tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92055318279021805742024-03-05T00:58:33.491-08:00All Over the Road: Hikes & BikesUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-31166869383857681772022-03-03T17:00:00.003-08:002022-03-06T03:25:23.526-08:00A Winter Hike Among the Shrines of Togakushi<p></p><h2 style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Playfair Display SC;">Solitude & Freezing Cold Feet</span></h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTuVsO0_BKlay8PcmsOR_idoJr0dPYDB_l_B0apDI_6bhqitGpRuTdXGI54uzQyCpURhcIbElXvMG1UsarKVEYiOUETyAuzA-OaHbgEgU-NgSfYklHriY5XPB8PKuGZtcN4fFXUnx1S2sIZRFHkvic2Z_42C__xb_IZZzVMoprq49ptuJCgM8bvhfFiQ=s3242" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="3242" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTuVsO0_BKlay8PcmsOR_idoJr0dPYDB_l_B0apDI_6bhqitGpRuTdXGI54uzQyCpURhcIbElXvMG1UsarKVEYiOUETyAuzA-OaHbgEgU-NgSfYklHriY5XPB8PKuGZtcN4fFXUnx1S2sIZRFHkvic2Z_42C__xb_IZZzVMoprq49ptuJCgM8bvhfFiQ=w640-h356" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><p>I’m on an
early morning train, stealing glances at the young woman sitting diagonally
across from me. Purple sneakers with thick white soles; jeans, artificially
faded (you can just tell); a black down coat to match her hair, tickling her
shoulders in time with the movement of our car. Her face is buried in a
lavender scarf; I can only see her eyes, at the same time bright and lost in
thought.</p></span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I find
it interesting, looking at strangers. You never know in any meaningful sense
where they are coming from or where they’re going. We can guess, but we’ll
never know how right or wrong we are.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">As if aware
of my thoughts the girl lifts her eyes to mine. Her face remains hidden in her
scarf, her body as unmoving as her glance is deep. In the window behind her the
mountains and the valley drift by in the muted blues and grays of dawn.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Togakushi
is still two hours and one bus ride away. The weather during the six or seven
hours I’ll be hiking is impossible to predict. Nature can be fickle four
thousand feet up.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">As if
suddenly bored with the view our train leans into the hills and slips into a
tunnel. For a minute the world is black. When the light returns I can see nothing
out my window but pines dusted white and the contoured hints of a snowed-over
river. Save for our train and the tracks disappearing into the powder ahead the
world of man has ceased to exist.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I glance over again. The girl’s
eyes have turned away.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><b></b></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNbPyW9Qg7luk_yP4A8uklZuFfFzwp4jEGAr_xQga7YpWKKYImDoOrdykOqlXsMU8qhLddRO_hYF_K-xI0-_lsf53nf63L6xFadQAp0LdkGpdwtzauLHhD8GK6Wqx0sAxS-c3Wmsz7hpy35dWo5MtVXaduB8P5fF7guoybj2FHcrVVP3ejZGC9u3P5QA=s1665" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="1665" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNbPyW9Qg7luk_yP4A8uklZuFfFzwp4jEGAr_xQga7YpWKKYImDoOrdykOqlXsMU8qhLddRO_hYF_K-xI0-_lsf53nf63L6xFadQAp0LdkGpdwtzauLHhD8GK6Wqx0sAxS-c3Wmsz7hpy35dWo5MtVXaduB8P5fF7guoybj2FHcrVVP3ejZGC9u3P5QA=w640-h326" width="640" /></a></b></i></div><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;"><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><b style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: large;">The
name Togakushi</span></b><span style="font-size: medium;"> comes from a Shinto legend involving the sun goddess Amaterasu,
creator of ancient Japan. Her brother Susanoo, the god of the seas, having failed
in a bid to take over his sister’s heavenly realm, flew into a rage that so
embarrassed Amaterasu that she hid herself in the stone cave of Ama-no-Iwato, throwing
the world into darkness and chaos.</span></span></i><i style="font-weight: bold;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p></span></span></i><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">In an
attempt to lure Amaterasu out of hiding the god Ame-no-yagokoro-omoikane brought
the pantheon of Shinto deities together for a festival, held right outside Ama-no-Iwato.
The goddess Ame-no-uzume performed a lewd dance that drew laughter from the
other gods, and when Amaterasu peeked out from her hiding place to see what was
going on the god Ame-no-tajikarao grabbed the stone door to the cave and flung
it away, restoring light to the world.</span></span></i></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">That
stone landed in northern Nagano, forming the mountains of Togakushi, which
means “hiding door”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjALIxBeL6hlYMtFii1vBklp_5fmb9atPvSTF67jgZG-qqK0ocXEax-K-tORYa0ExdkkITu4h4r2NA8xSwbX2RI3ap2QCvUsK2tfY7NeWaL-tY-oXfiL-m71neA2zpxDApTfgPk4x6udhsr6vRIUT7YwgZhPJdblotxFfWkuBUbLo8rGnIOxjIypuEq3w=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjALIxBeL6hlYMtFii1vBklp_5fmb9atPvSTF67jgZG-qqK0ocXEax-K-tORYa0ExdkkITu4h4r2NA8xSwbX2RI3ap2QCvUsK2tfY7NeWaL-tY-oXfiL-m71neA2zpxDApTfgPk4x6udhsr6vRIUT7YwgZhPJdblotxFfWkuBUbLo8rGnIOxjIypuEq3w=w634-h476" width="634" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">Our bus
is steadily winding and climbing, northwest away from the now-unseen city of
Nagano. Icicles two and three meters long hang like daggers from the eaves of snow-bound
homes. Amoebic fields, built into the contours of the sloping earth and buried
for the season, pass by our shoulders then fall away below as we groan up through
another long curve. Narrow pines with pencil-point tips stand tall and close
together, decorated in clumps of snow as if rehearsing for a Christmas scene.
