The Return of Cranes: Migratory Birds, Local Cults and Ecological Governance in China

Abstract

This article examines how a Daoist sacred mountain community in east China historically intertwined its religious life with the rhythms of the natural world, thereby challenging the conventional divide between “nature” and “culture.” Centering on the sacred mountain Maoshan—renowned for its cult of transcendents and its symbolic association with migrating cranes—the study shows how annual pilgrimage cycles were deliberately synchronized with avian migration patterns. Drawing on classical texts, religious scriptures, gazetteers, steles and imperial edicts, we reveal that the timing of rituals and imperial edicts at Maoshan aligned with the cranes’ arrival and departure, regulating human activities like logging, hunting and farming in this holy landscape. Such evidence demonstrates that Chinese religious practice not only reflected cosmological beliefs but also actively modeled human lifeworlds on non-human cycles, blurring the boundary between the social and the ecological. Over two millennia, Maoshan’s integrated ritual–ecological system helped conserve biodiversity (by protecting habitat during key seasons) and reinforced a worldview in which humans and auspicious animals were partners in a shared cosmic order. As environmental conditions shifted in later eras—through deforestation, climate change, and social upheaval—this nature-attuned tradition was forced to adapt, illuminating both the potency and precarity of a cosmology grounded in predictable natural rhythms. By highlighting a case where religious institutions and animal agency co-produced a sustainable temporal regime, the study contributes to broader anthropological debates on relational ontology in East Asia. It suggests that classical Daoist cosmology, often classified as “analogist,” in fact operated as a form of relational monism: an enduring conviction that human society and the living environment are co-constitutive and continuous. Through the lens of Maoshan’s history, we reconsider how premodern models of “unity of Heaven and humanity” were pragmatically applied, and we explore their implications for reimagining nature–culture relationships amid the uncertainties of the Anthropocene.

1. Introduction

Mount Mao stretches on to distant Jinling far, where lakes and rivers span the lowland bar.

Three deities upon white cranes in splendor ride, each reigns atop a separate mountain side.

They summon rain to soothe the drought-cracked field, so upland soil in gentleness must yield.

Wives and children guard the home secure, that I may live untroubled and feel sure.

White cranes ascend the azure sky—when again will they pass by?

茅山連金陵，江湖據下流。

三神乘白鵠，各治一山頭。

召雨灌旱稻，陸田亦復柔。

妻子咸保室，使我百無憂。

白鵠翔青天，何時復來游?1

The above popular poem from the Maoshan gazetteer (Maoshan zhi 茅山志, hereafter abbreviated as MSZ), reflects early cultural and religious associations of cranes with Maoshan as a sacred site. Attributed to popular folklore dating back to the Western Han dynasty (202 BCE–9 CE), these verses evoke the image of three deities, each presiding atop a distinct mountain peak, riding white cranes as symbols of their celestial authority and benevolence. The poem emphasizes the gods’ roles in ensuring agricultural prosperity by bringing rains to alleviate drought, thus depicting Maoshan as a locus of harmony between natural cycles and human welfare. The concluding lines, wistfully questioning the cranes’ celestial flight and their potential return, reflect a broader yearning for transcendence and a harmonious relationship with the natural world.

In recent decades, such intersections of animals, animalism, and Anthropocene have increasingly attracted scholarly attention within the environmental humanities, spurred by urgent questions about climate change, biodiversity loss, and the enduring entanglements of human and animal worlds. In East Asian studies—especially in Sinology—researchers have begun to reevaluate traditional conceptions of nature, turning their attention to ecological dimensions once overlooked in the historiography (Marks 1996; White 1999; McNeill 2003). Building on foundational explorations of environmental change in China, which have shown that Chinese local histories are inseparable from the broader environmental contexts in which they evolved (Marks 1996, 2005), new lines of inquiry such as studies by the late Kristofer Schipper (1934–2021) closely read early Daoist precepts to show that Daoism articulates its own ecological system of thought, where inner transformation matters only if it produces consequential action: practical conduct and durable institutions, not merely a philosophical reorientation toward nature (Schipper 2001).2 Wildlife conservation and ritual practices in China often have deep historical precedents. Some recent studies have shown how religious discourses helped restrict resource extractions and help maintain environmental and ecological equilibrium in China (Coggins 2003; Chen et al. 2018; Burton-Rose 2022; Brown 2023; Miller and Coggins 2024; Goossaert 2025a).

This article situates itself within this emergent body of literature by examining the evolving relationship between the legends of cranes,3 pilgrimage practices, and ecological rhythms at Maoshan 茅山, a Daoist sacred mountain in Jiangsu province. Cranes, mythologized as creatures signifying longevity and transcendence, figure prominently in Chinese religious culture. Over the centuries, both Daoist scriptures and popular lore integrated the crane as a potent emblem of immortality (Schafer 1983), amplifying its presence in art and poetry (Sturman 1990; Xue 2019). Although studies by Schafer discuss the popular lore and religious literature surrounding the cranes at Maoshan (Schafer 1980, 1983, 1985), the present work aims to foreground how the natural environment—flora, fauna, and broader ecological processes—has shaped, and been reshaped by, the religious specialists and pilgrimage traditions at Maoshan over two millennia.

Within the broader debates of the environmental humanities, Maoshan stands as a rich case study, as the long paper trial of primary sources shows how cultural practices may both reflect and recalibrate local ecologies. The ecological base to which Daoist observers long turned for seasonal insights, however, has become increasingly erratic in the face of climate change and biodiversity crises in late imperial China. Consequently, the religious logic of modeling human conduct on these once-stable rhythms invites renewed scrutiny. Could such traditions offer a conceptual framework for addressing contemporary environmental volatility? Or do they remain relics of a world where ecological referents were presumed constant? Recent work by Timothy Brook on the Little Ice Age in East Asia complicates any strong presumption of constancy. Drawing on dynastic “disaster” chapters and regional gazetteers as climate proxies and aligning them with grain-price series, Brook shows that short-term famine prices in the late Ming were chiefly driven by harvest failure tied to temperature and precipitation shocks (Brook 2023, pp. 122–27). From the vantage of Maoshan, such variability would have affected both pilgrim mobility and the wetland systems along the Jiangsu coast on which cranes overwintered, yet the persistence of the third-month pilgrimage apex suggests ritual calendars buffered shocks that, while disruptive, remained within bounds communities could anticipate and adapt to.

One key question for the present study—and one that resonates with the growing field of “animal history” (Domańska 2017)—is how Daoist practitioners have historically perceived and appropriated the natural rhythms of migrating cranes in constructing a local religious calendar. By broadening the analytical lens beyond merely symbolic readings of cranes, this article also emphasizes a measured reading of the material and biological realities of the birds: their migratory range, nesting behaviors, and interactions with local landscapes. Such an approach challenges existing anthropocentric paradigms of East Asian environmental history, where species other than humans have too often been reduced to ornamental motifs. Recent studies stress that animals could seldom be sidelined in Chinese history: they shaped ecologies, economies, and statecraft as much as everyday practice and ideals of knowledge; moreover, Chinese actors repeatedly treated animals as privileged lenses for reading social order and natural change (Sterckx et al. 2019, p. 1). From this perspective, cranes in this study emerge as active interlocutors, shaping the temporal period of pilgrimage seasons, regulating mountain resource use, and even the religious imagination itself. This alignment between avian ecology and human ritual further raises questions about historical conservation. As shown by Vincent Goossaert’s study in this Special Issue, religious prescriptions could function as practical environmental regulations (Goossaert 2025a)—a dynamic likewise evident in Maoshan’s ritual calendar and prohibitions on resource extraction. While Daoist injunctions frequently proscribed hunting, foraging, and burning around sacred mountains, enforcement at Maoshan was hybrid: Daoists framed the rules in terms of ritual purity and grotto-heaven sanctity, but durable efficacy depended on imperial edicts and local elites willing to police boundaries and purchase land. Thus, by drawing on a wide range of textual sources, including Daoist scriptures, mountain gazetteers, epigraphic inscriptions, local anecdotes, press articles, this study offers a multidimensional perspective on how myth and folklores, religious traditions and the protection of the natural environment intersected at Maoshan.

In doing so, it further engages with conceptual paradigms that probe the mutual conditioning of human and non-human agencies. Rather than portraying nature as a mere backdrop to human activities, this analysis seeks to show how religious practice itself became contingent on the perceived rhythms of cranes—spectacular agents whose migratory cycles invoked awe and ritual significance. The locals’ quest for agrarian security conjoins with the immortals’ seasonal arrival riding the cranes, form a coherent but evolving ritual ecology. Through an interdisciplinary examination of above-mentioned questions and sources, this study thereby seeks to refine our understanding of how religious landscapes intersect with local biodiversity, such as stable crane migrations, lush forests and abundant wildlife. It also contributes to ongoing dialogues in sinology that probe the interactions among myth, ritual, and ecological management—an interplay especially pertinent for environmental historians interrogating the Anthropocene context. I invoke the concept of Anthropocene in this article as a historical lens for thinking about destabilized ecological referents. Maoshan’s ritual calendar was modeled on seasonal regularities—the appearance and departure of cranes and the spacing of agricultural labors which makes pilgrimage possible. By contrast, our present moment is marked by accelerating human forcing that unsettles those regularities: wetland loss along the coast, altered monsoon regimes, and changing migration phenology. Framing Maoshan across this divide allows us to ask what becomes of a ritual ecology when the model based on nature’s rhythms itself begins to move. In that sense, the Maoshan case offers a historically grounded vantage on Anthropocene volatility and its pressure on religious calendars, prohibitions, and ethical considerations.

The argument proceeds in seven steps. Section 2 starts with the “White Swan/White Crane” temple to pose the core puzzle of how a local cult was anchored in place. Section 3 then clarifies terminology (hu vs. he) to separate philology from assumptions about species. Section 4 turns to the species itself, outlining the biology and range of the Red-crowned Crane and related taxa (Figure 1). With these foundations, Section 5 analyzes how cranes were woven into hagiography and liturgy, transforming animistic motifs into Daoist claims. Section 6 shows how that symbolic complex was timed to pilgrimage seasons that coincided with agrarian slack and avian movement. The final empirical studies, Section 7 and Section 8, trace how this ritual ecology translated into resource governance: first, early medieval prohibitions and land delimitations; then, later deforestation and modern afforestation in coastal Jiangsu. The conclusion returns to the opening puzzle—how religious modeling fares when ecological referents destabilize—linking Maoshan’s longue durée4 to present-day debates.

2. White Swan Temple or White Crane Temple?

What happens when an animistic cult devoted to a white bird becomes absorbed into a growing Daoist framework, reshaped by dynastic power and shifting community practices? At Maoshan, the Temple of White Swan, or White Crane—stands as an early testament to the interplay of local worship, imperial edicts, and shamanic transformations. Intriguingly, textual sources vary on whether the revered creature is a swan (hu 鵠) or a crane (he 鶴). This section examines that ambiguity, revealing how early Daoist narratives appropriated local bird cults and reconfigured them to exalt the Three Mao Lords. Traces of ancient animistic cults reveal that early worship practices dedicated to the birds, whether cranes or swans, predate—and indeed, inform—the later cultic integration of the Three Mao Lords.

The earliest mention of a certain Temple of White hu 白鵠廟 is found in the fifth century Daoist text Declarations of the Perfected (Zhen’gao 真誥),5 which reads:

In the second year of the Yongping era of Emperor Ming of the Han Dynasty [59 CE], an imperial edict was issued to the counties and prefectures to build the temple of the Transcendent of Gouqu in Danyang (Note [Tao Hongjing’s commentary]: When the Three [Mao] Lords first attained the Dao and rode upon white hu atop the mountain, locals from various villages witnessed these events and offered prayers for its miraculous efficacy; accordingly, a temple was collectively established at the east of the mountain, and named it the “White hu Temple.” During sacrificial ceremonies, some heard voices, saw the white hu within the tents, or heard instrumental music, prompting the villagers rush to offer sacrifice. This temple still exists today in Ping’a Village, at the east of the mountains. There is a woman surnamed Yin serves as the invoker.6 Subsequently, various villages at the west side of the mountains built their own temples—the temple at the west of the Elder Mao peak was known as Wuxu Temple and that on the back mountain of Middle Mao peak as Shuxu Temple—with both holding annual drum and dance ceremonies accompanied by communal blood sacrifices, though they are now managed by Buddhists7 and are no longer affiliated with the transcendent immortals.).

漢明帝永平二年，詔敕郡縣，修守丹陽句曲真人之廟（按三君初得道，乘白鵠，在山頭時，諸村邑人互見，兼祈禱靈驗，因共立廟於山東，號曰白鵠廟。每饗祀之時，或聞言語，或見白鵠在帳中，或聞伎樂聲，於是競各供侍。此廟今猶在山東平阿村中。有女子姓尹為祝。逮山西諸村，各各造廟，大茅西為吳墟廟，中茅後山上為述墟廟，並歲事鼓舞，同乎血祀，蓋已為西明所司，非復真仙僚屬矣）。8

The above passage from the Declarations of the Perfected offers a wealth of information that merits close analysis. Tao Hongjing’s commentary—recorded in his notes (an 按)—provides clear evidence that this account has significant historical value, since it was derived directly from local worshipers within the cult of Lord Mao. This attribution not only situates the text within a specific religious and geographic context but also highlights the importance of oral tradition in shaping textual narratives.

First and foremost, it represents one of the earliest establishments of a connection between the Three Mao Lords and the white hu (baihu 白鵠), mediated through invokers, who was pivotal in establishing a symbolic link in this local Daoist tradition. During sacrificial ceremonies dedicated to the Lord Mao, various sensory phenomena manifest: voices as Lord Mao speaking through possessed invokers (zhu 祝) such as the invoker Yin, who likely played the mystified white hu within the ritual tents, with the accompanying instrumental ritual music. Whether they imply trance-mediumship or visionary travel cannot be determined from the texts alone. In what follows I draw selectively on the analytical vocabulary of shamanism to sketch the range of possible ritual performances in which animal figures function as partners or auxiliaries, while remaining agnostic about the precise phenomenology in this Maoshan case. Research on shamanism in China is abundant and fast-growing. As Barend ter Haar points out, while much of the existing scholarship has focused on early historical periods (especially the Han and before), as well as on contemporary minority traditions and Taiwanese practices like tang-ki and spirit-writing, the long span between the Song and the modern era remains underexplored—despite the persistence of shamanic practices in mainland China, albeit in more marginalized and repressed forms.9

However, on themes combining shamanism and animal symbolism, the insights from the late Roberte Hamayon’s (1939–2025) life-long work allows us a deeper understanding of the significance of cranes within the religious history at Maoshan. In her definition and terminology, Hamayon distinguishes between “incarnation” and “incorporation” in shamanic experience—a distinction that further clarifies the performative and relational dimensions of these rites (Hamayon 1990, Introduction). In cases of incarnation, the shaman imitates the behavior of the spirit through bodily gestures and vocalizations, thereby enacting a visible and dramatized state of possession. In contrast, incorporation entails no imitation; the spirit enters and coexists with the shaman’s own soul, not displacing it but augmenting it, functioning as a spiritual auxiliary. In both cases, the shaman’s role is performed according to culturally prescribed models—such as trance or ecstasy—which function not as endpoints but as operative frameworks for symbolic action. Much like an actor inhabiting a role on stage, the shaman steps into a codified persona that enables communication across human and non-human realms. Hamayon emphasizes how shamans, through mimetic actions, construct relational dynamics with animal spirits.

As noted by Michael Puett in his introduction, Hamayon’s reading of shamanic acts “by imitating the movements of animals, shamans create a frame within which they also grant existence to the relevant animals’ spirits. Within this frame, the shaman interacts with spirits in relationships of partnerships, albeit with the shaman as the more active partner. This is contrasted with the purely hierarchal relationships created through prayer and sacrifice” (Hamayon 2016, p. xvii). This resonates with Maoshan accounts in which reported appearances (and sounds) of the white hu prompted offerings and even temple founding; villagers then held annual drum-and-dance rites with communal sacrifices.

As Lin Fu-shih’s study on shamans in early Chinese society has pointed out, shamans were integral to both political authority and communal life. During the Shang and Western Zhou, shaman-officials served at court, overseeing sacrifices and healing, and commanded considerable influence. Over time, however, mounting warfare and administrative shifts under later dynasties led to the marginalization of many shamans; some continued to hold official titles for major state sacrifices while others drifted to local communities. This changing status of ritual specialists provides a valuable background for understanding how regional religious movements at Maoshan—such as the Three Mao Lords cult—could evolve from official or aristocratic circles into more localized traditions. This text thus illuminates how, by the Han dynasty, charismatic shamans might continue serving important roles in local mountain cults even after losing broader court-based support.

In fact, by the year of 59 CE mentioned in this text, the cult of Lord Mao could have already existed around Maoshan region for half a century, as the deification of Lord Mao was dated to 1 BCE in another text, possibly the earliest and most detailed extent hagiography of Three Mao Lords, Inner Biography of Lord Mao, Transcendent of the Supreme Primordial (Taiyuan zhenren maojun neizhuan 太元真人茅君內傳) gives more details in relation to the text in the Declarations of the Perfected. To briefly introduce this hagiography, it recounts that Lord Mao’s illustrious lineage included great-great-grandfather Mao Meng 茅濛, who lived until the period of Emperor Qin Shi Huang 秦始皇 and retreated into Hushan and ascended to heaven in broad daylight in 217 BCE. The three brothers—Mao Ying, Mao Gu, and Mao Zhong—began their ascetic cultivation early; the eldest, Mao Ying, left home at eighteen to study Daoist scriptures on Hengshan 恒山. Six years later, following a vision in which a celestial maiden (taixuan yünü太玄玉女) instructed him to seek Lord Wang 王君 in the Western City 西城, Mao Ying journeyed to study under Lord Wang and twenty years later, paid homage to the Queen Mother of the West (xiwangmu 西王母), who imparted essential teachings and treatises. Mao Ying was conferred the title “Controller of Destinies” (siming 司命). Despite familial reproach—most notably, an episode where a staff raised by his father broke miraculously—Mao Ying’s dedication prevailed. While his two younger brothers initially left for official duties, they too eventually choose to follow Mao Ying to learn the Dao. The hagiography culminates in Mao Ying’s deification in 1 BCE during a celestial banquet. The younger brothers continued their cultivation until they attained immortality, after which they remained on Maoshan to oversee the spirits of the region.10

Most importantly, it was mentioned also that in honor of the benevolence of Three Mao Lords, the local people built the White hu Temple 白鵠廟, commemorating both the miraculous ascensions of Three Mao Lords and the transformative power of the Reverted Elixir in Nine Cycles (jiuzhuan huandan 九轉還丹), which the text specifically mentioned that the white hu was the manifested form of Lord Mao after ingesting the elixir: “The White hu is one who consumes the Reverted Elixir in Nine Cycles, thereby gaining the power to transform and differentiate its form.”11 There is another text in the Zhengtong reign Daoist Canon titled “Essential Instructions on the Book of the Nine-Times-Transmuted Elixir of the Perfected of the Great Ultimate” (Taiji zhenren jiuzhuan huandan jing yaojue太極真人九轉還丹經要訣, DZ 889) that is associated with this transformative process. Robinet’s study of this text suggests that it may have originally been attached to the hagiography of the Lord Mao in its earliest form, possibly belong to a larger corpus derived from earlier writings and local oral traditions, one that also contains the alchemical recipes found within (Robinet 1984, pp. 395–96; Schipper and Verellen 2004, pp. 102–3; Pregadio 2008, p. 1250).

Furthermore, the passage in the Declarations of the Perfected explicates the rationale behind the establishment of the White hu Temple. According to the text, in the second year of the Yongping era under Emperor Ming of the Han Dynasty, it was initially an imperial edict led to the construction of a temple dedicated to the “Transcendent of Gouqu in Danyang”, instead of “Lord Mao”(maojun 茅君) or the “Three Mao Lords” (sanmao zhenjun 三茅真君). It was only in Tao’s commentary which reveals that when the Three Mao Lords first attained the Dao and were seen riding white hu atop the mountain, local villagers—moved by what they perceived as miraculous manifestations—thus gathered in collective devotion.

Moreover, the annual cycle of these ceremonies, marked by communal blood sacrifices, highlights the indigenous nature of the cult of Lord Mao, especially as later Buddhist interventions eventually led to the abolition of such blood sacrifices. From the late Han into the early medieval period, however, both Buddhist and Daoist reform movements (notably the Celestial Masters) advanced critiques of animal sacrifice and promoted non-bloody, vegetarian offerings. (Kleeman 2016, pp. 14, 24) This shift signals not only the decline of the ancient, more visceral sacrificial practices, but also the rise of Buddhist institutional influence in the region, a phenomenon that complicates the traditional Daoist narrative and enriches our understanding of religious change at Maoshan in Medieval periods.

The fate of White hu temple during the Tang–Song transition, found in other record in the MSZ, encapsulates a broader shift in Maoshan’s ritual and political landscape. The temple was renamed and reclassified under state auspices, followed by its destruction during political unrest, and eventual rebuilding under Daoist patriarchs all point to the volatility and contested significance of sacred space at Maoshan. What began as a local cult devoted to the Transcendent Lord, Controller of Destiny was restructured within the shifting matrices of imperial patronage, elite sponsorship, and religious reconfiguration. And it is here, we find the White hu Temple, is now being referred to as into White Crane Temple. The textual metamorphosis is finally complete after nearly one millennia.

Shengyuan Temple, formerly known as the White Crane Temple, was originally a dedicated sanctuary for the Transcendent Lord of Controller of Destiny. It was located to the west of Middle Mao peak. During the Tianbao era (742–756), an imperial edict ordered the restoration of the shrine buildings, with ordinated Daoist priests performing rites and self-cultivation there, and included of the temple in the official sacrificial register. In the eighth year of the Zhenghe reign (1118), the prefectural official of Jiankang, Yu Su, petitioned the emperor to be bestowed its present official plaque. In the third year of the Jianyan reign (1129), the shrine was destroyed by thieves through arson. In the fourteenth year of the Shaoxing reign (1144), the Daoist priest Mao Zongbai rebuilt the temple to the south of its original foundation.

昇元觀，舊白鶴廟，司命真君專祠也，在中茅西。天寶間，詔修祠宇，度道士焚修，列於祀典。政和八年，建康守臣俞粟奏賜今額。建炎三年，為盜焚毀。紹興十四年，道士茅宗白重建於故基之南。

(MSZ, p. 271)

In sum, while the temple’s nomenclature appears in flux—“White Swan” in some texts, “White Crane” in others—these avian references ultimately point to a single phenomenon: the harnessing of bird symbolism to bolster and localize Daoist authority. Temple-building, communal worship, and imperial endorsement converged here, anchoring a mountain’s budding identity as a sacred site. Next, we turn to the linguistic dimension of this avian legacy, probing the etymological roots of “crane” in classical Chinese to see how naming itself helped shape the mountain’s evolving spiritual narrative.

3. The Etymological Crane

The question of whether ancient Chinese called these regal birds hu (鵠) or he (鶴) is more than a linguistic puzzle: it speaks to how people understood cranes’ behavior, ecological niche, and religious potency. By tracing references to crane-like birds across classical writings, we gain insight into the evolving ways these animals were embedded in hunting lore, court banquets, and ultimately sacred traditions. This section dissects early texts in the Warring States, Han, and subsequent periods, illuminating the arc from the more mundane swans (hu) to the transcendent cranes (he).

First of all, to better grasp the historical Chinese perception and imagination of these magnificent cranes, it is essential first to examine the earliest references to these birds—those predating the second century CE. Although previous scholarship has engaged substantially with this topic, certain nuances and corrections call for further clarification.

A primary difficulty lies in distinguishing between the two principal classical Chinese terms for “crane”. In modern standard Mandarin, one term is hu, while the other is he. Edward Schafer, in his studies on Tang sources, noted a persistent confusion: hu frequently referred to white swans and he to cranes, yet textual overlaps suggest that historical authors often interchanged or conflated them (Schafer 1983). Schafer further posited that these two characters are cognate, deriving from Middle Chinese *kok (鵠) and *ghak (鶴), both potentially meaning “great white spirit-bird”.

Schafer’s hypothesis of a common origin of *kok and *ghak is highly probable when we looked beyond China, where various species of cranes can be found on all continents other than South America, Antarctica and in the most northern polar religions. For example, crane vocabularies in English is deeply rooted in Indo-European languages, frequently sharing onomatopoeic roots (Gąsiorowski 2013).12

However, Schafer’s text did not explicitly say whether these two Chinese terms were used interchangeably before the Tang dynasty, which we will argue this might not be the case. In the first part of this study, we will thus restrict ourselves to the study of etymology only, in the aim of defining the Chinese notion on cranes in classical texts dated until the second century CE, without trying to extrapolate our conclusion into the sociological reality.

Our study of classical sources up to the second century CE suggests a more nuanced picture. In the texts from the period of Warring States, hu 鵠 appears much more often than he 鶴, possibly reflecting its closer proximity to human habitation, which led to a much-varied interaction between human and hu. When hu is used alone, it means the target in the hunting competitions, with specific ritual associated with it. While the famous expression “How can the sparrow and the swallow understand the ambitions of the swan and the crane? ”(燕雀安知鴻鵠之志哉)13 only appeared in much later in the Han dynasty, honghu鴻鵠 is already an established term to refer to large birds, often used in contrast with smaller birds. Other combinations with the hu are often indicated by color, for example, yellow hu 黃鵠 or white hu 白鵠.14 The single one text which includes various usage of hu is Chu ci 楚辭,15 which includes hu 鵠, honghu 鴻鵠, yellow hu黃鵠. Additionally, expressions such as the sour flavor of the meat of hu (鵠酸), dish of pigeons and hu (鴿鵠) all indicated that hu was consumed as food in lavish banquets or feasts. Such references underscore its status as a large bird that could be pursued, captured, or consumed.

The usage of hu did not manifest significant changes during the Han. While honghu was more and more cited to indicate a quality of ambition,16 new combinations such as egg of hu (huluan 鵠卵)17 point to capture, husbandry, and consumption, which indicates a trend of further development in animal’s proximity to humans and in turn, its taxonomy. This pattern aligns with pre-Linnaean classificatory habits in which animals were sorted primarily by their utility or affordances to humans (edible, huntable, sacrificial, auspicious) rather than by shared morphological traits.18 Within this regime the hu never became a numinous agent at least until the end of Han dynasty, as suggested in Schafer’s study. By contrast, hu in early sources denotes a large bird; despite attributed quality associated with ambition, people still hunted and ate it.

The above finding stands in stark contrast with the usage of he 鶴. There are much less variety in terms of taxonomy of he, with mentions limited to either white cranes (baihe 白鶴) or black cranes (xuanhe 玄鶴), typically alludes to distinctive traits such as vocalizing and dancing in response to music. Such behavioral distinction of he has attracted the attention of local elites to render them as pets and successive authors to write about them. The call of cranes during the night was also noted, considered as a sign of the upcoming calamity. In fact, according to modern studies on crane behavior, these crane calls during the night serve as flight calls when they are migrating back to their normal habitat during the spring (Wessling 2022, p. 18).

That been said, ancient Chinese were certainly able to distinguish them apart once the calls of the birds were heard. The analysis of the different cases so far suggests a major difference regarding the call of the birds. It was only he 鶴—and never hu 鵠—used together with the term “call” (鳴) in the classical texts we have examined. The call (鳴)—was a hallmark of cranes in these early sources, contrasting with the silent or even mute swan. This observation suggests that the ancient Chinese authors did recognize an audible difference between these avian species. Schafer’s thesis about a common origin of both hu and he could well be hard to argue against; however, we would argue that their differentiated usage indicated that these two words were not used interchangeably in the texts we have examined.

By the Han dynasty, the white cranes took on more explicit connotations of transcendence. In various texts—such as Hagiographies of Exemplary Immortals (Liexianzhuan 列仙傳)19 and the slightly later extent fragments of Hagiographies of Divine Immortals (Shenxianzhuan 神仙傳) (Campany 2002),20 white cranes were increasingly associated with elite culture and the cult of immortals, depicted dancing to aristocratic music to the social elites, being auspicious signs after immortals ascended to the heaven, or additionally serving as mounts for Daoist immortals. Certainly, these features of cranes were not inventions by author of Hagiographies of Exemplary Immortals. We can find earlier descriptions of cranes already in other more classical texts, such as Shiji 史記, which records anecdotes of noblemen taming and entertaining cranes.21 In the Houhanshu 後漢書 compiled in the fifth century, we find instances of hu continue the traditional usage with variants such as yellow hu, white hu, or more commonly, honghu. Meanwhile, the usage of he was elaborated further with new variants, such as “jade crane” (yuhe 玉鶴),22 statues of cranes made out of jade as commemoration for auspicious signs. We can see that in this milieu, he thus started to accrue religious and auspicious qualities, contrasting sharply with the more utilitarian hu, which retained its connotation as a huntable or edible bird.

