The goal was two in one day. I had done some tough hikes but hadn’t yet attempted two trails in a 24 hour span. Early on in the 48 endeavor I had flagged on my map that the Osceolas and Moosilauke trail heads were a short drive apart. I decided to tackle them back to back.
Both trails sprouted from Tripoli road, a seasonal mostly dirt obstacle course of punishing potholes that could wreck a lesser car. Luckily, I drive a Subaru.
I made my usual late start and arrived to a packed Osceola parking lot. Finding a spot on the side of the road, I began my ascent. The pre-hike details were beginning to feel more automatic, and the mental checklist wasn’t such a chore. A routine was developing and bringing with it confidence. Food, check, poles, check, coat, check, etc.
The climb up Osceola was a pleasant one. The usual roots and rocks, but my body was beginning to respond. My legs had no trouble winding their way around the traps that came up in the trail. There was a new bendiness to them as they contorted and chopped their way up the trail.
At the summit I was greeted with the reason for the full parking lot. A crowd of people was milling at the top, a mix of larger and smaller groups. A crowd of teenage boys postured and joked, flexing for photos. Some more reflective hikers chewed granola bars with pensive looks into the distance. The reason for the popularity was apparent–some of the more panoramic and stunning views enveloped the summit. But the crowd wasn’t my scene so I quickly moved onto the east peak.
A hundred feet down the trail I regained solitude and took in more amazing views. Breathing a sigh of relief, I embarked onto a mile-long torture-fest to the east peak.
After some of the more gnarly scrambles that I had encountered, I arrived at an underwhelming pile of rocks that marked the peak. I sucked down a gel and turned around, making my way back to the main summit.
The Osceola descent was a nice one. By the time I got back to the main peak, the crowds had dispersed and I paused to take it in. But I had another mountain to climb so pried myself away and hurried down the trail. I regained an old speed on the descent that I hadn’t felt for a few years. With a mile to go, I caught up with the teenagers. Their pubescent competition kicked in as I caught them and one tried to race. I turned on the jets and coasted back to my trusty Subaru steed, climbed in, and made the quick drive to the Tecumseh trailhead.
I began the second ascent around 3:00. A few hikers debriefed in the empty lot about the trail. They exchanged stories about a man that they had encountered dressed in green on the trail. I pocketed the soundbites away and quickly hit the trail before my muscles had time to cool.
The ascent was a buttery one. Beautiful soft trails with only a minor challenge towards the top. Arriving at a ridge, I began to trot. Cooler late-day temperatures. The idyllic scent of pines. This was what it was all about. I coasted around curves and soaked it in. And then I almost tripped on him.
Sitting on a random patch of moss by the trail was a man in head-to-toe green with camouflage accents. He was just sitting there, looking at the trees. It wasn’t a spot with a view. It was a dark patch of trail. He didn’t look up or acknowledge me. This was the Green Man’s domain. I ran faster than I had all day.
I made it to the quiet summit and took a long rest.
The descent was just as buttery. Of course, there was the gnawing idea of the Green Man in the back of my mind. He wasn’t in the same spot as I came down. There was just a nondescript indent in the moss where he had been sitting. Had he taken to the woods? Was he watching me from some carefully selected perch? I checked behind me more than once as I came down the mountain.
I caught up with the Green Man about a mile from the parking lot. He was sauntering in the early evening light, his outfit miraging with the woods. He gave me a brief glance and a hint of a nod as I went by this time. Nothing threatening.
The parking lot was a welcome sight. Only one car was left, another Subaru with veteran plates. I set up my camping chair and peeled off my shoes. The Green Man emerged shortly thereafter and meticulously began to de-hike. There was a military efficiency as he hit his boots together, changed into shoes, placed his gear in the back. We all find something different on the trails.
Distance: 21.5km
Time: 4 hours 30 minutes
Music: LCD Soundsystem, The Long Goodbye (Live at Madison Square Garden)
Reading about Moosilauke, it was clear that it would be one of the more popular hikes on this endeavor. The main route is composed of carriage trails and relatively easy trail which pay off with one of the most stunning views of any mountain in the state. I envisioned a day of parking lot jostling and crowded trails and craved a more solitary experience. And so I decided to try a different route.
Not to go all Robert Frost, but there was a road less traveled–the Benton Trail via Tunnel Brook. This offered a back door to Moosilauke that would be a bit more rustic and remote. I mapped my route and started doing a little research. There was a brook crossing involved which might be a challenge after a few days of heavy rain, but overall it seemed like the trail for me.
