Clambering up the Cold Mountain path,
The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on:
The long gorge choked with scree and boulders,
The wide creek, the mist blurred grass.
The moss is slippery, though there’s been no rain
The pine sings, but there is no wind.
Who will leap the world’s ties
And sit with me among the white clouds?

Two favorite things for today: recalling travels with Erin to Patagonia last spring and Gary Snyder’s translation of one of Han-Shan’s Cold Mountain poems. Erin and I climbed the path to the Torres del Paine lookout  almost exactly a year ago.  We started in darkness, not an easy hike, carrying too much camera gear.  I’d like to go back.

Han Shan was a hermit poet who lived on Cold Mountain in China 1200 years ago. He was thought to be a “wise fool” who loved to tell tall tales and play tricks on the monks at the nearby Buddhist monastery when he showed up begging for food. He wrote many Cold Mountain poems, but I like this one the best.