Aside from the road, the world lies blanketed in white; side streets,
driveways, rooftops, porches – all of it, making me wonder what I’ll be hiking
through all day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The ride
to Hoko-sha, the first of the Five Shrines of Togakushi, is a few minutes shy
of an hour. For centuries people walked to this area, from Zenkoji Temple in
Nagano and places much further beyond. Theirs was an arduous spiritual endeavor,
a pilgrimage undertaken in sandals made of straw. Meanwhile I’m sitting on this
bus, warming my feet by the heating vents under the seat in front of me.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibGTMIVH0RirhbuQkwo-u2XbMQDH056M5_CkUpGzzSf-0wRb7duamHb-40_TtMMKxFuMx3ugUvksuH6UOazFt0fibGl-5l8hZgiZrejpQ5idPokBpy43OAIJLHXYyzY50_dLy6ZcyTv8vSq45_GQl16ojDEIBeo14GWRyDFYLxID8eWieaHTlh4P7J-A=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibGTMIVH0RirhbuQkwo-u2XbMQDH056M5_CkUpGzzSf-0wRb7duamHb-40_TtMMKxFuMx3ugUvksuH6UOazFt0fibGl-5l8hZgiZrejpQ5idPokBpy43OAIJLHXYyzY50_dLy6ZcyTv8vSq45_GQl16ojDEIBeo14GWRyDFYLxID8eWieaHTlh4P7J-A=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></i><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>A
certain Shinto legend</b></span><span style="font-size: medium;"> holds that Oku-sha, the uppermost of Togakushi’s five shrines,
was founded in 210 BC. The historical records of the Nihon-Shoki maintain that in
684 Emperor Temmu had the Togakushi landscape mapped out, and ordered the
construction of a building in the area the following year. Buddhist tradition
has it that a monk by the name of Gakumon established Kenko-ji Temple here in
849, to engage in the ascetic mountain practice of Shugendo.</span></span></i><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">Developed
in 7<sup>th</sup> Century Japan, Shugendo is a mix of Shinto mountain worship,
Buddhist thought, Taoist tenets, and various other local beliefs, philosophies
and rituals. The name Shugendo conveys the idea that the way to enlightenment involves
rigorous trials of both body and mind.</span></span></i></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
mountains of Togakushi, marked by harsh winters, forbidding terrain, and
natural caves must have seemed a veritable gift from the gods for those seeking
the Shugendo version of wisdom. Here was a place for the mountain ascetics,
known as yamabushi, to test their will; to isolate themselves from society. To walk
that path to enlightenment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">From
there I’m not sure what they did.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">At
Hoko-sha I’m the only one to get off the half-empty bus. This sort of thing happens
to me a lot.</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFDEwJnPhip9dyQKuw8fL6BEVqtm-I6hgZ2PDXNSKJB9_pHLhv6NRSIOR6Hbxp5YclXHVFGyeQMhmaDtOfqk8eKXPzFWfvZNNUdAHsNMvq1q0EoWpY4MUJKLDkrEuBLWTfg6DutHiwuP3L9xec-P-wLGfEg1EhyLty-QfAtxxs3jdQoIc1RTSWcRo77w=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFDEwJnPhip9dyQKuw8fL6BEVqtm-I6hgZ2PDXNSKJB9_pHLhv6NRSIOR6Hbxp5YclXHVFGyeQMhmaDtOfqk8eKXPzFWfvZNNUdAHsNMvq1q0EoWpY4MUJKLDkrEuBLWTfg6DutHiwuP3L9xec-P-wLGfEg1EhyLty-QfAtxxs3jdQoIc1RTSWcRo77w=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The
steps up to the shrine are buried in snow. From the bottom of the first staircase I can't even see the shrine, just the wooden <b>torii</b> gate and the forest and a whole lot of white. A woman in a long black coat and dress
boots clambers doggedly, almost desperately upward, using her hands almost as
much as her feet. Step by awkward step she inches forward until she stumbles
over the top and disappears. Perhaps she has not come here to seek out what
these shrines might offer, but is instead merely stopping by on her way
somewhere else.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Higher up, cedars stand over the snow-covered steps with such stately girth they could
themselves be gods. Walking among them, I feel that I could want no more from
the day. As I reach the top I see the woman in black walking toward me. She
passes by silently, head down.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBs5WdauduMrS29Ml37ErsHtS_lbQejDbTBrf96MLan8wshCn3qYEJeZShUV4nUW6s-48pqpRVlGy2L-34ESrH6CFFA67oVBdTe1Ckj4bPmZZAP2-VrwTbuzW5X0yhb6Rj8FE23CnshGd2NE428E9BZe1vprW2i-w5QZC3HkAYMc1OSZ88I81dk3530g=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBs5WdauduMrS29Ml37ErsHtS_lbQejDbTBrf96MLan8wshCn3qYEJeZShUV4nUW6s-48pqpRVlGy2L-34ESrH6CFFA67oVBdTe1Ckj4bPmZZAP2-VrwTbuzW5X0yhb6Rj8FE23CnshGd2NE428E9BZe1vprW2i-w5QZC3HkAYMc1OSZ88I81dk3530g=w637-h478" width="637" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Hoko-sha,</span></b><span style="font-size: medium;">
