Mount Seorak's Lunar New Year Hides a SHOCKING Secret?!

[MORNING CALM TALES] Lunar New Year on Mount Seorak

Mount Seorak's Lunar New Year Hides a SHOCKING Sec...

Six weeks after arriving in Korea, I fell head over heels – not for a person, but for the country itself. Thirty-five years ago that winter, I impulsively joined a tour group heading east for the Lunar New Year long weekend to Gangwon Province's Seoraksan National Park, home to one of Korea’s most iconic mountain ranges. I had barely unpacked my bags from the flight over, but something about the anticipation buzzing in the air, the talk of family and tradition, made me crave an authentic Korean experience.

Seoul was already emptying out for the holiday, a stark contrast to its usual bustling energy. With several days off and no pressing plans, the idea of escaping into the mountains just felt… right. Lunar New Year, along with Chuseok – the mid-autumn festival – are Korea's two most significant holidays. They serve as annual bookends, with Lunar New Year in late January or early February and Chuseok in September or October, depending on the lunar calendar's alignment with the solar calendar. Think of it like a double dose of Thanksgiving, but with deeper cultural roots.

Both holidays revolve around returning to one's hometown and honoring ancestors. It's a time for families to gather, share food, and pay respects at ancestral graves. They are also the busiest travel periods of the year, reminiscent of American Thanksgiving. Depending on the lunar calendar, these holidays can last three to five days, making it a proper, extended celebration.

In February 1991, Korea braced for the full five-day spectacle. Train and bus tickets went on sale weeks in advance, with travelers lining up for hours at terminals, desperately hoping to secure passage home. For drivers, the stories were legendary, tales of 16-hour journeys between Seoul and Busan, traffic crawling so slowly that expressways became parking lots. Forget a pleasant road trip; it was more like a test of patience and endurance.

The bus left Seoul at noon in a steady rain, its windows fogged by the breath of sleeping passengers. Coats piled on laps, heads leaned against the glass. As we left the city, traffic thickened with buses and cars all heading east, windshield wipers keeping time as the gray afternoon unfolded. Holiday travel in Korea was an endurance ritual, and I entered it lightly prepared, with only gimbap and bottled water. Rookie mistake, I know. I quickly learned that proper preparation is key for these kinds of journeys.

The countryside slid past in muted winter tones. We passed through small towns that seemed to mirror each other – clusters of low concrete or wooden houses tucked behind fences, streets quiet under the holiday's weight. Shops were shuttered, signs in Hangeul announcing pharmacies, restaurants, and bathhouses, but nothing stirred behind their doors. It was a strangely beautiful stillness, a palpable sense of collective hibernation.

A few hours in, the driver pulled into a highway service area, and the bus emptied in a rush. Inside, travelers slurped steaming bowls of noodles, skewered fish cakes from vats of broth, or devoured rice cakes smothered in fiery red sauce. The air was thick with the aroma of kimchi and savory spices. I settled for a microwave-warmed burger drowning in shredded cabbage and creamy dressing, washed down with bottled water and Coke. It wasn’t great, but it was warm. Desperate times, desperate measures, right?

As we continued east, the weather worsened. Rain poured...