Three Gorges: A River Runs Through It, for Better or Worse

"For someone who's never been before, they're still pretty stunning," Chetham said.

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The highlight of the trip came on the second day, when we took a side trip to an area known as the Lesser Three Gorges. In a driving rain, we boarded a small ferry to putter up the emerald Shennong Stream, between mountain walls lush with green bamboo bushes, leafy trees and a sprinkling of yellow flowers.

Mist swirled around the cliffs, as in an old Chinese landscape painting.

As the water got shallower, we switched to small wooden craft called peapod boats, resembling wide canoes. Powering them were short, sinewy men in shorts -- the storied Boatmen of Shennong, who had pulled boats through the clear, rapids-filled water for centuries, traditionally without the benefit of clothing. Thrusting their oars in the water, the men looked like wizards in their pointy-hooded rain ponchos.

Despite the boats' makeshift blue tarp roofs, we quickly became soaked. But we became almost giddy as we retreated further and further into a quiet, green-tinged world. We finally had the river to ourselves, with just the occasional farmer gliding by in a sampan. And for once, the air was fragrant and clear.

"There's no pollution" in the tributary, said our guide, a member of the Tujia ethnic group and a resident of the area. She gestured to the water. "If you wash your face, you may become younger and more beautiful."

As the water level dropped to about a foot, our boat scraped onto a patch of rocks, and passengers remained in the vessel as the boatmen disembarked to pull it with a long bamboo rope. As they strained forward, the line suddenly snapped, sending our little boat pitching violently backward.

The men splashed over and tried again with a nylon rope. Wrapping it around their torsos, they heaved forward, muscles bulging, an ancient image of life on the river. Finally, we slid over the stones.

Boatmen and passengers whooped and laughed with relief.

As we headed back to our cruise ship, one of our boatmen began to sing a traditional, haunting melody in the local language. His reedy voice carried along the river, silent except for the rhythmic whoosh of oars. It seemed we had caught a glimpse of the old China so rapidly being obscured by modernization.

And then I realized that, unlike his colleagues, the 58-year-old boatman wasn't wearing a typical straw hat under his rain poncho.

He sported a Yankees cap.

Mary Beth Sheridan is a reporter on The Post's Metro staff. Researcher Rena Kirsch contributed to this article.