And so the eight hour bus ride began loaded down once again with rope and draws and camping gear in all its splendour. Oh the self sufficient sacrifices we make to pursue our passion! To the Southern end of the country I ventured for a two day taste of limestone pockets and overhanging jug fests. At the Jecheon terminal, the train’s arrival was precise. Being stared at was the least of my worries as I boarded and squished between the sliding door and rows of cushioned fabric seats uniformly facing forward. A little bit of Mr. Carlos Castaneda nourished my open eyes as I waited for a friend, equally as addicted to climbing, to jump on the train half way along point A to B. When Wes, the Colorado/New Mexican vagabond sat next to me, my book closed and chat commenced. Sooner than later we arrived in Daejeon where we were to meet up with another rock enthusiast who had never actually rock climbed before but was so sure he would love it he bought all his own gear prematurely. Sure enough over the subsequent days, he caught the bug as expected. 
Busting out the playing cards and vending machine beer we passed the time playing mindless yet strategic slap down intensity. We hadn’t finished our game when we arrived at out final destination. Only a taxi ride was between us and the campsite calling our names. As my grasp on the Korean language grows and my ability to read Hangeul improves, hiring a taxi wouldn’t be a problem. And it wasn’t. We agreed on a price and so started the last leg of the trip. Half an hour on a dark country road, the driver pulled into a small village lit by candy coloured fluorescent signs. I had only been to Seonunsan Provincial Park once, but as my impeccable visual memory rarely deceives me, I didn’t recognize our surroundings. I asked the cab driver in one word preciseness, “Seonunsan?” He looked at me with a quizzical and disgusted expression. “Aniyo,” he replied. Aniyo means “NO” in Korean. “No?” What could he possibly mean by “no”? Had I been overconfident with my Korean speaking skills and assumed he heard me correctly? YES. There had been a miscommunication. NO. We weren’t in Seonunsan Provincial Park. We had in fact driven half an hour in the opposite direction and we all know that dirt bag climbers don’t have limitless amounts of expendable taxi fare. He wanted $55 to take us back to the place we originally wanted to go. Well, my friends were livid. I tried to keep the peace and negotiate respectfully, but they refused to pay and began to walk into the swallowing forest and camp for the night in attempt to let the buzz of the beer fade and decipher our next plan of action. I persisted to try and come to an agreement with the taxi driver as he ignored me and rambled on his phone. I wasn’t going to travel for 8 hours across the country, sleep who-knows-where and try to find our way to the crag in the morning only to waste half a days’ climbing on incessant pin-the-tail on the provincial park. I thought maybe the driver was trying to explain our situation to a fellow taxi man, but aniyo, he was not.
Soon after he flipped his phone shut I saw flashing red and blue lights turn the corner and approach me. Oh no. The Police. The last thing I needed was to be thrown in a backwoods Korean holding cell in attempts to explain our misunderstanding to deaf ears. My friends returned to support me and luckily the policemen spoke enough English to understand what had happened. In fact, they were upset at the driver for taking us to the wrong place. Now, at 2:00 in the morning, and low on cash, the police decided to do their civil duty and drive us themselves to the Seonunsan. Wow! How courteous. The 40 minute ride to the correct park would have cost us a pretty penny. The police laughed and shared with us their family stories. Mr. Lee and Mr. Kim both had brothers and sisters! When my visual memory had assured me we had indeed arrived at the place of intent, we offered the police a bottle of red wine which they candidly tucked into the cop car console as payment for the out-of-the-way detour.
Busting out the playing cards and vending machine beer we passed the time playing mindless yet strategic slap down intensity. We hadn’t finished our game when we arrived at out final destination. Only a taxi ride was between us and the campsite calling our names. As my grasp on the Korean language grows and my ability to read Hangeul improves, hiring a taxi wouldn’t be a problem. And it wasn’t. We agreed on a price and so started the last leg of the trip. Half an hour on a dark country road, the driver pulled into a small village lit by candy coloured fluorescent signs. I had only been to Seonunsan Provincial Park once, but as my impeccable visual memory rarely deceives me, I didn’t recognize our surroundings. I asked the cab driver in one word preciseness, “Seonunsan?” He looked at me with a quizzical and disgusted expression. “Aniyo,” he replied. Aniyo means “NO” in Korean. “No?” What could he possibly mean by “no”? Had I been overconfident with my Korean speaking skills and assumed he heard me correctly? YES. There had been a miscommunication. NO. We weren’t in Seonunsan Provincial Park. We had in fact driven half an hour in the opposite direction and we all know that dirt bag climbers don’t have limitless amounts of expendable taxi fare. He wanted $55 to take us back to the place we originally wanted to go. Well, my friends were livid. I tried to keep the peace and negotiate respectfully, but they refused to pay and began to walk into the swallowing forest and camp for the night in attempt to let the buzz of the beer fade and decipher our next plan of action. I persisted to try and come to an agreement with the taxi driver as he ignored me and rambled on his phone. I wasn’t going to travel for 8 hours across the country, sleep who-knows-where and try to find our way to the crag in the morning only to waste half a days’ climbing on incessant pin-the-tail on the provincial park. I thought maybe the driver was trying to explain our situation to a fellow taxi man, but aniyo, he was not.
