Rising to The Top

“Hey babe… guess what?!” my husband shouted from another room. I am not much for guessing. Silence hung in the air, but he went on anyways. “They are allowing travel within the peninsula!”. A magazine flew from my hands and I blasted off the couch with my arms up in the air in celebration. After five long months of quarantine and idling within these four walls; a ray of light gleamed upon us. I would spend my days from sun-up to sun-down swiping through a never-ending stream of posts about potential outdoor activities in South Korea. It was the summer of 2020, and now that these shackles had been removed, we would embark on a road trip to Seoraksan National Park. In our first encounter with mother nature, we would finally get some much-needed vitamin D, fresh air, and a chance to get our blood pumping. In my quest to find as much information about Seoraksan, I learned that the trail at this park would be no easy feat. But I prepared myself with the most comfortable clothes and hoped for the best. 

The sun emerged from behind the mountains of Daegu and magically removed our chains. After checking off our checklist we were on the move. As we zoomed through the highway, eager to reach our destination to a majestic mountain range filled with life. The whooshing of cars passing by mother nature; she exposed her green curves filled with farm fields and wild trees. Kilometers of shades of green, and little puffs scattered across the blue canvas. “Wait am I really fit to go up this mountain trail? I mean, we’ve gone hiking before but this looks a bit steep,” a melody with faint whistling of a flute leaves the speakers of the car. “I haven’t worked out in a long time” my eyes back on the shifting white lines on the road swiftly passing one by one. Another post of the peak of Seoraksan, and my mind becomes as loud as a New York city train station in the middle of rush hour, “I can do this. I mean if other’s have the ability to do so. So can I, right?” Then another angle of the peak, smiling faces at the peak, and a never-ending set of stairs. My eyes widened staring back out onto the road, “I hate stairs”. 

The sun was past the half way point in the sky and we had squeezed into a cubicle size parking spot. The echo of a tiresome yawn filled the underground parking lot. We wiggled our way between the cars to the doors of a local hotel in Sokcho, while our shoulders bore our hefty bags. The next morning, the sun barely stretched its reach upon the horizon of the East Sea and made an entrance onto the velvet diamond twinkling bronze sky. Like a hammer, my hands slammed quiet the dreadful sound of our alarms. An ogre like voice came from the other side of the bed. “Already?” I sat up at the edge of the bed slamming my face awake.

A kilometer separated us from our adventure. A parade of freshly reborn maple trees rustling and flailing along the road provided awe along with a preview of the beauty that awaited us. “Why is there so much traffic? Aren’t we early?” as I crossed my arms. “I hope there is some parking spots left”. Ah but if there are not parking spots, we have to turn back and I do not have to do this. But in an act of magic, there was a quick exchange of hangul sentences with a parking attendant, and we were standing necks stiffen, hidden under our masks, backpacks strapped, and taking our first step into adventure.

We walked under a display of colorful dancheong, golden hanja characters and an entrance gate that resembled a portal into another world. Seoraksan welcomed us, as our airy steps crossed into the park passed the gate. I had read that in Korean culture “the gate in particular is a space for the ritual of coming and going. Therefore, the gate has the property of shifting from the inner world to the outer world and vice versa” (Lee Kyung-Jae). A cubicle stood with scratched windows, crusty walls, faded multi-lingual maps, and no attendant. We came with the basic knowledge of what we had seen on social media posts and a partial research to see if all trails were open. My hands held a hefty map covered in a variety of trails. We just wanted to walk and be one with nature at last. Our eagerness would take us somewhere new and that was good enough for us.

I shrugged my shoulders, folded the map back up and pointed to a pole with six wooden arrow-like signs in the middle of a fork on the road it displaying different trail names. We grinned, “cable car?” a suggestive husband asked and I hesitated, I am not fond of heights. Shortly after I nodded in agreement, because why would we hike to the top when you can get lifted there. With hopping steps, we followed the arrow pointing towards the cable car facility. The road adorned with perfectly placed gray rectangles and no human environmental footprints to be seen. It was a true testament to the park’s preservation efforts, “Seoraksan is the area in Korea to have been designated as a Biosphere Preservation District” (Korean National Park Service). Korean culture takes pride on their recycling and garbage disposing responsibilities. Our garbage bag sat wrinkled in our pockets because after I read an article by Frank Dax in the Korean Journal, I understood that “Hiking brings attention to Korea’s natural beauty its religious relics cloaks in the mountains, and many of the country’s designated transitions, all without leaving a large footprint on the environment” (Dax), South Korean’s take pride in the way they take care of their land and bodies. We wanted to comply with respect towards nature.

