短视频 Short Video

挑山工 一

你见过泰山的挑山工吗？这是种很奇特的人！

不知别处对这种运货上山的民夫怎样称呼。这儿习惯叫做挑山工。单从“挑山”二字，就可以体会出这种工作非凡的艰辛。肩挑着百十斤的重物，从山下直挑到烟云缭绕、鸟儿都难飞得上去的山顶，谁敢一试？更何况，这被誉为“五岳之首”的泰山，自有其巍巍而不可征服的威势。从山根直至极顶处，一条道儿，全是高高的石头台阶，简直就是一架直下直上的万丈天梯。在通向南天门的十八盘道上，那些游山来的健壮的男儿，也不免气喘吁吁，一般人更是精疲力竭，抓着道旁的铁栏，把身子一点点往上移。每爬上十来磴台阶，就要停下来歇一歇。只有在这时，你碰到一个挑山工——他给重重的挑儿压塌了腰，汗水湿透衣衫，两条腿上的肌条筋缕都清晰地凸现在外，却默不作声，一步一步，吃力又坚韧地走过你身旁，登了上去。你那才算是约略知道

“挑山”二字的滋味⋯⋯

挑山工，大概自古就有。山头那些千年古刹所用的一切建筑材料，都是从山下运上来的。你瞧着这些构造宏伟的古建筑上巨大的梁柱础石、沉重的铜砖铁瓦，再低头俯望一条灰白的山路，如同一根细绳，蜿蜒曲折，没入苍茫的谷底。你就会联想到，当年为了建造这些庙宇寺观，为了这壮观的美，挑山工们付出了怎样艰巨和惊人的劳动！

我少时来游泰山，山顶上还有三、四十户人家，家中的男人大多是挑山工，给山上的国营招待所运送食品货物以为生计。清早，他们拿了扁担绳索，带着晨风晓露下山去，后晌随着一片暮云夕阳，把货物挑上山来：星光烁烁时，家家都开夜店，留宿在山头住一夜而打算转天早起观瞻日出的游人，收费却比国营招待所低廉。他们的屋子是石头垒的。山上风大，小屋都横坚卧在山道两旁的凹处，屋顶与道面一般平。屋里边简陋得几乎什么也没有，用来招待客人的，只有一条脏被和热开水。为了招徕主顾，各家门首还挂着一个小幌牌，写着店名。有的叫“棒棰店”，就在木牌两边挂一对小木棒棰；有的叫“勺儿店”，便挂一对乌黑的小生铁勺儿；下边拴些红布穗子，随风摇摆，叮当轻响。不过，你在这店里睡不好觉。劳累了一天的挑山工和客人们睡在一张炕上。

他们要整整打上一夜

松涛般呼呼作响的鼾声⋯…

在这些小石屋中间，摆着一件非常稀罕的东西。远看一人多高，颜色发黑，又圆又粗，两个人才能合抱过来。上边缀满繁密而细碎的光点，熠熠闪烁。好象一块巨型的金星石。近处一看，原来是一口特大的水缸，缸身满着裂缝，那些光点竟是数不清的连合破缝的锔子，估计总有一两千个。颇令人诧异。我问过山民，才知道，山顶没有泉眼，缺水吃，山民们用这口缸贮存雨水。为什么打了这么多锔子呢？据说，三百多年前，山上住着一百多户人家。每天人们要到半山间去取水，很辛苦。一年，从这些人家中，长足了八个膀大腰圆、力气十足的小伙子。大家合计一下，在山下的泰安城里买了这口大缸。由这八个小伙子出力，整整用了七七四十九天，才把大缸抬到山顶。以后，山上人家愈来愈少，再也不能凑齐那样八个健儿，抬一口新缸来。每次缸裂了，便到山下请上来一名锔缸的工匠，锔上裂缝。天长日久，就成了这样子。

听了这故事，你就不会再抱怨山顶饭菜价钱的昂费。

山上烧饭用的煤，也是一块块挑上来的呀！ 

挑山工   二

在泰山上，随处都可以碰到挑山工。他们肩上架一根光溜溜的扁担，两端翘起处，垂下几根绳子，拴挂着沉甸甸的物品。登山时，他们的一条胳膊搭在扁担上，另一条胳膊垂着，伴随登踏的步子有节奏地一甩一甩，以保持身体平衡。他们的路线是折尺形的——先从台阶的一端起步，斜行向上，登上七八级合阶，就到了台阶的另一端，便转过身子，反方向斜行，到一端再转回来，一曲一折向上登。每次转身，扁担都要换一次肩。这样才能不使垂挂在扁担前头的东西碰在台阶的边沿上，也为了省力。担了重物，照一般登山那样直上直下，膝头是受不住的。但路线曲折，就使路程加长。挑山工登一次山，