Arriving at the trailhead, I knew that I had picked well. There were only two cars in the small lot and I could instantly hear the rush of flowing water nearby. This was going to do just fine.
It was instantly clear that the heavy rain was going to have an effect on this hike. The water was straight up running through the woods at points. I soon came upon a part of the road/trail that had been eaten in one big bite by a raging flood at some point in the last few years.
The next challenge was the brook that I had read about. It was indeed flowing mighty. After a few minutes exploring for an easy crossing, I resigned myself to wet shoes and waded through the crystal cold water.
After the brook, the trail took the familiar mix of rock and roots that the Whites have to offer. Some sections of trail were pure stream. I didn’t see another person on the ascent or descent.
The summit lived up to the hype. I heard a guide who was stationed at the top explaining that Moosilauke translates in Abenaki to “bald place.” The top was indeed as bald as Vin Diesel, offering panoramic views that I hadn’t been treated to on any of my peaks so far. Five or six other groups of hikers relaxed and chatted, some with dogs. It wasn’t the insane gold rush for views that I had read about in my research, but still relatively busy compared to other hikes I’d done thus far.
Making my way to the South Peak for some additional views, a hiker passed by. There was a thunderclap moment where I thought it was my close friend who had passed away years ago. He was a dead ringer. We gave each other a grin–the same one that he used to give and then continued our separate paths. It was nice to know that he was still out there enjoying it all.
Coming down I anticipated the brook crossing the entire time, but this time with relish. I couldn’t wait to soothe my sore feet and calves in a cold bath. I tromped through the crossing without a second thought, made it back to my car and bathed completely in the fast-flowing water before making the long drive home.
Distance: 18.96km
Time: 4 hours 44 minutes
Music: Bob Dylan The Rolling Thunder Review: The 1975 Live Recordings
The summer started with a stumble. Midori fell sick and our plans for leading a student trip to South Africa along with taking in the sights and sounds of the Paris Olympics with her family were put on hold. She is fine, but travel was impossible.
And so a packed summer evaporated and left behind a formless mist of time so large that it was simultaneously daunting and fleeting. I began to fill the days with a routine of reading and running that in the midst of the school year would have been the ideal, but this soon formed the grooves of the mundane. The days took on the low-key saccharine buzz of a sugar high. All of the promises we make ourselves when busy, the “When I have the time I will…’s” had become anxiety clouds that hung in the air. Structure was needed, a goal was ached for.
At some point in those formless days I began to dwell on my time in Jeju. How I had managed day-long hikes up Mt. Halla and daily morning runs. How I had felt a sincere connection to the hard pumice earth there that Massachusetts hasn’t offered. I had the cliche moment of running my hand over the excess flab that had accumulated in my midsection–the remnants of a challenging year that had resulted in self-leniency. The hurdles of life that had served as excuses for escaping into nature. It dawned on me: I needed to pound my feet into some trails.
Two hours to the north of me is a veritable playground of peaks, streams and forests. It’s some of the most gnarly land you’ll find in the country, notorious to the initiated for its poking, tripping, plodding trails that strong-arm you into slow-motion. From the back of my mind the idea of the New Hampshire 4000 footers began to drift into the forefront, a 48 peak challenge that scatters the state. I soon found myself paying for overnight shipping of the White Mountains Guide and digging out gear. I moved aside the bulk paper towels and bags of dog food and reached back to grab my trusty red running pack, my hiking poles and a water filter. A wave of equal parts nostalgia and anticipation glowed in my chest. I had a goal: I was going to do the 48 4000 footers of New Hampshire before I turned 40.
This was one of the closest hikes to me and is on the eastern edge of the Sandwich Range wilderness. The parking lot is on the edge of a gorgeous farm field and I was initiated into a familiar trend in the Whites: enjoyable gradual trail early on that leads to dramatic scrambling and bouldering near the summit. Getting to the top of Whiteface was a quick reminder of how out of shape I was. Halfway through the final push the strong impulse to turn around and call the whole thing off slipped into my brain then magnified into an incredibly tempting fixation. I slurped down an energy gel and pushed on.
Atop Passaconway, the second peak, I met another enthusiast named Keenan. We chatted from the stunning lookout. When I complained about the two hour drive he put things into perspective. “Tell me about it. It was three and a half hours from Connecticut. But how nice was that scramble up Whiteface? You need to check out the Tripyramids, I did them last week!” Keenan had been racking up mountains with an enthusiastic ferocity that I took with me down the mountain.
