Diary in the Mountains – Day One

Diary in the Mountains – Day One

On March 15, I moved from a condo by the sea in Rockaway to a house nestled in the foothills of the Catskills.

On Thursday afternoon, after many twists and turns, I finally managed to close the deal.
The move began at 7:30 Friday morning and did not come to an end until nearly ten at night—a long journey finally concluded.

I left my belongings scattered around the house, laid a mattress in one corner of a room, and fell into a rough sleep.
The next morning, I fled as if escaping and headed back to the seaside condo.

Before deciding to move, I had already booked a trip to Korea the previous year, with departure set for Sunday.
That morning, snow began to fall endlessly in the mountains. Fearing I might become stranded, I hurried down the mountain on Saturday.

I returned from Korea on Monday night.
I stayed overnight at the condo near the airport. Thanks to the mattress and blankets I had left there just in case, I was able to recover from my fatigue.
The following evening, I visited my father-in-law’s home to pay my respects and spent another night there.

That morning, I received a message from a friend—a so-called “spur-of-the-moment” invitation.
He had been too busy with moving and home renovations to host a housewarming, but upon hearing that we were leaving for a distant mountain home, he quickly arranged a gathering.

One of the few good things about growing older is this: while the eyes of the body grow dim, the eyes of the heart gradually become clearer.
He simply didn’t want to let us go without seeing us. Like the abundant dishes laid out on the table, his generosity filled the room.

We left my father-in-law’s house at around 9:30 in the morning.
We arrived at our new home at 11:50. The distance was about 135 miles, roughly 217 kilometers—about the same as from Seoul to Jeonju.

Before reaching the house, we stopped by a nearby post office.
It was a small place housed in a building dating back to around 1855. A lone clerk was chatting with locals, passing a quiet afternoon.

“Do letters get delivered to this address?” I asked.

He kindly explained that mail was not delivered directly to homes in this area. Instead, we would need to use a PO Box inside the post office and handed me an application form.
Most homes in the U.S. have mailboxes at the roadside, but this house didn’t even have one. That small question was finally answered.

When we arrived, I pressed the remote to open the garage door, but nothing happened.
I unlocked the front door and went down to the basement to switch on the water pump. In mountain homes, groundwater is drawn up instead of using municipal water. But the pump, too, remained silent.

A wave of unease rushed over me.
I tried the light switches—nothing. Not a flicker.

During closing, the previous owner had already shut off the electricity. While we were away in Korea, the house had stood empty—without power, without water.

The real problem was communication. There was no internet in the house, and even phone signals were unreliable in the mountains.
To make a call, we had to drive more than ten miles to Margaretville.

With no other choice, I knocked on the neighbors’ doors.
Two houses were empty. At the third, I was met with a wary look from a young couple.

After I explained the situation, they kindly shared their Wi-Fi password.
Standing under the eaves of their house, I called the electric company. What should have been a short call stretched on endlessly, tedious and exhausting. The uncertainty of when the power might return only deepened my anxiety.

When I left New Jersey, the temperature had been 72°F.
Here, it had dropped to 52°F.

After more than an hour on the phone, something began to feel off.
The calls kept disconnecting and reconnecting, and at some point, I even suspected I had become a target of voice phishing.

In the end, I asked my eldest son for help.
The couple left for an outing, telling me I could stay under their eaves as long as I needed, leaving their home unlocked. I entrusted everything to my son and returned to the house.

My wife and I drove down to Margaretville, bought water, and cooked instant noodles for a late lunch.
From the supermarket parking lot, I called the credit card company to report possible fraud—another forty minutes gone.

Life in the mountains was beginning in a way entirely different from what I had imagined.
It felt as though the environment itself was testing this newcomer. Perhaps the romance I had associated with mountain living was meant to remain only in my heart.

As I unpacked, darkness slowly settled in.
The house felt colder than the outside air.

I lit a fire in the wood stove.
Dry logs crackled and burned brightly. The stove gradually warmed.

In the darkness, a light drizzle began to fall—
like a shy bride, gentle and composed.

Cold, yet warm and comforting,
the first night in the mountains deepened.