[Digging Travel] Raced by Gravity, Climbed on Foot, Trusted Four Legs

Jeju at Three Speeds
Learning a Different Pace of Travel at 9.81 Park, Donggeom-neui Oreum, and Saryeoni Forest

"Take your foot off the brake."

It sounded easy enough. Beyond the starting line, the road suddenly curved away out of sight. There was no sound of an engine. Gripping the handle and slightly lifting my right foot, the vehicle began to roll forward. At first, slowly. Then, in an instant, my body was pressed against the seatback. The wind slapped my cheeks, and as my feet hit the first bend, they instinctively searched again for the brake I had just let go.

The experience of running relying solely on the power of the earth without an accelerator—at Jeju 9.81 Park, you can fully enjoy the liberation that comes only when you completely surrender control to the laws of nature. Jeju 9.81 Park

There are no accelerators in the races at Jeju 9.81 Park. The "9.81" in its name comes from the force of earth's gravity, 9.81 m/s². As you ride the GR(Gravity Racer) vehicle down a slope, the driver controls only the steering and braking. Gravity takes care of the rest. On the approximately 1.2-kilometer course, the car accelerates solely by gravity, and your driving record and footage are saved in the application. One law of nature thus turns into a source of play and competition.

The technique for going fast was simple: hit the brakes less. But simple isn’t the same as easy. Every time a sharp curve appeared at the end of a descent, my body always reacted before theory could. My mind told me not to brake, but my right foot argued that surviving was more important. When the car in front disappeared beyond the bend, I briefly became a little bolder, but as my speed increased, I grew cautious again. What came out of my mouth was somewhere between a laugh and a scream.

After crossing the finish line, the vehicle automatically slowed down. A moment later, it climbed the hill in automatic drive mode. On the way down, I launched my body toward the Jeju sea; on the way back, I faced Hallasan. The wind and the curves from just a few moments ago were reduced to a few minutes and seconds on my cellphone. Usually, people capture scenery when traveling. Here, they recorded speed.

Gravity is a familiar force in Jeju. It creates basalt, shapes the slopes of oreums, and sends rainwater flowing to the lowlands. Here, however, gravity, once invisible, reveals itself in front of those with tickets—each competing for records. I used to think mountains were for climbing. At 9.81 Park, mountains existed to come down from.

After the run, I turned east. My next destination was Donggeomneui Oreum. Until just moments ago, gravity had given me speed. Now, it caught my ankles with each step.

Grass grew waist-high over a trail of black soil mixed with red volcanic cinders. The ridge, which seemed gentle from the entrance, grew steeper up close. I climbed a few steps and paused to catch my breath. After a few more steps, I turned around. At first, I stopped to see the landscape, but soon I only pretended to look while actually catching my breath.

Donggeomneui Oreum makes you first remember the effort it takes to climb it rather than the summit itself. Even the ridge that looks gentle demands your breath as you get closer, and only when you turn around does the cluster of oreums in eastern Jeju come into view. Jeju Island

In front of me was Choi Kyungjin, an oreum photographer. He didn’t walk quickly. I would have thought that someone who’d climbed many oreums would stride confidently to the top, but he often stopped. He waited for a path through the grass, for the ridge to open, and for the clouds to block the sunlight. For tourists, an oreum is the way to a summit, but for a photographer, it was the path of light.

Donggeomneui Oreum sounds dark, even from its name. But the higher I got, the brighter the view became. As I stood on the ridge, the oreums rose together. Darangshi Oreum stood out with a neat cone even from afar; Akkeun Darangshi nestled low beside it. Yongnuni Oreum reclined at length, while Nopdeun Oreum and Baegyak Oreum overlapped front to back. Toward the sea, Seongsan Ilchulbong rested like a paperweight.

