Mount Jagoh, joy and tragedy

Confined to the house endlessly, day after day, to avoid exposure to COVID-19, I missed things outdoors. Most of all, I missed the clean, fresh air and the verdant nature on Mount Jagoh, which rises to a modest elevation of 303 meters. Waegwan is a small town with a population of less than 50,000 and there is nothing much to enjoy, from the perspective of culture and entertainment. It doesn’t even have a single cinema.

But I have been living here for over 50 years, contentedly without much inconvenience. This is because, the town is blessed with an excellent natural environment: Mount Jagoh and the beautiful, serene Nakdong River, both of which are within a stone’s throw from home. I have no doubt that they both have nurtured me significantly.

It’s little surprise to see many magpies in Waegwan. The big, gentle-looking birds have been considered a good omen in Korea. People are friendly to them and the birds seem to be less scared of humans than other birds. If you hear a magpie cawing on the roof of your house, you can expect some good news that day: Either a visit by a welcome guest or a good message in the mailbox. Strangely enough, the harbinger of those magpies had turned out true many times in the memory of my childhood.

It’s only a 10-minute walk from home to the foot of the mountain. I then climb up around the steep hills to reach the top in about half an hour or so. I started climbing the mountain in the early 1960s. I always enjoyed the beauty of unspoiled nature: clean air, flowers and plants with their sweet scent, mossy rocks, the occasional birdsong and peaceful tranquility. While walking on the quiet mountain, I love to do a Zen meditation.

In early spring, when the acacia-tree flowers blossom, the mountain is gorgeous with massive clusters of dazzling white flowers hanging from branches. Swarms of bees can be seen buzzing over the fragrant flowers for pollination. They have an acacia honeybee festival in May on a mountain not too far from Waegwan.

Many decades ago, not long after I started climbing Mount Jagoh, I encountered such small animals as hares, pheasants and squirrels. I was so pleased to see them. One fall afternoon, I caught sight of a pair of beautiful black squirrels with long tails. I saw them in the tall pine trees, climbing up and down the trunk in the blink of an eye.

Another time, I was walking along the unexplored ridge of the mountain lost in thought, when I was frightened by a sudden deafening noise at my feet. It was pheasants, flying into the air, squawking and flapping their wings. My stealthy approach might have startled them, but I was also terrified. But now, the mountain is bleak and lifeless, devoid of those friendly, harmless creatures. They all seem to have disappeared because of ugly humans who had mistreated and killed them over the years.

Unfortunately, however, Mount Jagoh carries a sad history from the Korean War — the Hill 303 massacre. The atrocity was committed gruesomely against 41 unarmed U.S. troops by the North Korean People’s Army (KPA) on Aug. 17, 1950.