Mount Palkong

Mr. Nam called me on Saturday morning. “We will still go to Mt. Palkong tomorrow, yes?” Yes, of course. I’ll meet you in front of DongA at 10:30. Bye! Bye!

Sunday morning I was in front of Dong A, trying to read street signs in Korean. Sounding out letters, putting together syllables, trying to piece together words. Mr. Nam appeared. “Hello, how are you?” Fine, thank you, and you? “Very well.” Let’s go.

We drove about 45 minutes to the outskirts of Daegu to Palgongsan Park. As we got out of the car, I noticed it was snowing. It had been beautiful and sunny at my apartment. Oh. I hate to be cold. Well, I thought, maybe as I start hiking I’ll warm up. We started up the mountain. For as tiny as he is, Mr. Nam can move. He was jetting up the mountain. Springing from rock to rock. I’m not one to be outdone. Or to ask someone to make accomodations for me. So I sprung as well. And tried not to breathe too heavily as I was doing it. About a fourth of the way up the mountain, Mr. Nam asked me if I would like to stop and take a rest. “No, no, no. Let’s keep going.” He said, “I think you have very healthy legs. And lungs. I think you are very strong.” Okay – so at least I was keeping up good appearances.

The park was beautiful. Even in the dead of winter. Pine trees for as far as the eye could see. And not the tall, straight pine trees I’m accustomed to. Beautiful, twisting, knotty pine trees. My eyes followed the wide, grooved trunk up and counted as the trunk split into one, two, three, four, five new trees. Which then branched out into a canopy of green needles and small, prickly pine cones. It was the closest thing to a giant bonsai I’ve ever seen. But there wasn’t just one. But thousands. And babbling brooks. With icicles where there once were flowing waterfalls. The thing that struck me the most was that everything appeared to be natural. Even though this was a national park, it didn’t appear that a trail had been forged by officials, but worn naturally by the thousands of people who had trekked it over the years. It wasn’t an easy trail, either. Lots of steep, stone inclines. Winding around trees. Jumping on stones over streams. But there were so many people hiking. Young children, maybe 3 or 4 years old. Teenagers, families, elderly people. But not another non-Korean. I’ve almost gotten used to the stares. Almost, but not quite. Most of the time I meet the stare with a big smile and a greeting in Korean. Other times I simply shift my eyes to the ground and pretend not to notice.

It took us about 2 1/2 hours to reach the peak. The final ascent was marked by 99 stairs. As we started up them, Mr. Nam told me to count. I did. At the top he asked me how many stairs I counted. I told him only 98. “I think you missed one.” Fortunately he didn’t make me start over from the bottom. The summit was so crowded. All the pilgrims enjoying the view. Some partaking of a picnic of hot ramen and kimbop (Korean sushi rolls). Others yodeling. Sort of. Not the Swiss Alpine, Sound of Music variety of yodeling. The Korean version. What sounded almost like “Yahoo!” but more like “Ya-hoe!” To me it sounded like the refrain of a bad rap song.

Mr. Nam and I found a remote overlook and he pointed out all the other mountains surrounding Daegu. So beautiful. And so cold. We started back down after a couple of minutes of reflection at the summit. We had gotten partway down when he said, “Follow me over this fence.” The man loves to leave the trail. We crunched through virgin snow, our boots sinking deeper and deeper. After a few minutes, he said, “Here.” The perfect picnic rock. Just the right height to sit on. And large and level. We sharedbean sprout soup his wife had made, kimbop, and tangelos. By the end of the short lunch my hands were numb. I tried blowing on them, sitting on them, folding them under my arms. Nothing would warm them. Mr. Nam noticed what I was doing. “Are you alright?” Yes, just a little cold. “You are very pink. Are you sure you are okay?” Yes. I turn this color when I get cold. “Really?” Yes, really.

Once we reached the car, Mr. Nam immediately left me. He said he wanted instant coffee and would be right back. A few minutes later, he returned empty-handed. Or so I thought. When he arrived to the car, he pulled two cans of coffee from his pockets. Steaming hot, sweet, milky coffee in a can. In a can. What will they think of next? And it was good.

As we started driving, his phone rang. It was his daughter, Yae Hwang. “Why have you been gone so long? I want to see Rori Teacher.” Upon our arrival back to Daegu, we swung by his apartment and picked her up. The epitome of little girl. Soft, fluffy, pink furry jacket with two pompoms for ties. Perky black pigtails. A never-ending, high-pitched giggle. We exhausted our conversational ability in about two minutes, between her limited knowledge of English and mine of Korean. Fortunately Mr. Nam was an enthusiastic translator. We ate dinner together at the Japanese restaurant atop DongA. After dinner we strolled through the pet section of the department store. Yae Hwang wants a pet so badly. So badly. But she has asthma. We oohed and aahed over the bunny rabbits, the turtles, the sleeping hamsters. Yae Hwang commented the hamsters were always sleeping when she came to visit. I pointed to her nose and started to say, “Sleepy-heads – just like you!” and at the exact same moment she pointed to me and squealed, “Sleepy-head!” We both giggled uncontrollably.

As much as I enjoy teaching, I didn’t want to leave the Nams to teach class. It had been such a good Sunday; I didn’t want it to end.