The divergence between the two etymological terms hu and he is thus not merely a linguistic quirk, but rather reflects broader ecological and cultural realities of early China. Cranes, with their acute vision and hearing, thrive in undisturbed wetlands—habitats likely located far north of the Han empire’s central plains. We should note that there are three features of a successful breeding area for cranes (Wessling 2022, p. 6). First, a consistently damp environment with knee-deep water. Second, a completely undisturbed setting, as cranes abandon their nests or chicks at any sign of disturbance, leaving them vulnerable to predators like ravens, wild boars, foxes, and martens. Third, an open meadow or forest clearing near the nest for feeding the chicks post-hatching until they are fully fledged, which takes approximately three months. Literati from early China, accustomed to human-dominated agricultural zones like Guanzhong 關中, which does not remotely constitute an eligible habitat for the cranes, thus seldom had close encounters with these creatures outside of their limited breeding areas in North China. As Brian Lander shows, early Chinese states—especially Qin and its successors—progressively converted the lowland North China Plain from mosaics of forest, steppe, and wetlands into intensively managed agroecosystems through deforestation, drainage, and hydrological works (Lander 2014, 2021, pp. 39, 68, 183–84). In such landscapes, hu was embedded in riverine and lacustrine ecologies central to state-making and grain production, while cranes were tied to marsh–meadow margins and seasonal movement across less fully domesticated spaces. Thus, most literati who were able to write about them likely only caught sight of the cranes in the sky. Their sparse sightings thus might result in the heightened mystique surrounding he. Indeed, lexical and symbolic differentiation between hu and he mirrors the environmental bifurcation: on one side, state-engineered, drained and leveed lowland fields; on the other, the transitional, liminal edges where marshes give way to higher ground. In those edge habitats, cranes more readily accrued associations with other-than-human agency and ritual mobility, while in the lowlands large waterbirds such as hu were framed mainly in terms of human utility and metaphors of ambition within agrarian political culture.

Additionally, the sheer abundance and diversity of birds in ancient China (Lander 2020)—coupled with imperfect observational opportunities—could also cause terminological blurring. Even in contemporary contexts, bird species can be misidentified when viewed at a distance, especially in flight. Today, after human habitat and agriculture practices drove many animal species into declining population and even extinction, there remain 15 species of cranes in the world (Wessling 2022, p. 9). Among them, the highest number of eight species can be found in Asia, especially East Asia. In Inner Mongolia in north-eastern China, it is possible to observe seven different cranes species in a single day.

In fact, the confusion between hu and he in China is not that dissimilar to the debate of the exact specie of hamsa being referred to in Sanskrit literature in India. One of the arguments put forward was that the Sanskrit names for birds were based on their observed traits, such as their calls, coloration, habits, gait, method of feeding or other. However, these are sometimes difficult to assign unambiguously to species (Ali 1979). This observation seems to be also fitting for the usage of hu and he in the Chinese context. It would be unreasonable for modern scholars to expect a strict etymology in early Chinese texts to abide to contemporary scientific zoological taxonomy.

Nonetheless, textual evidence does confirm that ancient writers made some crucial auditory distinctions—particularly the crane’s unique night call (heming 鶴鳴)—not typically attributed to hu. Schafer’s thesis of an ultimate cognate origin remains plausible, but the early sources examined reveal a preference for using hu when describing large, huntable fowl and he when highlighting an otherworldly or aristocratic dimension of cranes. These evolving semantic contrasts illuminate the background against which Daoist communities later integrated cranes into sacred mountains. The calls of cranes continued to be noted with admiration throughout the classical texts, and it is perhaps here the Daoists draw inspiration from the classics which they read and constructed their sacred mountain by the migratory birds. For example, Verellen has noted the first explicit reference to Mount Crane Call (Heming shan 鶴鳴山) in third–fourth-century sources (Verellen 2003, 59n76).23 Such sites suggest that religious practitioners recognized and valorized particular avian habitats, harnessing classical literary admiration for crane calls to establish new sanctuaries. Read together, these texts show how classical admiration for crane calls was recruited to authorize specific mountain cults and to anchor the Zhang lineage in a landscape keyed to avian seasonality. As the following sections will discuss, Maoshan appears to have been the next major instance of establishing a mountain as Daoist through linking it to crane migrations—a project that likely drew inspiration from earlier textual endorsements of cranes’ auspicious, otherworldly qualities. In exploring how text after text wove these birds into cultural consciousness—often describing hunts, banquets, or the storied calls of migrating flocks—we see the seeds of what would later flower in Maoshan’s crane veneration. But the puzzle remains: if hu and he occasionally overlap or shift in usage, what spurred the symbolic leap to a universally revered “Daoist crane”? To address that, we will look next at the biological reality of cranes, placing textual confusion in conversation with the bird’s actual migratory patterns, habitat needs, and remarkable longevity.

4. The Biological Crane

Why are cranes so compelling, beyond their mythical allure? Part of the answer lies in their very physiology. We will thus start by having a closer look at the physical and behavioral characteristics of cranes themselves. Far from being mere symbols in mythic narratives, cranes possess a striking set of features that profoundly shape their interactions with both human communities and their natural habitats. This section outlines these physical and behavioral traits, reminding us that the “crane” of religious texts was also a flesh-and-blood species with exacting habitat requirements and far-reaching travel routes. By examining these birds from a biological perspective, we can better appreciate why cranes so deeply captured early Chinese imagination—and why mountain-dwelling Daoists viewed them as creatures endowed with a special kind of grace and as intermediaries between humans and gods. As for communities on wetland edges and in the mountainous hills, the arrivals and departures of cranes set the pace for work and worship. For farmers on the flatland plains, cranes appeared more often as literary images, spectacles, or even competitors for crops. Seen this way, Daoist writing works as a bridge, carrying mountain-based, non-agrarian sensibilities into flatland practice and even literati culture.24

Cranes are magnificent creatures. Existing work on the culture of cranes in East Asia have often neglected the physical attributes and behaviors which made cranes unique in the first place before they became a cultural symbol. It seems appropriate to start this study by a phenomenological description of the physical crane, before delving into the cultural significance of cranes in Maoshan, and later into the wider Sinosphere.25

Cranes are among the taller bird species, standing at a height between 1.10 to 1.30 m and boasting a wingspan ranging from 2.20 to 2.40 m. However, despite their large size, they exhibit a modest weight, with females averaging between 4.5 to 5.8 kg and males around 5.1 to 6.1 kg (Wessling 2022, p. 13). Their elongated necks and erect beaks are significant identifiers, often making them easily distinguishable in their natural habitats. As they traverse meadows and bushes, cranes exhibit a calm demeanor, displaying a sense of confidence and tranquility in their movements.

In terms of the range and population structure, as Figure 2 indicates, one of the most well known the Red-crowned Crane has a continental and an island population. According to the information provided by IUCN,26 the continental birds breed in south-eastern Russia, north-east China, and Mongolia. They winter chiefly along China’s Yellow River delta and the Jiangsu coast, and at sites in the Korean Peninsula’s Demilitarized Zone. Within the continental contingent, an eastern flyway is stable or slightly increasing, whereas the western flyway is in severe decline. Multiple staging and wintering localities once used across northern China are no longer occupied; for example, by 2008 only 6–7 of 28 previously used Jiangsu sites were still used, representing roughly 8% of the occupied range reported in the 1980s. Overall, the species’ extent of occurrence is large (≈1.06 million km²), but there is a continuing decline in both extent and area of occupancy and an increasing concentration at fewer suitable breeding and wintering sites. Elevational use is low (0–300 m), underscoring the dependence on lowland wetlands and coastal flats—precisely the landscapes historically woven into Maoshan-area ritual ecologies. By contrast, the Japanese population, long resident on Hokkaidō, has grown to about 1900 birds but is expected to plateau due to habitat limits and changes in winter feeding policy.

There are three behavioral features which is distinctive to the cranes. First, cranes give distinct and powerful, far-reaching call echoing over considerable distances. These calls are typically made in unison by pairs, contributing to their communication and social behaviors. Second, the dance of cranes is another notable behavior, which involves elaborate movements around each other with wings swinging in a controlled yet lively manner. Third, cranes are known for their migratory patterns. On average, they cover distances between 50 to 200 km per day, although during migration to wintering grounds, they are capable of flying for extended periods with short breaks, covering up to 4000 or 5000 km (Wessling 2022, p. 14). This migratory behavior underscores their endurance and adaptability to varying environmental conditions.

In terms of longevity, cranes have a life expectancy of about 25 years in the wild, but this can extend to over 40 years in captivity. Remarkably, Siberian and Red-Crowned Cranes have been reported to live up to 80 years in captivity (Wessling 2022, p. 15). Their extended lifespan has long been tied to notions of durability and health in East Asia. In Chinese, “Crane years” (henian 鹤年) and the Japanese expression “Cranes live for 1000 years and turtles 10,000 years” (鶴は千年亀は万年) attest to the crane’s enduring image as a herald of longevity and well-being. Such associations are further reinforced by images of cranes perched on pine trees—another motif symbolizing resilience and vitality. Although local myths sometimes claim the same crane families return yearly to familiar breeding grounds, it is more likely that this belief stems from villagers’ difficulty distinguishing individual birds. In Korea as well, cranes (hak 학/鶴) figure prominently as emblems of longevity, noble bearing, and cultivated reclusion. Joseon-period painters paired cranes with Daoist adepts, translating Chinese immortality themes into a Korean pictorial idiom. A late-Joseon album leaf now at the Cleveland Museum of Art, Poet Fisherman (Zhang zhihe yufu ci 張志和漁父詞, as Figure 3), shows the Tang poet-Daoist Zhang Zhihe raising a cup as a crane wheels overhead—an image modeled on Liexianzhuan iconography that underscores the bird’s role as a messenger of transcendence across East Asia.

Cranes’ robust longevity, their eloquent dances and calls, and their demand for unspoiled wetlands make them potent emblems. Yet, even as we marvel at their biological distinctiveness, we must ask: how did these very real birds come to be interwoven with accounts of transcendent flight, mystic transformations, and celebrated with festivals named after them? Our next section reveals how Daoist narratives strategically harnessed crane imagery to reshape local cults and entwine immortals with the rhythms of avian life.

5. When Birds Carry Immortals: Animism Reframed at Maoshan

Birds meet gods, gods become birds, and a mountain finds its mythic center: how did this intricate web of connections form around Maoshan? Fabrizio Pregadio’s study on the chart of the Man-Bird Mountain (Renniao shan tu 人鳥山圖) has shown that in early Chinese thought, birds were not only auspicious emblems but vehicles of revelation and even models for writing itself (Pregadio 2020). Cang Jie 蒼頡 (or 倉頡) is said to have patterned characters on avian traces, and Han apocrypha routinely cast bird-borne scripts as heavenly mandates. This broader ecology of avian mediation helps explain why crane phenology could authorize ritual time at Maoshan. In this section, we examine how local animistic or shamanic worship of large birds was gradually reinterpreted in Daoist texts, culminating in the stories of the Three Mao Lords ascending on avian mounts. Drawing on references to apocryphal texts, shifting hagiographies, and ritual expansions, we see how Daoists inserted themselves into older cultic traditions—often by aligning revered cranes with immortals and devotion.

Maoshan 茅山 refers to a series mountainous hills located in Jurong (句容) in southwestern Jiangsu Province on the southern bank of the Yangtze River, a wintering ground for northern cranes in ancient China became a cultic center for the Three Mao Lords. Jurong, the provincial county where we find Maoshan, was first established as a county under the Han dynasty; by 1995, it had become an administrative city recognized as one of Jiangsu’s thirteen counties with over two millennia of recorded history. According to a gazetteer of Jurong county published in 1994, Jurong county is covered with 1387 square kilometers of predominantly low mountains, hills, and mounds (88.46% of its area). The region is divided among three water systems: the eastern branch of the Qinhuai River (秦淮東支), the western branch of Tai Lake (太湖西支), and the Yan River 沿江 system. These geographical and climatic conditions, which fall within the central monsoon climate zone of the North Subtropics,27 have historically proven favorable for the wintering of migratory crane populations (Y. Zhang 2018). It is thus unsurprising that Maoshan became both a resting stop for these cranes and a focal site of annual festivals and pilgrimages, commonly referred to as the “Crane Festival” (鹤會) in local lore.

However, the association of cranes with the Three Mao Lords raises equally compelling questions. What mechanism allowed a creature, once revered in animistic cults solely as an emblem of longevity, to become an integral symbol within the Daoist liturgical framework of Maoshan? Did this transformation occur as a sudden doctrinal insertion, or was it the result of a long, complex process of narrative and ritual accretion? This convergence appears to have occurred gradually as Daoist narratives and liturgical innovations wove references to cranes into older traditions associated with Mao Ying and his two brothers.

In the Seven Baskets from the Cloudy Satchel from the Ming Daoist Canon, this passage reads as the following:

Periods of Imperial Verifications in the Book of Documents states: The realm of the Queen Mother lies in the wilds of the Western Wastes. In ancient times Mao Ying, styled Shushen; Wang Bao, styled Zideng; and Zhang Daoling, styled Fuhan, together with the Nine Sages and the Seven Perfected, all who obtained transmission of the scriptures went in audience to the Queen Mother at the Gate of Kunling. At that time Shushen and Daoling attended upon the Most High Lord of the Way. They rode in a nine-canopied carriage, drew the reins of a chariot borne by flying horned dragons, crossed the Peaks of the Piled Stones, forded the Ferry of the Weak Current, passed over the White Waters, and mounted the Black Waves. In the blink of an eye, they turned and gazed back, then paid court to the Queen Mother below the gate. Zideng kept a fast of purity for three months, and the Queen Mother bestowed upon him the Pure Scripture of Jade Splendor and Precious Radiance on the Seven Celestials. Lord Mao, following Lord Wang of Western City, went to the White-Jade Tortoise Terrace to make his court to the Queen Mother and begged for the Way of long life, saying: ‘I, Mao Ying, am of an unworthy body; I admire the lifespan of dragons and phoenixes. With a being as fragile as the morning fungus, I wish to seek the term that accumulates the new moons.’ The Queen Mother took pity on his diligent intent and told him: ‘Formerly I studied under the Celestial Worthy of Primordial Beginning and the August Heaven’s Emperor Lord of Bosang. They transmitted to me the Jade Pendant and the Golden Ornament, and the Way of coiling and refining the Two Lumina. Ascend above to the Great Ultimate; below, bring about the Ten Directions. Irrigate the Moon and masticate the Sun, thereby enter the Gate of Heaven. Its name is the Scripture of the Mysterious Perfected. I now confer it upon you. You should practice it regularly and diligently.’ Thereupon she commanded Lord Wang of Western City to explain it to him point by point and transmit it. She also bestowed the precious book Dispersing Prescriptions of the Four Youths. As for King Mu of Zhou, he ordered up the Eight Steeds along with the Seven Selected Retainers. With the dappled and the red chargers, setting hoof as if upon the colts of Mount Li, he harnessed the wheels of a flying chariot. Bo Yao guided the car; Zao Fu stood as right-hand driver. They sped like wind and flashed like lightning for three thousand li, passing through the lands of Bolü and Wufu, and the fields of the Rhinoceros-Jade and Mysterious Pool. On an auspicious day of jiazi, giant soft-shelled turtles, crocodiles, fishes, and tortoises formed a bridge, and thus they crossed the Weak Water. They then ascended to the wilds of Mysterious Park and the Langfeng Peak on Kunlun mountain, and were guests of the Queen Mother. The Son of Heaven Mu carried a white gui tablet and layered brocades as his offering to extend the Queen Mother’s years. He sang the Ballad of White Clouds, carved stone to record his traces on the summit of Mount Yan, and returned to the Central Lands.

