A Spoon Full of Sugar

Mandated by Mary Poppins and whatever out of sorts methods the writers of that era were experimenting with, I keep thinking about how that crazy umbrella obsessed woman was on to something. Indeed, a spoon full of sugar does help the medicine go down, and no I am not searching for some clever quip upon which to make a political satire on health care...that's too easy. So brushing "socialist" parodies aside (those people are ridiculous), it seems that delusion has been the key to survival for our last month here in Korea.

Sally summarized that coping with Korea in general is like dealing with the "irrational guy" in an argument. We all know this type of guy. The guy that is fun to drink with once in a while, but the minute you get going about politics, religion, or any topic pertaining to substance, suddenly everything goes to hell, and all your efforts of attempting to instill reason and rationality are wasted on someone you didn't want to admit to yourself was that much of an idiot. When a counterargument carries the very contradiction that stumps itself, then really there is no reason to argue in the first place. Just watch Sarah Palin try and defend anything she says and you'll get the gist of what I'm saying. So in keeping with proper dinner conversation, we have managed to somehow survive the parade of maladies endured since our trip to Thailand. We tell ourselves the mountains are bigger, the air more splendid, and the people more open. We tell ourselves, at the very least, how lucky we were to have good co-workers and compassionate bosses, despite never being paid on time..ever.

Little by little, the medicine is going down, but I'm pretty sure that we're overdosing on the sugar. I wonder what Mary Poppins would say to do now?

Vacation

Off to Thailand for diversity, emerald waters, deep water soloing, snorkeling, good food, and culutre...will write upon our return.

Watching the world

Some fanatics idle their time away watching birds. Others, slightly more bored or in peril over having nothing better to do, watch golf. I have made a habit of watching currency.

Its no mystery now that the economy is in peril the world over. Headlines are depressing as ever, there's always a new war starting somewhere, and here in the South we are repeatedly accustomed to shouldering empty threats from our perturbed, complex ridden Northern neighbors. So why the hell am I simply watching the currency more so than bomb threats made by North Korea, or Obama's now failing popularity? The answers are simple.

Obama's mysticism and captivation was a facade. Undoubtedly the man is brilliant, charming, even handsome, but he is also the president, and the "cool" factor of having a young, black, charismatic man in office has petered down to the public back home and round the world at large finally realizing that he is just a politician, even if a good one, which I believe he is. However, it was inevitable that without immediate results, his popularity would soon decline. With an inpatient public starved for immediate "change" rather than adhering to a platform of rational approaches, which take time, it is no shock to me that headlines have scooted Michael Jackson's death to the side, and are now focusing on another kind of figurative death. I haven't been able to see Fox news so I am ignorant of the extremist view on the subject.

Analyst's have intellectually and rather intelligibly theorized why North Korea will never attack South Korea with really the perfect answer: Kim-Jung-Il would never sacrifice his way of life to risk fighting a losing war. The man is reputed to import the fifth largest amount of fine cognacs, french wines, and gourmet brew in the world, and also has at his disposal an entire repertoire of western movies, classic literature, and what have you that any totalitarian (expletive) would collect while starving and brainwashing his own people.

So with all this already foreseen and re-hashed again and again, the only thing that really keeps changing, even if minimally, has been the currency rate. And trust me, with even a 10 dollar dip or spike in the amount, the headlines follow suit...so really all there is to news is numbers; the candor of the world falls and rises with them.

Remembering Home

I have been fortunate enough to live in a place where grief, frustration, and sorrow remained ephemeral in the face of what always made sense…nature. The steady sacrifice of the river would sift softly upward while the surrounding backdrops of the Rocky Mountains or Lolo peak traded even your most quiet thoughts for automatic silence. There lived a subliminal system of values exchanged for values, where you would give to the river, granite, or wilderness your most enigmatic questions for the best advice it could give to you: quiet contemplation.

My friend Myers once wrote that “few to little words are said on a river,” and that got me to thinking about why. When things are abundantly clear or almost perfect in their own right, words fall short. My climbing partner Kevin and I rarely spoke after finishing an ascent. Those who I have fished with will claim that whatever needed to be said was already assumed. It seems we were all trying to listen for something, or perhaps finally forgetting everything, and really just being.

I don’t know if there is a façade that exists in those moments, or whether what should be enjoyed from life finally becomes palpable. It seems either way it never matters. There is always a façade we deal with in both realms of environment, natural and industrial. It is what we submit of ourselves in the sphere of that existence that dictates its significance to us.

I have surrendered my grievances more times than I can remember to the tranquility of a stream bed, sun lit climb, or crooked trail, and though I have never considered myself religious, I am somehow touched by a design that seems too perfect to condense into theory or sheer aesthetics. As the river is forever sacrificing itself in whispers, I think we all stop to try and hear what its final words might be before descending into the tides. We mutely admire the route finished perhaps for the first time or twentieth time, always knowing that nothing was conquered—only visited. And for a moment, we are no longer haunted by questions.

I keep going back to the rivers and mountains of Montana in my memories; their triumphs lionized in luscious ferns, reeds, and turbulent grasses that dance in the fitting melody of the wind. The drenched sun lit walls of Kootenai canyon and those perfect lines that keep me always coming back. The dried stream beds of summer where we finally see the story of all those rivers, who during spring, would dream of flood; a jammed oar; a salmon fly bequeathed to a trout’s greater endurance to remain.

