What I learned at Sanbangsan

Further exploration of Jeju Island brought us to Sanbangsan. "San" means "mountain" Korean, but calling it Mt. Sangban would give somewhat of a false impression. The large rock (a more accurate term than "mountain") served as a lovely, steep, and quite short hike.

The climb provided refreshing views and a chance to soak in the sunshine.

But what piqued my interest nearly as much as the vistas and the copious "falling boulders" signs was a single sign post detailing Sanbangsan's origins.

Jeju Island is, for all intents and purposes, a volcano in the middle of the sea. Hallasan (I DO feel comfortable calling this one Mt. Halla, due to the soreness of my thighs after climbing it) is a dormant volcano that sits at the center of the island, and much of the land's features were formed by lava spewn from its mouth, all the way to the coastline.

Let's put the science aside though, for Sanbangsan's backstory utterly transcends it, in the best imaginable way.

Once upon a time, a young man was out hunting on the island with his trusty bow and arrow. One shot, however, missed the animal, his presumed target, and handily pierced the bum of none other than the god of Mt. Halla. If a hunter has to pierce the bum of something other than the animal he is intended to kill, a god is possibly the least desirable choice, especially one in charge of a volcano.

The god proceeded to do what anyone with a freshly wounded behind would do: He broke off the top of the volcano and chucked it towards the coast.

This explains not only the crater at the top of Hallasan but also the presence of Sanbangsan at the sea's edge.

Satisfied for having climbed that which once filled the void at the top of the mountain we had climbed the previous day, we hiked back down (and didn't get hit by a single boulder).

The rest of the afternoon was spent eating special Jeju mandarin treats (ice cream) in celebration of our newfound knowledge.

What I learned at Cheonjiyeon Falls

Vacation travels this winter led us to Jeju Island, south of the Korean peninsula. Our first adventure on this blessedly snow-free island was a short little hike to Cheonjiyeon falls.

The beauty of the hike was nearly overpowered by the nuisance that is other human beings. For me, nature is calming and re-invigorating. It is a place for me to take a deep, unharried breath before plunging back into the loud world of voices and faces.

It may come as little surprise then that not much bothers me more during hikes than strangers. If I want to take a picture of something, they are in the way. If I want to hear wind or birds or silence, they shout. If I want to escape civilation, they throw their candy wrappers on the ground. And in a country as densely populated as Korea (land area: same as Indiana, population: 8 times bigger than Indiana...not to mention Korea is 70% mountainous, making the population even denser), the crowds of strangers on hiking trails are even thicker.

When we reached the falls, I did as any hiker would do upon reaching a destination: I attempted to take a picture. This proved to be a more complicated task than anticipated, as people milled about in front of the water, waving peace signs and flashing grins in front of camera lenses.

Annoyed by the chaos, I sat down on a rock and waited for people to leave.

As time passed, my attention gradually shifted from the rocks and trees and greenery (a breath of fresh air from snowy Gangwon-do) to the people. I began to notice things my slowly dissipating crabbiness had blinded me to earlier.

A father playfully pretended to toss his daughter in the water as she giggled in delight. A young couple tried to take a selfie together, the boy repeatedly knocking the girl off balance at the last second, both of them laughing. A group of elderly women mirthfully chatted at the water's edge, giving the impression of a lifetime friendship (and they trekked to a waterfall! I want to do that when I'm old).

What's more, all these people had chosen to spend their day hiking in a beautiful place with people they clearly love. I'm sure there are much worse things they could have been doing.

Feeling quite ashamed of myself, I took another picture of the waterfall, this time untroubled by the people unartistically poking about in the bottom of the frame.

This picture would never receive a second glance, partially because I took it with a phone instead of a fancy camera, partially because it's boring, and partially because National Geographic-esque photos tend not to have haphazardly placed tourists in the corners. But I like this picture because it shows me a little bit of my idiocy and helps me to remember that people ultimately matter more than any stream of water tumbling over a cliff. Maybe that's a cliche for those of you wiser than me, but it's not a cliche to me, because I almost never think about it.

I find no wrong in seeking out a silent place, emptied of humans. I will continue to do this my whole life, because being alone, especially in nature, helps me to process my thoughts and emotions.

I merely realized at these falls something I should have realized long ago. Despite the littering and the noise, people are and always will be far more important than nature.