Finally, the day of the hike.
I woke up later than I had hoped to, and I didn't arrive at the mouth of the trail proper until 8am. It was quietly hidden behind the entrance to Hwaeomsa temple and I actually had some trouble locating it at first, to the point where I almost started hiking up the wrong path. When I was sure I had found the right way, I paused to have a quick breakfast of trail mix and jerky, and then I was off.My hike started smoothly. The terrain was comfortable, the weather was cool, and apart from a few other hikers I had the path to myself. With 7k to go to the ridge, I was mildly surprised when, after walking for only 10 minutes, I passed a trail marker informing me I had hiked half a kilometer. This greatly boosted my confidence, and I honestly believed that if I kept going at my current pace it would be an easy task to reach the ridge before noon.
After 4k, my optimism was rapidly fading. The smooth stones that had been gently guiding me up the mountain for the past hour were quickly being replaced with jagged rocks that jutted out of the earth in every which way. I had to slow my pace to a snail's crawl to compensate for the sudden difficulty of the terrain, and the trail had become so steep that my nose was practically touching the ground.
And yet, I was sublimely happy. My optimism may have been gone, but it had been replaced by a special sort of calm. I was immersed in nature, in a place where the thoughts and responsibilities of every day life could not find me. Finances, bills, lesson plans, students who won't stop poking me... None of it mattered. The only thing I had to concern myself with was the fundamentally simple task of putting one foot in front of the other. This mountain was my church, the act of hiking my prayer, and as the kilometers added up my mind became more tranquil and uncluttered.
Along the way I found an amazing walking stick. You may think it silly that I feel it's worth mentioning a stick, but this was a pretty great stick. Sturdy, thick, easy to grip, but most importantly I felt it was solid enough to give me ample protection against a bear attack. Though I did not meet any bears, the signs cluttering the trail never failed to remind me that a bear could be just around the corner. With my trusty stick in hand, I welcomed any surprises.
I reached the base of Nogodan peak around noon. I immediately found myself surrounded by crowds of brightly colored and fashionable hikers who had taken a bus to the top from the other side of the mountain. Did I know there was such a bus? Sure. After arriving at the top disheveled, sweaty and sore, did I regret not taking the bus? Of course not. It was amusing though seeing the looks from people as they regarded me; I must have been an interesting sight, this out-of-breath foreigner in a cowboy hat clinging to his clubbish walking stick. It probably never even occurred to them that there was a steep trail opposite of their convenient little parking lot. Though I do need to give them some credit: I've always been eager to tease Korean day hikers for their ridiculous hiking outfits, but after walking 7k in jeans and a sweaty cotton shirt, I wasn't so quick to judge them and their light, breathable attire.
At the base of the peak was a small shelter and a well-paved trail winding up to the top of Nogodan. I bought some provisions at the shelter, strolled to the peak and settled myself down for lunch amidst the camera-happy throngs. Something I love about hiking are the people I meet. In my experience a hiking Korean is a happy Korean, and I don't get the strange looks or inquisitive stares from hikers that I do from people in the city. Everyone is on the mountain because they want to be there (minus the toddlers in backpacks and fat kids who want to be at their PCs), and that shared desire creates an unspoken kinship among hikers. I idled at the top for an hour, resting, taking in the view, and enjoying the company of others. When I felt rested enough, I disembarked for the second half of my hike.
I hiked along the ridge of the mountain for roughly 4k. The going was easy, people were few, and the views were fantastic. Most intriguing was the change of flora. Compared to the damp lush forest I had passed through that morning, the ridge was practically a desert. Eventually I reached a fork in the road that marked my point of descent and I began heading down. A man I had passed told me that I needed to hurry if I wanted to reach town before nightfall, but I assumed he was exaggerating. I was going down, not up. Hiking down is always easier.
Once again I ate my words. The hike through Piagol Valley was practically treacherous. Boulders blocked my path frequently, markers were few, and the trail itself too often blended in with the natural surroundings. Worst of all, the trail, if it could even be called that, was a cluster of violently uneven rocks, just like the path up the mountain. Carefully navigating my descent proved a tedious and frustrating affair, but I couldn't risk a sprained ankle. I hadn't seen another hiker for kilometers and getting stranded in bear country didn't seem like too much fun, big stick or no.
When I reached Piagol Shelter I felt relief. The sun was drooping, and I knew I didn't have much time left to get off the mountain, so it was good to see I was making progress. There were a few people occupying the shelter, and it really was a serene little place, but I couldn't stay and idle. After refreshing myself at a spigot tapping the ice cold water from the river flowing down the mountain, I continued onward.
From there it was just a march to the end: the roughness of the terrain did not abate until the last kilometer, and though the scenery was fantastic an anxiety to finish before darkness settled in kept me moving at a brisk pace. Finally, after 12 hours of vigorous hiking, I reached the end of the trail and entered the sleepy mountain town of Jikjeon. I breathed a sigh of relief. Though the mountain hadn't always been courteous to me, we parted ways amicably, and as a token of respect I offered up my faithful walking stick. I propped it up near the trail's entrance, so that some lucky hiker might find it as useful as I had.
I hiked along the ridge of the mountain for roughly 4k. The going was easy, people were few, and the views were fantastic. Most intriguing was the change of flora. Compared to the damp lush forest I had passed through that morning, the ridge was practically a desert. Eventually I reached a fork in the road that marked my point of descent and I began heading down. A man I had passed told me that I needed to hurry if I wanted to reach town before nightfall, but I assumed he was exaggerating. I was going down, not up. Hiking down is always easier.
Once again I ate my words. The hike through Piagol Valley was practically treacherous. Boulders blocked my path frequently, markers were few, and the trail itself too often blended in with the natural surroundings. Worst of all, the trail, if it could even be called that, was a cluster of violently uneven rocks, just like the path up the mountain. Carefully navigating my descent proved a tedious and frustrating affair, but I couldn't risk a sprained ankle. I hadn't seen another hiker for kilometers and getting stranded in bear country didn't seem like too much fun, big stick or no.
When I reached Piagol Shelter I felt relief. The sun was drooping, and I knew I didn't have much time left to get off the mountain, so it was good to see I was making progress. There were a few people occupying the shelter, and it really was a serene little place, but I couldn't stay and idle. After refreshing myself at a spigot tapping the ice cold water from the river flowing down the mountain, I continued onward.
From there it was just a march to the end: the roughness of the terrain did not abate until the last kilometer, and though the scenery was fantastic an anxiety to finish before darkness settled in kept me moving at a brisk pace. Finally, after 12 hours of vigorous hiking, I reached the end of the trail and entered the sleepy mountain town of Jikjeon. I breathed a sigh of relief. Though the mountain hadn't always been courteous to me, we parted ways amicably, and as a token of respect I offered up my faithful walking stick. I propped it up near the trail's entrance, so that some lucky hiker might find it as useful as I had.
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