大约多于游人们路程的一倍！

巉岩绝壁、参天古木、飞烟流泉，心情喜悦，步子兴冲冲。可是当你走过这些肩挑重物的挑山工的身旁时，你会禁不住用一种同情的目光，注视他们一眼。你会因为自己身无负载而倍觉轻松，反过来，又为他们感到吃力和劳苦，心中生出一种负疚似的情感……而他们呢？默默的，不动声色，也不同游人搭话——除非向你问问时间。一步步慢吞吞地走自己的路。任你怎样嬉叫闹喊，也不会惊动他们。他们却总用一种缓慢又平均的速度向上登，很少停歇。脚底板在石阶上发出坚实有力的嚓嚓声。在他们走过之处，

常常会留下零零落落的汗水的滴痕……

奇怪的是，挑山工的速度并不比你慢。你从他们身边轻快地超越过去，自以为把他们甩在后边很远。可是，你在什么地方饱览四外雄美的山色，或在道边诵读与抄录凿刻在石壁上的爬满青苔的古人的题句；或在喧闹的溪流前洗脸濯足，他们就会在你身旁慢吞吞，不声不响地走过去。悄悄地超过了你。等你发现他走在你的前头时，会吃一惊，茫然不解，以为他们是象仙人那样腾云驾雾赶上来的。

斗母宫殿前买登山用的青竹杖时，遇到一个挑山工。矮个子，脸儿黑生生，眉毛很浓，大约四十来岁；敞开的白土布褂子中间露出鲜红的背心。他扁担一头拴着几张黄术凳子，另一头捆着五六个青皮西瓜。我们很快就越过他去。可是到了回马岭那条陡直的山道前，我们累了，舒开身子，躺在一块平平的被山风吹得干干净净的大石头上歇歇脚，这当儿，竟发现那挑山工就坐在对面的草茵上抽着烟。随后，我们差不多同时起程，很快就把他甩在身后，直到看不见。但当我爬上半山的五松亭时，却见他正在那株姿态奇特的古松下整理他的挑儿。褂子脱掉，现出黑黝黝、健美的肌肉和红背心。我颇感惊异。走过去假装问道，让支烟，跟着便没话找话，和他攀谈起来。这山民倒不拘束，挺爱说话。他告诉我，他家住在山脚下，天天挑货上山。一年四季，一天一个来回。他干了近二十年。然后他说；“您看俺个子小吗？干挑山工的，长年给扁担压得长不高，都是矮粗。象您这样的高个儿干不了这种活儿。走起来，晃晃悠悠哪！”他逗趣似地一抬浓眉，咧开嘴笑了，露出洁白的牙齿。

山民们喝泉水，牙齿都很白。

这么一来，谈话更随便些，

我便把心中那个不解之谜说出来：

“我看你们走得很慢，怎么反而常常跑到我们前边来了呢？你们有什么近道儿吗？”

他听了，黑生生的脸上显出一丝得意之色。

他吸一口烟，

吐出来。好象做了一点思考，才说：

“俺们哪里有近道，还不和你们是一条道？你们走得快，可你们在路上东看西看，玩玩闹闹，总停下来呗！俺们跟你们不一样。不能象你们在路上那么随便，高兴怎么就怎么。一步踩不实不行，停停住住更不行。那样，两天也到不了山顶。就得一个劲儿总往前走。别看俺们慢，走长了就跑到你们前边去了。

瞧，是不是这个理儿？”

我笑吟吟、心悦诚服地点着头。我感到这山民的几句话里，似乎包蕴着一种意味深长的哲理，一种切实而朴素的思想。我来不及细细嚼味，做些引伸，他就担起挑儿起程了。在前边的山道上，在我流连山色之时，他还是悄悄超过了我，提前到达山顶。我在极顶的小卖部门前碰见他，他正在那里交货。我们的目光相遇时，他略表相识地点头一笑。好象在对我说：

“瞧，俺可又跑到你的前头来了！”

我自泰山返回家后，就画了一幅画——在陡直而似乎没有尽头的山道上，一个穿红背心的挑山工给肩头的重物压弯了腰，却一步步、不声不响、坚韧地向上登攀。多年来，这幅画一直挂在我的书前，不肯换掉，因为我需要它……。

The Mountain Porters -  1

      Have you ever seen the mountain porters of Mount Tai? They are truly remarkable people. I’m not sure what people elsewhere call these laborers who carry goods up the mountain, but here they’re known as mountain porters. Just from the phrase “mountain porter,” you can sense the extraordinary hardship of their work. They shoulder loads weighing over a hundred pounds, climbing from the foot of the mountain all the way to the summit, shrouded in mist and clouds—so high that even birds struggle to reach it. Who would dare attempt such a feat?

Mount Tai, hailed as the foremost of the Five Great Mountains of China, possesses an awe-inspiring majesty. From its base to its peak, the path is made entirely of steep stone steps—like a towering ladder to the heavens. On the famous Eighteen Bends leading to the South Heavenly Gate, even strong young men gasp for breath. Most people are utterly exhausted, clinging to iron railings and inching upward. Every ten or so steps, they must stop to rest. It’s only then that you might encounter a mountain porter—his back bent under the weight, clothes soaked with sweat, leg muscles taut and defined, yet silent and resolute, trudging past you step by step. Only then do you begin to grasp the meaning of “mountain porter.”

