Hubei, China -

y first dreams of China involved immortal kung fu masters in flowing robes. When they weren't meditating on mountains cloaked in perpetual mist, they flew from peak to peak.

Needless to say, my first impressions upon reaching China were rather different. But for some reason I stubbornly held on to those dreams and Hubei's Wudang Mountain always seemed like a place where they might come true.

Home to lost temples, Taoist hermits and secret fighting arts, Wudang enjoys a storybook fame. The Taoist god Xuan Wu is said to have attained immortality here and throughout the ages, monks have sought mystic experiences and the secrets of longevity on its rocky slopes.

In this climate of reverence, Wudang became a cradle for the southern school of Chinese kung fu. Wudang nurtured the 'soft' kung fu tradition, based on internal rather than external energy, and claims to have been the birthplace of tai chi.

It's a tough walk to the top of Wudang Mountain. We start at 10 in the morning, crossing arched bridges and rocky gullies as the sun climbs. By noon, we reach the Wishing Wall, where travellers wish upon stones and place them in the cliff face. The entire wall dazzles as indiscriminate sunshine ignites each stone. It's another hour to mid-mountain, where four large tablets bear Chinese poems about the challenges on the road to Wudang. Unsure whether to take it as warning or encouragement, we press on.

This pilgrims' route dates back to the Ming dynasty and nearly every outcropping and hollow abounds with shrines. Forest thickens as our path drops sharply down the back of a barrier ridge before launching into another dizzying ascent. We pause to ponder a 500-step staircase but four old ladies cruise past, urging our humbled egos on. Finally, we cross the last ridge and Wudang's panorama opens up. The summit towers above while below, the folds and gaps we just crossed flow outwards in waves, finally blending into the sky.

The Golden Summit was built on blood. When the first Ming emperor Zhu Yuanzhang died, he left the throne to his son. His brother Zhu Yi objected, murdered his nephew and seized power. He then thanked the gods by building Beijing's Forbidden City in the north and Wudang's Golden Summit and Purple Cloud Temple in the south.

We enter the monastic fortress and climb the covered path hewn out of the rock. Like a charm bracelet, it links the bell towers and temple halls, winding its way to the top. Crowning the summit is the Golden Hall, built in 1416 entirely of gilded copper.

Before dawn, clouds swarm beneath us, shockingly white in the full moon. As the sun warms the valley they rise, engulfing the entire peak in white. A cold wind blows and we seek shelter in the dining hall, where a Taoist monk surnamed Zhao greets us with a smile. He explains that while cultivating good health and spiritual strength may not lead to actual immortality, it can prolong life and lead to more fulfilling days.

Legend has it that 14th-century Wudang monk Zhang San Feng invented tai chi after watching a large bird attack a snake. The snake used soft, flowing movements to evade the bird's hard, direct lunges until the bird gave up. Tai chi uses similar principles of borrowing and redirecting an opponent's energy. Control of this energy is enhanced through practising the Tao.

Wudang is still a sacred place for Chinese kung fu but this isn't necessarily obvious to the casual visitor. Academy master Wang shared his thoughts. "All martial arts have spiritual foundations. The monks on top of the mountain keep tai chi behind closed doors to preserve theirs. They're afraid that if they make it a show for tourists, it will become like Shaolin; just a show."

The following morning, before dawn, Wang puts his students through their steps in front of the Purple Cloud Temple. In the darkness, all we can see are their white, spectral robes flying through the air. After dismissing his students, Wang, in flowing black robes, his hair in a topknot, demonstrates the 18-step san feng tai chi. With grace and intensity, his feet, body and hands all move as one. When he hits his poses, his arms and legs form lines extending to infinity.

After the kung fu demonstration, we set off for Five Dragons Temple, Wudang's oldest and least visited site. As the trail is difficult to follow, we've hired a guide, surnamed Rao. It's a long road so we set off fast. Passers by yell, "Hey Old Rao, where you going?"

"I'm taking these guys to Five Dragons Temple. I'm a guide! I'm a guide!" he proudly replies.

Turning off the main road, we pick up a dirt path. After two days of tromping concrete, the natural trail sings beneath our feet. Winding through fields and over gently sloping mountainsides, Rao begins his tale.

"Both my parents died when I was a boy. We were all starving. No one around here had any food. I started working for a gun factory but when the government closed us down, I returned to Wudang to hunt. We hunted wild cat, boar, even bear. That's why I know these trails so well."

When Wudang became a UNESCO site, hunting was outlawed. With no education, there was little else for Rao. He became a porter, carrying people up and down the mountain in sedan chairs. It suddenly strikes me why Rao is so proud to be our guide. Being a porter is grunt work but as a guide, Rao can show off his knowledge of the forest, his familiarity with Wudang's culture and his network of friends.

The trail enters thick brush. Though the Golden Summit replaced Five Dragons Temple centuries ago as the main destination for pilgrims, the Cultural Revolution sent the latter to oblivion. At first, people were discouraged from going. Then, as generations passed and the trail grew over, they forgot the way.

The rocks become slippery as we descend towards a river. Across the valley stands the mountain we have to climb. Since leaving Crow's Ridge, we've descended the entire time. Now we cross the river and begin a steep trudge up the hillside. Rao is way ahead, puffing a cigarette, not even breathing hard. Nearing the top, I lose all desire to move but we dig in and finally crest the ridge.

Beneath us, a pristine valley opens wide. Of the once great Five Dragons Temple, little remains. There are two giant cracked stone gates and three crumbling walls, a temple with flying eaves and a large red shrine. Grass pushes up through the cracked flagstones. There are no gift shops, no photo booths, and nothing to detract from its wasted beauty.

Small farms radiate outwards, orbiting the ruin. Ripe oranges bob on their branches in a passing breeze. We skirt the ridge, aiming for a farm above the temple belonging to Rao's friend. Surnamed Du, along with the resident monks, his family has looked after the temple for generations. Du rushes out to greet us.

Completely drained, we recover on Du's terrace while his wife whips up lunch. Within an hour, she lays out a brilliant ten-dish spread and we quickly tuck in. Seated in their home's dark, central room, Du breaks out the moonshine. Placing it proudly on the table, he says, "I made it myself. It's at least 56 per cent alcohol and without all the Chinese medicinal herbs in here, it'd be undrinkable."

Rao's eager to knock one back and I follow suit. After one glass, I feel warm and fuzzy. After two, I forget all stiffness from the walk. Rao loosens up and we start cracking jokes. We laugh each other out of our seats. Then I notice a tear in his eye. He points to it and says, "You see this? I'm so moved. I've never joked with a foreigner before."

Sometimes reality surpasses our dreams. I'd imagined coming to Wudang to see the immortals on the mountaintops. Instead, I became one.