The Heart's Eye

Climb

White.

The tint of my polarized goggles helps, but I still need to squint. I put one snowshoe in front of the other, then switch. Paced. Steady. Breathe in. Breathe out.

It is not the hardest of climbs, but also not one that an average outdoorsman like me would typically risk. The slope is too steep for safety. Patches of ice lurk beneath the powdered snow. The drop on my right is nauseating.

I reach a vertical wall of ice. It is no more than twelve feet high, but getting past it is a challenge. Had I been here for recreation, I would have turned around and headed back down just about now. I am not James Bond. I don't seek adventure. I am used to sitting in posh bars with a glass of Scotch, having a calm conversation with gullible politicians or unaware rival intelligence agents. I would not have been here if I had a choice.

I remove my snowshoes, tie them to my pack, screw in an ice screw to the wall and attach myself to the slippery surface. Swinging the ice axe and digging in with my crampons, I pull and ratchet up a few inches at a time, scaling the wall in a little less than ten minutes.

I have arrived at a plateau. My GPS tells me I must be close, even though I don't know exactly what I am looking for. There are no discernible landmarks in the snow blanket. Everything is a uniform shade of white.

There is a creeping sensation at the back of my head, a feeling both indescribable and unmistakable. I have no scientific explanation for it, but I swear by it with my life. You can call it a sixth sense, ESP, or whatever sensationalist term you want. I don't call it anything. I just know it when it is there. There is a weapon pointed at my back.

I raise my hands and turn around slowly. The muscular figure towering at a higher ground above me lowers his shotgun.

"Hello, Sherman."

I follow the wide-shouldered silhouette along an invisible trail around the hill. It takes us to a patch of snow-covered pine trees growing on the other side. A few minutes later, we walk into a modest log cabin.

The furnishing is spartan. A board on hinges next to a lone window has been opened up and propped up on a hinged leg to serve as a table. Two wooden chairs on each side allow my host to accommodate a company of one. A low wooden bench with a thin mattress and a thick green wool blanket appears to be serving as a bed. In the middle of the room crackles a cast iron stove. Homely aroma of freshly brewed coffee emanates from a tin jezve on top of it.

"This is what retirement is like?" I jest.

Rob Burton, my former mentor, turns around, and for the first time I am able to look at his weathered face. The last eighteen years have not been kind to him. His skin is sunburned, rougher, more leathery. His hair and eyebrows have acquired an abundant amount of silver. But one thing has not changed – his bright, gray eyes still appear to penetrate into my mind the way they did when he undertook the unique project to train me for what I am.

"I hear, your idea of retirement is different from mine," he retorts.

He steps briefly outside and comes back with a bottle half-filled with an amber liquid. Holding the bottle up, he showcases it against the coffee on the stove. I arch an eyebrow in exaggerated astonishment. He shrugs and pours some of the amber liquid in a tin mug, which he pushes towards me on the makeshift table. We have spent years working together, we don't need words for that kind of communication.

He sits across from me, his hands cupped around his coffee cup. I savor the flavorful single malt, chilled naturally in the snow outside.

"They are sending me to Dokdo," I tell him. He nods. There is no surprise. Despite the eighteen year gap in our communication, and him living a hermit life in the middle of a snowy mountain slope, he knows what I am talking about.