I've been holding back for half a month but still want to say a few words about East Taihang—afraid if I don't say it now

I've been holding back for half a month but still want to say a few words about East Taihang—afraid if I don't say it now, it will be buried under the label "niche." At the end of June, on a whim, we escaped to Wuan, Handan, more than 400 kilometers from Beijing. The navigation showed "East Taihang Scenic Area," a name that sounded like something a developer made up. But when we reached the foot of the mountain and looked up: cliff walls split like they were cut with a knife, directly piercing the clouds, layers of Danxia landform like streaky pork belly, thick and thin layers alternating. When the sunset hit, it looked like freshly cooked, sizzling bacon. At that moment, I only thought: why isn’t this mountain famous yet? At 7 a.m. the next day, the south gate of the scenic area was deserted, and the ticket office speaker repeatedly announced, "Visitor flow is low today, please enjoy your visit with peace of mind." The ticket plus cable car, elevator, and slide combo was 210 yuan. After buying it, I regretted it—regretted coming too late. There were only the three of us in the cable car cabin. Halfway up, the outside suddenly went quiet, and all I could hear was the steel cable creaking. Getting off at the cable car station, a glass walkway hung a thousand meters high right in front of us. Below was a huge crack in the Taihang Mountains. The wind blew, making the glass sway gently, and my phone almost fell. My daughter was excited, lying on the ground scratching the glass with her fingernails, saying she wanted to chip off a piece of "Taihang Mountain skin" to take home. At the end of the walkway, we started heading north toward the peak. The trail looked like someone had chiseled it hard along the cliff wall. The narrowest part was only wide enough for one person, with a rock wall on the left and an abyss on the right. Along the way, elevators were hidden inside the mountain—four in total, each climbing no more than two floors, but they turned "climbing" the mountain into a "strolling" experience. When we reached steep steps, the elevator doors opened, and an elderly lady holding a dog stepped in, more leisurely than in a mall. On the way, we met the real daredevils—via ferrata climbers. For 168 yuan, you wear full gear and hang on a vertical rock wall for two hours. Two young girls were climbing ahead of us, with action cameras tied to their helmets, singing "Lonely Warrior" as they climbed. Their voices echoed off the cliffs. I counted for them—they rested seven times along the way. The last time, they cried and laughed, saying, "My butt no longer belongs to me," but they still reached the top. I chickened out and only filmed them from below, my palms sweating more than theirs. At noon, we refueled with instant noodles at the "Taihang No.1" supply point. The owner posted the price list on the stove: instant noodles 10 yuan, Oriental Leaf tea 10 yuan, hot dog 15 yuan. I said it was expensive, and the owner tapped the pot with a spoon: "The water is carried up bucket by bucket from the foot of the mountain. Drink it or not." Then he cracked two eggs from his own hens into the pot, as an apology. At 3 p.m., we reached the north peak. The wind suddenly picked up, puffing out our jackets. The summit had only a small wooden pavilion and a stone engraved with "Summit of Taihang." On the back of the stone, someone had written with a marker, "Been here—so-and-so loves so-and-so." My daughter asked, "Why did they write love on the back of the stone?" I said, "Because the mountain is too big and the wind too strong; if they wrote it on the front, it would be blown away." The way down was a stainless steel slide, like a giant slide installed on the mountain. Wearing canvas gloves and sitting on a sack, the attendant gave me a push on the butt: "Go!" Twenty seconds later, I was halfway down the mountain, ears filled with wind, tears blown into arcs, and my butt so hot it could fry an egg. At the slide exit, the shuttle driver was smoking and waiting for me: "Get in, the last row you can lie down." The whole trip was 10 kilometers. We dawdled taking photos and watching the via ferrata, spending seven and a half hours in total. When we returned to the hotel, it was just getting dark. The lights of the Morning Light Hotel looked like someone had reserved them in advance. The room balcony faced the south gate. After showering, I leaned on the windowsill and saw the staff slowly pushing trash bins. The mountain behind them darkened inch by inch, as if someone was quietly turning down the brightness. Dinner was at the hotel restaurant. The three of us ordered local specialties: Wuan pulled noodles, stir-fried wild mushrooms, and cold pepper sprouts, totaling over 130 yuan. The noodles were freshly pulled by the chef, who flicked his arm so a single noodle stretched as long as the window. My daughter clapped excitedly watching. On the way back to the room, she whispered, "Today I walked the mountain flat, turned the slide into a roller coaster, and brewed the stars into sleepiness." I felt a soft spot in my heart and almost promised her we'd go up the mountain again the next day—luckily, my bank balance stopped me in time. Before leaving, the front desk reminded us: highway tolls before the end of June can be reimbursed, remember to keep the receipts. I stuck the receipt behind my phone case and brought it all the way back to Beijing. Now, slacking off at work, I occasionally take it out to look at—the receipt is still there, the smell of fuel has faded, but it seems the wind from the Taihang Mountain slide is still rushing past my ears, whooshing to remind me: don’t wait until it’s famous to remember you’ve already been there.