Then suddenly his travels brought him to the Western Ocean, and he thought to himself that beyond the sea there must surely be immortals.

The reasoning is charmingly simple: no immortals here, so they must be over the water. 忽行至 is "suddenly came to" (行 here xíng, to travel), and 海外 is "beyond the sea." He is about to make a second ocean crossing on the strength of a hunch.

All alone he made a raft as before, drifted across the western sea, and came at last to the land of the Western Continent of Aparagodānīya.

獨自個 is "all by himself," with 個 working here as a light closing word rather than its usual "a, one," and 依前作栰 is "made a raft as before" — phrasing that deliberately echoes his first departure. He reaches 西牛賀洲 (Aparagodānīya, the Western Continent), the third of the four he will have touched, and the one where the master actually lives.

Going ashore, he searched all about for a long while, until he caught sight of a tall and lovely mountain, its forested slopes deep and still.

遍訪多時 is searching everywhere for a long while (遍 biàn). Then 林麓 (麓 is the wooded foot of a mountain) 幽深, deep and still — three words that change the weather of the story. After a decade of market towns we are back among trees.

Fearing neither wolves nor beasts, neither tigers nor leopards, he climbed to the summit to look about. It was indeed a fine mountain:

He fears neither wolves nor tigers, which is worth saying only because a man would. (Watch 不 take its bú tone before the falling tones of both 怕 and 懼.) 果是好山, "it really is a fine mountain," is the storyteller's cue for the 賦 that follows.

A thousand peaks arrayed like halberds, ten-thousand-fathom cliffs spread like a screen.

The mountain-賦 opens with weapons and furniture: peaks ranged like halberds (戟 jǐ; 維基文庫 reads 排, "arrayed," against 列 in some editions), cliffs spread like a folding screen (仞 rèn, a measure of about eight 尺, chǐ). Sharp and vertical — nothing at all like the round green mountain he came from.

Sunlight on the mountain haze softly locks in the green; the rain clears, and the dark blue coldly holds its azure.

嵐光 is the glow of mountain mist; 黛色 is the dark blue-green of distant peaks, named for 黛, the pigment women once used to paint their eyebrows. Sun does one thing to that colour and rain does another, and the couplet gives you both weathers at once.

Lean vines twine the ancient trees; an old ford marks a hidden trail.

瘦籐纏老樹, lean vines twisting round old trees (籐 is the 維基文庫 form of 藤, used again below). 古渡界幽程 — an ancient ford marking off a hidden path (界 jiè, here "to bound"; 程 a route). Somebody has come this way before, a long time ago.

Rare flowers and auspicious herbs, tall bamboo and lofty pines —

Four things named — rare flowers, lucky herbs, tall bamboo, high pines (修 long, 喬 high). The next two lines pick the pairs back up in reverse order and expand them, a favourite move of the 賦: state, then amplify.

tall bamboo and lofty pines, ten thousand years evergreen, putting a blessed land to shame;

The pines and bamboo are 萬載常青, ten thousand years evergreen (載 zǎi, "year"), and they 欺 — outdo, put to shame — a 福地, a blessed land. Remember that the monkey's own cave was labelled a 福地 on its tablet. This mountain is being rated higher.

rare flowers and auspicious herbs, unfading through the four seasons, rivalling Penglai and Yingzhou.

And the flowers never fade in any season, 賽蓬瀛 — a match for 蓬萊 and 瀛洲, the legendary islands of the immortals that emperors sent fleets out to find and never did. The 賦 is quietly certifying the address. (不 takes its bú tone before 謝.)

The cries of secluded birds sound near; the spring at its source gurgles clear.

After all the grandeur, two small sounds close at hand: a bird calling, and water running clear where it rises (溜 liù, to flow in a stream). The poem has come in from the skyline to arm's reach.

Fold upon fold of valleys girt with iris and orchid; everywhere sheer cliffs where moss and lichen grow.

重重谷壑, fold upon fold of valleys (重 chóng, 壑 a ravine), and 處處巉崖, sheer cliffs everywhere (巉 chán, precipitous) — all of it hung with iris, orchid, moss and lichen (苔蘚).

The rise and fall of the ridge-tops — the dragon-veins are good: surely some lofty man dwells here, his name unknown.