last rebuilt in 1861, is the oldest extant structure among the five shrines. Originally
a Buddhist temple, its intricate wood carvings also make it the most ornate. Inside,
occupying the space in front of the </span><b style="font-size: large;">tatami</b><span style="font-size: medium;"> prayer room, is a stage for performances
of the Kagura dance, a reenactment of Ame-no-Uzume’s dance at Ama-no-Iwato.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglPZhTMzK_pB5QOj2mfWzHcQ1WNbN20vMhaOLuDwG_JPWTFOqZ0V5SFkleW8kM2DD-CNr0x7GwVM9YIhNN1JQcrTuerVUUkXCX3eFfbzL9v5wjweq3lJ4aPu2i-cfIzb-ivR4A6N1GE-Rrn05IiTC9wlVMVWzkf2vcqsQzBO78YsXONvM_21cvdPbT6Q=s3819" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2830" data-original-width="3819" height="467" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglPZhTMzK_pB5QOj2mfWzHcQ1WNbN20vMhaOLuDwG_JPWTFOqZ0V5SFkleW8kM2DD-CNr0x7GwVM9YIhNN1JQcrTuerVUUkXCX3eFfbzL9v5wjweq3lJ4aPu2i-cfIzb-ivR4A6N1GE-Rrn05IiTC9wlVMVWzkf2vcqsQzBO78YsXONvM_21cvdPbT6Q=w631-h467" width="631" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hoko-sha
marks the beginning of the Togakushi Kodo, the path connecting the Five Shrines
of Togakushi. The trail from Hoko-sha through the woods past Hinomiko-sha up to
Chu-sha is called the Kanmichi, or “The Way of the Gods”. (The characters used
to write Kanmichi, <b>神道</b>, are the same as those comprising the word Shinto, the name of
Japan’s indigenous religion, also defined as The Way of the Gods.)</span></span></i></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></i></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">Every
seven years the people of Togakushi carry a miniature shrine on their
shoulders, from Hoko-sha, along the Kanmichi, and up to Chu-sha, in a festival
called the Shikinen-taisai. Hoko-sha enshrines the deity Ame-no-Uwaharu, son of
Ame-no-Yagokoro, enshrined at Chu-sha. Thus the festival symbolizes the meeting
of father and son.</span></span></i></span></i></p><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhc4sF2-Jw0Aggdx_o_fXD4YbTo6y5MgGq0miEXjcl9ixcfu6wvWWeM73GEaqb0jvrvfOFA1Cahlqx7gkk6wYwOsVi8XXXkq4dLcpgs8b061s0j4HHlMe6diVUO5KYCZGT99H7Q3jaE5TrPtEqwEG-TX4yEXSd7yJFe5213HqvEFFIzv_v9WoSExEXq9g=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhc4sF2-Jw0Aggdx_o_fXD4YbTo6y5MgGq0miEXjcl9ixcfu6wvWWeM73GEaqb0jvrvfOFA1Cahlqx7gkk6wYwOsVi8XXXkq4dLcpgs8b061s0j4HHlMe6diVUO5KYCZGT99H7Q3jaE5TrPtEqwEG-TX4yEXSd7yJFe5213HqvEFFIzv_v9WoSExEXq9g=w629-h472" width="629" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Staring
at the unvarnished beauty of Hoko-sha, a thought I once had while gazing at the
beauty of a church in Luzern, Switzerland comes back to me. The greatest of
man’s architectural achievements are not the palaces they build for their kings
but the temples they build for their gods.</span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">My last
visit to Togakushi was a hit-and-run tourism assignment that left no time for a
walk through these woods. Today I’d move as I pleased, answering to no one but
myself, urged on by nothing but the inevitability of the setting sun – and the conversations
of the people now destroying, however innocently, the silence of Hoko-sha.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjx_3CVGQCzMV1m0N8CvyD0olFN0UAFzC7bbFtUjQLsrEu4kWw_q68RD0w5BmFeZx5I0diZYDi2O6K5fYOMqkIaZLDYivebXPawIDBn3DLaaNs8Geo1Tt2wmuTI2TD_29r0yvSh71Fhv6s9bSUaahfz2nvO-caRs7lAhPVZTaIcHvdBQbMfDb5YKOuAWQ=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="475" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjx_3CVGQCzMV1m0N8CvyD0olFN0UAFzC7bbFtUjQLsrEu4kWw_q68RD0w5BmFeZx5I0diZYDi2O6K5fYOMqkIaZLDYivebXPawIDBn3DLaaNs8Geo1Tt2wmuTI2TD_29r0yvSh71Fhv6s9bSUaahfz2nvO-caRs7lAhPVZTaIcHvdBQbMfDb5YKOuAWQ=w633-h475" width="633" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">A single
set of footprints tells me that only one other person has followed the Kanmichi
into the woods since the last snowfall, or maybe several snowfalls. As the
chatter drifting up from Hoko-sha fades and disappears, that unparalleled
feeling of solitude returns. Though I know it to be foolish, I ask the gods to
keep it this way for the rest of the day.</span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">At the same
time I hear myself giving thanks to the person who has gone before me, leaving
their footprints, helping me get through the knee-deep snow.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Suddenly,
inexplicably, those footprints make an abrupt right turn into the woods where,
