Saturday walk along the North Han River

A long, long photo essay sits before you, so strap in!

JW and his two kids pulled up to my apartment building at exactly 9 a.m., and off we went toward the Chuncheon area. (If you're unsure how to pronounce the vowels in "Chuncheon," make it rhyme with "rune fun.") We were almost immediately stopped in our tracks by a traffic jam from hell that seemed to span all of South Korea. "Most of these people are probably trying to get to Chuncheon for the weekend," sighed JW. JW's son had the idea of stopping and parking earlier, at Gangchon Station, and walking north to Chuncheon Station instead of starting at the north end of our chosen path and walking south. That way, we'd escape the traffic jam sooner but still end up walking the same path. JW and I thought this was a fine idea, so we navigated to Gangchon Station and parked downhill from it in an area that had free parking (which can sometimes be hard to find even outside of Seoul, depending on where you're going). I was the designated navigator once we started walking, so I used my faithful phone and its Naver Map app to get us going. We began our walk at about 12:30 p.m.

The route was only 16 kilometers, but I got my signals crossed when I missed a crucial turn at one point, so the waste of time and distance cost us an extra kilometer. Later on, JW's son insisted on diverting us to a restaurant that was 2.5 km short of our goal for the day (Chuncheon Station), and that detour added another 0.5 km or so. In total, I'd say we all walked about 17.5 km, which is exactly the distance I normally walk from my place to Jeongja Station in the Bundang region. I have to say, though: it was 90ºF out (about 32.2ºC), so 17.5 km felt like 30 km, and we all felt the same way. Had JW and I done this alone, we probably wouldn't have stopped at all, but we had two kids with us—a son in middle school, and a daughter finishing up elementary school—so we stopped frequently and bought drinks whenever we passed a place that sold any sort of refreshment. JW's wife called and texted angrily—several times—about our situation: she scolded her husband for putting the kids out in the heat and having them walk a long distance without even feeding them lunch. (It's true that we didn't eat a meal until we were 2.5 km away from our destination.)

The wife's anger aside, it was a beautiful day, and the scenery along the North Han River (a.k.a. the Bukhan-gang) was quietly gorgeous, as I hope you'll see below. The kids did just fine during the walk, although I doubt that's going to mollify the Missus. At this point, I assume JW is in the dog house for taking the kids on this trek, but from my point of view as an outsider to the family, I thought the kids proved to be pretty tough. Their mom, when she finally reconciles herself with our outing, ought to be proud of them both.

Our path started a bit away from the river; we followed a creek to reach the big water, and then it was largely a matter of just staying by the riverside. There were some spots where the path split, twisted weirdly, or even doubled back, and it was while we were following one of those chicanes that I temporarily lost my way. But that was only a quick detour, luckily; I apologized profusely to the family, but everyone was cool about my navigational mistake, and to be honest, I didn't feel too bad about it, either. While we were on that detour, we ran across a dead snake. There was some discussion about how large or small the snake was; I think JW's family concluded the snake was small, but they might have been thinking on the scale of pythons and anacondas—the kinds of snakes that make an impression on young kids. I said the snake looked really big for a garter snake, but fairly small for a rattlesnake. It was about the size of some of the dead snakes I'd encountered during my walks to Busan. A photo of the carcass appears below.

The stretch of the North Han River between Gangchon Station and Chuncheon Station ran eastward at first, then curved north after about five or six kilometers of walking. As I said, it was a slog thanks to the nasty heat (and, come to think of it, the humidity). My right foot is still swollen and achy; it's been that way since February, which is increasingly disturbing. I'm beginning to think the problem is less about the stress fracture and more about my diabetes. That realization is making me think I need to get back on the keto horse to see whether a sugar-minimal regimen can help deflate my rebellious foot. We'll see. That's a topic for a different post, so please save your comments. For now, let's get this day trip started.

