Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Chungju

*Saturday, October 30, 2010*

As the days in Korea turn colder, one of the things I have decided to do with my weekends has been to explore the nation's grand outdoors before winter's icy grip seals it into a snowy, "frozen tundra"--to borrow an oft-repeated phrase from Andy. Two weekends ago, I had an opportunity to do such exploring around one of my favorite places in the country, Chungju-si, with Krista. Through the taxi's window I watched the sun rise beind me over Dongtan's colossal skyscrapers as I rode toward the bus terminal, excited at the prospect of another day of adventure in my Korean "hometown." Come what may, I knew it would be nothing if not unexpected and exhilarating.

Krista and I had plans to take the river ferry from Chungju Lake to Danyang, a beautiful nearby tourist city, that morning. As the only available tickets to our destination were for the last voyage of the day--scheduled to embark at three p.m.--and we had gotten to the docks around 10:45, it would have been a four-plus hour wait just to get on the boat. We decided, instead, to take the ferry around the lake, joining eager Koreans on the deck of the ship to shiver in piercing autumn wind and admire the view. It was a decision which, as well as being eight thousand won cheaper, proved to be equally as picturesque as our original plan; it even allowed us to get back to the dock hours earlier than we were hoping. With time to spare that afternoon, we found a hiking trail that we hoped would be a shortcut to a statue park one and a half kilometers up the road, and decided to check it out.

In Korea, however, as many a foreign naturalist soon discovers, trails are never shortcuts to greater ends. What Krista and I stumbled upon was an ascent up a small mountain that I'm sure would have rivaled any that Brandon had trekked in this country. This was no relaxing nature walk! Wearing my newest pair of brown leather walking shoes, meant for clipped steps around city blocks, and one of my loose-knit, dressy sweaters, I soon discovered that I was ill-prepared for the rigors that the trail presented us.

As we set out on the hike, the trail paralleled the road for about fifty meters, then abruptly turned perpendicular and nearly straight up the hill. The earth that marked its existence looked rocky and freshly upturned, a curious fence-like row of ropes and posts lining its left side. The presence of the newly-installed railing should have been our first clue as to the path's actual difficulty. Because they are rare in this country, if you see handrails anywhere in public, you know it's because you need them!

Whatever foothold I found melted away from me each time I stepped down because of my lack of real contact with the rocky terrain; I only hoped Krista didn't have the same issue. We literally pulled ourselves up hand-over-hand using the ropes, due to our lack of traction and the steepness of the climb. At one point as we descended, I was clinging to the rope so much that it almost felt like I was repelling instead of hiking. Each time we reached the end of the railing, what we thought was the top of the mountain proved to be yet more trail. We finally had to turn back two hours into the hike, as we were no closer to the park and we didn't want to get stuck up there past dark.

Panting for breath as we ascended, I told Krista the story of my "hike" up the switchbacks of Emory Peak in Big Bend National Park when I was fifteen. A select few of my youth group, including myself, had been asked to go on a leadership training camp-out in the remote desert region of West Texas, the birthplace of the Mexican Sierra Madre Oriental, and the only mountains in the whole state. As my friends and I journeyed to the top of the short peak in one-hundred-degree heat, I began to feel the pain of our exertion almost immediately, even to the point that I feared I wouldn't make it to the top.

They each had tried to encourage me with the assertion to "make it five more minutes." After an hour or so of being told every five minutes that a rest was "just five more minutes" away, I yelled out fiercely, "Don't you ever tell me it's five more minutes again!" The wife of our youth leader and one other friend stayed with me as I grumbled the rest of the way up the mountain, but no told me it would be "five more minutes" after that. In fact, no one else said a word to me. It was all I could do to make it to the top for lunch, and were it not for that same friend, I'd never have gotten down. When I finally reached our campsite towards the end of that day, I never thought I'd actually enjoy another strenuous hike again.

I surprised myself that day with Krista. Each time I thought I was done, I somehow found the strength to keep going. If I felt like my energies were spent and my legs had given in, after a minute's breather and a few well-composed snapshots I was ready to get back on the trail. Krista even noticed my vigor. "You're in shape," she said as I took off to attack another run of still more rope handrails. "You took the lead [at the beginning] and you're still climbing." As I expended energy only to find still more to spend, I had to admit she was right. The hike proved to be challenging beyond what I thought I was capable of and yet I was doing it. Here I was--an overweight, lazy, complaining, whiny-butt teenager just nine short years ago--trudging up a steep hill just for the thrill of the adventure.

We both earned the rewards of our suffering as we climbed further and further towards the tiny summit. Wherever we looked, we could see trees, lakewater, and, in the hazy blue distance, mountains. The scene was breathtaking. This is why the city is my favorite, the reason I come back month after month. Ladies and Gentleman, this is Chungju.