according to a half-buried sign, there is a side trail. It seems to lead
nowhere but the road, far below through the trees.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">You
really never know where people are headed.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Plowing
ahead, my boots swallowing more snow with each step, I think of men in straw
sandals walking these woods a thousand winters ago.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjQLFvSLcRXYMyVnd7Rhjb_BgNU27rgp-1O9neGAj-EvG2DJ4lJbjIq0Ju1PX4WSRPemYaVChPF_GozcFLCNYFYPdhG6oub8WR-tfIoC7DPabuSkNQCYBUoZzUbUjITqI9lD63pUOhGii7pz0AzoQ6A5mDmEGlyvCVnZi91J_TZdf9nUdcVTB5KFE3_w=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjQLFvSLcRXYMyVnd7Rhjb_BgNU27rgp-1O9neGAj-EvG2DJ4lJbjIq0Ju1PX4WSRPemYaVChPF_GozcFLCNYFYPdhG6oub8WR-tfIoC7DPabuSkNQCYBUoZzUbUjITqI9lD63pUOhGii7pz0AzoQ6A5mDmEGlyvCVnZi91J_TZdf9nUdcVTB5KFE3_w=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Searching
in vain for the bird I can hear calling out from the treetops overhead I almost miss the wooden
post at my feet. Hinomiko-sha is right down through the woods, it reads. Just
three minutes on foot. No doubt it takes a bit more during the snowless months
but they left that part out.</span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The path
approaches Hinomiko-sha not from the front but from one rear corner, as if cutting
through the enshrined god’s backyard. That the Kanmichi would not lead past the
front of Hinomiko-sha makes sense considering that making this pilgrimage,
walking this path, was a Buddhist endeavor. And unlike Hoko-sha and Chu-sha,
which were once Buddhist temples, Hinomiko-sha has from its beginning always
been a Shinto shrine. For the yamabushi making the trek to the temples of Togakushi,
stopping off at Hinomiko-sha would be like checking out a martini bar during a
pub crawl. Kind of in the same universe but a completely different beast.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7jGKg2Xyrf4jzjuL_7_NAcQad8pvvfvPYtKKgjRHtTH8VjAKOQfgMhqmiHU6jz6fWXtcoec6WN0-C2z8F6aPCVHirItMF4dwvzBThfFe4C0jfkAfC1R0lCZNPe61g81cl105wiFtARttGoR9dl2Y8Llp28Uj1gEpegzpLxoyCR95YBhRPVQtpt6Xb7Q=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7jGKg2Xyrf4jzjuL_7_NAcQad8pvvfvPYtKKgjRHtTH8VjAKOQfgMhqmiHU6jz6fWXtcoec6WN0-C2z8F6aPCVHirItMF4dwvzBThfFe4C0jfkAfC1R0lCZNPe61g81cl105wiFtARttGoR9dl2Y8Llp28Uj1gEpegzpLxoyCR95YBhRPVQtpt6Xb7Q=w630-h472" width="630" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><i><span lang="EN-US"><b><span style="font-size: large;">After
the elaborate façade of Hoko-sha,</span></b><span style="font-size: medium;"> Hinomiko-sha presents as a modest affair. Established
in 1098, it enshrines the diety Ama-no-uzume, the god of dance, fire, and
entertainment – the same god whose dancing coaxed Amaterasu to peek out of her
hiding place, allowing Ame-no-tajikarao to cast away her stone door.</span></span></i><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US">Like
Hoko-sha, Hinomiko-sha is surrounded by tall, venerable cedars. Just behind and
to the left of the shrine is the Otome-sugi, the “husband and wife cedars”,
forever joined at their feet. They are estimated to be 500 years old</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0vZ1aWO7aGdjbGnA0FHHJusSuCCOBGZ9pp0dSBMJTBY991QPKpmvXMxf_TmRaWIsHl-eYHqTgt-C2htWU2zbnkVsMS8xw4NHH7DZqYfBHJadWOPZDeXxbyxkuzwMECKYYisDvohJ9ypMmxRTBArxjV1AS52kvxW-UlizTNmEPbd8Cm5eMANN4Av9--g=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="475" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0vZ1aWO7aGdjbGnA0FHHJusSuCCOBGZ9pp0dSBMJTBY991QPKpmvXMxf_TmRaWIsHl-eYHqTgt-C2htWU2zbnkVsMS8xw4NHH7DZqYfBHJadWOPZDeXxbyxkuzwMECKYYisDvohJ9ypMmxRTBArxjV1AS52kvxW-UlizTNmEPbd8Cm5eMANN4Av9--g=w633-h475" width="633" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">On a
side note, this seems about how long I’ve been joined to my own wife.</span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">In front
of the shrine is a set of no more than forty stone steps; not nothing, but much
less than Hoko-sha. And very much like Hoko-sha, these steps were covered over
with snow. At the bottom stands a stone (cement?) torii gate. A few feet in
front of that graceful, symbolic separation of the world of man and the realm
of the gods, cars whine up and down Route 36.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">I pause
at the front steps of Hinomiko-sha, to thank Ama-no-uzume for her lewd dance. Without
it this place would not exist as it does, and I would almost certainly not have
felt compelled to come walk here.</span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">And