And there is the punchline. 龍脈 are the geomantic "dragon-veins," the lines of energy a landscape carries along its ridges, and here they run true (巒 luán, a peak). From which the poem draws the obvious conclusion: 必有高人隱姓名, "there must be a great man here, keeping his name hidden." The land itself is advertising the master. Twenty-odd lines of scenery turn out to have been directions.

Just as he was gazing, he suddenly heard voices deep in the woods.

正觀看間 is "just as he was looking" (間 here "in the midst of"). The voices come from 林深之處, deep in the wood — the master's neighbourhood, though the monkey does not know it yet.

Hurrying his steps, he pressed into the forest, cocked his ear, and listened — it turned out to be the sound of singing. The song went:

急忙趨步 is hurrying his steps (趨 qū, the 維基文庫 form, against 趍 elsewhere); 側耳而聽 is cocking an ear. Note the form of what he hears: 歌曰 introduces a 詞, a lyric written to fit an existing tune, not a 賦. The tune's name, 滿庭芳, comes later — from the singer himself.

Watching a game of go till the axe-haft rots, felling trees with a chop and a chop, ambling by the clouds at the valley's mouth;

The song opens with a legend every reader knew. A woodcutter called Wáng Zhì (王質) stopped to watch two immortals at a board game; when he got up, the handle of his axe had rotted away and an age had gone by in the village below. 觀棋柯爛, "watching the game till the axe-haft rots," is China's Rip Van Winkle, and exactly the right opening for a song about time and letting go. 伐木丁丁 reads 丁丁 as zhēng zhēng, the ring of an axe — a sound-word lifted from the Book of Songs — not dīng dīng. 徐行 is to walk without hurrying.

selling firewood, buying wine, laughing wild and pleasing himself.

Sell the firewood, buy the wine, laugh out loud and please yourself (薪 xīn, firewood; 沽 gū, to deal in drink; 陶 táo, to take delight). The whole economy of the song is in one line. He turns a day's work straight into a good evening and keeps nothing back.

The green path, autumn high, he faces the moon; pillowed on a pine root, he sleeps one sleep till dawn.

蒼逕 is the green path (逕 = 徑). And 一覺天明 reads 覺 as jiào — the measure word for a stretch of sleep, "one sleep straight through to daylight" — not jué, "awareness." Pillowed on a pine root under an autumn moon, and out until dawn.

He knows his old wood again; climbing crags, crossing ridges, axe in hand he cuts the dead vines.

He knows his own wood by sight: 認舊林. Then the verbs of a working day — climbing crags, crossing ridges, axe in hand cutting away the dead vines (斧 fǔ; 籐 again the 維基文庫 form of 藤).

Gathered into a single load, he sings on his way to market and barters it for three shēng of rice.

一擔 is one shoulder-pole load, with 擔 as the noun dàn — compare the verb dān, to carry, in the next passage. He sings on the way to market and swaps the lot for 三升, three 升 of rice (易 yì, to exchange; the measure is left untranslated). A whole day's labour, and the wage would fit in a bowl.

Not the least haggling, the market price fair and even;

些子 is a colloquial "a bit," so 更無些子爭競 is "not a scrap of haggling" (競 jìng, to contend). He takes 時價, the going rate, and does not argue. In a chapter that has just shown men clawing at each other for advantage, this is the answering note.

he knows no scheming or cunning reckoning — no glory, no disgrace — calm and plain, he lengthens out his life.

機謀巧算 is scheming and clever reckoning, and he has none of it (不 in its bú tone before 會). No glory and no disgrace either, since he is playing no game that offers either. 恬淡 is the Daoist ideal of unruffled plainness and 延生 is to lengthen your life: the song is claiming that living calmly is a longevity practice. That claim is exactly why the monkey is about to make a fool of himself.

Wherever he meets a man, if not an immortal then a Daoist, sitting in stillness expounding the Yellow Court.

The line that does the damage. Everyone the singer meets is "if not an immortal, then a Daoist," and they sit still together expounding the 《黃庭》 — the Huangting jing, a foundational Daoist scripture on meditation and the spirits that inhabit the body (相 here xiāng, "each other"; 即 jí, "then"). To a monkey who has spent nine years hunting immortals, this is not a poetic flourish. It is a lead.