Big Quil watershed, Olympic Mountains, October, 2000

(No. 69 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

There is no better water on the planet than that which flows so purely from The Source, located near Camp Mystery, just below Marmot Pass, in the northeast Olympics. A poet friend, who knows the area well, calls this little spring The Mother of All Waters.

The day started clear and warm. We ate a late lunch, took a long nap, woke in heavy fog. We could not find our way down the ridge, simple as it seemed. After drifting way off course, and finally realizing it, Dane and I spotted, hundreds of feet below, a trail segment through a brief opening in the fog. We took a quick compass reading and, in last light, eventually emerged from a steep, wooded hillside precisely at The Source.

The focused attention, relief, exhilaration and deep appreciation of this experience are with me to this day. Kwan Yin (Sanskrit: Avalokiteshvara– “She who hears the cries of the world”) was listening.  Isn’t she always?

Or, as Han-shan says, There it is, in the midst of Nothing!

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

Olympic Wilderness Coast, 2002

(No. 38 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

As Gary Snyder once observed, “when Han-shan talks about Cold Mountain, he means himself, his home, his state of mind.” Or, as Han-shan himself put it (in Red Pine’s translation of No. 82):

People ask the way to Cold Mountain
but roads don’t reach Cold Mountain
in summer the ice doesn’t melt
and the morning fog is too dense
how did someone like me arrive
our minds are not the same
if they were the same
you would be here

Snyder renders those last two lines as:

If your heart was like mine
You’d get it and be right here.

Right where, did he say?

Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

The mountain itself—
unchanging.

(No. 82 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Mt. Ellinor is in the southeastern Olympic Mountains, another favorite of us locals. It’s a steep climb, but there’s an improved trail to the top which makes it accessible. On this holiday a dramatic shift in weather occurred, catching many visitors ill-prepared.

Cold Mountain No. 82 (Burton Watson translation) is one of the most familiar of Han-shan’s poems:

People ask the way to Cold Mountain.
Cold Mountain? There is no road that goes through.
Even in summer the ice doesn’t melt;
Though the sun comes out, the fog is blinding.
How can you hope to get there by aping me?
Your heart and mine are not alike.
If your heart were the same as mine,
Then you could journey to the very center!

More than almost any of Han-shan’s poems, this one should probably be approached as a koan, a sort of Zen teaching story that typically puts you between a rock and a hard spot, a box canyon with no way out. So a Zen teacher might demand, “Show me Cold Mountain!” As ever, it is right beneath your feet–even as you get the hell off Mt. Ellinor while the getting is good!

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

(No. 88 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

My backpack, passport to back country, is also a surrogate for my body. Of course, a backpack needs to move like an extension of one’s body, especially for off trail hiking, and it also needs to reflect what one is capable of carrying. Otherwise the pain outweighs the joy, and tiredness precipitates accidents. So, as the years go by, my focus must be on lightening my load–a near spiritual fiddling. There are lots of good resources, including friends, who support these somewhat obsessive endeavors.

Of course the whole point is to allow communing with God’s country for as long as possible.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

(North Fork of the Teannaway, 2005)

(No. 98 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Each summer my old backpacking buddy Bruce and I spend most of a week further refining the art of “alpine loafing.”  This term refers to a sustained state of deep repose in God’s Country—for which one has to pay considerable dues in getting to and from.  Bruce usually pushes us in the direction of steeper and longer climbs.  Most often my role is to keep the equation balanced in favor of loafing over grunting. 

It’s always interesting to see where we get to and how we got there.  Sooner or later, we consistently manage to enter the loaf zone.  Invariably we are surprised, amazed at its restful quality, its beauty and power. 

This poem describes such a moment.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

(No. 86 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Marmot Pass is the crown jewel of the northeast Olympic Mountains, a real favorite of folks around here. Alone or with friends, I climb to the early melt ridges above the pass, and beyond, once or twice a year. I’ve gotten lost in white outs up there twice now, had the pee quietly scared out of me each time. On one of those occasions I managed to use compass bearings and good luck to make it out in the dark–I found trail very near “the Source,” as I have come to think of the artesian spring that pops out of the ground at the beginning of this poem. Water collected from the Source on that occasion still graces my meditation altar.

The silence of this place is shocking. What sounds occur are so true that they are no different from the silence.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

Ariel and her husband, Dre, and I were backpacking in Teannaway River country last summer, just east of the Cascade crest. It was pouring on the Washington coast, and this was our dependably drier fallback location. We were climbing an old favorite of mine, the ridge above Bean Creek Basin, when the lovely stickseed, not yet identified, waved hello.

(No. 71 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Toleak Point lies south of La Push on the Olympic wilderness coast in northwest Washington State. I have regularly visited this coastline for many years, usually backpacking alone.

As the Heart Sutra clarifies, there is “no old age and death, and also no ending of old age and death.” Just so.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

(No. 93 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

The Upper Big Quilcene Trail leads to one of my favorite places in the eastern Olympic Mountains–Marmot Pass and beyond, to views of the interior Olympics. In addition to finding deep peace and beauty there, I have tested myself on the familiar trail many times–physically, mentally, and in other ways.

A couple of years ago I met an experienced old Olympics traveler slowly moving up the Big Quil. He was in his mid-80s, had recently had a shoulder replacement and heart bypass. He told me he climbs until he has to stop, well below the pass, draws a line across the trail with his hiking pole and says, “That’s it for today.”

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

Is now.

What vast sweep
this feeling has,
how rich with fear!
I let the waves tumble
and tumble
me into the sand.
Finally,
cast ashore,
I rise
naked
in the sun.

Anyone having the opportunity to body surf quickly discovers that the way to deal with a botched ride is to relax into the wave. I initially found this counterintuitive, tending to keep my neck and back stiff, head above water–resulting in my being repeatedly smacked against the bottom, breath knocked out or worse. This experience rapidly improves one’s technique, and yields a metaphor of value in surfing other waves.

Always something of a slow learner, it took me a long while to realize that the direct, sensory experience of suffering is a safe, sure portal to the soul.