One gloomy December day many, many years ago, I was making my way along the Central Cross Island Highway, heading towards Lishan from Ilan amidst an intermittent drizzle. Not far past the Atayal village of Nanshan, the fog began to thicken. As the high-altitude vegetable fields slowly disappeared behind me, flickering images of trees began to appear beside the winding mountain road like back-lit cutouts. Amidst the now dense, now lighter fog, they came into view one after another like cutouts of horses on a spinning lantern.

Wilderness Diary

The trees had really gotten my attention, so I slowed down to about 10 kph to get a better look. Here on this island whose residents so love to chop trees down, I had rarely seen so many giants of such beauty. And they were right beside the road! As the highway continued to climb, the trees' shapes became stranger and stranger. Obscured by the mist and having already shed most of their leaves, they created a fantastic landscape. The naked limbs of those nearby were beautiful and powerful, while those further away looked like girls who had shed thick winter coats in favor of semi-transparent gauzy nothings that half-revealed their slender figures. I couldn't believe that these were the same trees I'd driven by in the summer, that these were the forms that stood beneath the obscuring leaves.

I used to hate climbing the switchbacks of this dangerous road because of the frequent landslides, but here I was stopping the car again and again because I just couldn't bear to leave this fantastic scenery behind. I decided on the spot that I would make a thorough investigation of the trees, forest, wildflowers and wildlife of this place known as Ssuyuan Pass, photographing everything. And, just like that, I came to spend more than three years recording the beauty, bounty and seasonal metamorphoses of these few kilometers of terrain.

Ssuyuan Pass just happens to cross the ridge that separates the Lanyang River watershed from the Tachia River watershed. These two watersheds have been competing for its water for the last million years, and today, this competition is more heated than ever. Ssuyuan Pass not only separates these watersheds, but also happens to sit in the border region of two climate zones. In winter, the northeast monsoon makes for cold and wet weather with frequent fog and gusting rains on the northern side of the pass, while the southern side stays clear and dry. The very distinct climates make for radically different kinds of vegetation on the two sides of the pass.

Ssuyuan Pass also happens to be situated at the only point of intersection of the Mount Snow Range and the Central Mountain Range. The topography, climatic differences and variations in elevation have created a very complex ecology, as well as beautiful and varied scenery. All of which makes it difficult to understand how this remarkable piece of land located between the Taroko National Park and the Shei-pa National Park was included in neither.

I made my observations along the stretch of road that runs from the Kofa Bridge on the Mimoteng River, past the pass's one-kilometer marker on the winding Central Cross Island Highway, to the Ssuyuan No. 2 Bridge, where the Mount Nanhu spur forks off the main road. While only four kilometers as the crow flies, this section of the road winds through the mountains for eight kilometers and ascends from 1,400 meters to 1,950 meters above sea level.

The changes in the make-up of herbaceous plant communities here can be tremendous. For example, there were few "blue-inlaid" asters here in 1992, but by April 1996, they were everywhere. The slopes by the roadside looked like flowerbeds and the forest floor appeared to be covered in tendrils of purple flame. On the other hand, the once profuse Trigonotis and chickweed had become pretty uncommon by 1995. The metamorphoses that nature undergoes are always difficult to predict! It is difficult to keep up with the rapid rise and fall of these plant communities, making it impossible for me to pin down my feelings for the place.

Ssuyuan Pass in spring

In April, the pass looks as if it has been painted with watercolors.

The pigments are light at the start of the month, but the contrasts become stronger later. The painting is filled with water that sometimes seems to flow into one of its corners. At other times, a cloud or bit of mist will rise out of the pass before sinking back down to disperse among the clustered trees, giving the scene an unreality reminiscent of a dream or hallucination.

