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It is said that "the water buffalo of Wu pants at the moon" and "the dogs of Shu bark at the sun." However, unless one has personally visited those places, one cannot recognize the fallacies in these sayings. Kuizhou and Wushan are the eastern gateways to Ba. Guizhou of Chu reaches here, a journey of seven hundred li, traversing the dangers of the Three Gorges, specifically Qutang Gorge and the Yanyu Reef. The Yangtze River is narrow like a sash, with raging waves surging angrily, almost shaking one's heart and eyes. On both banks, cliffs block the river; black apes howl at night. A thousand peaks pierce the clouds, making even broad daylight seem gloomy and overcast. Morning brings clouds, evening brings rain, vast and boundless, indistinguishable by day or night. A sliver of sky reveals faint light, appearing and disappearing intermittently. It happens to be the golden autumn season, where the crisp air divides heaven and earth equally. Leaves fall, the sky is high, and misty vapors are clean on all sides. At the height of noon or the depth of midnight, the sun and moon cast their radiance, reflecting against the treetops. The moon may be large as a winnowing basket, small as a fist, long as a bamboo pole, or short as a chi (ruler). Looking up at the heights of a thousand ren, the moonlight seems present yet elusive. The people of Ba say, "It is seen only two or three times a year. When it appears, a group of dogs gathers and barks at it." Only when the solitary shadow flees in alarm does the noise cease. Soon after setting sail out of the gorge, one feels relieved; the sky opens up like a window, the surroundings become clear and audible, and no more strange events of "barking at the sun" occur. Subsequently, ascending to Yuzhou and entering Jinguan City (Chengdu), known as the ancient Heavenly Prefecture, with fertile plains and flat land. Gazing into the distance, the scene is ethereal, the landscape is vast, the spirit is joyful, and the mind is open. One often contemplates the vicissitudes of millennia, whistling while lying down, using the stone pillow of the Thatched Cottage as support, continuing the brushwork of reaching the clouds, watching birds play among the paulownia flowers like phoenixes, crows smearing letters on the waves like maidens' notes. Punting far on the Jinjiang River, gazing at Mount Qingcheng, the green waves and emerald hues feed my poetic inspiration. One cannot help but feel floating, as if desiring to become an immortal. Recalling past events, they appear vaguely, leading to a sigh that proverbs lack detail. I now correct its name to "dogs of the gorge barking at the sun." The *Neijing* (Inner Canon) and other classics are the ancestral traditions for ten thousand generations. Mr. Lizhai (Xue Ji) is the successor who inherited the great achievements of the sages. The *Neijing* and Mr. Lizhai's works are like the sun and moon in the mid-heavens. The various schools of thought are merely scattered lights. Since the *Neijing*, there has been none greater than Mr. Lizhai. It is strange that doctors in remote areas and current trends only follow biased techniques and minor methods, instead slandering orthodox learning and the Great Dao. They merely know of the lights but do not recognize the sun and moon. Those who slander Mr. Lizhai are like dogs barking at the sun and moon. I set forth this metaphor not to vent for the sun and moon, but specifically to broaden the knowledge of ignorant practitioners.