Here's a shot from very early in the walk, as we were following a local creek to reach the North Han River. As you see, it's a man-made barrage of some sort, possibly to help control the flow of water and/or create a stair-step that aids in aeration:

The first of several family pics:

I saw a shwimteo in the distance, so I had to take a photo:

And to my delight, there were jangseung as well:

Me doing my jangseung impression:

A look forward along the well-manicured creek and its environs:

Sorry, but you're going to get a lot of butt shots in this series of pics:

A flower I've photographed many times before (and I still don't know its name):

A community of such flowers:

Flowers seem peaceful, but they compete for space and resources like all life. Here's the competition, then:

It turned out the path we were following was also labeled a gukto-jongju, i.e., an end-to-end path across the country. The familiar white-on-blue signage lulled me into thinking that it would be hard to get lost on such a path. I was wrong.

If you enlarge the pic below and train your eyes on the upper-left side of the sign, you'll see a red circle with the hilariously obvious words "You are HERE!" in it. No fuckin' shit, I'm here.

Our first navigational mistake was more JW's fault than mine, but I'm the one who allowed the error to happen. Just as we were about to hit the North Han River, I saw on my phone's map that we could either take Naver's recommended route along a high road or take a parallel road that went lower and closer to the riverside. I assumed the two routes were basically equal, but as we approached a bridge we needed to cross, it became obvious that Naver had recommended the high road (which would have required us to walk uphill a bit) because that road was level with the bridge we needed to cross. I had allowed JW to decide which road to take, and he had chosen the low road, so we ended up walking under the near part of the bridge, praying we could find some nearby stairs to get us up to bridge-crossing level. Luckily—miraculously—we did indeed find some stairs, but it was a bit of a creepy experience: the stairs ran upward through an abandoned complex that used to hold bars, restaurants, and other entertainment facilities. But the stairs—which I had feared were blocked—led us all the way to a point where we were level with the bridge and ready to cross it.

The shot below, taken after we had climbed the stairs, looks back at the abandoned building, now covered in graffiti and probably awaiting destruction and redevelopment. I found the graffiti weirdly beautiful. JW nodded silently when I expressed this thought.

The bridge we needed to cross so as to get on the north side of the river:

About to cross:

Below: a look eastward at a larger bridge running parallel to ours. I don't think that bridge had any sidewalks on it, so it wasn't biker- or walker-safe.

A glance downward at a cluster of vehicles. We saw a bunch of people riding ATVs up and down both riverbanks, and I think the people in this photo were also planning to do some ATVing. JW's son thought the activity looked boring... until he saw some ATVs plowing through water. I told him that my brother David used to be a big fan of ATVs.

A glance westward as we crossed the bridge:

We turned right (east) upon leaving the bridge we'd just crossed, which meant we were now passing by the bridge I had already photographed a few times. That bridge again:

And now, we're under it. JW remarked that I seemed to like bridges. It's true. As I told him, I'm a fan of the human ability to perform feats of engineering.

We were now following the riverside path in earnest:

Much of our path went alongside the large expressway you see below:

The North Han is wide and slow-moving, i.e., it's old, and probably ancient. Korea's low-set, rounded mountains, so reminiscent of the Appalachians, have taken millions of years to acquire the look they now have, so they're ancient, too. This land existed long, long before anything even vaguely human arrived here. Behold:

The aforementioned mountains:

It's hard to see until you enlarge the photo, but that's a rest area across the river:

Next: one of several caterpillars we encountered along the way. JW's son claims to have a phobia (his word) about insects of all sorts. He can't stand them, which makes him a good sport for coming along on these long walks right as summer is starting and all the little crawling and flying critters are becoming more active:

Yet another feat of engineering:

A family approaches a dam, so I take a pic of the whole dam family:

A sign cautioning us that this area can be covered with dangerous frost:

Brother and sister did the typical sibling thing and needled each other as we walked. Many bikers—fair-weather pussies in my book—buzzed by us, almost all of them politely calling out, "Jinagamnida!"—which means, "I'm passing [you]!" As we walked, we often had trouble figuring out which side of the path to walk on. It was annoying to be on the right side, what with all the eastbound bikers who kept passing us. But being on the left wasn't much better: approaching bikers tended to force us back over to the right side of the path. And there were a lot of these bikers, mind you.

Another family pic:

The name of the dam we were approaching was Euiam (eui-am), according to the sign:

A preliminary shot of the dam in all its glory:

A much better shot:

We approach the dam, which is much more impressive than the Paldang Dam, a structure that I routinely pass on my way past Hanam City to Yangpyeong.

