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THE LAND OF
THE MORNING CALM

Twelve thousand peaks
Each of a different height
Look, Sir, as the sun rises,
The highest one blushes first.
~ Soeng Sung-nin (1338-1423) 		Mountains near Pusan, South Korea around 1953
Mountains of Korea Near Pusan, 1953
Long, long ago, the Asian peninsula now known as Korea was a mass of volcanic mountains. Ice Age Arctic glaciers never shifted far enough south to smooth out the terrain so eight ranges of mountain pinnacles are steep and rugged in their sovereign outlook over abysmal canyons, tapering valleys and cascading waterfalls. Altitudes can’t rival many of the world’s majestic mountain ranges - the Andes, the Alps - yet Korea is considered the "Switzerland of Asia." An ancient Chinaman shared his envious awe of neighboring mountains in verse: "I would rather live in Korea and see Kumgang-san (Diamond Mountains)."

A girl can stand anywhere in the country, even in the center of the largest grid of flat rice fields, and see mountains. I gazed through the white iron bars of my childhood bedroom window and believed: If I climb to the top of the next hill, I’ll see the ocean. The physical ascent to one peak only revealed a multitude of more mountains (after all, seventy percent of Korea is mountainous) but my intriguing quest birthed a love for climbing crests.
Rivers and Rice Paddies of Korea
Rivers and Rice Paddies 		The "land decorated with golden embroidery" is laced with rivers and streams, most originating from the Taebaek mountain range. Flowing from Korea's tallest mountain, Paektu-san (on the Manchurian border), six hundred and thirty-six miles of the rivers Amnok and Tuman form a natural separation between North Korea and China with a mere eleven miles of the Tuman-kang drawing a dividing line between Korea and Siberia.
The great rivers held no sacred significance to ancient Koreans so they freely sailed from shore to shore or, when winter’s chill froze the rivers, walked across the iced surface. The two rivers weave through lofty, craggy mountains before emptying into seas on the peninsula’s east and west sides.
During the 1960s, pine trees were short, stout and sparce. Koreans blamed the Japanese for cutting down all of their trees for industrial use, leaving the countryside nearly as bald of foliage as my grandfather's head was of hair. However, 1) since the start of Korean civilization until the 1970s, trees were used for heat, construction, and cooking without regards to conservation; 2) the people were encouraged to chop down trees along the coasts to make their Hermit Kingdom appear barren and forbidding to barbarians (any foreigner was considered as such) who might approach by way of the sea; 3) bombs blasted vegetation beyond roots during the war; and 4) the granite soil of Korea's mountains is nonconducive to growing jungle-like forests. My little sister Kim picking flowers on a hillside
Kim Picking Wild Flowers
Korea's national flower, the Rose of Sharon, grew wild on the hillsides, thanks to secret cultivation of the hardy shrub by Korean patriots in defiance of Japanese law forbidding the flower during occupation (first half of 1900s). The Korean name for the shrub is Mugunghwa - derived from "mugung" meaning "immortality" - and symbolized the strength and endurance of the Korean people.
The tallest mountain in the vicinity of our village was called Chicken Foot because it resembled a giant rooster’s leg and claws. A lake perched halfway up the mountainside filled with water from a mountain creek, the clear, babbling brook liquid so pure and untouched by Korean washings we could scoop up a palm-full and drink without fear of contracting a deadly illness. We enjoyed the cooling invigoration of the lake on hot summer days having stopped submergence in the creek near our village the day my brother rose from the shallow water carrying squirming, slimy black bloodsuckers on his pale white skin. And The Pond was too dirty to be used as a swimming hole.
Korea Christian Academy Girl's PE Class (yes, this was, for the most part, ALL the junior and senior high school girls back then!) taking a break from our visit to the Baby Fold. Chicken Foot towers in the background.
KCA Girls PE Class on Outing, 1973-ish
(Chicken Foot in background) 		One scorching, humid summer day, my best friend Rachel and I decided to climb to Chicken Foot’s peak. Carrying two small bottles of cherry Kool-Aid, we stared up to the top of the mountain and contemplated. The path curved and meant a journey of an hour or two. Didn’t it make more sense to climb a short cut straight up the side of the mountain? ( (Oddly enough, I don't have a single picture of Rachel and I together although we were very close throughout our entire youths. But I do have this single photo of Chicken Foot.)
Half a day later and halfway up Chicken Foot, Rachel and I were ambushed by swarms of caterpillars inhabiting branch-to-branch chin-high pine trees. The fuzzy worms brushed off on our clothes and then our skin until we were crawling with the creepy creatures. To make matters worse, we were parched from thirst but our Kool-Aid was hot. Hollywood’s studio producers never knew to contact us about our adventure to make a blockbuster movie, but our hike was a real-life horror flick.