Chapter 1: A letter to my niece

Dear Maddy,

In late July 2013, Grandpa (할아버지) and I had a dangerous conversation on the suburban streets near our home in Riverside, California. 

“Dad (아빠),” I said. “Why can’t you just support me?”

“Eun-Sang (은상),” he replied. “You’re not talented.”

You see, your Grandpa immigrated to the United States in the late ‘70s to fulfill his calling to spread God’s word. His parents, your great-grandparents, sang Methodist hymns while suffering poverty and war in South Korea in the early 1950s. And now his only son, your uncle, the sole heir to the Cho name, wants to be a pianist? No way. 

Mozart was a pianist. 

Mozart performed for kings and queens at the age of eight. Beethoven was deaf when he composed his 9th Symphony. Oscar Peterson thought two people (four hands) were playing “Tiger Rag” before realizing it was one man—Art Tatum, who was blind. 

“You have no right to say that to me,” I said. “You’re the worst pastor I’ve ever seen. It’s your fault we have to move every two years. You’re the reason Mom (엄마) has to drive three hours every day. You’re not talented either.” 

Yeah, I said that. 

I’m not proud of it, but it’s true. 

Before that night, I’d pray to God to bring back the father I once loved. Afterward, all that was left were the hollow remnants of the son he once knew. 

We walked home.

“Dad (아빠),” I said when we reached our driveway. “I’m sorry.” 

He hugged me tight as I wept. “I’m sorry, too.” 

I quit two months later. 

The phrase “starving artist” is popular for a reason. Creative pursuits promise spiritual awakening, but the cost is your life. Grandpa gave me an excuse to play the victim.

So there I was, a young man in his early 20s, wounded by the complexities of life. I graduated from the University of California, Riverside, and flew to South Korea to live among rice fields, teaching English in the rural village of Daeso (대소). However, in the spring of 2014, eight months into my trip, a momentous occasion changed everything. 

You were born. 

With love,

Mike 삼촌

Chapter 2: Flight of the condor

It was August 2023, and I was an unemployed writer, staring at the upright Yamaha piano in my parents’ living room in Los Angeles, California, after five years of teaching English in San Diego.

“Why writing?” Jesse, an old friend from college, asked when I called to discuss the possibility of leaving education. 

“Woah there, what’s with the third degree?” I joked. “Stop asking so many questions.”

The truth is that it just feels right. 

I write, I suffer, and I’m happy. 

At least now I can build towering, gothic cathedrals out of words. My gargoyles hunch their backs and furrow their brows. Arches loom overhead, stained glass windows glisten across grand halls, and holy ghosts drift through the aisles. Writing is my sanctuary, a place where words can breathe as I pray. 

My gaze lingered on the piano. Stickers labeling each note embellish the keys for my four nieces. Their achievements, from graduating kindergarten to first steps, adorn the walls. A message on the side of the stairs reads, Home [hom] noun – A place where you are always welcome and surrounded by those who love you. 

A sharp buzz snapped me out of my nostalgia. 

Tess was nearby.

Our road trip along the California coast, across the borders of Canada, through the forests of Montana, and into the mountains of Colorado would be a formal goodbye to her job as a Bird Care Specialist with the San Diego Zoo. 

“What will you do instead?” I asked several months ago on our first date.

“Protect birds like the Kiwikiu or ‘Amahiki from extinction in Maui,” she replied. “It’s a significant pay cut, but worth it.”

She booked her plane ticket to Hawai’i the next day. 

My phone buzzed again. 

Tess had arrived. 

She was parked in the red zone. Her forest green Subaru Outback filled to the brim with all her belongings, leaving the two seats up front. Her brunette hair was gorgeously tousled. She’d backpacked the Channel Islands the past few days. 

“Sequoia National Park, here we come,” I said after hopping into the car.

“Hey, can we make a quick stop at Bitter Creek?” she asked. 

“Sure, what’s in Bitter Creek?”

“Condors.”

“Condors?” I asked. 

“One of the rarest birds in the world.”

The engine roared as we escaped the chaos of Los Angeles, cruising along the highway before exiting into the mountains of Frazier Park, 35 miles southeast of Bitter Creek National Wildlife Refuge. Tess glanced at her watch to calculate the rising elevation. Signs of prancing deers and black bears sprang forth and vanished. Squirrels whirled around tree trunks as we snaked through forests of Ponderosa pine, exchanging stories.  

