White snow blankets the mountains and streams everywhere. Hikers who enjoy snow-scapes Are climbing up a path piled knee-deep in snow.
I cannot see the path, but following their footprints, I climb higher and higher. My whole body sweats, and it trickles down my forehead. After the snowfall a cold wind blows, scattering the fallen snow; Piled atop the branches it looks like lovely snow flowers. Bend after bend, we wind up and up, And after hours of panting and puffing My whole body is wringing wet with perspiration And my drenched underwear feels cold. Near the summit, the tress are no longer tall But short and scrawny, with snow-blossoms on their branches. The sight is truly magnificent. The summit looks close, and I climb towards it Many are already there calling out, “Hooray!” Expressing the joy of having reached the top to their heart’s content. Everyone is happy and relaxed. Even though it is cold and the temperature is below freezing, People are gathered in groups here and there, Basking in the happiness that only those Who have hiked to the top of this mountain can feel – No one else can know the feeling of this moment. It is so cold that some drink a shot of soju; Some students have already had a shot or two on the way up. One among them has become so drunk, His eyes are bleary and his legs have given way. The other students cannot carry him down So I, and several others, take turns and carry him on our backs And climb down the slippery, rugged mountain. I put him down at a mountain temple And tell them to give him some sugar water. As I turn to leave silently, they ask for my address, But I tell them it is ok, and slip quietly away. It is a big mountain; Even after many bends I am still in the mountain valley. Only those who have been here Would know how my whole body feels. In the gorges and valleys There are cottages scattered sparsely. They are old, worn, and look so shabby. It seems the tenant farmers who cultivate the terraced fields Have difficulty making ends meet, For the clothes they wear in the cold weather are worn and tattered; They look so poor. The stream flows on under the ice. After a long walk down, I reach the parking lot. I drop by the tavern and order a bowl of makgeolli And some fish-cake soup; I doubt there is anyone who knows how good they taste! I do not get drunk, even though I drink more than usual, I just feel good, perhaps because my body feels good. Pleasantly tipsy, I head home. As I gaze upon the falling snow here in New York And the snow flowering on the branches, Those days when I freely hiked up and down mountains Have all turned into longing – I do not know If I will ever be able to hike here and there as I used to. With the thought that I may never have those moments again, Whether it be because of old age or lack of time, My longing grows.
A Mountain Hike In Winter
