Day 20, Leg 16

I've walked about 24 km from the Boom Motel (or Motel Boom) in western Daegu to the Weonang Parkjang yeogwan on the wispy southwestern edge of the city (am still technically in Daegu).  The walk was beautiful but a bit of a slog, and since this inn has horribly slow WiFi, tonight's series of pics will be a bit abbreviated.  Sorry about that, but as I've mentioned before, I'll be slapping up full-size photo essays once I'm back in Seoul, so stay tuned.  

The day was quite a contrast with yesterday:  far from being cloudy and cool, today was warm and bright, if a bit hazy, maybe from poor air quality.  My first rest break, after almost 14,000 steps, was so comfortable that I set my timer to allow myself to nap an extra ten minutes.  I was next to a huge field where people were flying remote-controlled airplanes; I took a video of one such flight, but I'll upload it when I have access to better WiFi.

Much of today was spent walking winding paths far from the river and away from civilization.  The paths would have seemed interminable had I not been checking Naver Map semi-routinely.  Naver once again sent me on a different route from those of previous walks; I got a bit turned around at one point, but I sorted myself out just fine, and all in all, I liked today's route better than last year's.  It was a pleasant way to quit municipal Daegu, away from noisy traffic.

In a comment to yesterday's post, friend John Mac said he assumed that, since I hadn't talked about foot pain, I must not have been experiencing any that day.  What a joker, that John.  Pain is a constant companion, and after that monstrous 44K day, I've had to deal with a gamut of problems ranging from blisters to abrasions to tendon-related issues that make putting one foot in front of the other a chore.  I move as if I'm thirty years older than I am:  slowly, arthritically, and deliberately.  One of the worst problems is a sharp pain occurring in both of my heels.  When the pain flares up, I have to alter how I perform every single step-- how my foot hits the ground, how it rolls through the step, etc.  Pain is the stern, angry monk teaching you mindful walking.

Good news:  a belt check shows I'm now down to three holes.  I had started at seven; getting down to three means I've lost four inches off the waist. 

In almost-bad news:  that selfsame belt seemingly suffered a serious malfunction while I was at Dalseong Dam, barely 2 km from my destination.  As I was putting my backpack back on, I felt the belt "pop" loose, as if some part of it had broken.  Having suffered a belt-related malfunction in 2017, I was puzzled as to what part of this belt might have broken.  Could the buckle's prong have snapped off?  I needed to find out, but I didn't want to do so in public, in front of a bunch of rudely staring Koreans.  So I buckled my backpack's hip belt over my pants' belt to keep the latter from unraveling, then I made my way to my current yeogwan.  Once in my room, I looked closely at my belt and saw that nothing tragic had occurred, thank Cthulhu:  the prong had simply somehow slipped to the other side of the frame, and in doing so, had allowed the belt to loosen by a few notches.  So this was nothing like the tragedy that had occurred in 2017.  Good thing, too:  during the final two kilometers of today's walk, my mind was in overdrive, trying to figure out possible solutions to this equipment failure.  All I have to do, from now on, is not over-tighten the belt. 

While I was resting at Dalseong Dam, a loud circle of old ajeossis finished shouting about whatever they'd been shouting about and came over to me as a group.  I'd been sitting alone at a picnic table, minding my own business.  The group surrounded me, and its designated ambassador-to-foreigners loudly asked me about my project as laid out on my tee shirt:  where I was headed, whether I was walking or biking, etc.  I answered quietly and neutrally, not really wanting to engage in conversation.  The encounter ended with the ambassador giving me a hearty fist-bump and declaring, "You're great! (대단하시네요!)"  This is a common thing to hear from people you encounter along the way, mainly because, in most cases, you're the only one walking while everyone else is biking.  For most people, the Four Rivers trail is biked in the space of four to twelve days, depending on one's speed, one's purpose in embarking on the trek (to tour the countryside, to race from end to end, etc.), and other factors.

The lady at Weonang Parkjang also talked with me a bit about my project.  Like last year, the cost of a night's stay was W30,000, although there was no mention of a special discount for hikers and bikers.  She too said "You're great!" when she learned what I was doing.  But she didn't remember that I had visited this place both in 2017 and last year.  I told her not to feel bad about not remembering me:  I'm not famous, and I drop in only once and then disappear for a year or longer. 

Only nine more days of this walk remain.  Of those nine days, three are rest days, so I have only six more walking days.  On two of those days, I'll encounter the toughest hills of this whole trek.  Tomorrow, which I'm dreading, will be a 42K monster, but at least I get a rest day after that.  On the 20th, it's nearly 33K to Namji-eup, but that's one of my favorite stops thanks to the most excellent branch of Nae Nae Chicken there.  I'd like to start early tomorrow, say, around 5 a.m.  That means getting up around 4, though, and to be honest, I don't know whether I can do that.  We'll see.  If I survive tomorrow without any new blisters or other foot problems, I'll count myself fortunate.

Here are a few images from today's walk:

The new path out of municipal Daegu took me closer to the river (first the small Geumho River, then the Nakdong).  No lack of places to rest:

This phase of today's walk was especially pleasant:

I had to wonder whether this is the critter I've heard during the times I've camped by the river:

These cobwebs appear to be from Korea's answer to US tent caterpillars:

As I said in a comment, I'm attracted to contrasts, like the contrast between life and death, which is why you get pics of living nature and roadkill, pristine scenery and pollution.  Besides, how often do you see a crushed turtle?

The hidden shwimteo:

This was a long motherfucker:

I think we established, in 2017, that these mountainside crosses are anti-avalanche devices:

Skaal.

A kilometer to go to Dalseong Dam:

The obligatory me-and-my-shadow shot:

The bridge on top of the dam:

Lots of campers this year.  Unlike the fear-paralyzed blue states in the US, South Korea has largely not locked down, and its citizens do what they can to go about their daily lives.  I don't worry about being shouted at by a meddling, self-righteous Corona Karen for not wearing a mask outdoors.  At the same time, I have no problem wearing a mask while indoors.  See?  A middle way is possible.  And I've walked two-thirds of the way across the country without having caught the virus.  Let go of your fear.  Fear is the mind-killer, not to mention the economy-killer.  Follow the Korean example by getting out there and living your life:

Shwimteo with blue tarp:

Where I'm staying tonight:

I saw the sculpture below while on my way to a convenience store, and I immediately fell in love with it.  I like how the artist didn't fight the wood but merely accentuated what he or she already saw trying to claw and roar its way out.  I also like images of creatures that are unfamiliar, but that hint at or evoke the familiar:

The final two pics are from inside my room at this yeogwan.  Put on your fire-safety inspector's hat for a sec and tell me whether something seems seriously fucked up in these two images:

I forgot to mention that I encountered another "rattlesnake" today, about 500 meters out from Dalseong Dam.  It was a coiler and a tail-twitcher, too, but this one ducked back into the grass when I prodded it with my trekking pole.  It was gone before I thought to take a picture.

PHOTO ESSAY: