MORNING CALM TALES Lunar New Year on Mount Seorak

Mount Seorak, published in The Korea Times Jan. 1, 1979. Korea Times Archive

Six weeks after I arrived in Korea, I fell madly in love — not with a person, but with the country itself.

That winter 35 years ago, I decided on a whim to join a tour group heading east for the Lunar New Year long weekend to Gangwon Province's Seoraksan National Park, home to one of Korea’s most famous mountain ranges. Seoul was already beginning to empty out for the holiday, and with several days off and nowhere in particular to be, the idea of disappearing into the mountains felt right.

Along with Chuseok — the mid-autumn festival — Lunar New Year is one of the two most important holidays in Korea. They act as bookends to the year, with Lunar New Year falling in late January or early February and Chuseok in September or October, depending on how the lunar calendar lines up with the solar calendar that year. Both holidays center on returning to one’s hometown and honoring ancestors. They are also the busiest travel periods of the year, reminding me of American Thanksgiving.

Seollal blues, published in The Korea Times, Jan. 22, 1993. Korea Times Archive

Depending on the lunar calendar, these holidays can stretch from three to five days, and in February 1991, Korea was in for the full five-day spectacle. Train and bus tickets went on sale weeks in advance. Travelers lined up for hours at terminals, hoping to secure a seat home. For those driving, the stories were legendary, with tales of 16-hour journeys between Seoul and Busan and traffic creeping along so slowly that the expressways became a parking lot.

But for foreigners who stayed behind in Seoul, the holidays brought a different experience. The city emptied out. Streets normally choked with traffic became eerily quiet. Crossing town was suddenly effortless, but most small businesses were closed, their blue metal security doors pulled down like eyelids. Seoul felt suspended in time, peaceful and strange.

The bus left Seoul at noon in a steady rain, its windows fogged from the breath of sleeping passengers. Coats were piled on laps. Heads leaned against the glass. As we left the city behind, traffic thickened with buses and cars all pointed east, windshield wipers keeping time as the gray afternoon unspooled. Holiday travel in Korea was its own kind of endurance ritual, and I had entered it lightly prepared, with no more than gimbap and bottled water.

Lunar New Year mass migration traffic, published in The Korea Times Feb. 18, 1988. Korea Times Archive

The countryside slid past in muted winter tones. We passed through small towns that seemed to echo one another — clusters of low concrete or wooden houses tucked behind fences, streets quiet under the weight of the holiday. Shops were shuttered, signs in Hangeul announcing pharmacies, restaurants and bathhouses, but nothing stirred behind their doors.

A few hours in, the driver pulled into a highway service area, and the bus emptied in a rush. Inside, travelers slurped steaming bowls of noodles, skewered fish cakes from vats of broth or devoured rice cakes smothered in fiery red sauce. I settled for a microwave-warmed burger drowning in shredded cabbage and creamy dressing, washed down with bottled water and Coke. It wasn’t great, but it was warm.

As we continued east, the weather turned. Rain poured, temperatures dropped and by mid-afternoon, the rain became snow. Traffic slowed to a crawl. What should have been a manageable five- or six-hour journey would stretch into a grueling 10-hour ordeal.

At another service area, the bus stopped again — not for food this time, but for snow chains. Watching the driver fit them onto the tires sent a ripple of unease through the passengers. Soon we were inching along a narrow mountain road in a slow procession of cars and buses. I stared out the window, imagining the bus sliding sideways, disappearing into the unseen drop beyond the guardrail. The snow-covered mountains, beautiful from a distance, now felt ominous.

Surely, I thought, the driver would stop and wait out the storm. But he didn’t. The bus pressed on, steady and deliberate, forging through the night. His calm resolve was astonishing.

Darkness settled in. Snowflakes swirled through the headlights, visibility reduced to a few feet. The only sense of direction came from the red glow of taillights ahead, snaking upward through the pass. It was terrifying — that slow ascent through a white void, wondering if we would make it, became a permanently etched memory of my Korea years.

When we finally arrived at the resort — a curious blend of Swiss chalet and Japanese pension on the edge of the park — it was well past 10 p.m. Hungry, exhausted and grateful simply to be alive, I checked in, found my room and collapsed into bed.

Morning transformed everything.

Stepping outside in search of breakfast, I was stunned by the view. Mount Seorak unfolded before me in towering, jagged peaks under a flawless blue sky. Snow lay at least a foot deep, pristine and untouched. In the early sunlight, it shimmered like a field of scattered diamonds. Pine branches sagged under the weight of it, resembling oversized cotton balls. Against the deep blue sky, the mountains looked almost unreal, like scoops of ice cream rising from a sea of meringue.

Climbers, published in The Korea Times Jan. 4, 2008. Korea Times Archive

I had never seen snow like this. The scene felt impossibly serene, as if nature had paused to show off. I stood there humbled and grateful, overwhelmed by the quiet grandeur of it all, knowing this moment would stay with me long after I left.

I found a nearby Korean restaurant and devoured a breakfast of spicy soup, grilled fish, kimchi and rice. Korean food has a way of making sense in winter — the heat of the spices warming you from the inside out. It wasn’t just nourishment; it was comfort.

My winter clothing, however, wasn’t up to the task of serious hiking. Though the temperature hovered around freezing, the deep snow made the trails treacherous. I followed a packed path for a while, but as it grew slick and uncertain, I turned back, content simply to wander the edges of the park and take it all in.

By mid-afternoon, the light began to change. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the snow. The mountains shifted color — deep purples, dusky violets — as if they were donning royal cloaks. It felt timeless, as though I had stumbled into a scene untouched by the modern world.

Standing there alone, I felt a profound connection to the land and its history. Mount Seorak seemed to whisper stories older than memory, etched into its ridges and valleys. It reminded me how small we are, and how deeply places can shape us if we allow them to.

That evening, warmed by food and reflection, I came to understand something clearly: My love affair with Korea was only just beginning. The journey east, the snow, the long road and the quiet that followed were all part of the same lesson.

Lunar New Year at Mount Seorak was when Korea stopped being a place I lived and became a place that lived in me.

Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels, including "War Remains," a story about the early days of the Korean War, and "No Way Out," a thriller set in Seoul in 1990.