Jeju’s oreums felt most like Jeju when seen together rather than one by one. None of them dominated the view. The tall ones looked taller thanks to the lower ones, and the round ones seemed even softer beside a steep ridge. They were not as grand as a mountain range or as unreal as snowy peaks. An oreum stood between each village and field, while roads, cemeteries, and ranches filled the gaps between oreums.

Walking a bit farther along the ridge, I came across a sign blocking off the trail for restoration after damage. The paradox: the more people want to see a place, the more it must be blocked off to recover. Even at the sign, the photographer raised his camera. He didn’t just capture the scenery, avoiding the word "forbidden." If these oreums are beautiful now, then the traces of humans threatening that beauty are just as much a part of their present reality.

On the way up, all I could see was the slope. On the way down, I noticed the grass and little flowers on either side, and distant oreums. It was the same path, but facing a different way, the landscape grew. At 9.81 Park, the descent was the climax, but at Donggeomneui Oreum, going down served as a review of your climb.

The last leg of the journey began at Saryeoni Forest, with the horseback riding experience. Standing close to the horse, it was bigger than I expected. Its back was above my eye level, and its breathing was warm. While the horse looked docile in photos, in reality, every movement set the saddle, stirrups, and reins in motion. As I hooked my left foot into the stirrup and pulled myself up, the ground seemed to get farther away.

Jeju horseback riding experience. The horse's ears point first toward the path, followed by the person's gaze. On the forest trail, the element that speeds up changes before the scenery does. Saryni horseback riding

On horseback, even my posture felt awkward. Sitting up straight made me stiff; relaxing made me feel like I might fall off. When I braced my knees, my legs quickly stiffened. The instructor told me not to pull too hard on the reins and to keep my balance. As we set off, the horse ignored the human instructions and simply followed the horse in front. When one horse moved, the next one followed. While first-time riders held onto the reins, the true order of the road was understood by the horses themselves.

"Let’s go," I said to the horse. Nothing happened. I lightly pressed my heel to its side. Only then did it step forward. At 9.81 Park, taking your foot off the brake meant the earth ran on your behalf. On horseback, what mattered more than the rider’s intent was the horse’s mood and the movement of the horse ahead. I held the reins, but I did not have all the control.

As we entered the forest, sunlight was scattered to pieces. Cedar and cypress trees lined both sides of the trail like pillars. Whenever the horse’s hooves pressed into the soil, a dull thud sounded. When the horse climbed a hill, my body leaned backward; on the descent, I was pushed forward. Shifting my weight to match the slope left no time to admire the view. Only when we reached level ground did I finally look up.

The horse’s ears pointed down the path first, and then my gaze followed. Even a single blade of grass swaying would make its ears twitch. To people, the forest felt quiet, but to the horse, it was full of signals and information flown back and forth.

The horse ahead suddenly stopped. The ones behind all lined up and stopped too. I wondered if there was some particular reason, but it turned out they simply wanted to munch some grass by the trail. When I pulled on the reins, the horse raised its head briefly, then turned back to the grass. The traveler was pressed for time, but the horse was simply focused on its lunch. I enjoyed that brief tug-of-war. At 9.81 Park, times were measured down to the thousandth of a second; at the oreum, you might measure how long it took to reach the top. In the forest, however, everyone had to pause while a horse chewed a mouthful of grass. There, humans were not in charge of speed.

Over the course of a day, I traveled Jeju three different ways. At first, driving faster meant braking less. Next, when I was out of breath, I had to slow my steps. Finally, no matter how much a person hurried, a horse would not hurry just because the rider did.

Travelers in Jeju typically ask what sights you’ve seen. On that day, the questions were a little different: What did you ride? At what speed? To whom did you entrust yourself? When the go-kart sped around corners, I couldn’t look at the scenery. Climbing the oreum left me so breathless I lost my words. On horseback, I tensed my whole body just to keep my balance. That sense of awe always arrived a beat too late.

I charged forward at first, was breathless next, and finally was shaken. Only after returning did I truly see Jeju.

This content was produced with the assistance of AI translation services.