《尚書帝驗期》曰：王母之國，在西荒之野。昔茅盈字叔申、王褒字子登、張道陵字輔漢，洎九聖七真，凡得受書者，皆朝王母於昆陵之闕焉。時叔申、道陵侍太上道君，乘九蓋之車，控飛虯之軒，越積石之峰，濟弱流之津，渡白水，凌黑波，顧眄倏忽，謁王母於闕下。子登清齋三月，王母授以《瓊華寶曜七辰素經》。茅君從西城王君，詣白玉龜臺，朝謁王母，求乞長生之道曰：盈不肖之軀，慕龍鳳之年，欲以朝菌之脆，求積朔之期。王母愍其勤志，告之曰：吾昔師元始天王，及皇天搏桑帝君，授我以玉珮金璫二景纏練之道，上行太極，下造十方，溉月咀日，以入天門，名曰《玄真之經》，今以授爾，宜勤修焉。因敕西城王君，一一解釋以授焉。又授寶書《四童散方》。洎周穆王滿命八駿與七萃之士，驊騮赤驥，蹈驪山子之乘，駕以飛輧之輪，柏夭導車，造父為右，風馳電逝三千里，越剖閭無鳧之鄉，犀玉玄池之野。吉日甲子，黿鼉魚龜為梁，以濟弱水，而昇崑崙玄圃閬風之野，而賓於王母。穆天子持白珪重錦，以為王母之壽。歌白雲之謠，刻石紀跡於弇山之上，而還中土矣。

(DZ 1032, 114.6b-8a)28

In any case, in this text, we learnt of a certain Mao Ying, who followed Lord Wang of Western City (xichen wangjun 西城王君) to visit Queen Mother of the West and was successfully granted scripture and books to achieve immortality. The encounter with Queen Mother of the West by Mao Ying and Wang Bao (36 BCE-?) are paralleled with that of King Mu of Zhou, and worth noting that both Mao Ying and Wang Bao later played an important role in the Shangqing tradition in Maoshan.

Moreover, my investigation into early references to the “blood of white hu” (baihu zhixue 白鵠之血) might provide a key to this complicate picture. This reference is found in The Biography of King Mu, Son of Heaven (Mu tianzi zhuan 穆天子傳, DZ 291),29 a text thought to have originated in the fourth century BCE and discovered in 281 CE in present Henan.30 This text describes the shamanistic journeys of King Mu of Zhou dynasty (r.1023–983 BCE.) to the area called Jusou 巨蒐. There, the blood of white hu was offered for King Mu to drink, and milk (dong 湩) was used to wash his feet.31 Some other elements in the same paragraph also includes the practice of burning the nearby mountain to drive out animals for King Mu to hunt. Corroborating with texts around the same period, modern scholarship has shown that Jusou may refer to Qusou (渠叟 or 渠搜), located in the North of Zhou state, in present Hetao region (hetao diqu 河套地區) (B. Li 2019). Hetao is a C-shaped region consisting of a collection of flood plains, which forms the entire middle section of the Yellow River. The Guanzhong basin in the south of Hetao region were abundant of diverse animal species in the pre-imperial period (Lander 2020). Archaeological findings from the first emperor of Qin, Ying Zheng 贏政 (259–210 BC, r. 221–210 BC), confirmed the presence of cranes.32

How should we read and interpret this textual metamorphosis from an apocryphal depiction of Lord Mao into the hagiography of Three Mao Lords in the Daoist Canon? In fact, several studies on the evolving relationship between Han apocrypha and canonical texts in Chinese religious traditions provide crucial insights.33 In particular, Anna Seidel has argued that the Daoist priests have derived much of their aspiration from this type of apocrypha literature, where the belief in the Controller of Destinies (siming 司命) was also attested for the first time (Seidel 1983). Indeed, incorporating local myths and legendary accounts into canonical texts often shaped less by abstract doctrines than by the desire to bolster social or political frameworks. Local cult stories, in particular, could redefine a community’s relationship to the imperial center—either by seeking its sanction or emphasizing independence (Lewis 2009). From a Daoist perspective, tying the Three Mao Lords to migratory birds was especially strategic, as such associations joins the earthly and transcendent realms. According to Robert Ford Campany, Daoist immortals are frequently linked with imagery of birds, reflected in their ability to fly, float, or appear dressed in feathers. As Campany notes, “some adepts possess the ability to fly from one place to another or float in midair, some appear in feathery garb, some are able to cover vast distances in marvelously short amounts of time, some can scale mountains and cliffs with unnatural ease” (Campany 1996, p. 303). These motifs affirm the close symbolic relationship between avian imagery and the portrayal of immortals in early medieval Daoist literature. On the other hand, the idea of migratory flight and seasonal return also resonated in harmony with the natural order, thereby reinforcing the cult’s legitimacy. In this way, references to cranes (or other migratory species) in the Daoist discourse also plays a part to construct and affirm a distinct ethnic identification and process of acculturation not only at Maoshan but also in the wider Jiangnan region throughout the so-called “Jiankang Empire” (third to sixth centuries CE) (Chittick 2020). After the collapse of the Western Jin in 317 CE, large numbers of northern migrants resettled in the Yangtze plain, and the seasonal movements of cranes offered a resonant figure for displacement and hoped-for return—a natural idiom through which communities negotiated memory, belonging, and place.

To return to the discussion on the hagiography of Lord Mao, two editions of Shenxianzhuan 神仙傳 merit mention (Kominami 1984; Campany 2002, pp. 122–26, 384–85; Chang 2008, pp. 115–51; P. Chen 2020). The first is a text collected in Guang hanwei congshu 廣漢魏叢書 compiled by He Yunzhong 何允中 (1590–1631), commonly referred to as Han-Wei edition 汉魏本 (Xinbian Han Wei congshu bianzuan zu 2013, p. 684). The second version is compiled by Mao Jin 毛晋 (1599–1659), collected into Complete Works of the Four Treasuries (Siku quanshu 四庫全書), commonly referred to as Siku edition 四庫本 (Ge 2010, pp. 182–84). Chang Chaojan considers the Siku edition was influenced by a Daoist text of Shangqing order 上清派, titled Inner Biography of Lord Mao, Transcendent of the Supreme Primordial, as previously discussed.34 Through comparison between the basic elements of Siku and Han-Wei edition, Chang points out that while the hagiography in the earlier Han-Wei edition writes of a certain Lord Mao from Youzhou 幽州 (present day Beijing) who learnt the Dao in Qi 齊 (present day Shandong), the later Siku edition gives more details specifying the full name (Mao Ying, literary name Shushen 叔申), changed his origin to Xianyang (present day Xi’an) and learnt the Dao in Hengshan 恒山 (present day Hebei), adding information about two brothers (instead of brief mention of only one brother in Han-Wei edition) and most significantly, give the exact date35 of Mao Ying’s ascension to heaven on the eighteenth day of the third month, with the administrative parish of divinized Mao Ying in Maoshan.

The testimony by Xu Mi 許謐 (305–376) collected in the Declarations of the Perfected (DZ 1016), dated to 499 CE, attested that the local legend which known by both Ge Hong 葛洪 (283–343) and his father-in-law Bao Jing 鮑靚 (fl. 3rd century) was closer to the Han-Wei edition, where Lord Mao learnt in Qi without mentioning his two brothers. Chang thus argues that the Han-Wei edition reflects a popular local legend circulated before the emergence of Shangqing order in Maoshan in the 4th century (Chang 2008, p. 115). The earliest text which developed the hagiography of a singular Lord Mao to Three Mao Lords is the Mao sanjun zhuan 茅三君傳, attributed to Li Zun 李遵 (literate name Li Zhonghou 李中候) (G. Chen 2014, pp. 8–9; Robinet 1984, pp. 389–98; 2021). Kristofer Schipper argues that the now lost biography of Mao Ying 茅盈 predated Inner Biography of Emperor Wu of Han (Han wudi neizhuan 漢武帝內傳), which adapted a great part of the texts from the lost biography, and probably dated to the sixth century. (Schipper 1965, pp. 11–19; Schipper and Verellen 2004, pp. 115–16).

Additional animals appear in the later Siku edition in the scene where Mao Ying ascends to the heaven in plain daylight. While in both edition he rides a chariot covered by feathers (yugai che 羽蓋車), he was accompanied by an escort of dragons and tigers, birds and beasts (canqiu jiahu feiqin xiangshou 驂虬駕虎，飛禽翔獸) in the Han-Wei edition, additional animals were mentioned in Siku edition, including qilin 麒麟, white crane, and lions (shizi 獅子) and specifically emphasized that the ascension was like the emperor (ru diwang ye 如帝王也).

The earliest mention of shamans working in Maoshan was found in the Han-wei edition. We learnt that a temple was built by locals to worship Lord Mao after his ascension. The inner logic of this text could suggest the location of this temple no other than the home and the site of ascension of said Lord Mao in Youzhou. The additional text in Siku edition emphasized that the protagonist moved to Jiangnan to administrator the caves and immortals in Mount Gouqu 句曲山. The temple in Siku edition was thus constructed by the people, specifically, at the foot of the mountain. Here, we see a case of transposition of sacred site from an earlier Han-Wei text in the North to Maoshan in the south in a later text.

Another examination on the differentiated use of white crane and white hu in the two texts also gives clues for this study. In the earlier Han-Wei edition, white he was not featured significantly and was mentioned only once, when describing Lord Mao manifested behind curtains and spoke with others, he came and left either as if army were sent, or transformed into a white crane.36 However, in the later Siku edition, both white crane and white hu were employed to be associated with their different functions. White crane was specifically referred to as ride for Lord Mao’s ascension and the annual return to Maoshan of him and his two brothers. Immortals were said to ride dragons, white deer and cranes in the oldest surviving collection of Daoist hagiography Liexianzhuan, likely dated to the second century CE with later editing (Kaltenmark 1953, pp. 109–10; Penny 2008). While representations of immortals riding dragons and white deer do appear on Han image, cranes do not (Pirazzoli-t’Serstevens 2009, p. 993). It was in the later texts by Ge Hong, such as Baopuzi or Shenxianzhuan, with only fragments cited in later sources, where we find further mentions of immortals riding cranes. Equally significantly, Lord Mao was said to be transformed into a white swan instead of white crane here.

Notwithstanding that both editions emphasize the transformation, neither specified the exact process of it. It was only specified in the Declarations of the Perfected. In this text, the technic of transformation into a swan was attributed to one famous cinnabar, Divine Cinnabar of Nine Transformations (jiuzhuan shendan 九轉神丹).37 Tao Hongjing’s comment on this entry particularly noted that this was cited from the Mao siming zhuan 茅司命傳, likely the same text as Mao sanjun zhuan mentioned earlier. This cinnabar was first mentioned in another text from Ge Hong in Master Who Embraces Simplicity (Baopuzi 抱朴子), Chapter titled “Golden Elixir” (Jindan金丹), where he wrote: The cinnabar of one transformation, taken for three years, grants immortality… The cinnabar of nine transformations, taken for three days, grants immortality (一轉之丹，服之三年得仙……九轉之丹，服之三日得仙。)38

Thus, we see that the metamorphosis of birds into celestial carriers and revered temple icons signals more than a rhetorical flourish. It captures Maoshan’s transformation into a Daoist stronghold, where shamanic traditions mixed with new institutional agendas. Yet, how was this ritual ecology anchored in the local cultic practice? For that, we look to Maoshan’s famous annual pilgrimage season—an unfolding performance that aligned devotees with the mountain’s deities and, crucially, with the seasonal migrations of cranes.

6. Eternal Return of the Pilgrims

Maoshan’s annual pilgrimage season, traditionally begins on the twenty-fourth day of the twelfth lunar month and continues until the climax on the eighteenth day of the third lunar month. Drawing on Marcel Granet’s classic morphology of seasonal rites, late-autumn and winter festivals enacted communal “closure” and universal thanksgiving, with household occlusion and offerings to “all categories of beings” (mountains, rivers, animals, seeds) to reset both social and cosmic time (Granet 1919, pp. 176–91). Read with the Yue ling (月令), these rites mark the end of fieldwork and a communal regrouping that frames early-spring re-openings—an idiom that maps closely onto Maoshan’s twelfth-to-third-month itinerary. Indeed, classical texts cast seasonal animal behaviour as a structuring grid for human affairs, synchronizing calendars, labour, and ritual. In John Major’s studies of The Master Huainan (Huainanzi 淮南子), he considers seasonal rules as theory and as worked analogies (Major 1993, pp. 217–56; Major 2008). In Huainanzi Chapter 5, “The Treatise on the Seasonal Rules” (Shize xun 時則訓), the last month of winter functions as a liminal reset. The text orders a ‘Grand Exorcism’ at the city gates; officials provision cult sites; and, crucially for lay participation, ‘farmers and commoners must be rested; they are not to be employed”. It also directs communities to ‘provide (articles for) use in worship at the sacrifices to the mountains, forests, and illustrious rivers,’ a rubric under which a Maoshan ascent naturally falls. Avian omens explicitly mark renewal: ‘Wild geese head north. Magpies add to their nests. The cock-pheasant cries; hens cluck and lay their eggs’ (Major 1993, pp. 255–58). Read with the 24 solar terms (jieqi 節氣) and 72 seasonal signs (hou 候), the late twelfth month falls in the Great Cold (dahan 大寒). The Proper Brilliance (Zhengguang 正光) calendrical canon, as preserved in the Weishu 魏書, explicitly lists migratory signs at this point; for example, ‘geese head north’ (yan bei xiang 雁北向) appears in the Dahan cluster (Grebnev 2025, table 2).

