This story is based on a real story, which can be read in a non-fiction blog entry here.
The importance of relatability to the protagonist
By focusing on a protagonist’s feelings in regards to place, adventure and travel writing enhance sympathy and understanding, which is arguably necessary to intrigue the reader, as the mere description of a place can be regarded as uneventful. Ted Hughes argues that while people feel attracted to the aesthetic appeal of landscapes and are appreciative of its representation in writing, the description of a place is not the core that captivates the reader. [1] A place becomes valuable to people through ‘the presence of human feeling, what human feeling the landscape makes us conscious of’ (Hughes, p. 78). Rather than solely describing the look of a place and the encountered people, it is necessary to include and concentrate on the personal experience of the traveller or adventurer to captivate. ‘When the rain cloud rolled back, the distant rocks shone […] If that happened in the early morning, our hopes of getting out on a traverse rose like milk to the boil. But the rain always came back.’[2] The disappearing rain clouds provide hope to travel across. However, as the rain always returned the question as to how she manages to continue her journey arouses curiosity and a sense of sympathy. ‘Shinbal’s’ protagonist furnishes a similar effect by illustrating how the steepness of the mountain trail makes her feel rather than describing the steepness itself. ‘I look to the path behind and for a moment feel as if gravity is going to push me back down.’ The line shows both the protagonist’s awareness of height and her fear of falling down as a result of exhaustion. The description aims to raise sympathy for the protagonist’s struggle and the difficulty of climbing the mountain.
Shinbal; the full story
‘I did this for you, you know,’ I say. ‘You realise I didn’t do any research. I wouldn’t have known about this mountain if you hadn’t mentioned it.’ ‘You’re right. I could have taken you to the other little one and said: look, this is the highest mountain in South Korea. Then you’d walk up a hill in Seoul and say ‘huh?’’ ‘And then you could have said it’s because the island is located on a hill; the highest mountain doesn’t look that high, but it is!’ I smile. ‘Never again.’ ‘Never again,’ Ute says. 14 hours earlier… A canon fires inside my bedroom walls. Tumbling bricks and flying dust. A shelf collapses and the pages of Treasure Island burn. As my bed stops shaking, Jack Sparrow disappears into the fading smoke. Aye. It’s 5.30 in the morning and I wonder how this idea came about. My friend and I get up and dress without emotion. Short shorts, old sneakers, a t-shirt and hoodie. We quickly pack a bag with some leftover Kimbap, muffins and two bottles of water. It takes a mile before we find a taxi that brings us to the right bus stop. I fall asleep on the bus and only wake when the warmth of streak of light softly tickles my cheek. Hills and mountains surround the area and the thought that either mountain could be the Hallasan makes me excited. The bus drops us off at the bottom of a large dome-shaped hill. Looking at the mountain, I wonder how anyone can walk up there. As far as I’m concerned people can’t walk up areas that are too steep, but we’re supposed to reach the top today. Dark blue Hangeul written across a yellow banner marks the entrance to our trail. ‘Seongpanak Trail, 9.6 kilometres’ it clarifies in English underneath in small letters. There’s a sign with hiking information on our right and a warning of rockslides for another trail. We glance at each other at the same time. ‘Let’s take a picture then in case we die,’ I say. ‘I’m not dying today,’ Ute says. I raise my eyebrow. ‘You’re not dying today?’ She shrugs with a smile. ‘At least we have a picture if you do.’ To my surprise, the path doesn’t look all that daunting. We enter a forest on a trail shaded by hundreds of Chinese hackberry trees. There’s grass along the sides and patches of sunlight are scattered along the path like the playful lights of a disco ball. The first 2000 meters are enjoyable. It feels like the mountain welcomes us, while we keep on passing signs showing us the progress we’ve made. However, the stones soon start to feel more like sharp rocks; like coarse objects that appear without warning and stab the soles of innocent passers-by. I can see them and I can’t; they’ve gathered like a pack of wolves. They seem to wait and hide behind their brothers and sisters and strike when you least expect it. ‘In Germany, we wear our normal shoes while hiking,’ I say, mimicking Ute’s earlier remark. ‘The paths are a little… different here,’ she says. ‘Different how?’ ‘Less stones,’ she says as she kicks a smaller one, ‘and more wooden boards.’ It’s now that I notice that the ‘you are here’ man on the signs looks like a proper mountain climber. Two women with matching hiking backpacks pass us by. Their footwear looks exactly like the boots Mum told me to bring. ‘It’s fine. Only 7.4 kilometres to go,’ Ute says. But every time we pass a group of Koreans they give us a look and say ‘shinbal.’ It starts happening so often that Ute starts repeating the word the way a child does when she doesn’t want to hear. She says it can either mean shit or shoes and I’m guessing they mean to say both. The first shelter we find isn’t much; the ground is flat and paved like a boardwalk; surrounded by rock walls overgrown with grass. ‘Here’s the wooden boards you were after,’ I say. She grins at me as if to say: yeah, yeah, I was wrong, but my feet are hurting just like yours. There are some benches but the only useful thing I find at this stop are the toilets, a luxury Ute reminds me I won’t have for the next 3 hours. There’s no running water either and no way to refill our empty bottles. Would it be better if we were to turn around now? But I can tell that Ute wants to keep going. With 5.5 kilometres to go the path has started to incline further. Surprisingly, the stones here don’t hurt my feet as much. They have grown in size and somewhat function as stepping-stones, which look like a crooked staircase. Insects have started biting my exposed skin though, and the trees are now further removed from the path. The sun now makes the top of my head feel like the surface of beach stones in summer. The longer we climb, the more people I start to recognise. There are quite a few Korean women in their sixties. They are equipped with shiny coats, long trousers, gloves, safari hats, backpacks and walking sticks and climb twice as fast as we do. The one with the yellow jacket keeps passing us and then waits for us to catch up as if to check that we’re okay. She looks concerned every time but doesn’t stop to talk to us. ‘Shinbal,’ people keep on saying. Ute is gritting her teeth. ‘They should just leave us alone.’ ‘Maybe they happen to like our shoes,’ I say wryly. ‘Yes, I’m sure that’s it!’ While not many people appeared to be on the mountain this morning, an entire village of them seems to have gathered here, at the second and final shelter, the Jindallaebat shelter where people can buy hot ramen. I’m just about to slurp one up when a group of teenagers, all with the same blue t-shirt, arrive. ‘I would hate my teacher if he’d dragged me up here; I’d hate my school for organising the trip and I’d hate my parents for letting me do this,’ I say. I’ve taken off my shoes and softly rub the soles of my feet that look like the rosy cheeks of a baby. ‘I would hate my classmates for letting this happen without protest,’ Ute adds. ‘Where was your protest when I suggested this?’ Ute shrugs. ‘Hey, I have to choose my battles. Plus climbing can be fun.’ ‘So much fun,’ I say but I feel happy too. We take the wooden steps to the final path. Around us, red banners tied to branches flutter in the wind. A sign warns us not to pass after one o’clock but we’re ahead of time. The people in front disappear and the path of rocks comes in sight. It looks like a torrential river of stones cascading down the mountain. ‘I’m gonna die,’ I say, but it’s lost on Ute who has already started climbing. The rocks are as bad as they look. My knees have started to feel like grit was poured inside the joints and with every step I take it rubs against my bones. Ute, on the other hand, has started jumping from rock to rock like a mountain goat and soon disappears. Suddenly my foot slips. My mouth opens but no sound escapes. The surroundings seem to tilt and I watch as Ute’s shoe disappears out of sight. Just before I hit the stones, my arms manage to break my fall. Slowly, I move to the side and sit down. Ute didn’t see it and is way ahead; she’ll stop in a patch of shade later and realise I haven’t made it. I wonder if they counted how many people entered the mountain trail today and if they’d notice if I don’t make it back down. I put my hand on my forehead to shield it from the sun. Sweat slides down my temples. I look at the path behind and for a moment feel as if gravity is going to push me back down. There’s not a chance that someone could carry me if I broke my leg. I imagine going off the path and finding a little pond next to a Buddhist temple. A hidden bird makes soft chirping noises while a soft breeze gently lifts strands of my hair. It is so peaceful and quiet here. I’m all alone. I’m starting to feel dizzy. Soon enough, my vision blurs. I feel as if my head is underwater but I can still see the bottom of the pool. I try to stay quiet by holding my breath and feel my chest tighten. ‘You okay?’ a voice says on my right. I’m unable to answer. A hand touches my shoulder. We stay like this for a few minutes. Then Ute asks me again. ‘Are you okay?’ I shake my head. I want to speak but it’s like someone’s pulling the cord of the trapdoor in my mouth. She doesn’t ask again. Her hand stays on my shoulder. ‘I can’t do this,’ I say. She nods but then the woman with the yellow jacket comes climbing down the rocks. She stops in front of us and hands me a black ball twice the size of a normal marble. ‘Meogda,’ she says while gesturing for me to eat it. ‘Chinese medicine,’ Ute whispers. ‘It’s black,’ I say. ‘Uhuh,’ Ute says. I put it in my mouth. The woman motions me to get up and hands me her walking sticks. When she looks away, I get rid of the medicine in my mouth. At that moment, two other Koreans appear and offer me their water. ‘Shinbal,’ they say with a grin. I pretend to laugh along but I can’t hide my annoyance in the tone of my voice. ‘Shinbal, shinbal,’ I say. ‘Do you want to…’ Ute starts. I look at the path ahead of us and suddenly feel like not making it would be the worst after coming all this way. With Ute by my side and the walking sticks I start trudging my way up the mountain where the few trees look twisted and barren. ‘Who would have thought you’d need sticks to support yourself,’ Ute says dryly. ‘Actually, I think this makes me a real mountain climber.’ As we climb higher all trees disappear. My throat has gone dry again but we’re so close now. The path changes into wooden planks with wild grass growing in between. Being so high up the mountain gives me the illusion that we’re closer to the sky; it’s so extensive that I could get lost just looking at it. I think of how my younger sister always dreamed of touching a cloud. We reach barren ground with the occasional seemingly lost plank. Finally, the top comes in sight. ‘Never again,’ I mutter as I set the final few steps. The top of the mountain is a massive crater. Inside it, there is a small pool of water that looks nothing like the picture on the sign. The grass is yellow and there are rocks scattered across. I’m overwhelmed by the size of the crater, feeling like I have conquered it but am still so small next to it. I start laughing as I let myself slide down on the wooden boards to rest. Ute follows and I lean against her. ‘Never again,’ Ute says.
Based on my real travel adventure in Korea, which can be read here.
[1] Ted Hughes, Poetry in the Making: An Anthology of Poems and Programmes from Listening and Writing (London: Faber & Faber, 1969), p. 76.
[2] Sara Wheeler, The Magnetic North: Notes from the Arctic Circle (New York: Farrar, Straus and Hiroux, 2009), p. 123.