Mountain porters likely existed since ancient times. All the materials used to build the centuries-old temples atop the mountain were carried up by them. When you gaze at the massive beams and stones of these grand structures, then look down at the winding gray path below—like a thread disappearing into the valley—you can’t help but imagine the incredible labor these porters endured to create such beauty.

When I visited Mount Tai as a child, there were still thirty or forty households living at the summit. Most of the men were mountain porters, earning a living by delivering supplies to the state-run guesthouses. At dawn, they would descend with their shoulder poles and ropes, and by dusk, return with goods under the setting sun. At night, each household operated a small inn for tourists hoping to watch the sunrise. Their rates were cheaper than the official guesthouses. The homes were built from stone, nestled into the mountain’s crevices to shield against strong winds. The roofs were level with the path, and inside, there was little more than a dirty blanket and hot water.

To attract guests, each inn hung a small sign with its name. One called “Mallet Inn” had two wooden mallets hanging beside its sign; another called “Ladle Inn” displayed two black iron ladles with red tassels swaying in the wind. But sleep was hard to come by—after a long day, porters and guests alike snored loudly on shared beds, sounding like waves crashing through the night.

Among these stone houses stood a curious object: a giant water vat, taller than a person, dark and round, requiring two people to embrace it. Its surface glittered with countless tiny metal patches—over a thousand, perhaps two thousand—used to mend cracks. I asked the locals about it. Since there’s no spring at the summit, they collect rainwater in this vat. Over 300 years ago, when over a hundred families lived atop the mountain, eight strong young men carried this vat up from the city of Tai’an. It took them 49 days. As the population dwindled, no group could manage such a feat again. So whenever the vat cracked, they hired craftsmen

 to patch it. Over time,

 it became what you see today.

After hearing this story, you’ll no longer complain about the high prices of food on the summit. Even the coal used for cooking is carried up piece by piece.

The Mountain Porters - 2

Mountain porters are everywhere on Mount Tai. They carry smooth shoulder poles with ropes hanging from each end, suspending heavy goods. As they climb, one arm rests on the pole while the other swings rhythmically to maintain balance. Their path zigzags—starting at one side of the steps, they ascend diagonally, then switch directions at the other side, repeating this pattern. Each turn requires switching shoulders. This prevents the load from hitting the steps and reduces strain. A straight climb would damage their knees. Their winding route is nearly twice as long as that of regular tourists.

As you hike, admiring the majestic peaks, cliffs, ancient trees, and flowing springs, you feel joyful and energized. But when you pass a mountain porter, you can’t help but glance at him with sympathy. You feel light and carefree, while he struggles under his burden. A sense of guilt arises. Yet the porters remain silent, focused, and rarely speak to tourists—except to ask the time. They move slowly but steadily, rarely stopping. Their footsteps echo firmly on the stone steps, often leaving behind droplets of sweat.

Strangely, their pace isn’t slower than yours. You may pass them easily, thinking you’ve left them far behind. But after you pause to admire the scenery, read ancient inscriptions, or wash your face in a stream, 

they quietly pass you again. It’s as if 

they’ve flown ahead like immortals.

Once, while sketching with friends at Mount Tai, we met a porter near the Doumu Palace. He was short, with a dark face and thick eyebrows, around forty years old. His white shirt revealed a bright red vest. One end of his pole held several yellow stools, the other five or six green-skinned watermelons. We quickly passed him. But later, resting on a clean stone at the steep Huima Ridge, we saw him across the grass, smoking. We resumed our climb and lost sight of him. Yet at the mid-mountain Wusong Pavilion, there he was again, adjusting his load beneath a uniquely shaped pine tree. His shirt was off, revealing strong muscles and his red vest.

Curious, I approached and asked for a cigarette, striking up a conversation. He was friendly and talkative. He said he lived at the foot of the mountain and made daily round trips year-round. He’d been doing this for nearly twenty years. Then he joked, “See how short I am? Porters get compressed by the pole over time. Tall guys like you can’t do this job—you’d wobble too much!” He raised his thick eyebrows and laughed, showing his white teeth. Mountain folk drink spring water, so their teeth are very white.

Feeling more at ease, I asked the question that puzzled me: “You seem to walk slowly, so how do you always end up ahead of us? Do you take shortcuts?”

He looked pleased, took a puff of his cigarette, and replied after a moment: “We don’t have shortcuts. We walk the same path as you. You walk fast, but you stop to look around and play. We can’t be so casual. Every step must be firm. We can’t stop and start. If we did, we’d never reach the summit. We just keep going. So even though we’re slow, we end up ahead. Isn’t that right?”

I nodded, smiling, deeply impressed. His simple words carried profound wisdom. Before I could reflect further, he picked up his load and continued. Later, while I lingered to admire the scenery, he quietly passed me again and reached the summit first. I saw him at the mountaintop shop, delivering his goods. When our eyes met, he nodded and smiled, as if to say, “See? 

I beat you again!”

After returning home, I painted a picture: a mountain porter in a red vest, bent under his heavy load, climbing a steep, endless path—step by step, silently and resolutely. That painting has hung in my study for years. I’ve never replaced it, because I need it.