More than two thirds of South Korea is covered in mountains. For thousands of years, this geography has shaped the Korean relationship with the land.

Over the last fifty years, South Korea has undergone an extraordinary economic ascent, transforming from one of the world’s poorest nations into one of its most modern. But that transformation brought with it an exhausting work culture and a relentless societal pace. And yet, in a country that has changed so rapidly, the ancient connections to the land have not disappeared. The mountains still stretch far above the skyline, unchanged by time.

This past winter, I spent nearly every day alone in those mountains near Seoul — taking photographs, and immersing myself in Korean hiking culture. Growing up in northern Germany, where the land is almost entirely flat, I have never really been to a mountain before, let alone hiked in one in winter.

Ipsan is a Korean word meaning ‘to enter the mountain.’ It is an alternative to the common word for hiking, Deungsan. It implies reverence — an immersion in the mountain, a separation from the city. This distinction felt important to me, and it became the foundation of this work.

Within Seoul’s peaks, hikers find solace. I focused on those who hike alone in the cold winter. Their reasons for being there, and their relationship with the mountain, felt deeper, quieter, and more deliberate than those who go in groups.

I also encountered fragments of a pre-modern era — among them the Sanshin, the mountain god. He has protected the mountains since ancient times, long before Buddhism or Christianity reached Korea. I like to think of him having watched over me, as I moved through his domain.

In this journey, I became a lone hiker myself. This project was my own first real encounter with the mountains and these photographs became my diary of the past winter.