yeah, the world would still be dark.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">On the way
back to the Kanmichi I encounter a young man, offering a greeting as we pass each
other. His answer is a mere silent nod. I don’t quite know how to feel about
that, so I decide I would feel nothing.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjC7W6HRmNHQeXqVr2sFKA09seG_Z9DOVa7I_Db8BYJfa2I7J9xvXYdcdkMAyijJQbKs4WUIG4SNHP_pnkYwclH1sqj0ySYGZ-9is7BlInFSynS9tDxoQOJVjIU6qCT4K4tniHRE2Kzc9HemYhVX337excJfCHvVrl0ffwq9tDc-s4RRgsCAmcVCbu6aw=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjC7W6HRmNHQeXqVr2sFKA09seG_Z9DOVa7I_Db8BYJfa2I7J9xvXYdcdkMAyijJQbKs4WUIG4SNHP_pnkYwclH1sqj0ySYGZ-9is7BlInFSynS9tDxoQOJVjIU6qCT4K4tniHRE2Kzc9HemYhVX337excJfCHvVrl0ffwq9tDc-s4RRgsCAmcVCbu6aw=w634-h476" width="634" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><span style="font-size: large;">Continuing
along the Kanmichi brings more untrodden snow save for the tracks of a lone fox. The winter sun has climbed high
above the southern horizon. Within hours it will be falling toward those cold,
whitened peaks of Japan’s northern alps. I pick up my pace, but that only serves
to tire and slow me down. Fighting that snow is starting to turn my legs to
rubber. Those yamabushi pilgrims must have been in great shape.</span><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Chu-sha</span></b>
</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">(in what has become a noticeable pattern)<i> sits
at the top of a long set of stone steps, surrounded by numerous cypress. Some
of these trees are over seven hundred years old. Three are touted as being more
than eight hundred. Inside the front entrance to the shrine is a raised square platform
which, as with Hoko-sha, serves as a stage for the monthly reenactment of the
Kagura dance. On the ceiling above is a painting of a dragon, drawn by Kawanabe
Kyosai, son of a Koga samurai and, unofficially, Japan’s first political
caricaturist, officially thrown in jail several times for his work.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguOOkdjFG0JR-3AqPhRXz-JcW3IsBETnT_tcYy-T63aneIUm6wJaN0gMNpx09mxLW8GM39L0fgp8Z0R-OZ0tot1G1RFASuvV4FCNs7wTM-PPquubaF2I-J8n1uSZLyZ9SXs9ndw0HGPTXdZR5M_N_JuSxw5FF323WzDGYx9s4CpHFOo_m9EA33S3IjEA=s4608" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiOrhRLqqHwaG0_WqLTQrLOSzwatfDjzkNyhDlKMFotChtCz147kKy0yRFdBSP9uz_Q14ZrY7zCTaAr99NYux6oswenA_ogkqGzAI_VdUTKp9ua69aol2p2SFzgwVP8bW4yij5su1FSSV2yr5yODgRp-l6wH8U-5EvGkkllwj90NSTfbDfhm6Urviukw=s4608" style="display: inline; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiOrhRLqqHwaG0_WqLTQrLOSzwatfDjzkNyhDlKMFotChtCz147kKy0yRFdBSP9uz_Q14ZrY7zCTaAr99NYux6oswenA_ogkqGzAI_VdUTKp9ua69aol2p2SFzgwVP8bW4yij5su1FSSV2yr5yODgRp-l6wH8U-5EvGkkllwj90NSTfbDfhm6Urviukw=w480-h640" width="480" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvvUqnPWX48N1C0TGBfD7dYj-u-UMIEYW0S0jPiA6UH1BpBQ15bJXR-t85LLBdE2k_BW9FwmS-R6taAchqE5CiRPZe_3HSpBlFhzdJ1PiGbvH832FC21BM-Iy-iWQVRupLvpFLgxE669MquzalIqg6OdHDZFygWJ9rXQOIy129kB_Cek5_OrWb8TRqVg=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvvUqnPWX48N1C0TGBfD7dYj-u-UMIEYW0S0jPiA6UH1BpBQ15bJXR-t85LLBdE2k_BW9FwmS-R6taAchqE5CiRPZe_3HSpBlFhzdJ1PiGbvH832FC21BM-Iy-iWQVRupLvpFLgxE669MquzalIqg6OdHDZFygWJ9rXQOIy129kB_Cek5_OrWb8TRqVg=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQcahfFSHttzj2EcxN_m1vS20eE4o_iyUh3Z0M0ylgrTSKmacsL8ztouIjXK1DSsACISO5LJ_3hBIYblm1NJCBfbZeR692fBlfK3oinX22rABss7LBQJk--AV18yMywfXpEFxnRr_01fHR_f0nrYnVSpIfMQaaQ-rgmH-XCr7VmUSBP9_CVqDXorMm1Q=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQcahfFSHttzj2EcxN_m1vS20eE4o_iyUh3Z0M0ylgrTSKmacsL8ztouIjXK1DSsACISO5LJ_3hBIYblm1NJCBfbZeR692fBlfK3oinX22rABss7LBQJk--AV18yMywfXpEFxnRr_01fHR_f0nrYnVSpIfMQaaQ-rgmH-XCr7VmUSBP9_CVqDXorMm1Q=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><div>Chu-sha,
meaning “Middle Shrine”, lives up to its name by being not just the middle shrine
– with Hoko-sha and Hinomiko-sha below and Oku-sha and Kuzuryu-sha still to come – but also by sitting in the de facto center of the village of
Togakushi. (Geographically it is nowhere near the midway point of the Kodo
Trail, as a strange number of people seem to think.)</div></span>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRcfE6LuJUIihM3t3vbbKliPnxuR7VCCXsN4c5qLYWIjZ3QMbXkrjD5e-HZo2MmLc40Pv3e38cQM892Web750TL5fEwUyj1hQanDThzTa5c0X7p8xBI3qZAyR2lnvG0gfEUF7hmnAuJZN4sEJ8Bld_sibCEWp-Lct7T27f6rchMJhYiY4SW1mT5Ww_Gw=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="471" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRcfE6LuJUIihM3t3vbbKliPnxuR7VCCXsN4c5qLYWIjZ3QMbXkrjD5e-HZo2MmLc40Pv3e38cQM892Web750TL5fEwUyj1hQanDThzTa5c0X7p8xBI3qZAyR2lnvG0gfEUF7hmnAuJZN4sEJ8Bld_sibCEWp-Lct7T27f6rchMJhYiY4SW1mT5Ww_Gw=w628-h471" width="628" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>Chu-sha was
