That was us.

On the next page they're cooling themselves by a waterfall -- her long bare legs are dipped in a shallow pool and he's wiping his brow with his crumpled shirt, revealing his washboard abs. Other pictures follow. Them laughing with colorful natives. Them staring up at a star-lit sky. Him pointing the way through dense forest. Traversing a hair-thin path high along a cliff.

That was us too.

Let me take a step back an explain how we got there.

Within hours of arriving in Lijiang, Sarah and I began to hear whispers about Tiger Leaping Gorge, some breathtaking wonderland high in the mountains north of town. Notes in the backpacker cafes talked of friendly inhabitants and untouched landscape. We did some research.

Turns out Tiger Leaping Gorge is the place where the Yangtze river cuts between two mountains, forming one of the world's deepest, steepest gorges. From peak to river is over 3900 meters (that's meters, not feet!). The name comes from a myth that the gorge is so narrow a tiger once leapt across it while fleeing a hunter. The 50 km gorge is sparsely populated, but a few Naxi natives eek out an existance farming steeply terraced land. The Chinese government planned to build a highway through the gorge, and in fact they'd managed to blast a rough gravel road, but enormous landslides made it impassable. As soon as the road is done, hordes of Chinese tourists will bring their garbage and cameras, but for now the gorge is safe.

We decided we'd do the trek, but complicating matters was the lack of any official map. Floating around town were blurry photocopies of hand-drawn maps created by guesthouses along the route. By the time we left, we had 6 separate maps and none of them matched. It seems the mapmakers had fudged times and distances to try to make their guesthouse look like the most logical stopover.

We arranged a bus to Daju, the small village nearest the NE end of the gorge. The bus trip itself turned out to be quite an adventure.

Our bus held about 12 people. Let me re-phrase that. Our bus had seats for 12 people. As we pulled out of Lijiang there were only 4 on board. Sarah and I stretched our legs, put our bags on empty seats, and prepared for a relaxing drive. Big mistake. Rule number one: Never trick yourself into believing that Chinese public transportation will be at less than full capacity.

Turns out our bus was some kind of tourist-subsidized shuttle for the locals. For the entire three hour drive we stopped to pick up every local who stuck out his hand. Within 5 minutes every seat was taken, as well as all of the aisle space. No matter how full the bus was, we'd always stop and cram the next guy on. Many were farmers dragging huge bundles of vegetables. Others carried homemade tools. One guy had a bag of live fish. Most smoked cigarettes to pass the time.

After an hour we climbed out of our broad valley and into the mountains. At about this point the road changed from relatively well-maintained blacktop into a crumbling cobblestone path. our little rickety bus shook like a space shuttle at liftoff. Every window, seat, and ceiling panel rattled and creaked over every stone. The road switch backed up steep slope. At frequent intervals the downhill side of the road had crumbled away, or the uphill side was covered with fallen rock and soil. The driver leaned on his horn before each sharp turn, hopefully alerting oncoming traffic to our location.

The scenery was absolutely gorgeous. Steep green pastures rose above and fell below us. It reminded me a bit of Switzerland, Heidi country, maybe the valleys near Wengen. Eventually we crested a path and dropped over the other side. This part was much scarier. Now the driver could really pick up some serious speed as we twisted our way downhill.

Passengers would ask the driver to get off along the way. More often than not, we were in the middle of nowhere. They'd just jump out, high in the mountains, no farms or pastures or civilization in sight. I've no idea what they were doing or where they were going. Likewise, new passengers would show up along the road, just appearing out of the clouds.

Soon Daju, our destination, came into sight. It was a small village at the bottom of a valley. We saw it laid out maybe 6000 feet below us. I mistakenly thought our bus ride was nearly over, but with the steepness of the mountain and the elevation difference it took another 1 1/2 hours to reach the village.

Under a blazing hot sun (that sounds overly dramatic, but, seriously, it really was blazing hot) our bus skidded to a halt in the dusty town square. By this time the only remaining passengers were Sarah, myself, and some Chinese guy who disappeared as soon as we arrived. The bus driver turned to give us a dead stare, as if to say, "OK gringos, you asked for this. Now get off my bus."

We stepped into the bright glare and as the bus pulled away and the dust slowly settled we realized we were absolutely in the middle of nowhere. In one corner of the square, a man slept behind a card table that held half a butchered cow. A picnic umbrella was propped against the table, theoretically shading the bloody mess from the harsh 11 AM sun. No one else was in sight. I felt like Clint Eastwood arriving into some dusty Mexican village that had been emptied by roving bandits.

Our first goal was to find the ferry to take us across the Yangtze river. There were no bridges in this remote area, but we had to get from the south side of the river, where Daju sits, to the north side, where the only passable path through the gorge lay. Two of our maps showed a "small white pagoda" near the ferry, so we scanned the hills and say one to the northeast. Our first navigational victory!

The clear mountain air made it look like a short 15 minute stroll, but in fact this first leg took about 1 1/2 hours. Most of our walk was through farmland, and right away we knew we had stepped back in time. Farmers worked the field by hand. They leaned on old plows that were pulled by oxen and the dragged their harvest on old wooden handcarts or on their backs. Rows of harvested corn lay out to dry in the courtyards or hung in their barns. Sarah and I got a lot of stares as we walked past their stone huts and muddy fields.

With the help of some locals who pointed the way, we reached the river gorge and looked down the inner canyon to the ferry boats beached on a sandbar 300 feet below. The river was wider than I'd expected, and it's muddy brown waters were moving fast. I could only imagine how big the Yangtze must be a thousand miles downstream.