Two peaks done.
Distance: 19.07km
Time: 5 hours 20 minutes
Music: Phish Clifford Ball ‘96
Post-run Food: Trader Joe’s Orange Chicken and white rice
Emboldened by my successful first hike, I mapped out a route that would check off three more peaks. Starting with a quick ascent up Mount Cannon, I could then work my way over to the Kinsmans. Cannon proved to be a maw of granite teeth that took bites of me going up and down. Below was a stunning view of Lonesome Lake. As I staggered to the wooden lookout, I began to realize that something was off. The top was flooded with refreshed-looking tourists and summer camp kids. Three elementary-aged boys ran up to me and bragged about how they could easily have done the same hike. Confused, I looked to my left to see a gondola lift cruising care-free tourists to the top. I chatted with a couple from Montreal, refilled water, then moved on.
The rest of the day took me to the Kinsmans which was my first contact with the Appalachian Trail. I spent some time with a thru hiker named “Offgrid” and daydreamed about the simplicity of his existence. We parted ways at South Kinsman as he floated south on the trail, Georgia-bound. The descent was more than I bargained for, partly because I decided to take the “scenic route” to Cascade Brook Trail. This proved to be more brook than trail and had me meandering around intricate root systems while finding footing on slippery rocks. I stopped and greedily drank the clear filtered water from the brook. By the time I hit Lonesome Lake and made my way through Lafayette Campground, I had a hollow look in my eye. I knew because as I walked by a campsite with a family of four, a little girl stared in curious horror.
I was cruising now. My body was responding to the trails and I could feel strength returning. I decided to give the Tripyramids a…try. It was the usual gradual trail to begin with through some well-maintained biking trails. The trickle of water accompanied my early steps. Birds sang. It was great, until it wasn’t.
An hour later I found myself clinging to the side of a boulder, exhausted, trusting the grip on my bulky trail-running shoes. The sun searched for open skin to inflict its rays upon. I didn’t want to look up because every time I did it was another demoralizing slant of steep granite.
The Tripyramids are notorious for the chute of rocks that lead to its peak. The reality met reputation as I slogged to the top step by step, every few minutes leaning on my poles for a break and sucking water. I had a mantra to just keep going up. This mantra eventually took me to a final large boulder where I slumped down and took in the stunning views. I was so intent on going up at that point that I missed the official trail to the left and bushwhacked through profanity-inducing brush for the last bit to the top.
Coming down was some of the best trail to date. A pristine brook to the left offered constant temptation to stop for a swim. A trailrunner zoomed by in the final miles and we talked about the difficult trail while making plans to get a run in together at a future date. I took a dip in the Mad River then began the long drive home.
Distance: 20.51km
Time: 5 hours 35 minutes
Music: Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros Essentials
This was the simplest of my ascents so far. A loop that would hit the two Hancock Peaks. The first section of the trail was deliciously runnable and the mile leading to the summit offered a challenge that I was starting to relish by now. Something had turned after the Tripyramids and I found that I was actually starting to enjoy the scrambles. I chatted with a couple at the summit who were on high bird alert after seeing a family of Ruffed grouse. The parking lot has a quintessential White Mountain view which attracts tourists like ants to peanut butter. After a relatively quick hike, I spread out my sweaty gear on a picnic table. “Nice hike, eh?” Said a biker who had stopped with his wife to take in the view. I nodded and grinned. “I love this area. Take it easy brother,” he said before getting onto his hog and cruising on down the road.
Distance: 14.87km
Time: 2 hours 48 minutes
Music: The Grateful Dead 8/7/71 Golden Hall, San Diego, CA
When I was nine or ten I had a small smooth amber colored stone that was purchased at a quarry gift shop. We had gone on a school trip to the quarry, the dandelion yellow bus traveling the back roads to South Paris, Maine. New views outside of the familiar rectangle windows. On big bumps some of the windows would fall down, the plastic latch letting go.
The quarry was fascinating because you could keep whatever you found. Of course, the granite hills of Maine didn’t have much to offer. It wasn’t like California hills which glittered with promises of gold. Maine had some quartz, pyrite…maybe a leaf fossil if you were really lucky. But still, that dusty chasm that our bus pulled up to had some mystical promise to it. What secrets had the earth hidden in it’s rocky time capsule?