Soon after he flipped his phone shut I saw flashing red and blue lights turn the corner and approach me. Oh no. The Police. The last thing I needed was to be thrown in a backwoods Korean holding cell in attempts to explain our misunderstanding to deaf ears. My friends returned to support me and luckily the policemen spoke enough English to understand what had happened. In fact, they were upset at the driver for taking us to the wrong place. Now, at 2:00 in the morning, and low on cash, the police decided to do their civil duty and drive us themselves to the Seonunsan. Wow! How courteous. The 40 minute ride to the correct park would have cost us a pretty penny. The police laughed and shared with us their family stories. Mr. Lee and Mr. Kim both had brothers and sisters! When my visual memory had assured me we had indeed arrived at the place of intent, we offered the police a bottle of red wine which they candidly tucked into the cop car console as payment for the out-of-the-way detour.
Our new rock enthusiast, Laine, didn’t have a tent so with a little creativity he busted out an army surplus hammock and a large piece of plastic. Through trial and error, he made himself a quaint little see-through home that we hoped would shield him from the near freezing night air. Wes and I set up our tents and finished our card game with relaxed nerves recounting the baffling scenario that had just passed.
After a 4 hour sleep we were super stoked to hit the rock. I was climbing my hardest in a long time attempting to tip the grade scales! So maybe I couldn’t quite redpoint the overhanging invitations, although in next attempts, I’ll get them. Go hard or go home right. Well, by no means was I ready to make the 8 hour trip back home, so hard was the only option.
After a 4 hour sleep we were super stoked to hit the rock. I was climbing my hardest in a long time attempting to tip the grade scales! So maybe I couldn’t quite redpoint the overhanging invitations, although in next attempts, I’ll get them. Go hard or go home right. Well, by no means was I ready to make the 8 hour trip back home, so hard was the only option.
On Sunday, “A Beautiful Woman’s Secret” enticed me to grunt and groan. The upside down 11c was sure to be my friend and my nemesis on this particular day. After clipping the 5th bolt, the next move was a right handed dyno to a sharp but solid pocket.
Feeling confident and stronger than ever, I threw…and stuck it!
Then, left hand to a shitty pinch parallel to the pocket, and stuck it…
But unexpectedly as always, I slid off as sweat erupted out of the pores of my fingertips. After a little whipper therapy to get the adrenaline pumping I could go no further. It’s ok. I was still climbing strong and felt satisfied. Suddenly noticing the time, I admitted I had to begin the epic adventure back North.
We hiked down to the campsite breathing in the crisp autumn air and admiring the colour-shifting foliage all around us. The leaves of the maple trees were red like kindergarten finger-paint. The grass was turning yellow like the colour of melted crayola crayons on a car seat in the summer heat. My shoulder started to ache a little, but with this view, joy invaded my every molecule of existence. The beauty of nature never ceases to increase the perma-smile that already lingers on my lips everyday!
After we had packed up our gear and overstuffed our packs for the long haul home, the dull ache in my shoulder was harder to ignore. Luckily my strong-man friends gave me a hand with the overstuffed heavyweight. On the bus home, I couldn’t get comfortable, the dull ache turned into a more throbbing pain. No matter which position I moved into, the pain was unrelenting. During the final stretch of the 8 hour trip back, I needed a double dose of some serious drugs. In the hours that followed, I couldn’t sleep as I grinded my teeth in utter tear inducing pain. What happened? Lucky for http://www.climbinginjuries.com/, I had discovered the only logical reason for my fucked up shoulder was “especially after a particularly traumatic event, such as hitting a dyno, [that I had] strained [my] rotator cuff muscle.” NOOOOOO.
Luckily “help” is available for a minimal cost. In the last three days I have been treated by bio-stimulation lasers and given electro-magnetic energy impulses making my muscles spasm like giggles from pre-pubescent school girls as honeymoon heat lamps induced armpit sweat to pour under the infra-red 300. Quick and painless pinpricks of acupuncture needles sticking out all over me like a play piercing party calmed my nerves as potent Chinese herbal smoke saturated my hair and clothes. After the modern Western and ancient Eastern mish-mash therapy and some serious meds packaged like multi-coloured candy in no-name transparent baggies (all unbelievably cheap here in Korea, it might as well be free, less than $10 for the whole kit and caboodle), I am out for at least 3 weeks at the stretch end of the climbing season. When I heal, let the plastic pull down begin… and on the bright side, snowboarding season is approaching!
1 comment:
Wish you got a photo of the police-- but LOVE the story and the photos!
Where's the poem? Do I have to keep looking/reading?!
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