The trail fizzled out here at the top of the bluff, so we skidded and slid down the steep rocky slope to the water. The ferry itself was a shallow, metal, flat-bottom boat with the wheelhouse at the stern. The bottom of the boat was sprinkled with generous heapings of manure -- it clearly had a lot more bovine customers than human. We paid our Y10 ($1.20) and the guy waved us aboard. He backed the boat out into the swift current, and for 5 minutes or so he drove upstream. We barely made any progress. Then, suddenly, he turned right into an eddy and within seconds we were swept to the other shore. He pulled close enough for us to hop off, then turned back to the other side. We were across.

For the next hour we switchbacked up a long hot slope. We climbed out of the inner canyon, then the grade eased a bit and we worked our way onto a small plateau. All around us were farms even more primitive than on the south shore. This section was totally cut off -- no roads, no electricity, no connection with the outside world save that tinny ferry we'd just road across on. We got lost while working our way through their small village, but every time a local appeared to point the way.

Soon our path cut up and over a ridge and we dropped onto the gravel "highway" that would be our path for the rest of the day. The road was cut into the mountains about 1000 feet above the river. At frequent intervals we would come to a massive landslide that completely buried the road. These were the scariest sections of the trail. We had to scamper over loose rock with a sheer drop-off to our left and a trickle of rock and sand raining down from above. At such times we prayed that geological time would move slow and not send down a cascade of boulders from the cliff.

Most of the day, however, was an easy walk, gradually gaining elevation. The farther we got into the gorge, the narrower it became. The vegetation was extremely varied. We saw pine, cactus, palm trees, eucalyptus, bamboo, low shrubs, corn, wildflowers, cotton. What we didn't see was other westerners. For the most part we were alone, save the occasional goat-herder (are they called shepherds too?) or local leading a donkey. It was a nice break from the mad crush of Beijing and Xi'an, and it was refreshing to feel so completely alone. It was a much different feel than you get in the back country of the Boundary Waters or the mountains of Washington State. There, the trails are well maintained and marked and you know search and rescue is just a phone call away. Here, even though we saw many local people we felt absolutely isolated. There weren't any cell phones. It was great.

After 6 or 7 hours we reached a cluster of farms that calls itself Walnut Grove. Here were the first of 3 or 4 guesthouses that had set up shop along the way. We stopped for a soda, then pressed on another hour to Tina's Guesthouse, our home for the night. Tina's is set on one of the narrowest sections of the gorge. it's a small rectangular building, wood and stone, with a few small bedrooms and a covered porch to relax under. Their english sign advertised "hot showers" so we plopped down our $2.40 for 2 beds and asked where the showers were. Tina's husband said "20 minutes," then proceeded to put a big pot of water on a burner.

We ordered up a big dinner and dined by candlelight on the porch (our room did have a light bulb, but the generator was so bad the only thing the light bulb was good for was finding the light bulb). As darkness fell we saw something we never expected to see in China -- a beautiful display of stars. The Milky Way was perfectly aligned with the gorge, like someone had taken a brush and painted down the length of it. We counted a few satellites, stayed awake until we saw a shooting star, and then fell sound asleep.

The next morning was bright and sunny. Over breakfast we talked about what to do. Here at the Tina's the path split. We could continue on the Low Road all the way through the gorge, or we could cut straight up on the High Road, a narrow path that traversed the rest of the gorge several thousand feet higher. Our original plan had been to do the trek in 2 days following the Low Road. But now, enchanted by the gorge, we decided to take an extra day and take the high road. We would hike 2-3 hours to the last guest house on the route today, and then tomorrow we'd finish the trek with a 6-7 hour hike out of the gorge.

The short hike from Tina's to the Halfway Guesthouse was the most scenic section of the entire trek. We switchbacked straight up the mountain face, gaining about 1500 feet, then the trail leveled for the next hour. The mountains steepened considerably. After about an hour we rounded the headland and suddenly there was nothing below us. It was a straight drop (at least it felt like a straight drop) from our little trail 6000 feet down to the river. The next mile was an acrophobic's nightmare. The trail was simply a thin notch scratched into the cliff side. It was stunning, spectacular scenery, but I spent most of that section staring at the trail, pretending I was on level ground.

Soon we saw a sign for our guesthouse and followed two mules into the courtyard. This was a working farm as well as a place to stay. One side of the compound was a barn, another a kitchen, then the family's living quarters, and finally the bunkhouse. Best of all, they had a small patio out back with a stunning view of the gorge. Sarah and I plopped down on the patio and spent the whole afternoon laying in the warm sun. When nature called . . . not a problem! The squat toilets had an even better view than the patio!

Around dinner time, two other groups of travellers showed up. A young Danish couple who'd been camping in Mongolia for 4 weeks sat down at our table, and then another couple -- a Scottish gal and a Romanian guy -- joined us as well. They'd been travelling in Nepal and Tibet for 14 months and had some great stories to tell. It was a magical evening, the 6 of us sitting there on the patio, talking about whatever came to our minds, watching the sun go down on the peaks and the stars slowly light up. I never got any of their names, but we spent a good 5 or 6 hours on that patio and I hope to meet more people like them down the road.

The next morning we awoke early, hoping to get a jump on the hot sun. It was a pleasant walk, through terraced farmland and even a small pine woods that reminded us of home. After three hours we reached a high peak that marked the end of the gorge. From here we dropped down the famous "28 bends" (a steep switchbacked section) into a Naxi village, where we stopped at a farmer's house for lunch. She didn't speak a lick of english, but she served up a mean bowl of egg and tomato soup in her courtyard. The final couple of hours were a slow re-acclimatization to civilization. We walked through more farms, into a village, through a few schoolyards, and, finally, ended at a paved road in the dirty little town of Quitou.