I was usually a quiet kid, but I mustered up enough courage to ask a question to the teacher: “We really get to keep whatever we find?”
“Yes, that’s right!” Mr. Bridge Koeningsburg said in his enthusiastic and proper way.
The bus pulled up and let us out. We had only 60 precious minutes to search. I can’t remember if we were given any tools. Maybe a small hammer. We got to work.
Most of the kids lost interest after five minutes. They started playing tag which degraded into rock throwing. I’m sure to Mr. BK’s eyes “the quarry” started to seem like the upcoming title to a Lord of the Flies sequel. I chipped away, disappointed at my efforts. Bits of stone crumbled in my tiny kid hands. I knew that the allotted 60 minutes was quickly coming to an end. Maybe not on a conscious level, but there was a part of my child unconscious that knew that kid chaos would soon result in Mr. BK calling off the dig early.
I tried to conjure up a remarkable find to no avail–straining with every inch of my subconscious. Time was up. I looked at my best friend Tommy whose eyes mirrored my same disappointment.
“Let’s go to the gift shop!” Mr. BK announced.
My committed and generous mom had joined us on the trip. She had always been involved in my elementary school years, somehow finding the time to help in the classroom or join on a field trip. This worked out in my favor, because a money source was readily available.
“You can pick one thing,” she said as we walked to the small hut of souvenirs.
I floated around the shop, looking at the shelves lined with craggy stones. Golden pyrite, deep purple geodes, boxes of arrow heads. A smooth amber stone attached to a hard cardboard paper caught my eye. It have small streams of white running through it. I picked it off the hook and flipped it over. On the back was a list of animals with characteristics for each. If you held the stone in your hand it could somehow tell you your spirit animal. This was my choice.
I didn’t know that you could have a spirit animal until this point. The card hinted at a deeper world of magic under the surface–one that many writers and artists have tapped into over the years. The fantasy world that lives just out of sight and can be accessed if you know where to look. It was ingenuous really. Make-shift astrology for kids. My friends and I took turns holding the stone in our palms, concentrating on what signal it would give us. It’s satisfying roundness finding a home in our hands and emanating its message. In the end I settled on fox. I’m not sure what Tommy picked or if he even bought into the whole thing.
On a recent morning run, I slogged along in the breaking day. The shortening daylight hours had timed my run perfectly with a sunrise on the backside of the oreum that my route hits every morning. There had been some rain overnight, and the concrete was stained darker. I moved my body over the oreum’s peak and turned the corner for the back, looking at the clouds that were brightening with the rising sun. And then in the path was a panicked deer.
The deer’s antler’s had been caught in a farmer’s net. It couldn’t fathom the invisible force that tugged on its scalp as it strained its entire body, neck taught, grunting and whimpering, it strained as hard as it could in one direction, and then realized that the only way to go was back. It tumbled off the road, and pulled the net in the other direction, a small cry of hopelessness emitting from its tired lungs.
I tried to untangle the antlers, but it was too dangerous. The deer was freaked, and when it saw me it became more nervous. I needed a tool to cut the fencing. I booked it home and grabbed my scissors. Jumped into my car and drove back. Within a few minutes I had the deer almost free. Only a few strands of plastic netting remained. The deer pulled hard and looked at me intently. If it came forward it could do some real damage. One snip. It continued to stare, a little deeper. I looked hard at the antlers which suddenly seemed a lot sharper. Grabbing the rope I pulled for extra tension. I climbed up a little, trying to get as close as possible. The deer kept staring, blowing warm air forcefully through its nostrils as it pulled in the other direction. Second snip. It staggered back and immediately bolted into the forest, some excess rope dangling from its antler. Then quiet.
A few weeks later, the incident was repeated. I rounded the same corner and was greeted with a wild beast. Jeju deer are on the miniature side compared to the white-tails of Maine, but this was bigger than usual. Up close his muscles quivered with electric strength. It barked when it saw me and flopped over the side of the road into the bushes. I knew what to do this time.
When I arrived with my scissors, the deer still struggled, wrestling against the invisible force. I sloppily chopped at the net, just trying to get it cut. He bucked and grunted, eventually getting stuck behind one of the larger trees on the oreum’s embankment. I hacked at the fence like it was a mythical hydra, and managed to get it down to one strand as before. But I couldn’t get close enough to cut the rope short. He looked at me with anger and confusion, emanating unpredictability. I cut, leaving a good two feet of rope on the antlers.
