Hiking in Korea (Chuseok Part 1)

The first part of my Chuseok vacation was of course a trip to the mountain fastnesses of my new home. I've done a bit of day hiking around Daegu since I arrived, but this was to be my first overnight trip, and it had been far too long since I spent a night in the woods. So along with Tom and Lisa (two other teachers from Avalon) and Tahirih (a friend from Potsdam who is also teaching in Korea), I packed up my trusty Atmos 65 and headed off to Jirisan National Park.

Jirisan (also the name of the primary mountain in the Park) is Korea's oldest national park and home to Cheonwangbong, the highest peak in mainland Korea, at 6,283 feet. Jirisan is one of the country's most popular hiking destinations, and the 182 square mile park gets almost 300,000 visitors every year. That's 1,648 visitors for every square mile. Compare this to the Adirondack Park, which, though it gets an average of 8 million visitors a year, equals out to only 835 people per square mile. Needless to say, the first thing to go out the window when hiking in Korea is any illusion that you might be able to appreciate some solitude in the woods. As such, Chuseok (the Korean Thanksgiving) seemed like a perfect time to visit Jirisan. On Chuseok, nearly the entire country is busy visiting and feasting with relatives, so it is allegedly one of the only times you will be able to hike through the mountains without having to wait in line on the trails.

At the crack of dawn on Saturday, we took an express bus to the city of Jinju. The timetables and transfer points were a bit daunting, but it turns out that the bus system is not too difficult to navigate. In Jinju, there are buses running every hour (sometimes more frequently) to every one of the trailheads in Jirisan, of which there are almost a dozen. This is a major point for Korea. The public transportation system here is not only astoundingly efficient, cheap, and extensive, but it also seems that the accessibility of the wilderness is near mandatory.

Where I take points off is the lack of any semblance of true wilderness, and the crippling regulations. In Korean parks -- both provincial and national -- camping is only allowed at designated campsites (which are always immediately adjacent to parking lots and made to accommodate hundreds of people) or "shelters" within the park. These "shelters" are not shelters as I know them. Instead they are enormous buildings (thousands of feet up and miles into the woods, mind you) with floor heating, blankets for rent, a cooler full of drinks, Ramen for sale, toilets, urinals, a cordoned-off smoking section, cell phone chargers, and of course a 3G signal. You pay ₩ 7,000 (roughly $6.50) to share a cramped living space with anywhere from 12 to 100 other snoring people. The berths are no more than 2 feet wide, and women and men are forbidden from sleeping in the same rooms. The sounds of birds and bugs are virtually non-existent. Instead you hear K-Pop and loud, lengthy cell-phone conversations at your campsite.

If you'll pardon the temporary mounting of my high horse, I will say it's hard to get the camping experience that I'm used to in this environment. Where I come from, this is a shelter:

This is what I'd call a house:

It's also hard to get back to nature, as it were, when helicopter rescue is only a QR code away:

As far as the regulations, of course you aren't allowed to camp anywhere except the shelters, so it is unfortunately a choice between sharing your lodging with 50 snoring Koreans, or not staying in the park overnight. Fires are forbidden anywhere except the shelters. That includes stove fires, so you can forget about a hot victory lunch on the summit. You are also forbidden from hiking at night. Hiking hours are from two hours before sunrise to two hours after sunset. We chose to ignore this particular rule, in pursuit of a sunrise from Cheonwangbong. We got fogged out of the sunrise, but did get some spectacularly clear night hiking in anyway:

The downsides of the "shelters" notwithstanding, the park has absolutely beautiful scenery. The trails are a healthy mix of wooden and metal steps, roped up rock scrambles, and the the intense, vertical, scoff-at-even-the-idea-of-switchbacks type of terrain that I have come to know and love hiking in the Northeast U.S.

The views, thanks to the gorgeous fall weather, were stunning.

 

And here we are at the highest point in the Korean mainland:

I ended up revising the route several times before entering the park, after realizing, as I usually do, that I was far too ambitious at first. It was a good thing too, because the terrain was just as tough as any I've hiked. Our first day was 3.7 miles in to Saeseok Shelter, which took a lazy 5 or 6 hours. Our second day was 5.6 miles and five peaks in the course of 10 hours (with a long nap and breakfast in between). The third day was 4.2 miles, all downhill (and thankfully we picked the right way to go down, it would have been a nightmare in the other direction!). Our second night was spent at a much smaller, much less crowded, and much nicer shelter. The shelter had an amazing view, a considerably nicer manager, and a dog for a mascot. Overall, it was a much better experience the second night (though I still would have preferred to set up my tent or hammock somewhere else).

On Monday, we spent a lazy morning enjoying the sunrise from the picnic tables, and a nice Korean couple struck up a conversation with us. Koreans, as a rule, don't have the same hang-ups as we Americans do about friendly and even intimate conversations with strangers. We were offered food -- Korean barbecue with fresh meat and vegetables -- by no less than four other groups of hikers, and accepted graciously though we had nothing but paltry trail mix and oatmeal with which to reciprocate. This particular couple was excited to practice their English and advertise their camping shop on Goeje Island (which I will certainly have to make a point to visit).

All in all, Jirisan was an outstanding experience. The terrain was similar enough that I was right at home hiking it, but the scenery was sufficiently Asian, as I thought it. I imagined martial arts masters training under waterfalls that we passed and The Monkey King capering around on promontories not unlike the ones I was seeing. Fall, as we all know, is the best season to go hiking, and it is no different in Korea. The woods are beautiful, the temperature is perfect, the bugs are absent, and the trails are a bit less crowded.

I feel compelled to make a comparison between the hobby I love in The States and the one that has fast become the national pastime of Korea. Being an entirely mountainous country with a booming economy and middle class, the accessibility of hiking trails and parks is top notch. The public transportation system encourages both urban and rural people to take advantage of the outdoors, and the Koreans' enterprising and friendly nature make them excellent hikers and gear salespeople. However, a lot of what makes backpacking special for me seems not to exist here. There is little solitude, and none of the self-imposed exile from the trappings of civilization that gives me a new perspective on myself and the company I keep in the woods. It is not surprising that the parks have to be regulated in this way. In such a small, crowded country, I suppose my prejudices about space and wilderness from one of the largest nations on earth don't quite belong.

In any event, I am thrilled that Koreans have taken to the activity of hiking with the same enthusiasm that I have. Prepare to see many more picture-laden posts of my outdoor adventures.