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| yna@yna.co.kr 2025-02-18 12:27:04
For the first time in a while, snow fell during the Lunar New Year holiday. The entire country is now blanketed in a winter landscape, almost to the point where one cannot open their eyes.
When one thinks of snow, Gangwon-do immediately comes to mind. Today, memories of my time as a new member of the mountaineering club at Seoul National University’s College of Engineering, when I traveled to the snow-covered regions of Gangwon-do, come flooding back.
In Doam-myeon, Pyeongchang-gun, Daegwallyeong-myeon, Hoenggye-ri, all the slopes at Yongpyong Ski Resort are covered with artificial snow, which often results in less-than-ideal snow conditions.
Not long ago, this was the place in Korea that received the most snowfall, where once-fallen snow lingered the longest without melting. Nowadays, weather conditions fluctuate unpredictably. Nevertheless, in terms of snowfall, Daegwallyeong’s Hoenggye Village has long upheld its reputation.
I first visited Daegwallyeong in 1962, and I was utterly shocked by its bitter cold and massive snowfall. That was over sixty years ago, marking the start of my personal connection and cherished memories with this place.
◇ Climbing Hallasan: Memories of Exhaustion
In 1961, several members of my high school’s mountaineering club, including a few who had taken a gap year, entered Seoul National University’s College of Engineering. That winter, the senior members of the mountaineering club seemed eager to both welcome and humble us ambitious freshmen by organizing an arduous training program. Instead of Gangwon-do, we were headed to Jeju Island. The very idea filled us with excitement.
For the first time, a winter training expedition titled “Hallasan Snow Climbing and Polar Techniques Training” was introduced, and we couldn’t wait to take part.
Nowadays, people joke that one could climb Hallasan in high heels. The weather has warmed, snowfall has decreased, and transportation has greatly improved.
Back then, we set up our base camp at Gwaneumsa Temple in Ara-dong, Jeju City. Behind the temple lay nearly untouched primeval forest, and beyond that, the trails leading up the mountain remained relatively untraveled even in summer. When snow piled up, it took nearly half a day to reach the shelter at Gaemimok.
The snow was so deep that if we stepped off our skis, we would sink down to a depth of over a fathom. To get out, we had to grip our skis with both hands and pull ourselves up as if doing a chin-up.
Over five days, we set up three forward camps between the base camp and the summit, using skis to ascend. We eventually “conquered” the peak and successfully completed the training by making a rapid descent back to base camp on skis.
However, there was a close call—some members nearly got lost.
On the descent, we followed the ski tracks left by those ahead, but dense fog caused us to lose our way. At one point, we had to support an exhausted teammate while trying to navigate back. I, too, was completely drained. In the end, I left the exhausted climber at a memorial stone dedicated to a fallen senior mountaineer and descended alone to seek help.
Late at night, I reached Gwaneumsa and requested a rescue from the monks. I was so exhausted that all I could do was watch as they rushed out with torches before collapsing from fatigue. That experience remains one of my most unforgettable embarrassments.
The next day, we took the “Pyeongtaek-ho,” a steel-hulled ship, and sailed overnight for twenty hours to Busan. After seeing off my teammates at Busan Station as they continued their journey to Seoul, I returned to my home in Daesin-dong, only to collapse into bed. I slept for three straight days and nights, stricken with illness.
During those three days, my younger sister sat beside me, watching over me with concern. She was in her final year of high school, and I remember her quietly studying next to me. Every time I woke up hungry or needing to use the bathroom, her presence was reassuring and heartwarming.
Though I’ve gone on at length about Hallasan, I’ll save more stories for another time. Let’s return to skiing and Yongpyong.
On Hallasan, we experienced firsthand the power and allure of skiing.
One person who left a lasting impression on us was our leader, Jang Hee-cho. His charisma, combined with the elegance of his “Christiania” ski turns (which was what we called slalom back then), made him truly remarkable.
◇ Challenge on the Slopes of Daegwallyeong
From the following winter, we decided to set up a long-term camp in Daegwallyeong. Snowfall or not, we headed there anyway, even if it meant waiting indefinitely for snow. Over time, "winter in Daegwallyeong" became something of an unwritten rule for us.
Back then, the concept of guesthouses was unfamiliar. We simply picked a house, made arrangements with the owner to stay through the winter, and lived on whatever food and warmth they provided.
Among the better accommodations were the "Company Commander’s House" and "Misook’s House." The former belonged to a reserve company commander, a strong man who kept ample firewood, ensuring that our floors remained scorching hot all winter. Meanwhile, Misook’s mother was known for her excellent cooking.
These weren’t homes built for lodging guests, so space was always tight. The leader got a private room, while up to eight newcomers crammed into a single room. Usually, a small room housed about five or six of us.
Unlike strict seniority-based room assignments, our group mixed juniors and seniors together. However, even within a small room, hierarchy determined sleeping positions: seniors took the upper part of the room, while juniors had to settle for the lower part.
Sleeping in the lower part was almost impossible. The massive logs used in the evening fires burned so intensely that by dawn, the heat finally reached the upper part of the room. Meanwhile, the lower section became unbearably hot, scorching the floorboards. In other words, juniors were “assigned” to sleep there not as a privilege, but as an unspoken endurance test.
Beyond sleeping arrangements, juniors had no time to rest even after exhausting ski runs. No matter how sore their backs, legs, and calves were, they had duties to perform. They had to wipe down their seniors' wet "worka" (military-issue leather boots), arranging them neatly by the lower part of the room to ensure they dried overnight.
Forgetting to bring the boots inside meant waking up to find them frozen solid. In that case, juniors had to thaw them by the fire before returning them, or else the seniors would have to endure freezing feet all day in stiff, ice-cold leather.
It didn’t stop at boots—juniors also had to dry out the wooden skis, soaked from a full day in the snow. After laying them out on the floor to dry, they carefully applied wax (or, more commonly, household candles) to polish them. If not done properly, the skis wouldn’t glide smoothly the next day, and there’d be no end to the complaints.
As for laundry? There was no time to wash socks or thermal underwear, nor was there warm water available. We wore the same clothes for a week or ten days straight. By nighttime, the smell in the room was unbearable.
Particularly, the socks we tried to dry by placing under our blankets emitted an overpowering stench—akin to dried squid roasting over an open fire.
Yet, despite all this, we fell into deep, snoring sleep. The day’s exertion was simply too much. Lugging heavy skis over the fields, climbing hills for 30 minutes, only to enjoy a three-minute descent—it was backbreaking labor.
Unlike today’s youth, we had no time for drinking or leisure activities. The only "relaxation" came from collapsing onto the blistering hot ondol floor. The extreme heat helped ease our exhausted muscles, ensuring we could start fresh the next day.
But mornings brought a new kind of battle.
With only one outdoor toilet available in these rural homes, 20 young men had to compete for their turn. There’s no better way to describe it than an all-out war, waged every morning in the freezing courtyard.
When my turn finally came, I rushed in, dropped my pants, and knelt on the wooden plank.
The moment my skin was exposed, the -10°C wind (feeling like -20°C with the infamous Daegwallyeong chill) lashed at my body like a blade.
Looking down, I was met with a towering ice pyramid—sharp, jagged, and menacing.
To successfully complete one’s business in such extreme conditions now feels, in hindsight, nothing short of a miracle. (To be continued...)
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