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Down and out of Tokyo’s metropolis. Pulsing beats, neon dreams and lost love left behind. Memories masked by the deafening shudder of our budget airline as it’s caught in the wake turbulence of an airbus up ahead. Landing with a thud, I spin into Incheon arrivals, lulled by live K-Pop which cradles the ear and soothes my broken pride. “When in Seoul…” I cry as I slide rhythmically across the airport. Fresh air, I needed newly rushed air. Not stagnant, recycled sighs. In these parts this can only be achieved by climbing great heights. Or so I was told. Suitably seasoned in hiking, our group headed south of the river Han, out to conquer Gwanaksan. The need to escape people was strong after navigating the toing and froing of wiggling masses. It was a bright and lonely day for the sun. No clouds gathered to nestle in it’s beams. No water to flick and flare with. Only four walkers heading for the blue. Following a rocky path, pushing against the ghost flow of a boulder filled river bed, long and deep. Ambling through the dying forest of green, gold, and an orange so bold that it appeared to turn scarlet as you watched. Little eyelets peer and glisten through the vegetation. Like coins catching their own reflection. What stalks us on this mountain range? Not much birdsong to be heard although the insects were using every inch of effort to sing out their existence. K4-199, A well maintained outdoor gym. Occupied by three women and one man, each sixty years plus. Not a sign of sweat as they pull and squat in unison. They turn and giggle as we gulp whatever oxygen floats around the platform. We ask how they can stomach the climb. “Korean food very healthy. Best in the world!” the man shouts. We crack a grin and shyly move on up past army bunkers and pillboxes dotting the way. K6-119, we catch two tiny figures in the distance, standing under a flag, out on a rock the size of a sailboat. I raced over reeling with curiosity. Soft cries came from all around, lifted on the wind in front and behind. I signalled to the waving figures. They cut the air with their hands. I slowed to a jog so as to steady my understanding, but lost in thought, I jerked back and fell onto the man from the gym. Above me I saw a white golf ball in the distance. Below me a large gorge. I had Mr Kim to thank for pulling me to safety. K8-119. Lunchtime on a helicopter pad and the digestion of such a heroic display. Offering to be our guide, Mr Kim told us this particular path can be treacherous if you are wearing those, pointing to my Dr Martens. Ground was made, steps were strong, and confidence passed along the line from Mr Kim through to each one of us. Lessons in life. A learned man giving knowledge to whoever would listen. The gift of supervision much needed, if not openly admitted. At K10-119 we laughed. Out paced by an elderly woman with two walking sticks. But it was K20-119 where we met the iron loops cast in rock. To our dismay, one hiker froze with fear as we ran to jump over an approaching drop. Thin but deathly deep. Mr Kim skipped back and forth like a mountain goat to assure us of safety. My friend was not deterred. He leapt back and lifted our human statue over the gap. Executed with the strength of ten men, Mr Kim saved us once again from being engulfed by the mountain. K22-199, we reach the golf ball peak and navigate towards the crimson Yeonjudae Hermitage. Sat intoxicated by it’s beauty, we fizzed with elation as we remember the bottle of makgeolli brought to mark the occasion. Little paws pad out of the stone top and congregate around us. Feral cats were our spys. All the while waiting for the moment we unzip our backpacks. “My last present to you.” said Mr Kim, belly laughing and pointing downwards. Steps, carved carefully into the stone. Kam-sa-ham-ni-da! Our Haetae who conquered the Fire Mountain.