(... continued) -- Ropes... Yes please.

This post is a continuation of the previous post: "Filming An Episode Of "Lost"?
 
This river is quite fun and easy to trace for a leisurely adventure but certain ominous paths remain undiscovered or mysterious and uncharted. One of these so called paths was noticed on our last trip to this particular river some week previous. It heads steeply up the side a heavily forested hill and gives off the faint whispers of an aboriginal path. As the rain continued its incessant drippings, we climbed and climbed. The follow pictures are culled from dozens attempting to demonstrate the awesome (using the dictionary definition of the word) short adventure undertaken.

(If people find this style of story-telling more provocative, more engaging, or simply more fun then the didactic lengthy stories of previous posts, then please let me know (via email, fb, etc.) and I will attempt such structure in future narratives. After perusing a plethora of travel blogs, this technique of engagement  seems most common. Perhaps to avoid pompous posts like the ones previous? )

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Behind Dacota's right shoulder is the entrance to this treacherous path. A foot at the very widest point,  we carefully began our ascent.

You can see the obvious beginning of the path behind me. Doesn't look too bad right? This is about a minute into the hike. After this point, as you will see, it becomes ever more cryptic. 

I chose to add this picture to demonstrate the phenomenon of mother-logs that are still alive. Although this picture demonstrates this assertion, floating plants in Taiwan are common and magnificent. Full-grown ferns, and other tropical variants, can be observed nestled in the fork of a tree branch far into the canopy, literally living and floating above you. 

 Progress! Many adventures sought have ended in failure. Hunting/aboriginal paths that were deteriorated beyond recognition, animal paths that lead no where, run-offs that appears to be trails yet were not, etc. It is a crap-shoot. Unless a path is regularly traversed, it risks being lost or swallowed up by the jungle.  Imagine grueling, slippery hiking/climbing, raising eight hundred plus feet, near bush-wacking conditions, to discover a dead end. Its a bummer. And that is a small climb; try 800 meters. Now we are talking! The hunt is on. The risks are high and you can come away sweaty, muddy, with aching knees and bruises from falls with a story of glory or another scrapped tale. Today though promised success! This isn't an abandoned trail we are hiking but rather a path developed enough to warrant old, rotting, mossy, muddy, spliced, fraying ropes to assist in otherwise perilous climbs. Here is Dacota beginning our first climb of the day.

And here he is again. Can you see him up there? Look for his red backpack in the center of the frame. Now its my turn!

..

During our climb we hear rustling in the trees, a squawk here and some clicking over there. More rustling. The buzzing of insects, the sight of leaves swaying under the impact of dropping rain, the sound of rocks sliding down the hillside as we walk along the barely perceptible path, the animal life just beyond the bend. The smell of feces, decaying rotting wood, bright fragrances of flowers, fog, mud, sweat. Yes. This is life in the jungle. Clicking / hooting in the nearby trees caused us to sway backwards as our heads snapped acumen gazes into the canopy. Spotting three big monkeys jumping away from us I fumbled for my camera and failed to capture a clear picture of our distant cousins. We continued and, once again, my documenting powers were stifled by blurry shots or shots with a mud smeared lens. Two other rope situations, one tied around a tree base and the other precariously tied around gnarled tree roots allowed our continued "safe" progress. We were climbing towards something.

Our surmising was correctly guessed; this path is used by hunters/possibly aboriginals and the verified proof is displayed for you. In this area, the stench of animal feces is strong. We do not hear anything besides the occasional bird call and the pattering of rain. 

An action shot of Dacota continuing on the trail. 

Up he goes into the clearing. 

This is where our tale ends for the day, but not forever. The path continued yet because of the increase in rainfall, the opening of the forest into the relative clearing pictured, the hazardous conditions increased to stupidly unsafe slippery footing. We decided to turn back and return on a "better" day.  I know my mom is thinking, "Progress!" Where will our future efforts take us? Possibly to the over the the other side of the mountain where another river runs? Having surveyed a few hours up another, shallower, river, in another valley we surmised that it is possible to bridge the mountain if one only put in the effort. Is this said bridge? Oh how the anticipation of discovery catalyses joy.

Here is me, the writer, the construction worker, the son/brother, the student of life, the dreamer, the hero and protagonist of my own drama, gazing towards the heavens, red stained lips and saliva from the constant betel nut boosts. How would the voyage have transpired without this aid? Certain failure.