The sun was so low that it was almost hidden behind the flank of the mountain as I staggered down the trail. Only a scant few rays slithered between the trees, leaving most of the path down in shadow. Tricky footing, but I had to hurry, since I wanted to make it to the bottom and get back to town before dark.
But it was hard going.
I was probably overexerting myself on this one. It was early Saturday evening. I had spent most of the day at rehearsal – which, of course, any theater geek can tell you is draining by itself – then had come out here before dinner. I had a few hours of daylight left – about 4 – which seemed like enough, if I pushed myself, to accomplish my task.
I had come to Mudeungsan intent on finding the top, but the intricate network of trails (all marked mostly in Korean) had defeated me on three consecutive attempts – including this one. I had forged quickly past the ajummas and ajassis in their climbing gear, then hit the stairs and steep, boulder-lined pathways winding up the flank of the mountain. I was quickly blown, but even though I’m a damnfool, I am at the very least a stubborn damnfool, so I kept at it, letting the long legs God saw fit to grace me with eat up the distance, until I reached – well, not the peak, but certainly a peak.
My legs were stiff and weary, I was out of breath, and, again, because I am an idiot, I hadn’t brought enough water. But the light was starting to go and coming down the mountain in the dark was not going to be a pleasant experience, so I resolved to tackle the descent and then recover with some dinner afterwards.
This was likely a mistake.
The shadows were already growing long, and the path was narrow and, perversely, just as steep going down as it had been coming up. Imagine the cheek! My breath came short, my swollen tongue clung to the roof of my mouth, and in general I was not having a good time.
Good view from the top, though.
So it was that, tired, sweaty, and maybe crying just a little bit (although I’ll never admit it if I was), I staggered down the trail and into the courtyard of a small Buddhist temple that lies near the base of the mountain. It was your typical little Korean Buddhist mountain sanctuary: three buildings – barracks, temple, kitchen – arrayed around a central courtyard and a small stone pagoda. A handful of Koreans were walking around the grounds, visiting. Most importantly, though, I saw a small stone bench next to the main temple. Eternally grateful for the great, I stumbled over to it and sank down.
While I sat there and just sort of panted and concentrated on continuing to exist for a bit, a middle-aged Korean man with a shaved head and the simple blue habit of a monk emerged from the kitchen and glanced over at me for a moment before vanishing back inside. I dully watched him go, too drained to really be curious.
A few minutes later, he emerged again and walked over to me. In his hands were two steaming mugs. Without a word, he sat down on the bench next to me and handed over one of the mugs. The steam carried the scents of mint and other herbs from the tea to my nostrils. I held the mug up to him in acknowledgement, then sipped.
For fifteen minutes we sat there, we two, with our tea, watching the world go by. The sun got a bit lower. The evening breeze got a bit cooler. The crowd got a bit thinner. And my spirits a bit stronger.
Then the tea was done, and so was the moment. I stood up, nodded farewell, and stepped off back to the mountain and the rest of the world.
Neither one of us ever said a word to each other in the whole encounter.
But I think we communicated just fine.
Gwangju Dreaming 