By contrast, Huainanzi presents the third month as the moment when ‘the production of qi reaches its fullest; yang qi spreads abroad’. Omens of seasonal flourishing are explicit: ‘Rainbows first appear. Duckweed begins to sprout.’ The governmental–ritual program matches that mood: the Son of Heaven ’opens the granaries and storehouses to assist the impoverished and the bereft,’ sends out officials ‘repairing dikes and embankments, channeling the ditches and watercourses,’ and prohibits hunting and cutting of mulberry or Cudrania to safeguard sericulture. The royal consort and the royal concubines ‘fast and perform austerities’ before initiating silk work in the mulberry groves; an auspicious-day musical performance closes the last ten-day period; and an exorcism at the nine gates ritually to ‘bring an end to the qi of springtime’ (Major 1993, pp. 230–32). Some of those signs sit across the hinge from Clear brightness (Qingming 清明) into Arrival of Summer (Lixia 立夏) in the received 72 hou sequence in Weishu: ‘Swallows arrive’ (xuanniao zhi xuan niao 至) is the second hou of Spring equinox (chunfeng 春分); ’rainbow begins to be seen’ (hong Shijian 虹始見) is the third hou of Grain rains; while ‘duckweed begins to grow’ (ping shisheng 萍始生) is the first hou of Arrival of summer (Lixia 立夏). However, as Yegor Grebnev’s study has convincingly demonstrated, this micro-calendar is diagrammatic and omenological, and its misalignment with real phenology is intentional, allowing fixed ritual dates to remain cosmologically legible year after year (Grebnev 2025).

In short, Maoshan pairs a macro regime of month-rules (as in Huainanzi) with a micro omen-grid (as in the System of Seventy-Two hou), tracing a ritually saturated arc from year-end purification to spring’s yang-maximal climax. Each year, pilgrims enact that arc by flocking to Maoshan in a spectacle reminiscent of migratory birds returning after a season’s absence. Through centuries of conflict and change, the core pattern remains: a months-long cycle, echoing the passage of cranes and the agrarian demands of early spring. This section details how these overlapping devotional and ecological rhythms converged into a distinctive pilgrimage tradition. Pilgrims are drawn by the Three Mao Lords’ protection and blessing, but also by the Maoshan’s lush green and the fleeting presence of winged visitors.

As early as the 5th century, Tao Hongjing noted the pilgrimage of Maoshan on the eighteenth day of the third month in the Declarations of the Perfected:

Only on the eighteenth day of the third lunar month do both public and private individuals converge in large numbers—several hundred chariots and four to five thousand persons, Daoist and secular alike, resembling the throng of a bustling city. Yet their collective action is limited to merely ascending the mountain together and chanting the Lingbao scriptures; once the ceremony is over, they disperse without exhibiting the profound sincerity or intimate commitment of those who truly wish to see the gods and transendents. Even if, on occasion, one or two individuals of utmost sincerity are present, they are nonetheless overwhelmed by the clamor, ultimately failing to achieve the concentrated focus required for self-realization.

唯三月十八日，公私雲集，車有數百乘，人將四五千，道俗男女狀如都市之眾。看人唯共登山，作靈寶唱讚，事訖便散，豈復有深誠密契、願睹神真者乎？縱時有至誠一兩人，復患此喧穢，終不能得專心自達。39

This extended period reflects the intricate ways in which local religiosity intertwines with ecological rhythms, particularly the migratory cycles of cranes. As noted earlier, the cranes move from north to south in winter and return northward in early spring—a pattern that closely parallels the spiritual gatherings on Maoshan.40 Historically, these overlapping cycles generated a unique temporal framework at Maoshan, with the pilgrimage reaching its apex in the third lunar month. At this juncture, agrarian populations looked forward to spring planting and enjoyed a pause from intensive fieldwork. Within this cyclical arrangement, local devotees offered prayers for an abundant harvest, while Daoist practitioners observed the revelatory anniversaries of the Three Mao Lords—on the twenty-fourth day of the twelfth month and the eighteenth day of the third month—which may have coincided with the cranes’ arrival and departure in Jiangnan. The MSZ corroborates these critical dates (noted as 12/2 and 3/18), suggesting a deliberate harmonization of religious veneration and seasonal change. The remarkable three-month pilgrimage season at Maoshan contrasts sharply with most Chinese mountain cults, where devotees typically converge on a particular deity’s birthday or a recognized festival. As I have demonstrated elsewhere, during the late Qing and Republican periods, the long-standing pilgrimage to Maoshan remained a vibrant religious phenomenon (Zheng 2025).

Despite occasional official bans and anticlerical media campaigns, the Maoshan Daoists actively adapted to contemporary circumstances—whether through adopting new textual strategies, incorporating spirit-mediums (xiangtou 香頭) into their organization of pilgrimages, or accommodating modern tourist and transport infrastructures. Countless pilgrims continued to converge on the mountain, sustaining an extensive sacred economy that benefited both local communities and Daoist clerics. The press from Republican periods frequently described the season in evocative terms such as “floods of incense” (xiangxun 香汛), with the apex occurring in the third lunar month—particularly on the sixth day, a date linked in tradition to the journey of Mao Gu and Mao Zhong in search of their elder brother, Mao Ying (Xinwenbao 1926). Many elite travelogues reveal that some visitors deliberately opt for the less crowded fifth or twelfth lunar months, while the third lunar month, characterized by mist, rain, and near-zero visibility, is often considered imbued with the unique energy (qi 氣) of the mountains. This steady influx of believers not only reaffirmed Maoshan’s status as a major Daoist center but also spurred innovation in religious texts, rituals, and organizational practices, all of which helped revitalize devotion to the Three Mao Lords and ensure the survival of Daoist institutions on the mountain throughout the twentieth century.

These seasonal journeys continue to manifest today, with no sign of fading from the local religious landscape. The pilgrimage season has reached a remarkable climax, with tens of thousands of sightseers gathering on peak days; for instance, in 1986, Peak Monastery on Maoshan welcomed over 50,000 visitors on the 15th day of the second lunar month, the anniversary of Laozi (Y. Li 2005, p. 151). While the ritual repertoire and pilgrim constituents have shifted across periods, such phenomenon nonetheless distinguishes Maoshan’s pilgrimage tradition with an enduring appeal spanned over 1500 years—from its first textual attestation in the Declarations of the Perfected compiled in 499, to the present day in 2025, indicating durable seasonal continuity and site fidelity. To explain this phenomenon, as to why Maoshan’s pilgrimage season is concentrated in the year’s first quarter, contemporary Daoist sources and gazetteers provide several insights. According to one such source (Y. Li 2005, pp. 153–54), four main factors contribute to the timing and longevity of this practice:

First, the agrarian slack period immediately after the New Year frees households to travel and petition for the year ahead; second, major observances for multiple Maoshan deities fall within this window, letting pilgrims combine rites in a single journey; third, temples on the peaks and in surrounding villages stagger their incense fairs week by week, effectively extending the season; and fourth, the early-spring landscape is most inviting in the third lunar month and encourages longer stays. These practical and aesthetic factors together help explain the timing and durability of the practice.

Collectively, these factors also illustrate how the region’s physical environment, religious calendar, and agrarian routines have converged to produce a protracted pilgrimage season. Indeed, the synchronization of crane migrations, planting schedules, and ritual obligations exhibits a profound resonance between ecological and cultural timekeeping. It also showcases how Daoist tradition, under the auspices of the Three Mao Lords, extended the scope of mountain worship to encompass multifaceted social and environmental dimensions.

Maoshan’s lengthy pilgrimage period is not a mere aberration among Chinese sacred mountains. Rather, it exemplifies how ecological rhythms—in this case, crane migration and agrarian cycles—are woven into the fabric of local religious practice. By prolonging pilgrimage visits across three months, participants align their devotions with seasonal transitions and agricultural imperatives. Moreover, the region’s scenic allure further enhances the spiritual experience, sustaining a tradition that endures despite economic and social changes over centuries. Yet behind this rhythmic procession stands the question: how did the sacred mountain’s environment—its forests, wildlife, and other natural resources—fare under such pressure? Next, I shift the focus to the attempts at protecting Maoshan’s fauna and flora, documented across many centuries in gazetteers, stele, and temple rules. These measures were not uniquely Daoist; they involved imperial decrees, local magistrates, Daoist clerics, Buddhist institutions, and lay compacts made by village communities. The Maoshan case thus provides unusually long-term, site-specific archive for thinking about how multiple actors periodically restricted logging, burning, hunting, and foraging.

7. Protection of Flora and Fauna: The First Millenia (Fifth to Tenth Century)

At first glance, an imperial ban on foraging or an edict restricting logging may look like a secular measure, yet in Maoshan’s case these regulations often merged with Daoist notions of purity and cosmic balance.41 In this section, I will return to the fifth through tenth centuries, a time when royal patronage and local Daoist leadership together framed the mountain as both a sanctuary and a pilgrimage center. Stele inscriptions, local chronicles, and imperial edicts highlight how the mountain’s caretakers strove to safeguard its forests, medicinal plants, wildlife, and the iconic crane populations that once thrived here.

The notable decline in references to cranes and medicinal plants in later textual records after the fifth century from Maoshan prompts important questions: why did these previously prominent ecological and symbolic elements fade from the textual and ritual landscape? One plausible explanation emerges from a consideration of Maoshan’s environmental history—specifically, the impact of human activity on local habitats, particularly regarding forests and wildlife—during the period of first millennia.

Historically, the prominence of Maoshan as a center for divine healing and longevity was closely tied to its rich biodiversity, particularly its abundance of medicinal flora, which formed a vital part of the mountain’s allure to pilgrims (Stanley-Baker et al. 2023; Zheng 2024). Since at least the fourth century, Maoshan had been renowned for practices involving divine elixirs and miraculous healings attributed to the Three Mao Lords. As discussed previously, early hagiographical texts illustrate this vividly by depicting Lord Mao seeking the secret of immortality from the Queen Mother of the West, marking the inception of Maoshan’s longstanding reputation as a locus for spiritual and physical healing.

This tradition of healing was intricately connected to religious innovations originating at Maoshan, most notably through the Shangqing Daoist tradition. Fourth-century Shangqing scriptures extensively catalog therapeutic minerals and propose individualized treatments tailored to specific ailments (Stanley-Baker et al. 2023). Additionally, Tao Hongjing composed the influential medical compendium Collected Annotations to the Classic of Materia Medica (Bencao jing jizhu 本草經集註),42 further consolidating Maoshan’s dual identity as a center of both religious and medicinal knowledge. Michel Strickmann’s research reveals how healing practices at Maoshan in the fourth and fifth centuries integrated scripture recitations, ritual offerings, and talismans, establishing a distinctive therapeutic tradition within Daoism (Strickmann 1979, 1990, 2002).

Yet, as ecological pressures intensified, particularly from habitat destruction and overexploitation, the rich biodiversity crucial to Maoshan’s medicinal and symbolic significance began to diminish. Cranes, for instance, are highly vulnerable to intensive hunting. Historical parallels from Ireland and England demonstrate how crane populations were eradicated through overexploitation; conversely, bans on hunting in Spain, Sweden, and other European countries have helped reverse the decline of crane populations since about 1980 (Wessling 2022, p. 11). Although modern ordinances abroad cannot simply be read back into medieval China, they illuminate how regulatory frameworks can facilitate species preservation. In China, the scarcity of religious perspectives in mainstream environmental histories—despite important work by many environmental historians (Menzies 1994; Elvin 2004; Miller 2020; M. Zhang 2021)—hampers our understanding of how religious institutions helped protect natural sanctuaries, a point some specialists of Chinese religion have emphasized (Girardot et al. 2001; Schipper 2001, 2018; Rols 2021; Menzies 1994, chp. 4). In the case of Daoism, its temples and institutions have historically played an important role in the preserving of natural sanctuaries (Goossaert 2025a).

Examining forest histories is particularly revealing, as forests serve as indicators of broader ecological health and stability, critical to agrarian and religious communities alike. Maoshan’s topography, characterized by slopes from northeast to southwest, resembles that of many forest-laden peaks in northern China and benefits from monsoon winds that trap moisture against the mountains, fostering dense woodland (Chiu 2011). Over two millennia, however, Maoshan has experienced dramatic demographic change, warfare, and social upheaval, compelling Daoist communities to renegotiate their relationship with local ecosystems continuously.

From the MSZ, I have found four explicit mentions of restrictions on deforestation, hunting, and fishing43 between the eighth century and 952 CE. To understand these bans, it is necessary to glimpse Maoshan before the eighth century, when forests remained largely intact and accessible to commoners without special permission. Indeed, although imperial hunting reserves existed elsewhere, records of forestry limitations in the southern Yangtze region are sparse prior to the Tang (Rols 2021).

This ecological trajectory thus provides crucial insights into why cranes—and the diverse medicinal plants integral to Maoshan’s identity—began disappearing from textual references and possibly from the actual landscape. Such disappearances signal not only ecological loss but also the disruption of deeply interwoven cultural and natural systems. The exploration of habitat destruction and its broader implications thus becomes essential for understanding the transformations that reshaped Maoshan’s ecological, religious, and cultural landscapes from medieval to modern times.

As a starting point, the first telling evidence emerges from an essay by Tao Hongjing, “Text Conferring the Ten Bestowals upon Lu Jingyou” (Shou Lu Jingyou shilaiwen 授陸敬遊十賚文) (H. Tao 2009), dated 499 (He 2020). Here, Tao Hong jing details the laborious process of constructing Huayang Abbey (華陽館) in Maoshan. The main obstacle to settling in Maoshan was not procuring land—which Tao could freely grant to his disciple Lu Jingyou 陸敬遊 (fl. 5–6 century) —but rather the arduous work of clearing and building in difficult terrain. Tao described his seven years’ hardship before the completion of his house to settle in at Maoshan. He expressed gratitude toward the unfailing assistance from his disciple Lu Jingyou on the construction of his house Huayang Abbey 華陽館. Tao rewarded Lu with a piece of land measuring 70 steps adjoining to his house. According to the study by Tsuzuki Akiko, the earliest Daoist structure in Maoshan was built in 480 CE and Huayang Abbey was only the third Daoist structure constructed in Maoshan (Tsuzuki 2009; Pettit 2013; He 2020). By 492, Tao handed in his resignation from the court publicly and retreated to Maoshan, presumably by this point the abbey was ready for him to move in. As Tao wrote:

“Thus, we stripped off our belts and stepped onto the green earth, leaving behind our caps at the red palace gates. We held hands and drove eastward, establishing our abode on this mountain. We located the water source and relocated rocks to lay our foundation. We climbed cliffs and chopped wood, traversed ridges and carried baskets of plants. Our strength was spent in climbing and building, and our energy exhausted in running back and forth. Our skin turned sallow, but we did not lament exposure to the elements. Our minds were empty and desolate, but we paid no heed to hunger and cold.”