You can see how much higher the water is behind the dam:

My final beauty shot:

JW picked up on the fact that we needed to cross another bridge. When he asked me whether we'd be crossing here, I hesitated a moment, then looked at my phone's map. Yes, indeed: we needed to cross right here. We did, and there was a convenience store across the river, where we bought some drinks and rested in the air-conditioned interior for a few minutes before continuing on our way.

A photo from when we were just about to cross:

Crossing, with no safe sidewalk:

Glancing back at that sexy, sexy dam:

First glimpse of a distant tunnel:

Second glimpse of said tunnel, which turned out to be for cars:

A pic of JW's daughter, who was unsubtly trying to creep away from the camera so I couldn't steal her soul by photographing her. Also in the shot was a very tired cat that had obviously given up on trying to fight the heat:

Cat, but closer:

I finally caught the kid and stole her soul:

I also photographed the son inside the café-cum-convenience store:

I took a picture of this plant because the little stone identifies it as yucca:

The facility's scaled-down, ersatz echo of a bower:

As we were leaving, I got another shot of the cat, which had moved:

Choices, choices... but actually, we knew we had to keep the Han on our left:

It quickly became obvious that the tunnel I had seen from a distance wouldn't be for us pedestrians and bikers: it would only be for cars and trucks. We ended up walking alongside it, exposed to the sun, all hope of shade gone.

A wistful glance back at our oasis:

I recall seeing tilted rock formations like this in France:

We approach the tunnel...

...and then, we end up walking alongside it.

Alongside...

Below: a mermaid statue. If you blow the image up, you can see her cute little titties.

A bit past the mermaid, I got us lost by missing a crucial turn. It was while we were on our unfortunate detour that we encountered the dead snake you see below. JW's daughter thought the snake looked fake. None of us ended up poking or prodding the animal, possibly out of respect. JW's son wondered aloud as to how and why the snake died. I shrugged and ventured that the cause of death was lack of food, but honestly, I had no clue. Unlike some of the other snake carcasses I'd seen, this one didn't appear damaged, i.e., ripped open, crushed by a bicycle wheel, etc.

The rectangular dwelling you see below made me think brutalist when I saw it, but then I backed away and settled for the label Bauhaus. Bauhaus is more simply rectangular; brutalist architecture has the rectilinear look and feel, but it can also jut in an angular way like the prow of an apodictic ship. (Bauhaus buildings can be multicolored, by the way.)

Across the water, more Bauhaus:

This photo shows we're now on the correct path back to the river:

There was a smallish "skywalk" along the way that the kids wanted to walk on. The walk was basically a projection from the bridge with a glass-bottomed floor to allow people to look straight down and maybe become a tiny bit freaked out about the tenuousness of life. I elected not to take off my shoes and walk upon the glass in sandaled feet—not because I'm scared of glass floors (I'm not), but more because I was feeling too lazy to remove my footwear.

The approach to the skywalk:

Some skywalkers having fun:

Those tacky, swan-shaped pedal boats:

A closer shot of the Bauhaus residences:

A metaphoto of JW's son taking a photo:

Dad and daughter:

As we neared the city of Chuncheon, evidence of civilization began to appear. We approached a set of structures and facilities that resolved themselves into two stadiums, various fields and courts for different sports, some piers for boating and waterskiing, and, as you see (kind of) in the pic below, walls for rock-climbing:

The fam leaves old, fat Kevin behind:

Actually, JW's son was a good sport: he'd jog back to me whenever I started to lag because I'd been taking photos. We talked about all sorts of things, including school, which the boy is back to doing. I asked him about the contradiction, which he'd expressed during our walk to Yangpyeong, between his hatred of his teachers and classes and his desire to go back to school. It turns out that what he hates are the extra classes he has to do at his several cram schools (hagweon). He's actually fine with his public-school classes and teachers. He mentioned that his cram-school English class is deadly dull, and that his English teacher doesn't know what she's doing. By way of example, he said that his teacher insisted that the sentence "Van Gogh's Sunflowers are a famous painting" is correct. Why? Because "Sunflowers" is plural. Yeah... a lot of English teachers (and that includes the expat ones) have no damn clue what they're doing. Most of them would fail my language obstacle course.

