ous, too, was Li Po. With Ho Chih-chang he went skiing in the hills. At Changan it was an innovation, introduced by the poet who had borrowed it from the Kirghiz tribe who dwelt above the northern border of Central China. He had wandered into their domains by accident on one of his travels when he had taken the wrong road and traveled for weeks into a fascinating bleak new country. He watched the tribesmen bind wooden runners to their feet and then go speeding as fast as a horse across the ice. These runners were about seven feet long, hand carved from strong tree branches. He watched the sport till his fingers were numb, then turned away and built a fire. Neither he nor his traveling companions were sorry that they wandered so far off the trail, for his companions were merchants. They speculated on whether or not these wooden horses could be manufactured and distributed advantageously. They decided against it. Too hazardous. Nowhere in the world could people be found who would risk their necks in such foolhardy undertakings, except these mountain tribesmen who unfortunately were already equipped.
But in Changan that winter, skiing was popular. Li Po sped along as though in pursuit of the wind. His great voice boomed out sonorously. As he marched up hill again, he chanted his poems. Then came the plunge downward like leaping into the sky. Suppose the stars were silver hooks, he thought, and he could fly up and grab on to one. How amazed would the Emperor be
to see him dangling nonchalantly in the sky. At times