The deer was free but bothered. The rope dangled from his head and it swung furiously as he bolted into the field below. The rope seemed to be pulling his head down to one side as he bounced through the field. He came to a four foot stone wall, still hindered by the rope’s weight. With a giant vertical leap he cleared the wall and then ran disoriented into the forest.
Another week later biking to work I rounded a farm road corner and looked down. On the edge of the thick Jeju Gotjawal forest was a dead baby deer, perfectly intact. It was as if the forest had placed it there as an offering to the world outside. I could only guess that a car speeding on the back farm road had clipped it. I stopped my bike and looked closely. It’s hazy eyes had lost the wildness that I had glimpsed in the two rescued deer. I didn’t know what to make of this. Was Jeju undoing my work? Were we counting back down now?
Over time, I lost the smooth amber rock from the quarry. I’m sure that in my teenage years, it took on an embarrassing significance and was discarded. There was no more time for magic. These deer reconnected me with that animal energy. Brushing up against the wild had reminded me of that feeling that the gimmicky cardboard had elicited. But this felt more concrete than that. The mechanizations of the universe were coming together in a weird way. I waited for the next sign.
A few days after the baby deer incident on a post-work run, I hit a patch of road leading up to my apartment complex. It was a slight climb that banked left past a tangerine grove and a barn. I was startled to see a man laying on the ground by the barn almost in the road. He was motionless. His head was a melon waiting to be burst by a passing tire. Was he alive? My mind flashed to the baby deer. Was this nature’s balancing blow? I stopped in my tracks for two long seconds, my stomach reacting before my head could.
And then the man shot upright to a seating position and smiled and said something I couldn’t hear through my headphones. I waved and sprinted the last few hundred meters to my apartment.
What did all of these omens add up to? Probably nothing. Life continues its random march through time. But still, I’m more attuned these days as I round the corners. I look up at vague outlines in the morning gloom with curiosity and sometimes horror. The ambiguous shadows taking on imaginary forms.
These incidents are reminders. Small divergences in a routine that show that there can be something new, shocking, or exciting around the bend. The faint flame of childhood discovery is kept fanned.
Jeju’s Gotjawal forest holds some unknown. One of its features is its rocky terrain that has prevented agriculture. Vines and thick trees have formed their way into the rough land. On my trail runs, I sometimes hear the deer barking at sunset, reminding me of the mystery. I peer into the inscrutable forest for a deer with a small bit of rope dangling from its antler. My new spirit animal.
The skyline is a marble blue punctuated by a small craggy island. Some boats speckle the horizon, crawling in lazy slow-motion. The brisk relief of fall–nature’s exhale after a humid and rainy summer. My mind feels sharper in the crisp morning. Already the sun is baking the cool AM to a mid-day heat, but we’re ducking out.
We park our cars by the sea and walk toward the cliff-drop. We descend into a tucked-away cave with a craggy volcanic roof and smooth-stone floor, passing down gear-bags to outstretched hands. It’s dark down here, with small thunder from each wave that hits the stone shore break. The larger ones splash up in the cave’s oval window that frames the day outside.
There’s unnatural decorating that’s been done. Styrofoam beads have exploded in the cavern, filling up each crevice like a tiny ball pit. Other debris is strewn about too: flip flops, water bottles, buoys, a barnacle encrusted slipper–still furry. This scene could be a display in a modern art museum, the styrofoam reminiscent of a playful Yayoi Kusama creation. Perhaps it was the back-to-back typhoons that brought this detritus from the sea. Or perhaps the ocean had just had enough and decided to wretch out a little of what’s been bothering it. Sturdy mesh bags and gloves emerge. I put on a pair and we begin to clean.
I dig my hands into the styrofoam, flip them over, pull them out. I remember hearing on a podcast that humans find beauty in the multitudinous. There’s a theory that our survival instinct has us hardwired to react to surplus. Repeated patterns have a special appeal. The styrofoam beads pour down my gloved palms and quietly drop back into place. I scoop up handfuls and slowly start to fill my bag. Meanwhile, Subin and Namki snap pictures of the trash while making disapproving sounds.