於是褫帶青墀，掛冠朱闕；攜手東驅，創居茲嶺。脈潤通水，徙石開基；登崖斲乾，越壟負卉。筋力盡於登築，氣血疲乎趨走。肌色憔悴，不以暴露為苦；心魂空慊，寧顧飢寒之弊。

(MSZ, p. 300), (H. Tao 2009)

Despite the physical hardship, it appears that land ownership was not an obstacle and could be freely gifted to disciples to will of the master. Despite Tao Hongjing holding a minor official position during this period before his resignation, there is no evidence to suggest that the access to land was ever an issue even after his resignation. The much more prominent difficult is the labor required to cutting the woods and clearance of the land to build houses in Maoshan. As Ian Miller has shown, since Qin and Han, it was common for the imperial court to draft labor to harvest forest products rather than controlling territory (Miller 2020). Effectively, the forests on mountains such as Maoshan were due to shortage of labor. For someone like Tao Hongjing, the only help (without having to pay for hiring external labor) was the free help given by his students such as Lu Jingyou.

While occasional references indicate bans on logging or hunting at Maoshan from the Han and Jin periods onward, a later stele by Bao Shenci 鮑慎辭, Commemorative Inscription for Maoshan’s Yuanfu Monastery (Maoshan yuanfuguan songbei 茅山元符觀頌碑) of 1106, explicitly states that prohibitions against cutting wood or grazing livestock date back centuries. It reads:

“I humbly acknowledge: Mount Gouqu, where the scriptures of Immortals describe it as the heavenly abode of Jintan Huayang. The mountains and rivers are majestic and divine, and it is the capital of the South. Since the Han and Jin dynasties, its spiritual efficacity has been widely known to the world. It was usually forbidden prohibited logging and grazing here, and temples and palaces were built to pray for good fortune and blessings.”

臣謹按:句曲山，於仙經爲金壇華陽之天，山川神秀，據束南一都會，漢晉以還，世著靈蹟，往往禁樵牧，營館御以祈福祥。

(MSZ, p. 382)

Early prohibitions appear more geared toward ensuring ritual purity than ecological stewardship. Goossaert has written on the purity rules in the case of beef taboo, where he points out that abstention from meat were recognized as a major source of religious purity as early as the first centuries CE (Goossaert 2005, p. 239; 2025b). Indeed, already in the tradition of Celestial Masters, “pollution” encompassed places of death (battlefields, graveyards, homes in mourning) and menstrual blood; by the same logic, sites of blood sacrifice and other “profane” rites were to be avoided. Participants were instructed to visualize the Most High and to refrain not only from killing but even from speech about killing—explicitly extending abstention to hunting, fishing, and trapping (Kleeman 2016, pp. 268–69). Kleeman’s study on the 8th-century Yaoxiu keyi jielii chao (要修科儀戒律鈔) as specifying that violations incur bodily consequences: “If violated, both the host and the guest will suffer three years of ill health”. (Kleeman 2016, p. 269n55), which helps explain how purity regulations could translate into anti-hunting and anti-trapping norms in practice. Against this backdrop, the earliest explicit mention of a prohibition is attributed to the thirteenth Daoist patriarch of Maoshan Li Hanguang 李含光 (682–769) (He 2021b), who served as the Imperial Daoist Priest of Tang dynasty (Tang guoshi 唐國師). In his biography, it was mentioned that Li Hanguang “prohibited foraging,44 trapping, fishing and hunting [at Maoshan], and those who consumed meat were not allowed to enter.” (又禁山中採捕漁獵，食葷血者不得入。) (MSZ, p. 203)

Although framed as purity discipline, such injunctions had clear behavioral effects: they curtailed resource extraction and normalized abstention from taking animal life within Maoshan’s sacred precincts. Curiously, among the five prohibitions, there was no mention of prohibitions on felling the trees or deforestation (famu 伐木). This discrepancy suggests that, by the eighth century, certain resource-extraction activities such as “foraging, trapping, fishing and hunting”—particularly those involving procuring animal flesh—were deemed more polluting from a Daoist vantage than tree-felling. Nevertheless, the lack of explicit mention of tree-felling does not equate to an endorsement of indiscriminate logging. Menzies notes that before the Song, monasteries often self-regulated resource use, balancing building needs with ecological regeneration.45 This form of selective cutting seems to be working well on balancing the need of the monasteries and ecological stability, thanks to the natural regeneration occurring (Lowdermilk and Li 1930, p. 9; Menzies 1994, p. 68). Similarly, Rols points out that agricultural treatises such as Monthly Ordinances for the Four Groups of People (Simin yueling 四民月令) and Essential Techniques for the Common People (Qimin yaoshu 齊民要術) contained sections on felling trees, implying that cutting could be selectively managed under certain circumstances (Rols 2021, pp. 189–99). Thus, it would be prudent to say that despite lacking a formal legal framework on environmental protection, Daoist purity rules remained an effective mechanism to limit overly invasive exploitation at the time.

On the other hand, this brief mention could be better understood only when situated in context. What would make Li’s prohibition effective for implementation? In fact, Li Hanguang was the disciple of the twelfth Maoshan patriarch Sima Chengzhen 司馬承禎 (639–735). Sima is not only credited with the systemization of Daoist sacred geography by Shangqing Scripture on the Charts of the Celestial and Terrestrial Palaces and Offices (Shangqing tiandi gongfu tujing 上清天地宮府圖經). He has also cultivated a very close relationship with empress Wu Zetian 武則天 (r. 690–705) and Emperor Xuanzong of Tang 唐玄宗 (r. 712–756). Li Hanguang served as a successor after Sima Chengzhen’s death in 735, who later became the ordination master (dushi 度師) for Emperor Xuanzong to receive the Daoist register (shoulu 受籙) in 748. As the master for the emperor (thus the title “Imperial Priest of Tang”), the prohibition from Li carries an equivalent authority as an imperial edict.

The prohibition initiated by Li Hanguang in the early 8th century was nonetheless short-lived. The An Lushan 安祿山 rebellion (755–763) and catastrophe followed would rendered any imperial order difficult to maintain. The second time such prohibition came as an imperial edict in 833 CE, titled Edict on Mountain Prohibitions of Dahe Reign (Dahe Jinshan chidie 大和禁山敕牒) issued by Emperor Wenzong 文宗 (r. 827–840) of Tang dynasty. The imperial edict clearly indicated that it was petitioned by Sun Zhiqing 孫智清, 16th Daoist patriarch of Maoshan, master of Li Deyu 李德裕 (787–849), high official to Emperor Wenzong who serves as one of the signatories of the imperial edict.

In Sun Zhiqing’s biography, it notes that:

“In the seventh year of the Dahe reign, a memorial was submitted requesting the renewed prohibition of foraging and hunting. All seasonal sacrifices ceased to involve the slaughter of animals. By imperial edict, an inscribed stele was erected at the Ziyang Temple.”

[大和]七年，奏請重禁採捕，四時祭祀咸絕牲牢，奉敕書，立石紫陽觀。

(MSZ, p. 205)

It’s worth noting that the starting passage of the stele inscription mentioned above delineated the property boundaries, in other words, area of land belonging to each of the three peaks of Maoshan. As a rule, each of the three territories extends to three li until it reaches the plain. This level of precision would have been necessary only when required to avoid disputes, possibly relating to the prohibition mentioned in later paragraphs:

“Runzhou. Three Mao Mountains. The Great Mao Mountain: Toward the west, there is the Taiping Abbey located three li to the plain. Toward the south, there is the south gate of Huayang grotto, Chongyuan Abbey and Daoist Patriarchal Hall of within three li to the plain. Toward the east, four li to the plain. The Long Ridge and Green Ridge stretches continuously to the northeast, combined with the plain as its boundary. Toward the north, [it is] connected to the Ridge of Accumulated Gold, and there are also the west gate of Huayang grotto and ancestral halls inside. The Middle Mao Mountain: There are the Three Mao shrine and ancestral halls within three li to the flat roads to the west, and the Ridge of Accumulated Gold to the south, with the Little Mao Mountain to the north. The Little Mao Mountain: three li to flat roads to the west, extending to the Dragon Pool, pond of Transcendent Guo and Ziyang Abbey in the northwest, Toward the south, it connects to Middle Mao Mountain. Toward the east, it is three li to the plain. Towards the north, it connects to Daheng mountain. There locates Yankou grotto and ancestral temple. Towards the north, three li from the alchemical hall in Daheng mountain.”

潤州三茅山。大茅山：西面到平地路三里，內有太平觀。南面到平地路三里，內有華陽洞南門，崇元觀道祖院。東面到平地路四里，東北長嶺，綠嶺腳不斷接連，並平路是界。北面連積金嶺，內有華陽洞西門及祠宇。中茅山：西面到平地路三里，內有三茅廟及祠宇。束面到平地路三里。南面連積金嶺，北面連小茅山。小茅山：西面到平地路三里，西北至雷平豢龍池，郭真人塘、紫陽觀。南面連中茅山，東面到平地三里，北面連大橫山，內有燕口洞並祠宇。北至大橫山鍊丹院三里。

(MSZ, p. 68)

From the mid-Tang era onward, Maoshan’s Daoist communities faced mounting pressures as the imperial court’s direct oversight waned and local populations encroached on the mountain’s resources. One of the earliest extant records of Daoist priests attempting to reaffirm Maoshan’s prohibited status—and thus preserve its forests and wildlife—comes from the following submission led by Sun Zhiqing 孫智清 and other Daoists at three Maoshan temples. The 833 stele inscription continues:

“A petition from Sun Zhiqing, the Daoist in charge of ritual propriety at the Three Maoshan Temples and others: The Huayang Grotto-Heaven is the abode of the assembled transcendent immortals. Formerly, by imperial favor, hunting, firewood-gathering, and seasonal burning in autumn and winter were all prohibited; likewise, throughout the four seasons of sacrifice, livestock offerings were entirely prohibited. Yet following tumultuous times, the original decree was lost, and the people no longer adhered to past mandates. Encroachments thus deepened, and forests were indiscriminately felled on the pretext of long-standing custom. We humbly request a renewed prohibition, supported by proper regulations and enforced by designated officials under strict supervision. Only then can this sacred site be kept in strict order, ensuring the peace of the palaces and monasteries and restoring the original boundaries and prohibitions as before.”

右茅山三觀威儀道士孫智清等狀：華陽洞天，衆真靈宅，先奉恩旨，禁斷戈獵樵蘇，秋冬放火，四時祭祀，咸絕牲牢。自經艱難，失去元敕，百姓不遵舊命，侵佔轉深，探伐山林，妄稱久業。伏請重賜禁斷，準法護持，差置所由，切加檢察。庶得真場嚴整，官觀獲安，具元禁疆界如前。

(MSZ, p. 68)

Despite the turbulence of the times, Daoists at Maoshan sought to reassert earlier imperial protections. They referenced a “loss of the original edict” and appealed for its reinstatement, affirming that a recognized legal foundation had once clearly banned practices detrimental to the mountain’s sanctity. Soon after, the Central Secretariat issued a directive that shows an official response—though it also reveals the shifting layers of bureaucracy and the need for renewed local enforcement. The 833 stele inscription ends with:

“The official document descended from the Central Secretariat to the three abbeys at Maoshan and others: By imperial edict, this numinous mountain Gouqu, home of the grotto-palaces—has been revered by successive sovereigns, who deemed it proper to ban the cutting of timber and gathering of firewood, thus demonstrating solemn respect. Henceforth, within Maoshan’s boundaries, the populace must not be allowed to hunting, foraging, felling trees, or burning the forests. We further entrust the prefectural and county authorities to enforce this prohibition rigorously. In accord with the imperial edict, we hereby issue this document. On the fourth day of the tenth month in the seventh year of Dahe era. Attested by Li Deyu, Vice Director of the Central Secretariat, concurrently in charge of state affairs, and by Niu Shi, Acting Right Premier, also in charge of state affairs.”

中書門下牒茅山三觀等：奉敕，句曲靈山，洞宮所在，恭惟列聖，嘗亦欽崇，宜禁樵蘇，以申嚴敬。其茅山界內，並不得令百姓戈獵採伐及焚燒山林。仍委州縣，切加禁止。牒至準敕，故牒。大和七年十月四日。中書侍郎，平章事李德裕，檢校右僕射，平章事牛使。

(MSZ, p. 68)

What is evident from the above source is a dynamic of implementing prohibitions in Maoshan. Maoshan Daoists might have promoted prohibition in Maoshan since Han or Jin dynasties, however, there were certain prohibitions that appeared more important to Daoists than the others—namely, the prohibition in the aim of ritual purity was more prioritized than to prohibit tree cutting. On the other hand, Maoshan Daoists perhaps were left with no other choice. According to the two statutes which established the specific guidelines on the use of woodlands enshrined in the Tang Code of 624, there is a limit of what Maoshan Daoists could and could not do. The first law makes it illegal to monopolize the bounties of the wilds. The second law established a new law which governs “products of the wilds with labor already invested [in them]”. Miller has pointed out the significance of an imperial recognition of “human labor that turned natural products into property” (Miller 2020, pp. 25–26). This makes wood cutting in Maoshan highly unlikely to be prohibited by Daoists alone.

The balance gradually changed for the worse and eventually, the tipping point in Maoshan arrived in the 9th century when it was clearly expressed in the form of an imperial edict for the prohibition in the stele dated to 833. In this stele, the Daoists used their close relationship and influence with high imperial officials and even the emperor himself to solicit imperial edicts to implement the prohibition, targeted at local commoners. Imperial prohibitions would be effective not only because breaking imperial laws means punishment, but also because the public would understand what it entails from a historical point of view. The imperial prohibitions on resource use in mountains (jinshan 禁山), effectively delineated a mountainous area equivalent of imperial grounds or parks (Rols 2021, chp. 3; Goossaert 2025a).

However, even if the imperial edict dated to 833 would have had any meaningful effect, it would not last long. Instead, it was soon eclipsed by a dynastical change. The Huangchao Rebellion (874–884) and the end of Tang dynasty in 907 would make Daoists of Maoshan to solicitor new imperial patronage and protection. In 952, another stele was carved and titled as “Stele on the Renewed Prohibition of the Mountain” (Fu Jinshan bei 復禁山碑), with the text written by Xu Xuan 徐鉉 (916–991).46 This inscription shows both the recognized religious importance of Maoshan and the repeated necessity of safeguarding it. Yet enforcement was uneven, as local authorities often lacked stable resources or the will to uphold such bans:

“Huayang Grotto-Heaven is a blessed-land in Jinling, a convergence of myriad immortals and a source of auspicious fortune. Hence, its magnificent altars and halls, abundant offerings, and bans on logging and grazing have long been preeminent throughout the realm. Its roots stretch far back to ancient times. During the Shengli era, officials lapsed in their duty, allowing the revered grounds to become overgrown with weeds. Yet when numinous spirits gather and subtle transformations occur, the mountain’s revival inevitably depends on remarkable individuals.”