Below: the Korean game of jokgu, a game that combines soccer and volleyball (or tennis, given the low net). Some of those guys were older gents. Koreans remain engaged in athletic activity until well into their golden years.

The road goes ever on and on...

A fascinating floating garden, of sorts, with a heart-shaped inlet to boot:

Making tracks:

Somewhere around this point, we agreed to follow JW's son's insistence that we go to a restaurant in town that served the thing he wanted most: naengmyeon (a cold soup with thin noodles). The path to the resto took us away from the riverside, which was sad, and we remained inland for the rest of our walk. I did see an interesting coast-guard vehicle, though:

A spiky monument that—if I remember JW's translation correctly—was dedicated to Chuncheon citizens' charter members or something. I'm not even sure what that means, and JW didn't elaborate.

We reached the edge of Chuncheon's downtown area, and sadly, the restaurant that JW's son had found via his cell phone proved to be closed, a possible victim of the COVID-19 scare. JW himself left us to go search for another place to eat, and he found a resto that served naengmyeon along with some other dishes. As we marched over to this new resto, I snapped pictures of some sculptures, including this one of a rather buttoned-down-looking family:

This pair of statues, below, strongly reminded me of jangseung, but they're missing the usual Chinese inscriptions, and they don't appear to be a typical male/female pairing:

Another pair of goofy statues would seem to indicate that neither pair should be thought of as jangseung, but rather as members of a group of sculptures possibly connected by a theme:

Once we got inside, the kids went to work thinking up what they'd like to order:

Below: a naengmyeon-like dish plus some marbled beef:

Same shot, but with the focus slightly shifted:

JW also ordered some dwenjang-jjigae, which I found just about perfect: well balanced, not being too hot, too sweet, too bitter, or too stinky.

The kids, up close:

We had another 2.5 kilometers to walk after our meal. This final segment was rather ho-hum, not being along the riverside, but we did walk past a lot of flowers that caught our collective attention and inspired some shutterbugging. Here's a rather lovely spray of blooms:

The heat wasn't doing the roses we saw any favors, but here's a pink one:

These roses were a color that simply didn't register right in my phone's camera:

A fascinating, two-colored rose:

And with that, we ended up at Chuncheon Station. I insisted on photographing the station's main sign, which was partially covered over by the local verdure:

The station itself:

The triumphant family. JW expressed pride in his kids, who both made it through this beautiful-but-sometimes-harsh experience with minimal complaining. JW's son, at one point, said he was feeling dizzy, but when I asked him whether he needed to take a break, his pride took over, and he said no. I suspect he didn't want to appear weak in front of his kid sister.

Another shot of the fam:

And finally, the obligatory Kevin shot:

All in all, a very nice adventure, although I won't be repeating it again this summer so as not to incur the wrath of la maternelle. While I didn't seriously think we were putting the kids in danger, they're not my kids, so I don't get to make that judgment call. I do plan to text a lengthy apology to JW's wife Sunday afternoon, in an attempt to do what I can to soften the blow of whatever hammer she may have dropped on JW, who really doesn't deserve to be doghoused. (They're churchgoing Catholics, so it could be that the Mass will work its magic and soften the Missus's attitude. My mother used to be that way whenever she was angry at me: she could never sustain her anger after she'd had the cleansing experience of a Presbyterian church service.)

A final word about the kids: this was the first time they dared ask me potentially irksome questions about me. One of them was, "Why do you always wear the same pair of pants?"—which actually made me chuckle more than it angered me. I wash my pants frequently, so I don't feel insecure about wearing them often, and besides, why would I be ashamed of that fact? I answered JW's son honestly: "I love my pants. They took me across Korea twice!" JW's son, while we were eating our late-afternoon meal, also asked me why I was so quiet while we ate. Here, too, I kept it simple: I was hungry and tired. Truth be told, though, I'm often quiet in group situations as my native introversion asserts itself. When I visit certain families, too, I know it's often better to be quiet than to try to make any sort of point requiring a few dozen words. One family, with whom I'm very close, has kids who talk loudly, and who constantly interrupt each other at dinner, each often trying to outdo the other in terms of who can be the wittiest, the funniest, or the smartest. No one seems interested in what the others are saying; for these kids, it's more urgent to express themselves than it is to listen to others. It's a bit like watching a chaotic wave tank in which the waves are egos that continually crash into each other. In such an ambiance, it's very hard to get a word in edgewise, and nearly impossible to express a linear thought without being cut off. So, yes: in many family situations, I find silence—or minimal chatter—is best. Don't get me wrong: I love these kids and that family dearly; I'd happily give my life for any one of them. But you have to pick your battles and navigate the social landscape intelligently, and these days, that means reserving energy for those quieter, postprandial moments when conversation becomes more of a one-on-one thing.