As the spring comes on, the painter begins using more opaque pigments, and the painting itself gradually becomes brighter and sharper. There are more colors, and heavier, and the layers visibly multiply. There are brownish greens, gray greens, greenish-blacks, jade and emerald greens, grass greens, light greens, chili greens, lime greens, silver greens, silver grays, pale whites, pinkish whites, snow whites, lavenders, pale purples, pale reds, watery reds. . . . At this time of year, an experienced naturalist can tell a tree's species by its color alone. As for the trees themselves, some sprout new leaves, while others flower, and still others burst forth in leaves and flowers at the same time. In the spring, the forest emerges from its chrysalis. I can almost see the trees growing thicker and taller, see them changing color. The trees change so rapidly that often after a single night or the passing of a heavy fog, I no longer recognize them.

The great trees are vibrantly alive. Caressed by a flower-scented breeze, they perform a joyful dance to the gurgling of mountain streams and the songs of birds, whether basking in the warm sun, wrapped in a light mist, or soaking in the spring rain. It's like the segment of the Kurosawa film Dreams in which the spirits of the peach trees dance.

Atop the red machilus and the Machilus zuihoensis, the oak and the Pasania cuspidata, the Carpinus kawakamii and the bronze loquat, there is a buttery, lemon-colored canopy of tiny flowers. The vermilion Formosan cherry trees and the tea crabapples covered in white blossoms make a lovely contrast. Surveys by botanist Lu Sheng-you have shown that this is the only place in Taiwan in which tea crabapples grow. That a tree as rare as the tea crabapple has chosen to ensconce itself only in Ssuyuan Pass from among all the environments available to it on the island of Formosa is indicative of just how exquisite and naturally beautiful the pass is.

In mid April, the usually inky green, stiff and subdued Formosan rhododendron undergoes a complete change of character, suddenly bursting forth in a riot of blossoms that range in color from white to pink. Intoxicated by the spring breezes, they sashay and offer up a saucy smile.

The irresistible call of spring

In the south-facing valley below the pass, spring fever is everywhere. The budding blossoms of the Platycarya strobilacea curl upwards. The Photinia beauverdiana are covered in thousands of white, snowball-like flowers, which, when seen through the deep green needles of the Taiwan pines, look like waves breaking near the shore. A stooped and twisted wheel tree looks as if it has been hit with an arrow of love. Just as in the Tibetan myth in which the playful Kurukulla shoots her father with such an arrow at her own birth, causing him to become ever more licentious as he gets older, this decrepit old wheel tree has bedecked itself in flowers-grass green, petal-less blossoms that seem to suit a tree of such age.

But it's not only the wheel tree that has been love-struck. The Formosan Helwingia japonica, a member of the dogwood family, seems to have been hit by a whole quiver full of arrows. It can't wait to extend new limbs and branches, and grows its pale green flowers right on its leaves. Such flowers have led some people to refer to these kinds of trees as "leaf flowering" trees, and are yet another of nature's mysteries.

The animals find the call of the spring even harder to resist than the plants. At this time of year, the yellow-throated minivets that usually wing about the area in flocks like colorful butterflies each claim their own tree from whence they sing their passionate song. Meanwhile, the plumbeous water redstart gives joyful voice to its own song from the rocks and tree limbs in and around the area's streams. And the black-and-white little forktail uses its tail to count time for the love songs it sings from among the just-greening grasses on the creek banks.

One warm afternoon in April, there were four crested serpent-eagles wheeling and calling above the pass, their cries carrying to its every corner. Three of the eagles circled and wheeled about each another, until two suddenly split off and flew right at one another. Just as they were about to collide, they canted their bodies and reached out with their claws, attacking each other as they whipped past. After several passes, one looked as if it had been slightly hurt and flew away, leaving behind several bits of curly down drifting in the air.

Later, the eagle that had not joined in the circling angled its body downward and dove, landing on the limb of a Chinese hemlock. The victorious eagle followed it down, pulling up on a nearby branch. Within a minute or two, the winner hopped over to the branch on which the female was perched, then pounced on her back, wings extended, to claim the fruits of his victory.

