On the threshold of autumn

By Tim Edelsten

Ipchu (Onset of Autumn) which statistically marks some of the warmest days of the year, sends most Seoulites scuttling indoors, to recline in front of fans and icy air-conditioners.

Along my street, perspiring pedestrians stand beneath rows of poplars, which are, absurdly, branching upward into power lines directly overhead. A puffy expanse of cloud hangs motionless over the metropolis like a blanket, frequently breaking down into tirades of thunder and showers, which roll back and forth over the sweltering capital.

By mid-August, however, it begins to whisper, ever so softly, a pleasing gentle breeze, and by the onset of Cheoseo (Expulsion of Heat), we can look forward to cool nights. The harvested subtropical fruits of provincial orchards ―melons, peaches and grapes― begin to add dashes of color to the vibrant markets.

The megacity of Seoul ― thus classified because its population exceeds 10 million ― is remarkably devoid of public parks or any deliberate green space. Viewed from one of the dizzying tower blocks, it appears unplanned and without design.

There is an undeniably optimistic, sprawling spontaneity to it however, that has relentlessly gathered and swallowed every outlying gu (district) into its whitewashed embrace. At a glance, we can also see that the city is blessed and broken up with a host of wooded hills like whalebacks breaching on a sea of urbanization.

My own preferred haunt, Mt. Baebong, ascends gently, with a pleasant west-facing aspect, from the neighborhood of Hoegi-dong. I've never been entirely sure why I like it so much. Maybe it’s because it forms a natural amphitheater that catches the late afternoon light, or perhaps it just reminds me of an old friend. Certainly it has a dark, enchanted quality once you enter into its shady canopy.

There is also its charming, secluded gully, through which trickles a small slither of a stream, occasionally highlighted by pools of dappled sunlight reaching the forest floor. Among the variety of trees, there are two or three fairly old ddeokgalnamu (most favored by the resident woodpeckers), with their corrugated bark and palmate leaves.

There are also the sawtooth oaks with their glossy serrated leaves currently dropping an abundant harvest of nutritious acorns. I always walk quietly here, hoping to glimpse some shy woodland creature. Not everyone shares my approach, however.

Often there are groups of people yelling to each other at the top of their voices, or a solitary hiker bursting into song. There are the joggers and walkers, clapping their hands at every step, or standing and slapping a tree trunk for exercise.

I suppose entering a forest is a strangely liberating sensation for a city-dweller. You suddenly feel free to behave as if nobody is watching.

There are other sounds, too. Let it be known: The cicadas have begun to emerge. As I stepped into the glade they exploded into a shrill, unified hiss, then relaxed into a rasping, rhythmic churr-like a clockwork toy winding down.

Today there was also the pleasing purr of the Oriental Turtle Dove, the raucous chatter of magpies, or the cascading trill of a distant Ruddy Kingfisher.

The resident hobbies ― perhaps the most agile of falcons ― presided over the scene, looking down from the lofty magpie nest that they have commandeered.

Their three clumsy fledglings are learning to hunt as well as dad, who anxiously patrolled the sky high above in wide arcs, at one point stooping in a near-vertical dive before sticking his leg out to seize a hapless dragonfly. The whole family started calling excitedly, a plaintive, rising “wheep-weep-weeeep” toward evening, as clouds of insects rose above the treetops.

In the city below, the first pulsating eyes of neon blinked on.

Tim Edelsten is a conservationist affiliated with various environmental organizations in Korea. He can be reached at gymnojene@yahoo.co.uk.