In the wake of this recognition, through quiet contemplation of my own life, I see that nothing has to be said to figure out that we will recover from our woes or longings, whatever they may be. Regardless whether or not we can or can’t witness it, the rivers will keep running. Their banks will keep enduring, at least for now. The granite will be stained with the same evening ambiance, bouncing the sounds of the perfect creek between its vertical faces.

Life now has had me realize more than ever just how far away from that home I am. Not the home in California where I greet the competing oaks affront my driveway, or the numerous places I called home throughout my college career in Missoula. The home where all you need is everything toned down. Where East is marked by a rising warmth, the west marked by shades of pinks and purples, listening to the sounds of your own fears and ponderings descend into the hissings of coals over an open fire. But like the memory of a known ascent up "Sleeping Beauty" or "Pleasant Surprise", I find that everything has a purpose of return. And whenever I want to, if I’m quiet enough, I can hear the advice I would seek from the river, and feel the company of my climbs.

On Any Given Sunday

The tall tales that city dwellers (at least in Korea) often evade the trials of strenuous activity, especially in matters concerning the outdoors, has been put to rest (we're sorry to say) as a bold face lie. Though most cosmopolitan areas and metropolises boast more concrete activity than outdoor activity, one has only to venture to the outskirts of Bukhansan National Park to assure themselves that everyone and their grandmother, literally, is out hiking.

Had the trail we been on been listed in a guidebook, it most certainly would have had a difficulty rating of "strenuous," which as any Montanan knows translates to "really f*&#in hard." The upside to being on any difficult trail is the esteemed sense of false pride and flattery we give ourselves as being somewhat of a badass, ultimately magnified by the aspect that there are few to usually zero people to be seen. Thus you are assured that only someone as strong and bold as yourself could attempt such a venture. Not so much the case in Korea. Though the trail we started on was basically a natural stair case that ascended for what felt like 2 to 3 miles, we had only to feel like complete wimps when at our summit bid we were passed by legions of geriatrics, children, and what looked like a quarter of the population of Korea. Luckily for us, teaching kindergarten had inflamed our imaginations, making it easy to pretend we were embarking on a kind of pilgrimage rather than attempting to finally find a piece of natural tranquility...which we sure as hell weren't going to get. So rather than curse the plentitude of people engulfing us, we embraced it.

Catching as much breath as we did strange looks upon reaching the summit, we continued along the ridge line looking as strange albeit as the entire experience felt. Some people gave us warm welcomes and staggered a bit of Korean our way that probably translated something like, "Good for you little white couple," while others looked at us like we were hiking naked. The one thing we couldn't help noticing was not the diversity of people on the mountain (they were obviously all Korean), but the diversity of personalities. Though we would like to admit we never judge a book by its cover, one can usually tell in America who hits the trails and who hits the malls. Not so in Korea. The prom queen, the bad ass, the fat kid, the square, the grump, the jock, the frat boy, the drunk, and the girly girl all hike, making a parade of stereotypes that render the definition of "stereotype" itself arbitrary.

Feeling remniscent to the scene in Dumbo when all the elephants grabbed hold of the others tails and follwed suit in one endless procession, we trudged slowly in single file fashion to the top, collapsing against a fortress wall over a thousand years old to finally have what snacks we could prepare. There are no granola bars or anything that remotely resembles energy or cliff bars in Korea. Instead, there are packets of easy to make food that incorporate, obviously enough, a infinite number of ways to diversify rice for your eating pleasure. Its a bit like Bubba lionized shrimp in Forrest Gump. In little egg yoke triangles with a pocket in the middle, we ate gluttonized rice with little bits of carrots, celery, and what looks like either pork or chicken...we'll never really be sure. We haven't yet perfected the science of picknicking here as the locals have. Atop the ridge, you could see whole spreads of three to five course meals, not to mention an arsenal of soju (potato made liquor) and beer. This helped explain why we saw so many groups coming in 10 to 15 people strong, becuase there was no way a handful of people could have packed up that food, less of course they happened to be Sherpas.

Seemingly, we mark trails in our memory in regards to how intensely and intimately the end justified the means; if the miles led to a pristine mountain lake or sublime vista where nothing but the wind and our own echoes kept us company. Our sense of discovery when going to such places is usually inward, though every time we blaze trail in the Bob, or touch granite on the face of El-Cap, we can't help but realize that we are amongst history. Upon seeing this thousand year old wall atop the ridge at Bhukansan, we realized how much history we were blind to on all those excursions; how John Muir undoubtedly regarded Yosemite valley with such awe as perhaps we did upon seeing the sun greet Half dome in the very first reaches of morning, or how Bob Marshall must have regarded Sun Burst lake as a jewel bequeathed to those who put forth the effort to get there as we did upon finally reaching it.

No trail would ever come close to being as saturated with hikers as the one we were on. Even writing about it seems a stretch of the imagination, but this has become normal for us. We had only to laugh atop the ridge as to how normal life has become in this place that is so detached from our concept of what we still call home. Though we didn't discover anything new or as pristine as we would have liked, we did discover something very important...that it's not too bad here if you know how to look at it right.