Gyeyang by Moonlight

The sun set hours ago; the mountain is a silent, dark shadow against the haze of sky-glow, unnoticed by the masses of young people moving through the city on this weekend evening. I make my way to the base, adjust my hiking poles, strap on my newly-purchased headlamp, and begin my ascent. The air is cool, but heavy and humid. It reminds me of my childhood on Brier Island; damp and foggy. I am surprised by the amount of light; the headlamp proves largely unnecessary for the climb. Five minutes in, I hear two hikers coming toward me; I am delighted. One can speak English and tells me of Korea's number one mountain: Sorak. I repeat it over and over so that I can look it up later. The two men say good-bye and I continue on.

There is no breeze tonight. The crescent moon hangs low over the peak, its glow softened by the mist. Every now and again I pause to see if I can hear other hikers, but nothing moves. The higher I go, the quieter it gets. Or should I say, the more the sounds of the city merge into a background hum. I feel as though all below has become a collective; one breathing, thinking, glowing entity. I pause often to take in the clusters and lines of tiny bulbs and large black shadows that I know are mountains and fields. Massive highways dotted by parallel rows of twinkling, orange lights snake away into the distance, often rising toward the heavens before disappearing. What funny things we are...creating our own dirty haze to mimic the sun, shutting out the gentle light of the stars and moon.

I do not meet another hiker. The summit is lovely and breezy and refreshing. I look toward Seoul, toward North Korea, toward Incheon, toward the sea. It is pleasant to be here alone. I would like to stay, but time is getting on. The descent is slightly trickier and I am glad for my poles and lamp. I leave this familiar mass of rock, dirt, trees, and sleeping birds and head for home, happy.