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Midway through the climb I paused by a sign with a short ode to rain; "In the morning after spring or summer rain, the woods and temples bathed in mist and haze make us fresh and happy ". And according to a tourist leaflet my heart would swell in dawn drizzle. Beside me old folk devoured cups of instant noodles and stretched felinely in quaint drill for the notorious 'Ninety-nine Turns’. I looked with yearning at the monastery, briefly tempted to halt here and now for the day and face Ninety-nine tomorrow.

Emei Shan, or Mt Emei, a 3099m-high peak near the heart of Sichuan Province is among the four holiest Buddhist mountains in China. Pilgrims have been venturing here for nearly two millennia, drawn by a combination of inspiring scenery, venerable monasteries and Buddhist shrines.

This Buddhist heritage has on the whole withstood fires, the Cultural Revolution and some clumsy restoration reasonably well. Today thousands come to Emei and arguably it’s as much a straightforward tourist spot as a place of sanctity since money is the new, most acceptable religion in China. Yet in walking the steep paths to or from its foot, one still has a sense of pilgrimage for it is only the earnest, the spiritually inclined and atheletic Westerners who conquer its myriad steps.

A pair of monasteries herald the pilgrim trail. The larger Baoguo Si is spread over several tiered and elegant halls and courtyards but often bustling with tourists who ignore the mountain altogether. Nestling amidst forest, tranquil Fuhu Si seems more attuned to the pilgrim ethos, many of whom are drawn by an ancient bronze pagoda enriched with thousands of little carved Buddhas.

A long flight of stairs leads up to Lequin Si whose annex juts over the forested slopes on tall pillars made from the nanmu tree. Emei’s flora is renowned; sub-tropical ferns and strands of bamboo huddle amidst plane and fir trees. There are an estimated three thousand species here and some are endemic.

On through the forest I strolled, passing a group of spry elderly women with devotional yellow bags and hemp sandals. The path climbed modestly to Chunyang Hall, then descended to Shengui whose lovely wooden pavilion stands on a plinth in a three-sided courtyard. Another short stretch brought me to Qingyin Ge and Niuxin Si whose proximity to the road that winds up to near the summit makes this among the busiest parts of Emei.

Otherwise known as Clear (or Pure) Sound Pavilion and Ox Heart Monastery respectively, their setting deep in a narrowing gorge is especially picturesque. The pavilion’s name derives from the soporific gush of streams echoing among the cliffs. Rushed off and on coaches, most Chinese visitors were utterly determined to have their five minutes resting beneath its eaves as though the very sound was medicinal, vital. Short, sheer steps led to the monastery, a handsome building enlived with potted ornamental plants. Pilgrims burnt paper money and prostrated before Buddha statues as smug priests looked on.

From here walkers have a choice of summit trails. The shorter northern route veers towards the road and passes Wannian Si, or Myriad Years Monastery. This, the oldest of Emei’s monasteries, was badly damaged by fire in 1945 yet its most prized treasure survived unscathed. Riding a six-tusked elephant on a howdah of lotus flowers, the huge tenth-century statue of Bodhisattva Puxian stands in its own hall and is among the most revered shrines on Emei.

Back on the southern route which is generally considered more scenic, I sauntered through the narrow stretch of gorge they call ‘Strip of Sky’ and emerged at what briefly resembled the set of Planet of the Apes. The Monkey Reserve here boasts around 200 Tibetan macaques, burly fellows weighing up to twenty-five kilos. True to their faith, monks and pilgrims have more or less left them alone and they have long found sanctuary on the mountain. Jabbering tourists, however, swarmed over little rope bridges and rocky outcrops desperate to feed and be snapped beside the placid, poised monkeys.

A stiff climb brought me to Ancient Trees Terrace, the poem and the foot of Ninety-nine Turns, this route’s steepest part. I had passed a herbalist-cum-café with an impressive array of remedies; peculiar dried fungii, fluffy pale magnolia flowers, dried roots and stems, and something labelled ‘cinnabar lotus’. Now, on the first few Turns, I regretted not downing some zippy concoction, a potent glucose-caffeine mix. Panting, I fleetingly envied a couple being carried on litters like lords, an expensive yet terrifying (what if a porter slipped ?) option.

The biggest, meanest-looking macaques appeared up ahead, seemingly barring the way in exchange for food. Brandishing the most un-Buddhist branch I could find, with a tough-guy look as back-up, I gingerly crept past them and paused at the next tea-stall. Its proprietor barely had time to feed me. Monkeys gambolled from here to there, keenly aware that their sport afforded a fair chance of a good snatch, so he spent most of lunch snarling with a stick. In the circumstances, my loud and mischievous relish of noodle soup was perhaps unhelpful.

I was committed now to at least reaching Xianfeng, or Fairy Peaks, Temple. 1200m above its foot, this is among Emei’s most atmospheric and unhurried pockets, with banks of mist swirling about lush, craggy cliffs. Its forecourt rose in four tiers while the two main prayer halls were finely paved with flagstones and lined with garish statues of Arhats and Boddhisattvas, one mounted on a tiger. A few monks studied texts or undertook chores. Yet the cool, encroaching gloom coaxed a day’s-end push further up the mountain.

I stopped ninety minutes later at Xixiang, or Elephant Bathing, Pool where Puxian and his faithful elephant reputedly paused for a clean 1500 years ago. So sinister from afar at dusk, its monastery proved extremely welcoming and I took a simple rickety room instead of a plain rickety dormitory. Knowing I couldn’t decipher the menu, the cook showed me his kitchen. I pointed at the wok and assorted vegetables ; minutes later a fine meal steamed before me. I wolfed it, famished, while cats scratched at gaps in the floorboards and invisible mice.

A handful of pilgrims and I were up at dawn. Cloud muffled all sound and tinged the world violet ; Xixiang felt marooned. Locals probed the undergrowth, cutting tender bamboo shoots. Occasionally the path hugged a precipice where updraughts hinted at deep chasms. The trail meets the road terminus at Jieyin Hall, often crowded with day-trippers awaiting the cable-car for the final haul to Jinding Si, the Golden Summit. Relatively few hike this last stretch, up through the ‘Seas of Azaleas’ past more herbalists, tea stalls and walking stick vendors.

Named after its former gleaming bronze roof, Jinding proved rather less impressive than occasional glimpses into the void. I had missed Emei’s fabled sunrise where, with metereological luck, amber beams tinge a sea of clouds. But gazing into the bright sun-filtered fog I heard people exclaiming "Yes, I see it !….you see it ? !" For blessed are those who see ‘Buddha’s Halo’, rainbow-like rings which seem to envelope one’s own shadow. To the dismay of medieval officials, enraptured monks would leap from these hallowed cliffs.

I glimpsed my halo, then waved at it to make sure. But no rapturous leaping for me – just a short walk down to the road and a bus back to earth.

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