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Well into the sea of clouds I opted for a wrong path at one of the ubiquitous intersections. I was still descending the mount. I was just going down a different side of Mt Emei from the one I had come up. These things happen, you know.
Well past where I remembered an inn should be, it occurred to me to question where I was. I stopped and asked a convenient macaque where I might be. The convenient macaque replied with inconvenient harshness and rolled with laughter back into the brush. At least, it seemed to me that it was rolling with laughter. I don't speak very good macaque. Miffed at this uncalled for treatment, I proceed down the path reasoning that going up the path would only take me back to the monastery as I had no idea where I had gone wrong. I'd have to start from the top to correct whatever mistake I'd made. The path around me was traveled if not well traveled so something must lie ahead. I opted to discover what that might be.
Perspiration flowed, I knew I should replace its loss, the canteen I carried yielding its content too easily. An hour down and only sips remained. At this point, the sea of clouds I had looked down on from the monastery now surrounded me, hiding the path, the forest, the sky. Vision extended no more than a handful of steps in any direction but the path that I could see remained clear. I followed it.
Another expanse of time, not measured, endured. Step after step placed securely on the path occupied my mind so that I nearly missed the branching, passed by but noticed before it was too late the sign that read Refuge. No illuminating details, just the character for refuge hanging at shoulder level from a branch, the coloring distinct enough to set it apart from the lushness of its forest home.
Beneath it a new path, less traveled than my current path, but distinct enough to reassure me that people did travel this path on a regular basis, enough to encourage me to chance its ways. Now, my head bobbed from path to surrounding forest to path and back again, keeping footsteps properly situated on the path, keeping mind alert to more possibilities, more calligraphy, more traces of human presence. Unconsciously at first but then consciously as I recognized what I was doing, I counted my steps. At 500, I began to plot my future options. I'd do another 500, I thought, and then consider whether to continue on or turn back.
At a 1000 paces, I thought another 500 couldn't hurt. At 1500 paces, I decided that I must be close to this Refuge, whatever it was, and committed myself to another 500 paces. The suspicion that this obsessive following the path could get me into a predicament from which it might be difficult to recover appeared and disappeared between my pace counting with greater and greater frequency.
At 3000 paces, the path began to widen, a sign I decided was encouraging. This decision proved correct. At 3037 paces I stepped into a break in the forest, a glade, a glen, a meadow, whatever it was called. Filling this opening, a building sat waiting my arrival, its great doors open as if to suggest I was expected and, please, to come in.