華陽洞天，金陵福地，羣仙之所都會，景福之所興作，故其壇館之盛、薦享之殷、樵牧之禁，冠於天下，其所由來舊矣。聖曆中微，官失其守，望拜之地，多所榛蕪。若乃真靈翔集、玄眖肸蠁，興復之蹟，必假異人。

(MSZ, p. 339)

Here, the source suggests that, over time, lapses in official oversight allowed Maoshan to suffer neglect. The passage mentions the necessity of “remarkable individuals” to reinvigorate the sacred site, showing how Daoists would partner with supportive individuals—sometimes officials, sometimes literati—in an effort to reclaim protective measures. By the early tenth century, figures like Wang Qixia exemplify that very pattern of literati support. The stele inscription titled “Stele on the Renewed Prohibition of the Mountain” 復禁山碑, with text written by Xu Xuan reads that by 905, Wang Qixia took concrete measures to protect Maoshan. He purchased encroached land, forbade logging, grazing, and burials. Wang planted trees, cleared overgrowth, and built altars and pavilions to restore the sacred landscape:

“Thus, from Liangchang Cave to Leiping Mountain—about ten li of land that had fallen under encroachment—he purchased it outright. No one was permitted to gather firewood or graze animals at will, nor to set up graves indiscriminately. He planted trees to cover the wilderness and set pines as a gateway; roads and bridges had to remain accessible, overgrowth had to be cut away. He built a square altar upon the summit of Leiping hill and a lofty pavilion in front of Liangchang grotto. By morning rites, there was a place for sincere devotion; for daily sojourning, a spot to rest one’s carriage. The old routes of Jiangba and the ancient domain of Qinwang regained a solemn clarity, as splendid again as the flourishing times of Kaiyuan and Tianbao era [during the Tang].”

於是由良常洞至雷平山，十里而近，入於萌隸者，盡購贖之。芻蕘不得輒至，墟墓不得雜處。藝樹蔽野，植松爲門，川梁必通，榛穢必剪。建方壇於雷平之上，造高亭於良常之前。朝修有致誠之地，遊居有稅駕之所。姜巴古陌，秦望舊封，肅然清光，復如開元、天寶之盛矣。

(MSZ, p. 339)

Wang Qixia’s personal initiative of “purchasing all the land from Changdong to Leiping Mountain” reveals that, in times when imperial or local official backing proved insufficient, Daoists and their benefactors have to fill the gap. In effect, they preserved Maoshan through private transactions and newly enforced prohibitions of grazing and logging. Shortly afterward, further inscriptions describe how Wang expanded restoration efforts, forging alliances with both local elites and officials. Elite patrons such as Prince Kang and Prince Liang contributed substantial funds, ensuring temples and palaces were swiftly rebuilt. The inscription stresses that collective support secured the mountain’s renewal:

In the past, there was a Lingbao Cloister on the right side of Ziyang; on the old foundations of the Transcendents’ Terrace, tall grasses had overgrown in abundance. The master [Wang Qixia] exhausted his resources to rebuild the halls anew. He spared no effort to ensure that it was built to perfection. No distance was too far for him [to travel for this purpose]. The Governor of Wuling, Prince Kang, donated one million coins, and the Prince Liang constructed a cluster of halls; all those who aspired to the Way assisted in this endeavor. Within less than a year, both new and old palaces were completed—entirely owing to the master’s exertions. In ancient times, Great Wei once summoned a carriage to Xiangcheng, and those in Gengsang were transformed—thus, when there is will to seek the Dao, however slight, appears, the response is as swift as an echo.”

先是，紫陽之右有靈寶院焉，真臺故基，鞠爲茂草。先生殫罄資用，克構殿堂。有開必先，無遠弗屆。都督武陵康王奉錢百萬，梁王造殿一區，向道之徒，咸助厥事，曾未周歲，惟新舊宮，皆先生之力也。昔大隗致襄城之駕，庚桑化畏垒之人，是知道心唯微，其應如響。

(MSZ, p. 340)

In this way, stewardship of Maoshan was not solely in the hands of Daoists but also hinged on collaborative relationships with lay officials and noble patrons. Another text, dating around 952, explains how Daoists of this period managed their affairs with utmost diligence and sincerity—further ensuring protective measures could be enacted or renewed. The stele inscription continues:

“At that time, there was a Daoist named Jing Ruoxu who worked in harmonious concert with like-minded persons. They guided and supported one another, managing their affairs with scrupulous diligence and responding to the world with heartfelt sincerity. Their accomplishments were faultless and thus highly commendable. The esteemed Master [Wang Qixia] ensured that in the summer of the Da Renzi year (952), he meticulously recorded the number of houses and the boundaries of properties, petitioning the court in the capital to enforce the prohibition in the counties by appointing Deng Qiyi as the supervisor of Maoshan. Once his tasks were completed, he passed away within a few days. It is said that he was then summoned by the immortals, though those unaware remained ignorant of the matter.”

時則有若道士經若虛，協規同志，是攝是贊，幹事以恪，感物以誠，績用不愆，斯實尤賴。先生以保大壬子歲夏四月，悉書夫屋室之數、疆畔所經，請命於京師，申禁於郡縣，以授茅山都監鄧君棲一。能事既畢，數日而化。期命玄應，昧者不知。

(MSZ, p. 340)

This passage reiterates that maintaining strict prohibitions relied on recording precise land boundaries and repeatedly petitioning the central government. Finally, the inscription also hints at the charismatic mystique surrounding revered individuals, like Wang, when it speaks of his departure as an immortal summons.

The next mention of such prohibition came again as an imperial edict in 1009 CE, titled Dazhongxiangfu chi Jinshan 大中祥符敕禁山 issued by Emperor Zhenzong 真宗 (968–1022, r. 997–1022) of the Song dynasty, related to Zhu Ziying 朱自英 (976–1029), Imperial Priest of Song (宋國師) (MSZ, pp. 76–77). The text reports that within Maoshan’s precincts, tree felling, firewood collection, and wildfires had become rampant, threatening both temples and forests. The state responded by framing Maoshan as both a site of divine presence (qishen zhisuo 棲神之所) and a field of blessings, and therefore in need of strict protection. Officials from Runzhou 潤州 and Shengzhou 昇州 were ordered to demarcate the mountain’s boundaries and ‘completely bar all persons from cutting trees or setting fires’.47 Enforcement relied on patrol officers, local elders, and able-bodied men who were to arrest offenders; penalties ranged from temporary detention to exile in severe cases. The edict also introduced controlled cutting and mandated replanting in deforested areas to prevent ecological decline, and required the text to be carved on steles at temples and roads so the prohibitions would be publicly known.

Taken as a whole, these stele inscriptions show a repeated pattern: when direct imperial protection faltered, Maoshan’s Daoist community turned to local officials, literati, and private patrons to safeguard the mountain’s ecological and sacred spaces. Notably, Wang Qixia’s purchase of land in 905 indicates that certain forms of land transactions (購贖) were already an established means of legally securing vast tracts of Maoshan’s territory, thereby substituting for lost or lapsed imperial edicts.

These edicts and prohibitions detail an evolving dynamic between religious authority and practical enforcement, balancing Daoist ideals with real-world demands. But how enduring was this synergy? As population pressures intensified and shifts in political control occurred after the Tang, new challenges arose. I now turn to the second millennium, where attempts at reforestation, combined with heightened resource extraction, would reshape the interplay of crane festivals, afforestation projects, and renewed habitat destruction.

8. Crane Festivals, Afforestation and Habitat Destruction: The Second Millenia (Eleventh to Twentieth Centuries)

If the first millennia at Maoshan witnessed the entrenchment of Daoist stewardship, the second millennia put its resilience to the test. From Song-dynasty references to crane festivals celebrated with fanfare, to the cataclysmic deforestation glimpsed in twentieth-century photographs, this era saw both the flourishing of new conservation efforts and the sobering limits of old prohibitions. As local officials, gentry, and Daoists alternately advanced or undermined protective measures, the mountain’s ecological fate hung in the balance.

The MSZ leaves limited information regarding the environment of Maoshan during the second millennium, especially about cranes. However, I have found one record on certain Crane Festival, mentioned during the Zhenghe 政和 period (1111–1118) during the reign of Huizong 徽宗 (1082–1135, r.1100–1126).

“On the eighteenth day of the third lunar month each year, Daoists from all directions gather to pay homage to Lord Mao. During the period of ritual fasting, white cranes are often seen circling overhead, and this event has thus come to be known as the ‘Crane Festival’”.

每歲三月十八日，四方道人畢集，禮謁茅君。齋時多有白鶴翔遶，因傳谓鶴會焉。

(MSZ, p. 270)

The MSZ does not tell us more about this festival, which is of significance for our current study. Nevertheless, there are abundant alternative textual sources to enrich our understanding of religious history of Maoshan during this period. One particular genre is the anomaly tales (zhiguai 志怪) (Campany 1996), from medieval China. A prime example of this genre is the Record of the Listener (Yijianzhi 夷堅志), compiled by Hong Mai 洪邁 (1123–1202) during the Southern Song dynasty (Inglis 2006). Hong Mai, who enjoyed a long official career and assembled several thousand short narratives documenting supernatural events, miracles, rituals, exorcisms, spirit encounters, and extraordinary phenomena. His work, presented in concise, independently titled anecdotes that typically emphasize factual details and cite his sources, is now recognized as a valuable historical resource that provides vivid insights into the religious practices, beliefs, and everyday life of the Southern Song dynasty (1127–1279).

Among the religious practices documented by Hong Mai, the pilgrimage to Maoshan, together with the aforementioned Crane Festival (hehui 鶴會), are featured in several narratives. The Record of the Listener provides rich details about pilgrims and their religious experiences associated with this annual event. One such narrative, dated to the twelfth year of the Shaoxing reign (1142), describes a Daoist adept Mei Xian’s 梅先 self-cultivation, his unusual dietary practices, and miraculous healing abilities, culminating in his profound experiences during the pilgrimage to Maoshan to attend the crane festival:

Record of the Listener, Jia series, juan 11, tale 18: “Mei Xian Encounters a Stranger”: “Mei was asked to go to Maoshan in Danyang, to join the crane festival in the third month. There is a cave on the mountain; common people who wish to enter must carry a torch, yet they cannot go more than a few dozen steps.”

夷堅甲志卷第十一十八事。梅先遇人。令往丹陽茅山。預三月鶴會。山有洞。常人欲入。須秉燭。然極不過數十步即止。

(Yijianzhi, Hong 1981, p. 91)

Another anecdote from 1153 narrates Qin Changling’s ominous experience during the crane festival, together with the supernatural signs predicting his untimely death later that year, underlining the belief in Maoshan as a powerful site for receiving prophetic insights:

Record of the Listener, Ding series, juan 6, tale 14: “A Maoshan Daoist”: “In the third month of the Guiyou year of Shaoxing, Qin went with his nephew Tun to attend the crane festival at Maoshan.”

夷堅丁志卷第六十四事。茅山道人。紹興癸酉三月。秦同其侄焞。詣茅山觀鶴會。

(Yijianzhi, Hong 1981, p. 588)

The final anecdote, dating from the Renwu year of Shaoxing (1162), involves a Daoist named Tian, whose persistent illnesses whenever he attempted to leave Maoshan convinced him that his destiny was tied to the mountain, leading him eventually to uncover a hidden site guarded by mystical animals and containing powerful medicinal cinnabar:

Record of the Listener, Ding series, juan 11, tale 14: “Daoist Tian”: “Each year in the third month, there would be a crane festival at Maoshan, which he wished to attend with his disciples, but something always came up to stop him. In the spring of the Renwu year, he finally managed to go.”

夷堅丁志卷第十一十四事。田道人。每歲三月。茅山鶴會。欲與其徒偕往。必有故而輟。紹興壬午之春。始獲一游。

(Yijianzhi, Hong 1981, p. 626)

These stories from the Record of the Listener collectively illustrate Maoshan’s significance as a sacred site where pilgrims sought self-cultivation, healing, and prophetic insight. The recurring mention of the crane festival highlights Maoshan’s enduring religious importance and the mountain’s symbolic connection with cranes, which represent immortality, longevity, and mystical experiences. Yet, as the centuries progressed, Maoshan’s role as a refuge, not only for the faithful, but also for the cranes and a host of other flora and fauna, began to face new challenges. Environmental pressures emerged alongside demographic growth, expanded agricultural practices, and the continual demand for timber. These shifts ushered in a period where Maoshan’s ecological integrity and religious significance became increasingly intertwined with broader societal transformations.

Moreover, the disappearance of cranes from the textual record in Maoshan sources after the first millennium might be explained by the marginalization of the roles played by shamans accompanied with intensified environmental pressures which led to eventual habitat destruction at Maoshan.48 Ecological degradation disrupts this relationship, causing spiritual and practical disconnection, which may account for the notable silence on cranes in later Maoshan texts.

After the Song, the more damaging activities seem to shifting to digging and mining for kilns, which requires a large amount of firewood from nearby mountain forests to sustain the operations of the kilns. In one study of deforestation in preindustrial China, with the Loess plateau region as an example, the authors observe that “firewood collection, charcoal making for heating in the winter, land reclamation, brick making and house construction, and natural disasters and long-term climate change played the most important roles in vegetation destruction in pre-industrial China” (Fang and Xie 1994).

During the Ming dynasty (1368–1644), various projects of afforestation are carried out during the restoration projects for the temples and monasteries in Maoshan. There exists a stele dated 1616 recounting a restoration of Abbey of the Primordial Origin (Qianyuanguan 亁元觀), one of the major Quanzhen Daoist monastery at Maoshan, by successive generations of Daoists. The inscriptions of this stele indirectly indicated the desolate status of the “luxuriant valley” (Yugang 鬱岡), located in between two Maoshan peaks during the sixteenth century. One of the Daoist, Jiang Benshi 江本寔 afforested this area by planting “tens of thousands of pine, cypress, peach, and apricot trees” to restore “the former splendor”:

“During the Bingxu year of the Wanli era, the Daoist Yan Xiyan came from Wudang mountain to look for a place to build a hermit and was impressed here; at that time, high officials and ministers, along with other Daoist enthusiasts in pursuit of the Dao, joined forces to reclaim the encroached land and construct a meditation chamber from which they could observe the Daoists from four distant places. His disciple, Jiang Benshi, then cleared the mountain of brambles and planted tens of thousands of pine, cypress, peach, and apricot trees, thereby restoring the former splendor of the luxuriant valley.”

