in China. The beauty was sharpened its serendipity.