Guest Post: Hiking Weather

The low turnout at the bus stop should have been the final clue. Just three men stood there, clad in hiking gear and holding umbrellas. But our American optimism was unshakable, and we were well-prepared in any case, wearing ponchos and Gore-tex boots. We looked up at the sopping clouds. “They’ll blow over,” I said.

It began as a spritz, a trickle. But as we barreled up toward the trailhead, the rain became steady. Undaunted by the walls of fog, our bus driver whipped around the curves with such indifference I wondered whether he hadn’t decided today would be his last. My wife, J, assumed a crash-landing position, closed her eyes and prayed for her motion sickness to subside.

We had set out for our hike up Mount Halla with the promise of a cool, sunny afternoon wandering among the volcano’s greening flora. After all, the climate on Jeju Island — located just off the southern tip of the Korean Peninsula — was supposed to be near-tropical compared with the mainland, even in late February.

It was a couple miles from the parking lot where we were dropped off to the beginning of the Youngsil course. By the time we had made it up, rested a moment and bought three rolls of kimbap (vegetables, beef and rice wrapped in seaweed), it was pouring.

Despite our overall preparedness, I hadn’t wanted to bother with the camera bag, since it wasn’t waterproof anyway. But it was obvious I couldn’t carry a digital openly in this weather. I took off my beanie, wrapped the camera in it, and J stuffed it snugly in her messenger bag, which was covered by her poncho. As we began to make our way up the trail, I saw a well-outfitted hiker carrying our same camera bag, only with a rain cover. “Look at that,” I said to J, “we should get one of those.”

This was not a spring rain, because as we soon discovered, it was not yet spring on Mount Halla. Nor was it tropical; portions of the trail were still covered by slabs of melting snow. Though for the most part it was packed down, now and again a boot would sink into a soft patch, breaking our stride and dampening our socks. But our spirits were high. The weather had mostly kept away the crowds, and we enjoyed an openness and quiet rarely found on trails in Korea, where hiking is the national pastime — right behind drinking. (Often a good hike involves both.)

As we emerged at the base of a naked ridge, a panorama spread before us that looked as if it had been plucked from the Seattle Asian Art Museum. Above towered raked stone cliffs, and across the valley countless columns of rock jutted from the trees — a formation called the Five Hundred Disciples of Buddha. Below, the fog was so thick that the mountain had become a heavenly island unto itself. I half-expected to see a red name stamp floating in the corner, or a group of wispy-bearded literati sipping tea.

We paused and ate our lunch with dripping hands. I wanted to snap a photo, but worried about the driving rain messing with my Nikon, and was also struck by a vague notion that I should just enjoy the moment without trying to “capture” it. Maybe it was Buddha’s disciples speaking. Or perhaps I just didn’t want to root through J’s bag.

Closer to the top, at about 1700 meters, we came upon an expanse we’re sure was beautiful — if only we could have seen it. But here, too, it was whiteout, and so all we could see were other hikers. We passed a tired-looking family, a couple teenagers with soaking hair, and a woman who looked dressed for Sunday church, padding through the slush in yellow, patent-pleather flats.

Around this time, we congratulated ourselves on not choosing to take the summit route. (We weren’t really daunted by it being almost twice the distance, it was just, you know, weather clairvoyance.) Either way, by the time we had traipsed the three miles to the Witseoreum shelter, a chill had set it and our city legs began to feel sore. We huddled inside an unlit shed for a moment, got our bearings and began to descend down another trail.

The change in landscape couldn’t have been more stark. I’ve never been to the Alps, but the grassy expanse that greeted us beneath the fog seemed more Austrian than Asian. Then, the rain began to let up. Glimpses of sunlight shone through thinning clouds onto rolling hills. I asked J for the camera and took what I knew would be precious few shots from this hike. No zen mind this time — I wanted to preserve the sight and the feeling of this awesome place.

We took the last bus back to town, piloted by the same driver with the same abandon. Our socks had gotten soaked from the ankle down, and by the time we returned to the hotel our feet felt like they were wrapped in sponges. While J showered, I panned through our few photos, and then looked at the camera bag sitting in the room. I noticed a pocket on the bottom I hadn’t known was there. I unzipped it, and pulled out….a rain cover.

Ben Hancock is an editor and freelance journalist based in South Korea.