“It was terrifying,” she said. “The birds nest in the canopy, so I had to climb three to four stories to collect the eggs. 

“Is it safe?” 

“We wear a harness attached to a rope, but it’s scary when the ladder shifts.” 

“How’d you get the ladder in the jungle?” I asked.

“By helicopter,” she answered. 

One by one, the trees disappeared, revealing a stunning vista against a backdrop of vast, scarlet canyons swarmed by rolling hills made of gold. 

“We’re here,” I said. 

Tess rolled down her window, scouring the cloudless, baby-blue sky for any sign of life. I leaned close to the steering wheel, keen to find a better view. We drove past an abandoned house that sang blues of days gone by. Cows lazed in small patches of shade. A lone oak tree withered like skeletal remains under a desert sun. 

“I can’t imagine living out here,” she mused.

A pitchfork split the road in two.

“The road to the right goes to Bakersfield,” I said. 

“Hmmm, good to know,” she replied. “But I’m not ready to give up just yet.”

“Yeah, me neither. Should we try again?” 

“Definitely.”

We waved to the abandoned house as we passed a second time. 

“Maybe we should hike into the hills?” Tess suggested. 

Gravel grumbled as we eased onto the shoulder of the road and parked. Then we set off towards higher ground while grasshoppers leaped away from our feet. Beads of sweat formed and dripped. The scorching sun began to take its toll. We trudged on.

For the first time, disappointment crept in, and my demon, let’s call him Doubt, saw an opportunity. He made himself comfortable on my shoulder.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said. “There’re no condors around here. They’re all sleeping deep in those canyons.”

“Is that—” 

“That’s not a condor,” Doubt retorted. “You should quit and head to Sequoia. Hey, maybe you’ll spot a bear?”

I brushed Doubt aside. He somersaulted before fluttering his wings to catch his fall, cackling as he watched us retrace our steps back downhill. 

“We still have time to reach Sequoia before it gets dark,” I said.

“Where are they?” she replied. 

“I know. It’s almost as if they knew we were coming.”

“I thought we’d see one by now,” she said. “Can we keep trying?”

“I’m down.” 

The abandoned house waved a third time.

A few birds had landed on the twigs of the oak tree, gossiping about the two strange humans drawing circles in the hills. Daylight waned.

“Maybe I should start looking for a place to—” 

“What’s that?” I shouted. “Tess! Do you see it?” 

In the distant azure canvas of the sky, two silhouettes, one much larger than the other, circled gracefully. We pulled the car over and rushed outside. 

“There!” I yelled.

“Hold on, don’t get too excited,” Tess said. “Damn, I wish I had my binos (binoculars).”

“How can you tell if it’s a condor?”

“They’re huge.”

“One of those birds is pretty big.” 

“Remember the turkey vultures we saw?” she said. “Their wings had white feathers at the bottom. Condors have them on top.” 

“They’re too far,” I said. “We need to get closer.” 

Barbed wire fences barred our entry. We ran alongside the road in search of safe passage into the hills. Anything would do–a gate, a way over—shoot; we’d crawl in the dirt through a hole if we had to. The final grains of hope slipped through our fingers until, as if on cue, magic appeared. The large bird caught a gust of wind and veered course.

“It’s coming this way!” Tess said. 

“Oh my God,” I replied, watching it fly toward us. 

“The feathers at the top are white!” she yelled. 

“I can’t believe it.”

The legendary condor, suspended between heaven and earth, circled above. With wings spanning over nine feet, it soared with effortless poise. Spellbound, we watched it fly north and disappear into a crimson horizon.

The rhythm of our hearts slowed to a gentle pulse.

“That was beautiful,” I said.

Tess’s eyes welled up with tears. 

“I’m getting kind of emotional right now,” she said before laughing it off.  

“Want to camp in Frazier tonight?” I asked. 

“Sure.”

The engine roared as we bid farewell to the sacred lands of Bitter Creek, cruising along a twisted road past the canyons and back into the mountains. Tess glanced at her watch to calculate the rising elevation. Signs of prancing deers and black bears sprang forth and vanished. Bats fluttered their wiry wings, and owls hooted nearby as we danced through forests of Ponderosa pine, exchanging stories.