After buying our tickets we waited about 45 minutes for our 5-to-10-minute ride to the Gweongeumseong Fortress; even though a car leaves every five minutes. The intoxicating scent of don katsu, pajeon and mandu lured us into the facility’s restaurant to let the time pass. When the clock stroked our time, we stepped into a car that by regulation limits to about 50 people; naturally we crammed in like sardines wearing surgical masks. Once the car docked, we sturdily took steps towards the peak. Steady breathing and the blood were pumping loud. A 360 degree of pure light-blue sky that saw no end, gentle wind, steady scattered clouds, peak-after-peak of greenery and ages of nature’s evolving shape protruding through the trees revealing its rough edges. I found myself dodging eager phone photographers, jumping children, and photobombing. Although a beautiful sight, this was not what we wanted. I quickly realized that this was not satisfying. An easy ride to the peak was convenient but it was not greatly rewarded with the peace we were looking for. Our hopping steps down the rubber covered stairs back to the cable car would lead us back to our hunt for that connection to mother nature.

Shuffling our feet passed tired parents and elder visitors we made our way to a quieter road. Trees towered over us, sheltering us from the unforgiving rays of the summer sun. As we pass another gate signaling the beginning of something new. Our eyes directed to a bronze 14.6-meter-high statue of a crossed leg buddha. A middle age hiker lit candles on a stone carved table and began taking prayer on a mat at the foot of the buddha statue. I glared at my husband, trying not to disrupt the peace around us and without uttering a word, took a soft step towards a fork in the road. A babbling stream overshadowed the chatter coming from hikers, we followed the soothing sounds up to a small stone bridge connecting to the entrance of a temple. A mix of a sonorous prayer chant echoed through the surrounding mountains. We stood outside the gate and we vowed in gratitude for this peaceful moment. We continued towards a dirt road where pine trees and maple trees inundated the scenery.

               Crossing another stone bridge a wooden arrow pointed towards a dirt road and a lonely temple sat next to it, “it says here 2.7 km to Heundolbawi and an additional 1km to Ulsanbawi. I think we could do it” hesitating to make a decision and hoping my husband would make it for us. He took a firm step in the direction towards the Ulsanbawi trail. The sun was now signaling the afternoon had arrived. I put on a hat to shelter me from its beams. The soothing trickling sounds of the water along the trail and its water shined like the stars down the stream. Along with the dulcet chirping birds conversating among themselves; It felt like the serenity we were seeking.

            The sun had not moved since our starting point and sweat inundated my face onto my mask. My breathing began to labor. My legs continuously taking one step at a time; not minding the labor cries of my breath. Walking unto the shade of the towering pine trees and maple trees softly swaying, we shifted our steps off the trail towards the stream. While catching our abandoning breath, Korean words echoed along the trail. Placing my regretful body on wide rocks, we just watched the hiker’s swift feet making their way up and down the trail.

            The South Korean culture loves hiking. The Economist printed on an article that South Korean’s culture is “a culture of long working hours and short holidays encourage efficient hiking” (“Race to the Top…”), and they were not wrong. South Korean’s have inherited hiking as a national pastime. The country’s terrain supports it, and its highways create easy access to all of their National Parks and UNESCO sites. In any of their hiking trails, you can spot a fast pace hiker going up the mountain and quickly down the same path. They almost miss the point of enjoying the peaceful atmosphere. As the stream flowed south, we witnessed their committed duty to finish the trail before going home.

The incessant shutter of my husband’s phone snapped me back to myself. I tied my shoes, took a sip from my water cannister, strapped my backpack and stood erect with my eyes set on the trail. “We should keep going, we don’t know how much longer we have”. A second wind of bravery came over me. My husband’s uproarious steps sounded faster and sturdier upon the trail. “You go on at your pace, I’ll catch up” I huffed while gasping for my own air. He stopped for a moment and saw the determined look in my eyes and to spare my ego, he looked at the trail ahead and disappeared.

I continuously encouraged myself, one foot after the other, easy does it. Deep breath, exhale. Deep breath, exhale. The sun was sipping thru the branches of the pine trees onto the mix of rock and dirt trail. The quiet breeze no longer held its refreshing flow and it was barely enough to sway the trees. Hesitating on the steady flow of my steps, I kept walking along the trail. A couple of hikers were concentrating in making stone towers as they quietly prayed for health, good luck and happiness. Their pitiful eyes directed at me as I caught my breath and I watched them pray. Their eyes turned to me, they gently vowed in a courteous hello, I vowed back. In a mix of feelings, and with a weary smile I took another step. Soon, a wooden sign of hope, an arrow sat under a tree pointing to Heundolbawi in .2 km. My husband saw my brooding face as I halted when I saw .2km of rock stairs. “Come on babe, you are almost there” his encouraging voice traveled across the stairs.

