韩素音附件1：英译汉原文

work.Butitwaswortheverydropofsweatshedtobeabletopeekintohistory,retracingthestepsandwordsoftheoriginalcircumambulators.Still,Iwondered:asanon-Buddhist,howdidtheseincantationsapplytome?Wasitappropriativeforustoinvokethem?Wasitenoughthatwewantedtolearnaboutthemandhonortheirtraditionsby performingthem?WhenIaskedRobertson,alsonon-Buddhist,heexplainedthatcircumambulatingMt.Tamwasawayforhimtocreatemeaningforhimself in relation to the naturalworld.

LikeRobertsonandhisstudents(andme),innumerablepeoplehaveundertakenthe“CircumTam,”asit’sfondlynicknamed,sincetheinaugural1965trek.It’sacompellingtradition,asMt.TamisabelovedmothermountainoftheBay,toweringinthecloudsaboveallalongwithMt.DiabloandMt.Umunhum,reminding uswhereand who weare, no matter wherewemaybe.

 2020 was a difficult year for many reasons, including, of course, a global pandemic. In the year’s final days, my husband, our 17-year-old son, who loves to hike, and I had been cooped up at home for months. Over the summer, we had taken advantage of our unexpected time together, camping, hiking, and backpacking in California’s mountains. But winter found us housebound and feeling a bit trapped. Our annual pilgrimage to Joshua Tree National Park to stay with friends and “hike our guts out,” as I often put it, had been quashed by Northern California’s third lockdown. Like a caged coyote, I paced our little house in Davis, thinking I would lose my mind if I couldn’t do somethingto break up the tedium of sheltering in place in winter’s darkness.

 Cue the New Year’s Day CircumTam: with a day’ s notice and some adventurous pandemic podmates, we pulled together a trip for January 1, 2021, hoping to set the tone for a new year that we desperately wanted to be better than the previous one — for all of humanity.

 Podmates Paul and Jennie dubbed our trip a “Circum-bobulation” because of the improvisation necessary for COVID-era social distancing, the limited daylight hours in January, and impacted parking in 21st century San Francisco Bay Area.

So we began half a mile uphill from Pan Toll Ranger Station. We piled out of the

 car on the not-so-spiritual side of the road. David Robertson had lent me a wooden-bead necklace and embroidered satin shawl, sweat-stained veterans of many a CircumTam, which he had obtained when he journeyed to Japan’s Omine ridge to learn about that region’s ancient circumambulation rituals. I donned the regalia to pay respect to David and to Gary for their mentorship, and to all the miles they’d logged in service of teaching others about the importance of linking ourselves to the land, to bioregion.

 Cars whizzed by us on the road, searching for parking spots. We chanted a spell, or Dharani, intended to remove disasters. Although it was not from our culture, it was the way Snyder et al had begun their circumambulations, and it seemed appropriate, given the times; we hoped to invoke safety on our trek but also to pay respect to the many hardships faced during the previous year, and to ward off any future ones.

 We cross-countried to the Old Mine Trail, and up toward what we hoped was the “ring of outcropped rocks,” featured in Snyder’s poem, “The Circumambulation of Mt. Tamalpais.”

 Did we find it? No. But we didstop at acircle of rocks and stood quietly, absorbing the cold winter sun and wafting fog, and watching dried grasses shimmer in the wind. Teens Owen and Rose humored us but kept their distance.

 Near Rock Springs, we found a serpentine crag adorned with an offering: a circle formed of rose petals, pine boughs, pinecones, lemons and limes. Examining this shrine, we guessed that a person longing for something had come here to ask for it. Here was more evidence of the human need to forge relationships with the land.

 Trekking to a nearby lookout point for a picnic lunch with a view, we approached a huge Douglas fir and upon closer inspection saw it was a granary tree: acorn woodpeckers had drilled and filled hundreds of holes with acorns, making it a giant pantry for themselves. I marveled at the connection between a giant conifer and many small avians.

 At the lookout point, we watched the stunning dance of paragliders checking their gear and sailing of the cliff toward Stinson Beach. We chatted with them, and

Paul got so enthused about the sport, I thought he might buckle into a harness and

 leap into the void with them.

 One thing about spending nearly a year in confinement is that when you emerge, everything seems new, even magical. Snyder said that the stops they designated on Mt. Tam in 1965 were “... like playing with the being of the mountain, nothing fancy about it.” Our little pandemic pod adopted this playful attitude by wandering the rest of the day, veering off the traditional circumambulation route.

 After lunch, we ambled the Rock Springs trail, which steered us to the Mountain Theatre, a large amphitheater constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s. As if by magic, a trio of bluegrass musicians appeared on the stage below us, tuning their instruments and playing songs. We sat, relishing the very first live music we’d heard in a year. Goosebumps marched up and down my arms, a sensation of kismet — new beginnings, hope, and possibility — that shivers through us when we’re lucky enough to feel it. I dared to breathe a little deeper.

 We made our way to the West Point Inn by late afternoon and enjoyed sunshine and expansive views over the North and East bays. The teens showed us how to take socially distanced selfies, which we snapped to memorialize the zenith of our hike. Then we started back toward Pan Toll on the Matt Davis trail, arriving at dusk an hour or two later at our consecrated roadside parking spot with just enough time before dark to finish our journey by offering words of thanks to each other and the mountain for a safe day’s journey.

We hopped into our car and rolled off toward home.

 With a map, a little creativity, full water bottles, and a sense of adventure, we had inaugurated a new family tradition and created some COVID-safe fun that boosted our mental and physical health during the pandemic. We also had a chance to experience ourselves in relationship with the environment, with the nature and beauty of Mt. Tam. Especially in times of distress, it’s important to feel connection, not only with other humans but with the environments around us, large and small.

 Gazing at the night sky out the car window, I felt a familiar sense of oneness with all those stars, and I telescoped between feeling tiny and insignificant and feeling

utterly connected to all of it.