Yinping Mountain Forest Park lies in the eastern part of Dongguan. Its best-known peak, Yinpingzui, rises to 898.2 meters and is the highest summit within Dongguan itself. Nearby, on the border with Huiyang District of Huizhou, Baiyunzhang reaches 1003.5 meters. In other words, Yinping Mountain sits right on the edge of Dongguan, in Xiegang Town, where it meets Lilin Town of Huizhou.
For me, cycling is neither a way to vent frustration with ordinary life nor some pointless exercise in self-punishment. It is a refusal to let life drain away in the same place, in the same shape, year after year. I want to live fully, to leave a record behind, to see more of a world that is far too large for a narrow routine. I have never been someone who enjoys staying inside fixed lines, and I have never wanted a life that looks like everyone else’s. The world is vast, life is short, and sometimes I want to feel it in the most direct way possible.
We gathered at eight in the morning in Longhu, Shuikou, Huizhou. From there the group rode out through Dahuxi and Henan’an, passed the South Line bus station, then entered Zhongkai Avenue and kept heading west-southwest along it. Bit by bit the city fell behind us. Before Zhongkai 6th Road, one stretch was being torn down. The pounding and drilling of machinery broke through the air, reducing the ground to rubble and dust. Cities are always demolishing and rebuilding themselves, and that section of road carried the dry smell of construction.
After Zhongkai 6th Road, the Dongguan–Huizhou intercity rail line peeled away to the right, while we continued straight along Zhongkai Avenue. The sun was already high and merciless. As the bikes rolled forward, sweat streamed down with no sign of letting up, but none of us wanted to quit. We were just a group of riders moving together—people who had stared into the distance, hesitated, stopped, sat down on scorching concrete, and wished for a sudden, impossible shower from the sky.
This trip had not been carefully planned. We were short on gear and long on impulse. It was one of those rides decided on the spot: go now, regret later if necessary. By then it was already too late to turn the idea into something comfortable. We set off light, carrying almost nothing. Every place we go, every trace we leave, every photo we keep—these are just ways of adding color to a life that might otherwise fade into blankness.
Compared with previous rides, we were even less prepared than usual. Some of the others had fuller kit, but we chose simplicity: no arm sleeves, no gloves, just the essentials, including a power bank and the required helmet. It became a ride against the sun, a test of patience and willpower. More than once we thought about turning back and abandoning the whole plan halfway through.
The sun did not hold back. It came at us at full strength, with full heat, as if it had decided our struggle deserved the harshest possible audience. Sweat ran wild over the skin, impossible to wipe away completely, impossible to stop. I cannot remember how many bottles of water we emptied that day. I only remember the constant urge to drain every one of them in a single gulp. But the road did not allow that kind of carelessness. The roadside was not lined all the way with shops or supermarkets. If you gave in too quickly, what might be waiting afterward was a long stretch without water.
Soon enough a long elevated bridge appeared ahead, stretched out like a giant spine across the road. We rode beneath it and saw a tall blue sign standing by the roadside: “The people of Dongguan welcome you!” Only then did I realize we had crossed into Dongguan. On the opposite side stood another sign facing the other direction: “The people of Huizhou welcome you!” There was something ceremonial about that moment, as if the two places were handing us over from one to the other.
We left Provincial Road S357 and turned left into Nanmian Village, taking the road toward Yinping Mountain. From that point on, the scenery felt unmistakably outer-rural. After another ten minutes or so, we passed a short stretch with buildings and small shops on both sides. Beyond that, the road extended deep toward the mountains and grew quieter with every kilometer. Houses appeared only in scattered clusters. Vegetable plots lined the roadside. It was apparently not the strongest growing season; the gardens looked sparse, with sweet potatoes and peanuts the most visible crops.
After 157 minutes on the road, we reached the foot of Yinping Mountain Forest Park.
Yinping Mountain is often described as a place veiled in cloud and mist through much of the year, revealing its full outline only on rare clear days. The area is known for its clean waters, dense woods, steep cliffs, strange rock formations, waterfalls, and streams. Ravines cut through the landscape, the forests are thick, the peaks are green, and the sound of running water is never far away. Birds and flowers give the place a quiet liveliness, and the whole setting can feel like a natural painting, almost dreamlike in its stillness. It remains a largely unspoiled, original green landscape.
There is also a local legend that Guanyin once left her bottle here, and a verse long attributed to Su Dongpo still circulates in praise of the place: “Yinping’s mountains and waters are unequaled under heaven; its beautiful scenery intoxicated Dongpo. Dongpo climbed Yinping Mountain and praised its beauty as surpassing Luofu.”
After resting long enough, we began the climb at noon and came back down around three o’clock. We knew that after the hike we still had to get on our bikes and ride all the way back. The summit was close—only a few hundred meters more—but we backed away from it.
Success and failure are both just forms of expression, just ways of judging an outcome, and both can leave you with something to learn. That line more or less explains why we did not make the summit that day. From the outside, it may not sound like much: less than a thousand meters more, so why not just grit your teeth and finish? And yes, perhaps if we had forced ourselves a little harder, we might have reached the top.
But by then we had already ridden nearly 50 kilometers. Our thighs were hovering between numbness and cramp. We had spent close to three hours under direct midday sun. And after the hike, we still had the return ride waiting for us in the late light. We stopped at around the 900-meter mark and let the mountain go. We chose to give up, not because that was our absolute limit, but because sometimes the better memory is made by stopping before the day turns into pure punishment.
People say it takes an hour to climb a mountain and only a minute to come down. That was not true for us. Even descending, we still had to support one another. When necessary we held the railings beside the path, moving in small, careful steps.
The return ride was different from the journey out. The blazing sun was gone, and so was the traffic and noise. In their place came limited visibility and a night wind that kept pushing toward us from the direction we were heading. It cleared the mind but slowed the body. We had to keep a constant awareness of one another’s position, making sure nobody dropped behind without the rest noticing. Night always carries its own uncertainty and risk.
We followed the original route back as closely as possible. We stopped to rest more often than we had on the outbound ride, yet drank less water than before. We would pause briefly, gather ourselves, then get moving again—more determined than earlier, but also carrying a deeper, long-hidden exhaustion that had finally come to the surface.
The whole up-and-down experience could be summed up in a simple line: climbing is tiring, descending is quiet, the summit is lively. It feels a lot like life. The road upward is bound to be hard. When someone reaches the top, there are flowers, applause, dignity, admiration, resources, opportunities—everything becomes crowded and bright. Coming down is another matter; it resembles losing power or falling out of favor, when the door grows empty and cold.
Taken as a whole, Yinping Mountain did not leave me with an especially strong impression. What it lacks is a stronger human element. In practical terms, the experience is mostly this: climb until you sweat, then head down and play in the water. If you asked whether I would go a second time, I am not sure what reason I would give. Though if there is one thing worth mentioning, it is the cool wind people say waits on the summit—and the dragonflies, light and untroubled in the air.