            With no breath to waste, I simply nodded, elevating one foot towards the first set of steps. One step after another, my mask covering half my face and I forcibly inhaled the next breath. Sweat avalanching down my face. One more step to the last step, and now the sound of voices surpasses my gasping for air. The melodic chant of buddhas prayer slipped from within the rocks. Shadows of scriptures engraved on massive smooth boulders from ages ago withstanding the test of time. The sun looked like it was starting to fade in strength. My breath was now steady. My shirt wet from; water or sweat? I could not tell. “Babe is 1 km to the top; do you think you can do it?”  the hunted look in my eyes and his pleading expression left me with one question; could I really continue? A decisive wooden sign read “Ulsanbawi 1km”. A gurgle from my cannister, water dripped on the side of my mouth onto my neck, wide-eyed and unblinking, I closed the cannister, wiped the sweat off my forehead. Took one firm step, one deep breath; Let’s go.

            The immediate regret was unforeseen. It was 1 km of stairs; I took step after step and I replayed the distance in my head. Children passed me by, elders passed me by and I took one more step. I did not stand in solitude when I stopped to catch my breath. In unison we all struggled to take the next step; however, I was close to tears. I fought the urge to turn my feet the other way. My husband nowhere in sight, but I pushed one step at a time. A smiling hiker, lifted his arm with a tight fist, exclaimed “fighting”, a common word used among locals to incite motivation to keep on going. My withering face vowed in gratitude. I took a deep breath and while facing the ground; my eyes welted.Am I out of myself? A side-to-side shake of my head was necessary to shake those quitting thoughts out of my head. Wiped the sweat off my forehead one more time as I stepped on to the last a .2km set of stairs.

            The stairs lifted off the ground, they were welded onto the mountain side and a void under them. I was paralyzed with fear, I gripped the paint chipped metal hand rail as I trembled with fear. I lifted my eyes to the top and there it was; the Ulsanbawi peak. I slowly spun to take one look to the open sky, to hear the chirping, the trees and my beating heart. I wanted to cry; I had come so far to give up now. My physical limits had been tested and I just had a few more steps to conquer. I took a deep breath, my trembling hands wiped the tears of my face, I took another step while gripping the rail. “Babe you are almost there, just don’t look down” an inaudible voice reached me passed my thoughts. I could see my husband waving at me.

            One more set of stairs, as I pep talked myself to overcome this moment and claim the prize. After so many encouraging one step after the other; it was a wooden platform and the wind swiftly wiped my last tear of my face. The sky, the wind, the sun, the ocean, and my prize. “You did it!” he hugged me and my shirt stuck to me. I swallowed the knot in my throat. I took another deep breath. A shaken “I made it!” exhaled from my lips. My muscles began to loosen up, I slid my mask off my face, took a deep breath, tilted my head to the sky and smiled. The view was heaven sent. The range of mountain peaks, the birds flying in unison, the ocean sparkling at a distance, the city life at the feet of the mountain, a blanket of trees as far as the eye could see, and the sun still beaming upon our faces. A sigh, that’s all I could do to express what I felt.

            As we worked our way down those stairs, a set of flashbacks reminded me of the struggle, and I rejoiced in a monumental moment of self-perseverance. All the moments, I wanted to bargain myself into giving up. The times I doubted my capabilities. In that last step to the top, I proved to myself that I was enough. As I took steps down from the top, the humbling path filled with my sweat and tears, it lifted me to new heights of self-worth. The sun was as tired and ready to retire for the day. The last gleam of the sun barely made it past the mountains and with it, took my fears. The best sleep I had in a long time back at the hotel.

Back to the four walls, I placed myself in front of my laptop and started inputting my personal information for an application that had been juggling for months. Fear of the ability to perform and be something. I pressed sent and I finally submitted my application to return to my studies. Something in me arose from the ashes in that peak. Courage to face myself, to trust the process and the struggle that comes with a new challenge. Seoraksan gave me a chance to believe in my capabilities even when I didn’t believe in myself. I closed my laptop, place my hands on the computer, and I closed my eyes; taking me back to the caressing wind, the warmth of the sun, and the freedom that came with the perseverance of that day. Seoraksan gave me back my roots under my dusty hiking shoes.