once fronted with a </span><b style="font-size: large;">Monzen-machi</b><span style="font-size: large;"> district, a village where those making
the pilgrimage to Togakushi could find a number of </span><b style="font-size: large;">shukubo</b><span style="font-size: large;"> – Buddhist temples
that also offered food and a place to sleep. Some of the old shukubo inns where
pilgrims laid their shaved heads centuries ago still exist, maintaining their traditional
meter-thick straw rooftops, which are crazy expensive to replace but for history’s
and ambience’s sake – and with subsidies from the government – it’s worth it.</span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGNqIcwBoilHRgWtZ8UGsA1PndwvSF1mK8UABe_cVIefp1ikPRxWjr0nVrWhAUFhpnzEQPmj9iBUo-9hLHy9dnNaYXWDOwbn9lrrw2LAUopnNwm2eLYj6zMxSc7A2Cdxme-RQLS6vCkfyDAZCHnZFpeRosjIZNgYEQF-vstqi4vvIdoaAzBL5oMhHqWw=s4160" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGNqIcwBoilHRgWtZ8UGsA1PndwvSF1mK8UABe_cVIefp1ikPRxWjr0nVrWhAUFhpnzEQPmj9iBUo-9hLHy9dnNaYXWDOwbn9lrrw2LAUopnNwm2eLYj6zMxSc7A2Cdxme-RQLS6vCkfyDAZCHnZFpeRosjIZNgYEQF-vstqi4vvIdoaAzBL5oMhHqWw=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Togakushi
doesn’t have a town square, but there’s sort of a triangle in front of Chu-sha’s
torii. Across the way is the visitor center, where information can be obtained
and snowshoes can be rented. With the feeling in my toes fast fading into the
frozen netherworld I feel compelled to suggest they set up a snowshoe rental
annex down near Hoko-sha.</span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The path
leading away from Chu-sha has two sets of fresh-packed snowshoe tracks. I step
gingerly, hoping they’ll hold me, but after taking three steps and sinking three
times knee-deep into the snow I give up. I’m sweating through my shirt by the
time the trail dumps me out onto a quiet and cleanly-plowed road.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQ-sBSsChK-LNIIsapjNoUK8LOG4Zz-_01YHw0ERgjr-a_RBw_6c1-Qmv-DeV17DobnGvBNnNdc8wTnMrLRfkeL8-MZ8lty9YkStubOppaBlV4EeX6p5CDPrd8WGXME4xf80rCbPV3MG58vAkNV2dVRvG7qswWdKMBoM_oqH_kMYULsySOLRbzRIu6vA=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQ-sBSsChK-LNIIsapjNoUK8LOG4Zz-_01YHw0ERgjr-a_RBw_6c1-Qmv-DeV17DobnGvBNnNdc8wTnMrLRfkeL8-MZ8lty9YkStubOppaBlV4EeX6p5CDPrd8WGXME4xf80rCbPV3MG58vAkNV2dVRvG7qswWdKMBoM_oqH_kMYULsySOLRbzRIu6vA=w635-h476" width="635" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">There’s
no sign of a trail on the other side. Over to the right, about as far as I can
chuck a snow-filled boot, a side road runs off in a direction I am more or less
sure I want to go. A hand-written note stapled to a signpost warns that up
ahead this side road is snowed over, unfit for anyone not on snowshoes or skis.</span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">If those
yamabushi could do it in straw sandals I could do it in $150 hiking boots.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The guy who
plowed this side road had gone only as far as absolutely necessary to allow the
people living along that road to get their cars out. Mission accomplished he
evidently backed out and went home, leaving a mountain of snow in the middle of
the road to mark the occasion.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">On the
other side of Mt. Plow the path and the snowshoe tracks and the knee-deep
powder resume. More of the same. It’s becoming tedious. Still beautiful, but
even eating nothing but chocolate ice cream for days on end can eventually get
old. Not that I’ve tried.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Quite
suddenly the tedium evaporates as I notice the rugged, rocky, snow-packed
Togakushi Mountains peeking through the trees in front of me.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOy9lvSg-NVDxJ8wCo1NvJNTiWPm7VJOhkCRAUZWJo-Frx3Uf_2oUXQICTJ6_qo8o3tc_jwqDE5UZ_fETdZRzG7oSFLJb2kXePwkF0ctS5HdnkRJrdJUYpeMv0MqFw-Kx_boH7ov02LLFYqkUPdbhtFUqVk48yvTrkcDnqtcY7Vr22pIQEumnRt88Mdg=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOy9lvSg-NVDxJ8wCo1NvJNTiWPm7VJOhkCRAUZWJo-Frx3Uf_2oUXQICTJ6_qo8o3tc_jwqDE5UZ_fETdZRzG7oSFLJb2kXePwkF0ctS5HdnkRJrdJUYpeMv0MqFw-Kx_boH7ov02LLFYqkUPdbhtFUqVk48yvTrkcDnqtcY7Vr22pIQEumnRt88Mdg=w631-h473" width="631" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">They’d
been there all this time. Why did it take me until now to see them?</span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">A (fake?)
