Return to Hell Mountain

This time, we were stronger than before.  The days since Busan were much faster, more productive (though inexplicably, the weeks passed just as quickly as last time, back when it seemed every other day was a rest day or sick day).  We could do more miles with fewer problems, we were smarter about staying out of the rain.  We picked only the best campsites, got more sleep, spent less money, shopped more efficiently, ate better, were better prepared.

Somehow that didn’t make Hell Mountain any different from last time.  The giraffe-print sidewalk was still impossibly steep and coming apart in pieces.  There were still cyclists pedaling up this monster that we could only push up: young college kids, middle-aged moms, grandparents even (though it’s worth pointing out that none of them were carrying violas).  The grade was still a laughable 13%, which probably would have meant something if we hadn't seen gentle slopes marked as a 15% grade and sheer cliffs marked as 5%.  The manure factory was still doing brisk business, seasoning our bitter curses and buckets of sweat with an otherworldly stink.

"I hate this," I said after thirty minutes of pushing.

"Blarrrgh," Jenn agreed.

"At least this time I didn't forget my ukulele."

"Blarrrgh."

At the top of the mountain, there was a congregation of old men and ladies, all clad in flashy new lycra cycling clothes, all of whom had evidently pedaled up the whole mountain.  They laughed as they read our sign while we politely tried not to die of heart failure right in front of them.  One gruff old brute beckoned for us to come over for a photo with him.  We obliged, and after the photo was snapped he started explaining something to his friends; all we could understand was "Foreigners."  He talked about us for a few minutes, and we heard the word, waegukin (gaijin in Korean, essentially) tossed around several more times by the curly-headed ladies.  No one deigned to ask us any questions, though one of the ajumas did give us a big bag of homemade banana chips.  After we had rested sufficiently, we were down the mountain again, our brakes squealing our departure into the cliffs and pines, a solitary voice from behind shouting, "Fighting!"

Before long it had grown dark again.  Hell Mountain was exactly as terrible as we remembered, but it did seem to take up less of our day this time.  Just as it was getting too dark to safely continue, the Travel Gods dropped a beautiful roadside park in front of us.  We proceeded with our usual routine: we played a little music on the ukulele and viola, then set up our stove to cook some dinner.

Yes, it's supposed to do that.  Sort of.

It bears mentioning that in addition to being a proficient world traveler, a proud amateur blues musician, and an all-around scruffy-looking nerf herder, I'm also a damn fine cook.  While it's been tough having to do all our cooking on our one lonely little stove (man, do I miss fresh bread), I've still been able to whip up some excellent dinners from time to time.  Pasta with red sauce and anchovies, vegetable curry, ramen, Chinese noodles, yakisoba, tuna salad, pasta with white sauce, kimchi quesadillas, pasta with sauce of an indeterminate color: I can do it all.  Well, all of the major noodle-based dishes, anyway.

Just as I switched off the stove and we began wolfing down our chanko nabe, we heard a metallic ting come from somewhere in the dark woods around us.  We put down our chopsticks and listened: there was singing as well.

"I don't think I like the movie we're in," Jenn said, laughing nervously.

"It's probably...uh...maybe a temple somewhere in the woods down there?" I suggested, and we slurped our soup and tried to believe it.  The woods echoed with chanting now, whistly voices carried on the woods and filtered through innumerable spiderwebs.  Gongs, maybe, cymbals or bells and a steady thump that we hoped was our heartbeats.

When we finished the last of our dinner and set up the tent in the shadow of the roadside pavilion, I caught sight of something across the river: though it was almost too distant to see, especially viewed through the pine boughs, it appeared that there were figures dancing in a circle and beating drums on the unlit grass.  The singing must be coming from there, we decided, and relaxed slightly.  If it was indeed some manner of religious ritual, at least we were probably too far away to be in danger of human sacrifice (or worse, being asked to dance with them).  The voices and drums dropped away not long after we zipped our tent and instantly fell into sleep, though the forest seemed to sing and chime long into the night.

Can you spot our tent in this picture?  Oh man, you can?  Crap, start packing up, we gotta get outta here!