Sunday, June 16, 2019

Cycling Rishiri Island: Mountainsides, Shorelines & Heaven



Ten miles off the desolate northwestern shores of Hokkaido, Japan’s far-flung playground of the gods, Mount Rishiri breaches the water like a beast both heavy and buoyant. Clothed in the kind of mystery only distance can create, Rishiri-zan, and the namesake island on which she rests, offer only vague hints of the scars that remain after the brutal winters of eons and the mountain’s volcanic past.

Having come all this way, standing now a thousand kilometers and a world away from Tokyo, one feels compelled to venture just a little bit further, out across the water, to discover those secrets behind the haze lest the journey feel forever incomplete.

That's how I felt, there at the edge of the water.

I would not have come even this far if it weren’t for Ken, the very active owner of a cycling tour company. I’d emailed him a couple of years prior, to ask if he could use another guide here and there. As our ferry neared Rishiri’s port of Oshidomari I shaded my eyes and took in the detail-rich view, laughing quietly at my stupid, extraordinary luck.



Rishiri-zan’s low-lying conical physique is marked by rugged slopes and a rocky, pointed peak. From far away the sea seemed to lap right up against the mountainsides. Closer in the tree-covered slab of rock on which she rests comes clearly into view. Rishiri-zan’s distinct, angular gorges are clothed in thick green forest. Lower valleys cut through the pedestal below, running to the shoreline under sleek and lofty bridges.

“We’ll be riding there this afternoon,” Ken told me, pointing to those pearl-white elevated roadways. The air of excitement in his voice was more for me than for himself. Ken wanted his crew to enjoy the tour every bit as much as his paying customers, just as long as we kept abreast of our few clear responsibilities. Ken was, in my mind, the perfect boss.


We’d woken up before dawn; three guides and eighteen guests. After a bleary-eyed breakfast laced with giddy anticipation we stepped out into the crisp, quiet morning. We rode through town and along the harbor under baby blue skies. We rolled across the ferry terminal lot and right onto the day’s first boat. Ahead of us was a 63-kilometer ride around the perimeter of the island, the last day of riding on what had been a gloriously sunny two weeks. “I want you to ride the whole route today,” Ken told me. “Daisuke and I will take turns driving the van.”

Definitely my kind of boss.

Oshidomari Port, since it’s a port, involves a whole lot of concrete and pavement. But it doesn’t take long to cycle through town and up a hilly side street to the bike path that runs around the northern half of the island.


From time to time I find myself in a place I would liken to Heaven on Earth. Today was one of those times. Once again I began laughing out loud.


Ponmoshiri Island is a rocky, uninhabited natural shrine. That’s how I see it at least.


Rebun Island, five miles or so across the water, is Rishiri Island’s long, skinny, flatland twin. Together, along with that desolate strip of Hokkaido’s northwestern coastline, they make up Japan’s aptly if unimaginatively named Rishiri-Rebun-Sarobetsu National Park.


For a while we rolled along through the lush quietude, in view of the sea and, apparently, in danger of being crapped on by the avian locals.


This cycling road has its own number. For a time it runs inland, showing off Rishiri-zan’s rugged beauty while highlighting the idea that there’s much more flatland here than the view from the mainland suggests.



Away from the shoreline the threat of seagull poop is replaced with the evident dangers posed by aggressive, bug-eyed crows.


Along the curving northwest there’s little disrupting the natural state of things. I did spot a couple of homes that looked like little more than sheds, perched on the crest of the land, facing nothing but the wide open sea and, in winter, I had to surmise, fierce and bitter Siberian winds.

This place is beautiful. But damn.


On this September day the seas were quiet, a pelagic, deep blue eternity inviting dreams of flying over the horizon to see what might lie beyond. The rocky shore held pockets of mankind here and there. Crystal clean water poured forth from underground streams. Sea lions played in fenced-off environs. Someone’s laundry flapped and rustled in the breeze.

A man of few words and indiscernible thoughts sold sweet bread from under a canopy. Cobalt blue fishing nets lie in the sun to dry, overlooked by the red and white of a lighthouse, bold against the softer blues of the backdrop of heaven. Signs told of artificial boundaries that, in a place like this, seem superfluous at best.



Up ahead was one of the day’s designated stops, Otatomari Pond. Here were wide and pretty views of the south face of Rishiri-zan, made famous as the symbol of a certain popular local cookie. Naturally, one could also buy a box or two of these cookies in the gift shop, while right next door one could avail oneself of any of a variety of locally-sourced and grilled seafood.


But a few miles short of Otatomari Pond, at the bottom of a long hill, was this sign. Out front was a small dirt parking lot, for six cars at best. Beyond, down a short trail through a grove of trees, lay a marshy wonderland that, I would later decide, was much more deserving of being featured on a box of cookies.


We rolled around Rishiri’s southeastern arc, one and two at a time now, each of us having taken the island at our own satisfying pace. The undulating road slowly rose, into the trees and above the now-unseen ocean. When we hit the first of those sleek white bridges the sea came back into view, inverted triangles of pale blue spread out beyond those long narrow canyons.


Before long Oshidomari Port appeared again, marked by the high rounded peak of Peshi Cape. Our path wound back down, through the trees and toward our hotel at the edge of town.



Tomorrow we’d enjoy a free day, to take in as each of us pleased. Some wanted to ride around the island once more, perhaps in the other direction for a different perspective on a place that our guests would likely never see again.


I thought about riding with them. But I heard Rishiri-zan’s rocky peak calling me, coaxing me toward the trailhead up the road.

And frankly, I didn't know for sure whether I’d ever be back here either.

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