Woman in the Bean Field

Chilgapsan is the mountain that best represents Cheongyang. Although Cheongyang has a population of less than thirty thousand, it has become widely known thanks to its “Cheongyang chili peppers,” now a byword for extreme spiciness. A sculpture said to be the largest chili pepper in the world stands here, and an annual Chili Pepper Festival is held, underscoring the region’s reputation as a city of peppers.

My hometown was also a rural village where many people farmed peppers. Because I helped plant pepper seedlings and pick peppers, I know a little about pepper farming. In summer, it was common to mix barley rice with water and dip freshly picked green peppers in doenjang (fermented soybean paste) for a simple meal.

Back then, I don’t recall ever hearing the name “Cheongyang chili pepper.” We simply called the small, pointy, extremely spicy peppers ttaengcho. Looking back, it must have been what we now call Cheongyang peppers. At the time, I thought the saying “small peppers are the spiciest” came about precisely because of these ttaengcho peppers.

Since ttaengcho was believed to be too spicy to eat, we rarely dipped it in doenjang as we did with more typical local peppers. For the villagers, pepper farming was their livelihood, so the price per geun (about 600 grams) was crucial. This was before Chinese peppers were imported, so each year’s weather and the total planting area determined the pepper’s market price. Sometimes peppers sold for only a few hundred won per geun, but in some years the price soared to five thousand won, allowing certain farmers to make a considerable profit.

Given that it was a very rural area, people seldom sold fresh peppers right away. They usually dried the harvested peppers thoroughly and took them to the market as dried peppers. Consequently, the small, spicy ttaengcho peppers never caught the farmers’ attention.

It wasn’t until I became an adult and started working that I encountered “Cheongyang chili peppers” more frequently. Whenever I went to a barbecue place, a few Cheongyang peppers would come alongside the lettuce and perilla leaves. The more spicy peppers you eat, the more you develop a sort of addiction to the heat, leading you to seek out even hotter varieties. Over time, the number of people asking for Cheongyang peppers has grown, likely due to this addictive quality.

As K-food has gained international popularity, one can guess that the unique, savory spiciness of Cheongyang chili peppers also played a part. Many assume the peppers are called “Cheongyang peppers” because they are grown in Cheongyang, but according to records, the name actually came from “Cheongsong (靑松) and Yeongyang (英陽),” the first characters of which were combined when seed companies first tested this variety. Over time, the Cheongyang region (sharing both name and pepper variety) became the major producer, and now vast pepper fields stretch around Chilgapsan.

Morning at the “Woman Weeding the Bean Field” Statue

Early in the morning, I stand before the “Woman Weeding the Bean Field” statue. Whenever I come to Chilgapsan, this figure is the first to greet me. But today, something seems off; her expression is dark. It’s hard to tell whether it’s white paint or the original color peeling off, but her eyes look disfigured, almost as though she has cataracts. She used to have an untroubled face with prominent lips—a youthful beauty—but now she appears older, and the hand holding the hoe looks rough and frail.

“Woman weeding the bean field—your hemp blouse is soaked through.
So many sorrows… tears planted at every stem...
You left your widowed mother behind when you married off,
And only the cry of mountain birds above Chilgapsan
Burned inside your young heart...”

Humming the tune about the Woman Weeding the Bean Field, I head toward Janggoksa Temple. It’s about three kilometers to the summit, and wearing light hiking shoes with shorts makes for a comfortable climb.

After passing Janggoksa, a steep trail begins. Thankfully, the weather isn’t too hot, but all I have to eat is a bottle of water and half an apple, so I need to move quickly. The trail offers no view for a while, becoming rather tedious, until finally, a sign indicating the filming site for “Ah-eun-aheun-gubi” (Ninety-Nine Bends) appears, and with it, the first real scenic overlook opens up. A refreshing vista stretches over lush greenery, offering a moment’s respite.

Continuing on toward the summit, I soon reach a stone marker inscribed with “七甲山.” Though the view isn’t outstanding, the mountain ridges lined up in layers look like gentle waves—peaceful and calming. After snapping a quick photo at the summit marker, I hurry down. I catch up with some hikers who descended earlier, exchange brief hellos, and pass them. Having skipped breakfast, I’m more fixated on thoughts of mountain vegetable bibimbap than on the allure of the hike.

Back to Janggoksa and a Quick Meal

Returning to Janggoksa, I’m drawn by the sound of a wooden moktak (Buddhist instrument) toward the lower Daeungjeon Hall. Inside the gabled main hall, I see a monk’s back and hear chanting echoing clearly. Though this thousand-year-old temple houses two national treasures and several designated cultural assets, it’s modest in size. Leaving the monk’s chanting behind, my stomach starts to growl, and my feet lead me inevitably toward a nearby eatery.

It’s still early for lunch, so only one table is occupied—a family with three daughters. The three daughters share a noticeable resemblance, so I find myself looking their way again. While I wait for my order of bibimbap with mountain vegetables, I can hear them chatting loudly. With three grown daughters, they’re lively in deciding what to eat. The father, seeming taciturn, says little, but there’s happiness on his face.

Finishing the bowl in a flash—like a gust of wind passing leaves—I step outside and once again spot the Woman Weeding the Bean Field statue I passed earlier. That woman with a cloth on her head, hoe in hand, reminds me of the mothers in my youth who would labor in the fields.

Nowadays, frequent pesticide use has nearly done away with the sight of people hoeing bean fields. Even around Chilgapsan, the “Woman Weeding the Bean Field” is hard to find in reality, replaced instead by older folk picking peppers.

Originally, “Chilgapsan” conjured up a sad tale of a daughter leaving her widowed mother behind, or a mother sending her too-young daughter off in marriage just to have one less mouth to feed. But as beans gave way to peppers, this mountain now overflows with plenty and joy.