wooden post sticking out of the snow tells me the entrance to the Oku-sha Sando,
the path leading up to Oku-sha Shrine, is less than a kilometer away. The cold air
licks at my cheeks. In places, the sky is a milky blue. I feel like if I tale my
boots off I’ll see not feet but flippers.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWDMjSP_wf95aDotsemwz9sfMgSLaZCT8sTi_eoVsjXJ0tMyx-vVIJCK99RFedkj8RG1WCFBImoFvz5hs8T5U6qE1OycQI0IWoZaU3hZJ6ft6eJs9B6GfxTqDd1TffACRFIt8NromdpjzQGZFU6fFwH6TIodHInJCrS1rCVPlDaesLgwZUgYNZvzas8Q=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWDMjSP_wf95aDotsemwz9sfMgSLaZCT8sTi_eoVsjXJ0tMyx-vVIJCK99RFedkj8RG1WCFBImoFvz5hs8T5U6qE1OycQI0IWoZaU3hZJ6ft6eJs9B6GfxTqDd1TffACRFIt8NromdpjzQGZFU6fFwH6TIodHInJCrS1rCVPlDaesLgwZUgYNZvzas8Q=w634-h476" width="634" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Oku-sha
Sando</b></span><span style="font-size: medium;"> runs for two kilometers, through forest that has for centuries been
considered sacred ground. Halfway along stands Zuijinmon Gate, painted red, its
roof of straw covered with moss. Zuijinmon originally housed Nio, the twin
guardian deities of Buddha. It now holds the Shinto warrior-guardian deities
known as Zuijin.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNzbEv9VUK_ysUUxjRBNUqSP-YlI-_ZPOIXQlZqEkMnwoZK2gpRoNgREDjKzuw0B72oiqAJov-hGbYrmkfZaHjncbbgel4pOfA2mrC49nYZMCNEAZplrgJCL0auAkt5QVapVwGpGxLVWcrO5GJV3jF7FTp-ey6lSVaJVrY1ILGXNGMcFPMvd2F1CKnng=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="469" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNzbEv9VUK_ysUUxjRBNUqSP-YlI-_ZPOIXQlZqEkMnwoZK2gpRoNgREDjKzuw0B72oiqAJov-hGbYrmkfZaHjncbbgel4pOfA2mrC49nYZMCNEAZplrgJCL0auAkt5QVapVwGpGxLVWcrO5GJV3jF7FTp-ey6lSVaJVrY1ILGXNGMcFPMvd2F1CKnng=w625-h469" width="625" /></a></span></i></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> </span></i><p></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhokErLRErsbaTDz3lQNbUHJjSjPnznA8ulmQgg7751IQZYWUxZcHZuPnjg3lLbsnj_QcS6adEGsDjvL3s_rs0y0IhoePYPXg1AhcUriYHi6YqiHwuXPhH3Tdw0bXPwP_u0G0DNjV2YsJV82fJZ0ghBZat9cX5aZ4X5bt2xLqrqsZeg0zSIvkJf1TGaDA=s4554" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4554" data-original-width="3415" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhokErLRErsbaTDz3lQNbUHJjSjPnznA8ulmQgg7751IQZYWUxZcHZuPnjg3lLbsnj_QcS6adEGsDjvL3s_rs0y0IhoePYPXg1AhcUriYHi6YqiHwuXPhH3Tdw0bXPwP_u0G0DNjV2YsJV82fJZ0ghBZat9cX5aZ4X5bt2xLqrqsZeg0zSIvkJf1TGaDA=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></i></div><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;"><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">Beyond
the Zuijinmon the path to Oku-sha is lined with several hundred cryptomeria
japonica, a species of cypress endemic to Japan, often referred to as Japanese
cedars. Since being planted four hundred years ago these trees, along with the
surrounding forest, have been left entirely to Nature and the gods.</span></span></i></p></span></span></i><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgR0cukgNjSdLdsqkRCtuBYT0G_SJ7brSesjT3OL4PGJFYuGdbJKIkAAqOGJ_5M2Bvxzwm6TRwMgUDSL70vOuPAxJgaRZRpZoxC005r4wukqW15HN1bVakGVCLEJyokCQqYd9ER2_bgHDN2jFm4THJsAq-2XaSKR0mO7VSEwHS51Rd93IZCiuodag4tEg=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgR0cukgNjSdLdsqkRCtuBYT0G_SJ7brSesjT3OL4PGJFYuGdbJKIkAAqOGJ_5M2Bvxzwm6TRwMgUDSL70vOuPAxJgaRZRpZoxC005r4wukqW15HN1bVakGVCLEJyokCQqYd9ER2_bgHDN2jFm4THJsAq-2XaSKR0mO7VSEwHS51Rd93IZCiuodag4tEg=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></span></i></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
sando was intentionally laid out to allow the morning sun to shine in a
straight line through the forest twice a year, on <b>ritto</b> and <b>risshun</b>,
Japan’s traditional first days of winter and spring. The trees themselves were
planted to make this place heaven every day.</span></span></i><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I think
it was John Muir who, in reference to Yosemite, said something like “The beauty
of this place will be its demise.” In other words, the countless people who go to
see its beauty will manage, in their unthinking fervor, to destroy it. Aside
from the two hundred parking spaces flanking the road near the entrance to the
sando, this place has so far managed to maintain its magic. Still, I wish these
people tripping over their own snowshoes would go the hell home, they’re
ruining my pictures.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I shouldn’t
say that. Togakushi in winter is pure magic, so the scant few people who have
come to this achingly beautiful slice of the planet today – on a Saturday, no
less – give no credence to my complaints. And really, I have to admit that the
image of a figure or two walking among these giant cedars lends added
perspective to, and appreciation of, their tremendous size.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now if
only these people could wear those white pilgrim outfits instead of bright
North Face down jackets.</span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxwcO96FQrK7BlxqTGcPtvpK5U_OTYgQDFERjbDqTyNx-oF1AOTDWjT8OUMlFlGHLVTGEwJANwX0mcPQuAue__TNUkiiEq7i61vo2mDKgR4yU05nh9g5Z5bt_d4uISmlnTDlpHtk54Pgb93wWiw_xcWc_F0RmMs4FoUbr-q1gMgwo-1jMNp_VPShcOag=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxwcO96FQrK7BlxqTGcPtvpK5U_OTYgQDFERjbDqTyNx-oF1AOTDWjT8OUMlFlGHLVTGEwJANwX0mcPQuAue__TNUkiiEq7i61vo2mDKgR4yU05nh9g5Z5bt_d4uISmlnTDlpHtk54Pgb93wWiw_xcWc_F0RmMs4FoUbr-q1gMgwo-1jMNp_VPShcOag=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><i><span lang="EN-US"><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span><b><span style="font-size: large;">For a