One morning, I had gone to Chichiawan Stream to shoot some photos of Rhododendron ovatum. At the time, the only creatures on the stream's banks were some male plumbeous water redstarts, which had taken up positions on opposite banks and were passionately singing a high-pitched love song. When I reached the campsite, I just happened to see one of the redstarts perched atop a warning sign from whence it was calling back towards the water where some youngsters were playing. It looked as if the redstart was shouting at the kids: "If you can't read the warning yourselves, then I'll read it to you!" The sign warned: "Fishing in the stream is prohibited. Violators will be taken to the police station for questioning."

Where the slope is less steep and the streams run more slowly, I often saw groups of three to five white-faced pied wagtails. In the valley south of the pass, in particular, I would see them swooping down low over the stream, cheeping as they flew. In April, the wagtails began pairing off. One of these couples often skittered rapidly across the gravel bank where I was camped. The male also liked to perch atop one of the rocks and call, his song no longer a monotonic cheeping but now carrying hints of a tune. Soon, I spotted the pair gathering grass in their beaks with which they were building a nest in a crevice. Thereafter, I rarely went there for fear of disturbing their little love nest.

Joy and Loss

One after another the saihai-ran, the calanthe, the viburnum, the Solomon's seal, the sacred lily, the deutzia, and the Chinese red mayapple all burst forth in flowers. With the trees and shrubs also covered in flowers of their own, the April air is filled with the fragrance of thousands of plants in bloom and almost sticky with pollen. But occasionally, the unique, pure scent of a Cymbidium orchid wafts over, giving one's nose a moment of relief. April is generally a happy time, but April 1993 was heartwrenching for me because it was the month in which the Pleione formosana orchid disappeared from the pass forever.

I remember coming to Ssuyuan Pass in April 1973 to survey the distribution of Pleione formosana. I'll never forget coming across hundreds of them on the cliffs beside the rushing river. A few rays of sunlight shot down through the wavering limbs of the trees, flickering back and forth across the orchid blossoms. The scene called to mind a gathering of people dressed to the nines and waltzing with abandon.

There used to be large numbers of Pleione in the Ssuyuan Pass area, but a dozen or so years of poaching has left them very hard to find. In 1991, I discovered the last 20 of them on a cliff face. In the early spring of 1993, I witnessed three middle-aged persons take the last of the Pleione from the cliff wall. I couldn't find a single article of the law with which to stop them because the pass is not a nature preserve and is outside the bounds of the national parks. Besides, I'm not a policeman. I could only watch stupidly, my heart breaking, as they swaggered off with the last of the pass's Pleione.

In April 1996, I found a rare and beautiful lady's slipper orchid on a cliff wall near the road. Ssuyuan Pass is the lowest elevation at which these rare orchids occur.

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Tea crabapples, of the rosaceae family, produce flowers that are both beautiful and abundant, and fruit which can be fermented into wine.

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Ssuyuan Pass Location

Taiwan Strait

Taipei City

Taipei County

Northern Cross-island Highway

I-lan City

Central Cross Island Highway, I-lan Branch

Miaoli County

I-lan County

Ssuyuan Pass

Mt. Snow Range

Central Range

Central Cross-island Highway

Taichung County

Lishan

Pacific Ocean

Hualien County

(graphic: Lee Su-ling)

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In spring, the withered limbs of dead-looking trees burst forth with a thousand new leaves seemingly overnight.

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The flowers of the wheel tree, an evergreen, have no petals. Nonetheless, butterflies and other insects are frequent visitors and are essential to wheel-tree pollination.

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Ladies slippers usually are found in the Central Mountain Range at elevations of 2-3,000 meters, and are among Taiwan's rarest orchids. The beauty of their blossoms have made them a target of poaching by mountain visitors, which has pushed them to the brink of extinction.

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Time seems to stand still in the mountains and the earth's treasures are limitless. In the forest, new growth springs forth from some plants, while flowers bloom on others in a visceral display of the limitless vitality of nature.

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The white-faced pied wagtail is like a forest sprite. It is often found flitting about the mid and upper reaches of rivers. An insect eater, it swoops and dives in flight.