萬曆丙戌中，道人閻希言自武當來胥宇而善之，一時公卿大夫慕道餐風者相與，協力歸其侵地，構靜室以瞻羽流之四轃者。其徒江本寔又翦山之荊棘雜植松栢桃杏以萬計，於是鬱岡之勝頓還舊觀。49

By the early twentieth century, photographic evidence and contemporary news reports reveal that Maoshan’s forests had grown sparse, with wide stretches of barren hillsides. Several photographs taken by Chu Minyi 褚民誼 in 1931 for the Tuhua shibao 圖畫時報 highlight this stark deforestation, underscoring just how drastically Maoshan’s once-wooded slopes had been depleted. Studies on the environmental history have shown a picture corresponds to the image of a completely barren Maoshan in the 1930s. Chen Chiao-Yi’s study on the environmental history of the forests of Kuaiji mountain (Kuaiji shan 會稽山) in Shaoxing (紹興) has shown that the increase in population since the Eastern Jin dynasty 東晉 (317–420) led to the complete cultivation of Shanhui plain (山會平原). Since Tang dynasty, tea began to be planted on the hillsides of the mountain. Followed by a succession of various crops including millet, bean and potato in the Song and Ming dynasty, which destroyed the forests of Kuaiji mountain. Increased population gained cultivated lands and developed cultivation; however, forestry, hunting, livestock breeding and some handicrafts which depended on the forest for raw materials and fuel supply were destroyed. Soil erosion was the main cause for the severe and frequent flood and drought since the Southern Song dynasty (C. Chen 1965).

Echoing these observations, Republican-era visitors lamented the mountain’s bleak appearance. One commentator faulted the local populace for neglecting to develop Maoshan’s seemingly fertile lower slopes:

“The most disappointing thing about visiting Maoshan is that there are no trees on the mountain and the mountains are so barren that there is nothing to see. We have now started to cultivate the woodland and found that the soil below the mountain is fertile and can be used for forestry, even for tree planting and wheat and beans. It is a pity that the mountain people are so lazy that they have always ignored such land.”

到茅山最為失望者，即滿山無樹，山崗濯濯，一覽無餘。茲林場已開始墾植，發現山下原隰，土壤肥沃，非但可以造林，即樹藝麥菽，亦未嘗不可。山民懶惰成性，一向棄而不用，豈不可惜歟？

(Shen 1935)

Such appraisals must be read in the context of early twentieth-century nation-building efforts, where modernization campaigns and press accounts often criticized local communities perceived as “backward” or “indolent”. Yet, despite these reproaches, there were organized attempts to restore Maoshan’s woodlands. As early as the 1910s, afforestation was proposed to mitigate flooding in the Taihu (太湖) region (Shenbao 1919). In the 1920s, Jiangsu Province established its “First Provincial Afforestation Farm” (江蘇省立第一造林場) (Shenbao 1928), and by 1935, official sources designated Maoshan as a forestry area. Contemporary newspapers indicate that 10,000 silver dollars were allocated for replanting initiatives (Shenbao 1935). One article vividly describes how thousands of local laborers were mobilized to clear and cultivate the mountain with an initial goal of planting seven million trees:

“On Nanzhen Street there is an office of the Jiangsu Provincial Forestry Bureau; this is because Maoshan has been designated as a forest farm this year. Currently, thousands of local laborers are being mobilized to clear and cultivate the mountain, with plans to initially plant seven million trees within this year and to gradually expand the project thereafter.”

南鎮街上有蘇省造林事務所辦事處，蓋因今年已劃茅山為林場，目下正集民伕千人，滿山開墾，預計本年內先植林木七百萬株，自後將逐漸推廣焉。

(Shen 1935)

These modern interventions illustrate how shifting governmental priorities could alter the mountain’s ecological fate—echoing the earlier imperial edicts that sought to harmonize local resource use with religious or civic ideals. In this instance, afforestation connected concerns about agriculture, environmental management, and social welfare, reinforcing a vision that Maoshan might again be “modeled” on harmonious interactions between human and natural systems.

Looking beyond reforestation, other aspects of Maoshan’s biodiversity have also drawn attention. Rare medicinal herbs and fauna,50 such as the Chinese giant salamander (Andrias davidianus), have long figured into local legends and Daoist discourses.51 While historical records frequently highlight the mountain’s avian symbolism, they equally hint at lesser-known instances of pilgrim visitors collecting exotic species, including small amphibians, as curios or alleged talismans. Such practices, though rarely recorded in detail, underscore the complexity of human–nature interactions at Maoshan: even as authorities promoted conservation or ritual purity, some travelers continued to exploit local wildlife for personal, medicinal, or commercial gain.

By the mid-twentieth century, Maoshan’s environment thus reflected a mosaic of older Daoist prohibitions, modern forestry initiatives, and ongoing debates around ecological responsibility. Despite considerable transformation since its early medieval heyday, the mountain remained a living stage where human ritual and non-human agencies shaped each other in tangible ways—consistent with broader discussions on modeling human societies after natural processes, a theme central to Daoist cosmology.

Maoshan thus arrived at the dawn of the twentieth century a shadow of its former self, with patchy forests, fewer crane sightings, and a shifting religious landscape. Yet, the threads of a centuries-long conversation on ecology and sanctity still persisted—some in afforestation campaigns, others in Daoist rites or personal convictions. In our final section, we bring these strands together, asking how Maoshan’s story informs the ongoing dialogue on religiously framed conservation, and what it might mean to “model” human lifeworlds on the rhythms of nature in an era of accelerating change.

9. Concluding Remarks

Anthropologists have long grappled with the nature–culture divide, especially when examining non-Western cosmologies. Philippe Descola’s influential work Beyond Nature and Culture challenged the old binary by proposing that different societies inhabit fundamentally different “ontologies,” or basic modes of identifying humans and non-humans. Rather than assume a single universal split between Nature (a realm of objects) and Culture (a realm of human meanings), Descola identified four archetypal modes of seeing the world: animism, totemism, analogism, and naturalism (Descola 2013). Stephan Feuchtwang praises Descola’s reach yet finds it “too ontological, too rigid, too ahistorical” for Chinese cosmologies (Feuchtwang 2014). Feuchtwang highlights frameworks in China which privilege dynamic cycles of transformation rather than fixed essences, and questions importing “ontology” (in the Western metaphysical sense) to China at all. Building on such critiques, William Matthews argues that classical Chinese correlative cosmology doesn’t neatly fit any of Descola’s four models and proposes “homologism”: a pattern assuming continuity of both interiority and physicality on a cosmic scale (a qi-suffused monism), the inverse of analogism and displacing totemism’s role. Under homologism, humans, animals, spirits, and forces participate in one immanent processual whole; resemblances are not arbitrary analogies but shared intrinsic relations (Matthews 2017, 2022).52

This study contributes rich historical evidence to these theoretical debates. By tracing the millennia-long interplay between Daoist religious practice at Maoshan and the life cycles of cranes, it shows how a Chinese religious tradition can collapse the nature–culture divide in practice. In Daoist cosmology, cranes are not merely animals; they are auspicious beings tied to immortality, celestial realms, and divine favor. Sources indicate that transcendents could appear as cranes or ride upon them. In Descola’s terms, this leans toward animism (attributing interiority to animals), yet Maoshan also situates these relations within seasonal cycles and celestial correspondences—a distinctly analogical trait. The result is a hybrid ontology: animistic intimacy (bird as transformed self or divine messenger) intertwined with analogical system-building (ritual calendars, prohibitions keyed to avian migration and agrarian time). This mixed, fluid configuration resonates with Feuchtwang’s warning against treating ontologies as rigid types.

The Maoshan case also provides a concrete example in support of Matthews’s study on homologism. The community’s ritual calendar is literally patterned after cranes’ movements: cranes arrive before the Lunar New Year and depart by early spring; festivals, taboos, and offerings track that rhythm. Physical presence (migratory timing) and interior significance (bearers of auspicious qi, embodiments of transcendents) cohere as one temporal regime. This synchronization of ritual with animal behavior offers a concrete alternative to the Western nature/culture binary. Rather than “Nature” as backdrop and “Culture” as imposition, Maoshan displays a feedback loop: nature’s rhythms structure ritual, and ritual structures human impacts on nature. For centuries, when cranes gathered (and pilgrims ascended), hunting, burning, and logging were restrained—supported by imperial and local edicts. Here cosmology functions as environmental governance, advancing calls to move beyond the trope of culture dominating nature. Culture (ritual, taboo, law) works with and through nature’s signals.

The millennia-long history of Maoshan—an interweaving of crane symbolism, Daoist worship, local stewardship, and ecological upheavals—also reveals how intimately religiosity and the environment can co-evolve and the fragility of this accord. When environmental conditions shifted (deforestation, species decline, climate variability) or social conditions changed (war, market pressures, altered imperial priorities), crane migrations faltered, and practices endured and adapted. Ontologies are not timeless essences but historically maintained formations.

This final section revisits the main questions posed at the outset: Can rituals grounded in avian migrations guide communal resource use? Do these once-stable rhythms hold lessons for contemporary environmental volatility? And might the lore of Maoshan’s immortals prompt fresh thinking on the Anthropocene crisis? I have examined in this study a variety of primary sources starting from early references to crane behavior, which inspired the Daoist lore of transformations of immortals into crane, followed by institutionalized pilgrimage seasons, to imperial and local prohibitions on hunting and deforestation in later periods. Through the early textual codification of a pilgrimage period aligned with the cranes’ migratory cycles and other natural rhythms, Maoshan Daoists created a ritual timetable that endured for over two thousand years. Such scheduling was also reinforced by imperial prohibitions on harming wildlife in the following periods. Natural avian rhythms guided human activity, until increasing environmental instability eventually forced these traditions to adapt.

From this perspective, modeling a religious tradition on avian movements was never static. Instead, for the Maoshan Daoists, it constituted a dynamic reconfiguration of local knowledge, ritual practice, and relied to a large extent imperial authority, protection and patronage. These findings address the concerns raised in the introduction: first, they confirm that religious networks, like the annual pilgrimage by members of the cult of the Three Mao Lords, actively regulated resource extraction through seasonal pilgrimages, and institutional reinforcement of imperial prohibitions and to certain degree, moral codes. Daoist discourses on the sacred time (Eliade 1954, 1959) at Maoshan thus effectively functioned as rudimentary environmental management systems in traditional China. Second, the data complicate the notion that Daoist ecological practices represented an unchanging or purely symbolic or philosophical heritage. There are certainly abundant textual elements within Daoist classics such as Daode jing 道德經 or Zhuangzi 莊子 which advocate the preservation of the natural state of all things. Yet, regulatory measures—ranging from imperial edicts to communal reforestation endeavors—evolved in response to new environmental pressures, be they demographic growth or shifting land rights, demonstrate the flexibility of Daoist environmental thought and practice.

Equally significant, this study highlights how cranes operated not only as aesthetic motifs but also as “a catalyst for the tempering of this foundational human link” (Bello and Burton-Rose 2023, p. xviii) that structured pilgrimage seasons and thus provided a framework to balance religiosity, economy and ecology at Maoshan. By moving the avian species to the center of analysis, we confront a more profound question central to animal humanities, as Ewa Domańska inquires, “can we imagine a knowledge of the past…that would be based on multispecies co-authorship?” (Domańska 2017). From early on, birds like cranes were seen as mediators between heaven and earth. Over time, this general bird veneration at Maoshan crystallized into a special reverence for cranes: in Shangqing Daoist lore, cranes were not merely immortals’ mounts but could embody the immortals themselves, capable of ferrying practitioners to the heavens or even transforming from a Daoist adept. By the Tang era, imagery more often showed human-shaped transcendents riding on cranes, yet the cranes’ seasonal migrations continued to set the pace of Maoshan’s pilgrimage rituals. This enduring bird-centered cosmology helped the Three Mao Lords cult to flourish through the first millennium CE (Schafer 1983). Notably, spiritual mandates and imperial policy reinforced one another: Daoist injunctions to protect sacred cranes dovetailed with court edicts forbidding hunting and deforestation around Maoshan, especially after the mountain’s designation as an official Daoist grotto-heaven 洞天福地 within Daoist sacred geography developed by Du Guangting in the 10th century (Verellen 1989; Gesterkamp 2017). In practice, the sanctification of cranes thus had tangible ecological effects by curbing over-exploitation of local fauna and flora. By situating cranes as active participants in cosmic and communal life rather than as wholly separate beings, the Daoist tradition at Maoshan underscores the potential of religious practices to collapse the boundary between human and animal realms.

Indeed, these findings resonate with the introduction’s broader query regarding climate uncertainty and biodiversity collapse in contemporary contexts. The Maoshan model arose under conditions that presumed predictable migratory cycles and agrarian seasons. At the same time, this study demonstrates the fragility of such “modeling” processes once the underlying ecological rhythms begin to shift. It’s evident that a mutually beneficial relation between human species and non-human species proved precarious, as religious and imperial authority, especially that of the social structures, frequently changed. Meanwhile, as the environment becomes more erratic—through deforestation, industrialization, climate change (Brook 2023), war or famine caused by natural disasters (Will 1990)—this often led to intensified land use and resource extraction led to profound environmental pressures. Cranes, these once-stable referents may well lose their predictive power, requiring communities to reinterpret time-honored customs in response to emerging realities in the absence of the cues of migratory birds. In such moments, symbolism persists even when its living touchstone is gone—often giving rise to ecological nostalgia, a longing idealization of former natural rhythms, or even to imaginative substitutes for the missing cranes. This outcome highlights how fragile the protective effects of religious norms could be without robust, durable institutions to recalibrate those norms.

From early temple inscriptions celebrating white swans and cranes, through the multi-month pilgrimage season aligned with natural cycles, to the repeated imperial and local decrees aimed at preserving wildlife and forests, Maoshan’s history underscores the delicate relationship of religious aspiration and ecological reality. Even as Maoshan’s environment has been altered by intense exploitation and modern transformations, the mountain’s religious heritage continues to inspire a vision of living “in tune” with nature. At the same time, however, the surge of pilgrims and temple activities driven by that heritage can strain the mountain’s ecosystems. In practice, spiritual aspiration and ecological preservation exist in a dynamic tension at Maoshan. What emerges is not a neat blueprint but a testament to the potential of religiously anchored practices to nurture biodiversity and resilience. Maoshan’s story, in short, challenges us to reimagine how cultural traditions might serve as scaffolds for a more sustainable future—one in which human and non-human agencies alike find their place within a single, unified, and harmonious web of life, rather than standing apart in separate worlds.