Presence

June 26, 2007 - When I first arrived in Korea I had little knowledge of the country. I knew virtually nothing of its culture, geography, or people. I certainly didn’t know anything of its mountains, nor that the country itself is roughly 75% mountain. It was of some serious concern to me before I left Canada that Korea may not have much wilderness, that I may not be able to go hiking or scrambling so freely. It took roughly three months before I really discovered that Korea indeed has a significant mountain presence, and it took a little longer before I realised just what that presence is.

At the most rudimentary level, the presence of Korean mountains is evident: they are easy to see. There are few places anyone can travel on the peninsula without coming across at least some gentle rolling hills. The visual presence of Korean mountains is unique; they rise almost menacingly to tawny ridgelines and spires, sawtoothed and narrow, yet pleasant and sacrosanct like jagged gods. Like gods indeed, once the mountains were worshipped fervently by the people. The fervency of this worship has dissipated, however, giving way to more scholarly, therefore less interesting, philosophical ideologies. Fortunately, the presence of this old but not so tired worship still exists, primarily in the Korean Buddhist traditions, and in the smaller rural regions of Korea, where the dogma of domestic shamanism still holds firm.

For me, the stem of this mountain presence that is of most interest and which commands my greatest reverence, is the naturalist aspect. I am not a naturalist in the scientific sense, and therefore I do not have an overly scientific view of mountains (it should be remembered that the original naturalists were in fact poets and authors not scientists).

The naturalism to which I am referring is of an older caste, one that predates the earliest spark of human things, dating farther back into immeasurable time. It is the face of Nature, a rushing quietness and active stillness that is lost in the deepest places of our ancient memories – lost, but still there. It is this memory, and its connection with the presence, that draws me to wild places, and to mountains in particular. Therefore, I do not go to mountains so that they may change me, like others claim to do. I go to mountains so that they may remind me of who I am.

It is the city, the feigned interests of modern society that changes me. All goodness is drained from me while in the city, and happiness only lingers, strained by longing thoughts and daydreams of Nature's rugged bowers. I have observed that the mountains reveal the good intentions of men. They show us that we humans are truly humble, feeble creatures. For me, highlands uncover my goodness, radiate my happiness, shed my false human mask, and reveal my wild original self. I have noticed this particularly well in Korea. The concrete sea of Korea’s bustling capital metropolis is afloat with the spoils of modern humanity.

In choosing to live here, to start my family here and to take up the demanding tasks of the Korean Mountaineering League, I need the mountains. I need to go to them for my strength, to be reminded of who I am, and of who I am not. I need them to fill me with their presence so that they may remain with me for as long as I must be away from them. And when need be, I return to them, make my way over their foothills and disappear into their foliage...

© Shawn James Morrissey. All rights reserved. 2007-2008

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