JW's daughter spent much of her time asking her father questions about me instead of just talking with me directly. She's been learning a lot of English in class, but she refuses to speak English with me, preferring to speak almost exclusively in Korean. She and I did, however, have about five minutes alone in JW's car, at the end of our hike, and she bluntly asked me the same thing my buddy Charles once did when he and I were over at Kent Davy's house for a luncheon of grilled lamb: "Why do you use formal Korean with the kids?" I challenged the daughter on what counted as "formal," but what I should have said was, "I talk this way because I only speak Korean with adults. I almost never talk to kids, so this is a reflex. I should probably practice the informal mode of speaking a lot more." She also asked me, bizarrely, whether I spoke Korean well (this after speaking to me in nothing but Korean all day). I asked her what she thought, and being a child, she gave me the brutal truth: "You sound a bit strange when you talk." I explained that I didn't learn much Korean at home, despite having a Korean mom; I learned Korean in college and picked up a lot more just by living in Korea. JW's daughter was in a linguistically persnickety mood, I guess, because she started in on her dad, asking him why his English sounded so Konglishy, which I think, in her mind, meant "heavily accented." I defended JW by saying he spoke English very, very well (which is true—JW is functionally fluent in English, albeit not perfect), and that a person's accent in a foreign language isn't the most important thing to consider.

So: the kids are getting older. They're physically hardier than they were just a couple of years ago, and they're blessed or cursed with developing personalities that sometimes lead them—accidentally or purposely—into conflictual situations. As they grow, I hope to be a part of their lives, and maybe that'll mean doing another long walk... but sometime in the fall.

EPILOGUE: I sent JW several of my photos via Kakao, along with the text of an apology addressed to his wife. JW immediately texted back with a breathless, "Did you already send this directly to my wife?" I said no; JW gave the text-message equivalent of a sigh of relief and told me not to try sending her that message: it would only create other problems because JW apparently wasn't forthright with his wife regarding how long our walk had been. I tend to err on the side of truth over diplomacy in most cases; this gets me pegged as stupid or naive by more cynical people, but I normally think truth, often in the form of open communication, is better than lies or mendacious omissions. I also had to shake my head in wonder at how afraid of his wife's anger JW seems. I'm not married, but I guess domestic tranquility counts for a lot among certain married couples. Tranquility trumps truth.

JW suggested that I write a very neutral, watered-down text message to the Missus: "we all had a great time; the kids were able to practice their English a bit," etc. I sighed, swallowed my objections, and sent la señora a milquetoast, content-free text message with no apologies and no explanations: I merely said I had fun, I hoped we could do this again sometime, and the kids were excellent traveling companions. I'm not proud of myself for having knuckled under to JW's request to basically lie on his behalf, but in my case, at least, I'm an outsider, and JW and his wife have the final say on how to run their family's collective life. I suppose I could have fucked my friend over by sending my original message straight to Madame, and I honestly would not have worried about any angry blowback coming my way: I grew up weathering the frequent anger and dissatisfaction of my mother, so I'm prepared, spiritually, for just about anything. But in the end, I decided not to betray my obviously frightened friend, although I wish he'd grow a spine and just tell his wife the whole truth.

Anyway, I'm not going to dwell on this because it would sour a perfectly decent Saturday. In all honesty, I think Mom was way out of line to be so stressed out; she ought to have trusted her hubby to have a clear read on her kids' ability to tolerate heat, humidity, and the stresses of distance walking. But nothing goes in a straight line in Korea; there's always some rock sticking up out of the creek's surface to disturb the water's smooth flow. Hoping for a problem-free Saturday may have been too much, alas.