Cerulean day
The sea churns waves underneath
In emerald cave
There are other efforts happening to clean Jeju. A group has been slowly working their way up the mountainous 1131 highway near Mt. Halla’s most popular trail (성판악). Their leader is ultra runner named Been–known as the tiger of Hallasan. Tigers, when they lived in Korea (the last one was seen in 1922, but there were never any in Jeju), used to operate in a radius. Her radius is this mountain. Been is playful and joking but prickles at the sight of highway trash. There’s an uncompromising regard for the mountain’s innate beauty that propels her forward. She and her rotating crew of volunteers clean the shoals of the road each weekend, sorting through brambles and bushes to extricate garbage that has been carelessly tossed out of windows or, in more egregious cases, dumped into piles. Been conducts the volunteers like a sportive general, jogging up and down the highway’s edge. Both jocular and chiding as she goes.
I help out one day, making the early morning drive up to the highway. There is a scavenger-hunt quality. Discovering bags of McDonalds in one culvert, and an antique bottle a few meters away in the mud. The bags fill quickly over the course of a few hours. Cars hurtle by and kick up wind. We drag finds out of the forest: car mirrors, wrappers, tires, a paint roller. The smell of composted leaves and damp earth. Patterns of trash start to emerge, and I notice a hierarchy of commonality. Lots of plastic straws, disposable cups, water bottles. The most common brand of bottle is I find is 삼다수. “The source of Jeju Samdasoo is under a superbly-preserved primeval forest near Hallasan National Park, free and far from contamination,” their website boasts.
I pluck an old cassette tape with no label from the bramble vines and they release it willingly. I wonder about the cassette’s owner. Who throws a cassette out of a car window? Was it somebody post-breakup who took an evening drive in the mountains. That one song came on that touched too hard on a raw wound. The person dramatically ejected the tape and threw it out into the dark quiet forest. Or maybe the tape wouldn’t play anymore and they just decided to ditch it. Plastic, the shed skin of human living.
After a few hours, we pose next to our hill of garbage, get into our cars and make our way back down the mountain. It’s hard not to keep noticing trash for the next few hours, my brain echoing the task for a while.
Vines and forest floor
Detonated time capsule
Tapes, bottles, mirrors
After we clean the ocean cave, we pull flippers onto our feet and goggles over our eyes. Subin has been leading the charge with her group of free diving friends, Diphda, on cleaning the beaches of Jeju. Like a traveling pod of dolphins, they spend their weekends at various water sources around the island– cleaning, sunning, playing. Subin brings the same passionate intensity as Been to her project. Simultaneously basking in the ocean while feeling an urgent need to help it. Geared up, we push out into the sea. The underwater world opens. The muffled sounds of bubbles and currents. Dull whir throb of powerful waves. We venture out into the sea to explore, occasionally taking big gulps of air before diving down to inspect a detail in the depths.
The news has been strange lately in its apocalyptic consistency. Vast blood red sky behind the Golden Gate Bridge. Hurricanes. Drought. The natural disasters seem in lock-step with the disconcerting political news that emerges each day. John Lewis and Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Venerated icons as wise as the redwoods leaving.
The earth can reduce styrofoam to small beads, and eventually nothing. Poisonous microplastics now will cycle out in the long run. People have become multitudinous on the planet, but I don’t get the same reaction of awe when I see them en masse. There’s an uneasy potential. Each is a small plus or minus for positive or negative change, and right now it feels like the scale is tipped in the wrong direction. On a recent hike to the top of Mount Halla, my friends and I arrived at the top to find a thriving colony of hikers. The occasional piece of wrapper blew away in the breeze. People formed a long line to take their picture with the sign. Nature reduced to a series of photo ops.
There’s no lack of causes to get involved with. For me these days, it’s cleaning up one bag of trash at a time. It’s a small anodyne. But anodyne for what? My environmental angst? The planet? Perhaps these small efforts can continue to cascade outward. Small social changes catching and changing minds. I’m convinced that in order to heal humanity we have to start with the earth.
There’s a lonely pod of dolphins that I spot sometimes on the west of Jeju. They hang and dive and swim and crest. Moving up and down the coastline. It seems like they’re playfully wasting time. They could be awaiting the arrival of some friends, or just surveying the ocean floor. They’re a patient mystery.
One day, after long hibernation, the tiger awoke. It emerged into the daylight, stretched out its claws and looked around. It’s was incredible how much had been unchanged while it had slumbered.
After years and years
A forgotten tiger wakes
Reclaiming mountain
“The sudden passionate happiness which the natural world can occasionally trigger in us may well be the most serious business of all.” – Michael McCarthy
DIPHA Jeju For people on Jeju, check out their Instagram posts for a chance to get involved in a clean-up effort while getting discounts on tasty coffee and beer!
When I Get Home 