time</span></b><span style="font-size: medium;"> Kenko-ji Temple possessed aspects of both Buddhism and Shinto. With the ordered
separation of the two religions at the beginning of the Meiji Era, Kenko-ji was
stripped of its Buddhist elements and reestablished as the Shinto shrine
Oku-sha. Enshrined here is Ame-no-tajikarao, the god who grabbed the stone from
Ama-no-Iwato where Amaterasu was hiding and threw it here to create these
mountains.</span></span></span></i></p></span></i><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">Steps
away from Chu-sha is Kuzuryu-sha, the most ancient of the Togakushi shrines. It
originally stood inside a cave that was believed to be the home of Kuzuryu,
whose name means “Nine-Headed Dragon”. As Kuzuryu is the Shinto god of rainfall
and water, this shrine was where people living in Togakushi would come to pray
for continued and abundant rain, Though no longer standing inside its cave, Kuzuryu-sha
remains shrouded in mystery as it is not known when it came into being.</span></span></i></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZWznEYbbV8V1CaFMp22lP8xn_PCPrR4qao_6DGWd4fmMrVZBmRaq7bBgGBs9WZjk-ja4zvM6N3f_OnwfVgqSTJXPEjkJmeR_JrqJ4AS9EsJTyuPgxwQRnGtXHPDAuNdTIeQ3jP4zml9XxpO8mBDOatfHS5bKRdT-OZwAs4HEZs5S_hnJZ1KZGw6CmMw=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZWznEYbbV8V1CaFMp22lP8xn_PCPrR4qao_6DGWd4fmMrVZBmRaq7bBgGBs9WZjk-ja4zvM6N3f_OnwfVgqSTJXPEjkJmeR_JrqJ4AS9EsJTyuPgxwQRnGtXHPDAuNdTIeQ3jP4zml9XxpO8mBDOatfHS5bKRdT-OZwAs4HEZs5S_hnJZ1KZGw6CmMw=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>A side note on Togakushi: In
winter, the snow around Kuzuryu-sha is so deep it is possible to suddenly find
yourself walking on the roof of a storage garage.</i></span><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">While
Oku-sha marks the end of the Kodo, there’s plenty more to explore. One trail
leads from the side of Kuzuryu-sha into the forest and up to the top and along
the ridge of the Togakushi Mountains. Sketchy even in summer, the climb can be suicidal
in winter. I’m not going to try it, especially in flippers.</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">Back
down near Zuijinmon lie a couple of nice, flat, non-deadly alternatives. From
the sando a path leads north to the Togakushi Campground and more trails up
more mountains. The southern path winds through the forest to a man-made lake
and an encompassing view of the Togakushi Range. This was how I’d end my day. A
pilgrimage to the campground and mountain trails sounds much more appealing in the
warmer months.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiO3kahrujXucxWzG9qCz1eLSy9OgAaSq8nZIcQ8VKSMYS4VFWzA7T3bdAqnjUyrfRwTsZh-xYMoK5KQBBSKETowbEW46Jhr4hSrg72J53ypwc2b0RdJ-ku2p0i8okmon30woZtzSybC7QJLslHjOZP59yq8Fgu_0E8TIx_9hv4w53yRGuH3qnbu2OlQQ=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiO3kahrujXucxWzG9qCz1eLSy9OgAaSq8nZIcQ8VKSMYS4VFWzA7T3bdAqnjUyrfRwTsZh-xYMoK5KQBBSKETowbEW46Jhr4hSrg72J53ypwc2b0RdJ-ku2p0i8okmon30woZtzSybC7QJLslHjOZP59yq8Fgu_0E8TIx_9hv4w53yRGuH3qnbu2OlQQ=w629-h472" width="629" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Along this
southern path I encounter few people. Most of those I do greet are wearing
snowshoes or skis. This trail, however, requires no special gear. All I need at
this point is a little yamabushi spirit as my wet, freezing feet are now demanding
we go home.</span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Kagami-ike
Lake</span></b><span style="font-size: medium;"> was created to aid the people endeavoring to farm this land – not for
rice, but for soba. For centuries soba was the staple Togakushi meal, for pilgrims
and denizens alike, served in doughy balls rather than the noodles most people
would recognize today. And today there are numerous opportunities in Togakushi to
feast on some local soba, served on plates made from the stalks of a special
kind of broadleaf bamboo and crafted in the local </span><b style="font-size: large;">takezaiku</b><span style="font-size: medium;"> method of bamboo-weaving.</span></span></i></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">In autumn
the hordes descend on Kagami-ike, to view the Togakushi Range and the fall
colors of the forest reflected in the water. On this winter day there are a
mere handful of us, taking in the blues and whites of the world from atop the
frozen lake. One woman decides to lay down in the snow and start making snow
angels. Right in front of me. While I am standing there with my camera out, Poised
for the perfect shot.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Her
friends come over and start taking pictures of her. What fun. I count to ten
and start clearing my throat.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_o21hdH6V-GoM-RglbrGMchkQmDLy-Swe7sOpdv5CjSn1Qz3hlV5kf_KvUe3dxlEWSuMisQR4CBCCGDCC6slweKMeP_utvAs3UHORV6BpKWCr1cEIGhHjhv_jGq9L1xS4a9kIZW8czcRtIyt0Xr0i2ZDrpI4X6P2IcbOS6mVHm3YnvTkQqZRlHfDZdA=s3740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="3740" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_o21hdH6V-GoM-RglbrGMchkQmDLy-Swe7sOpdv5CjSn1Qz3hlV5kf_KvUe3dxlEWSuMisQR4CBCCGDCC6slweKMeP_utvAs3UHORV6BpKWCr1cEIGhHjhv_jGq9L1xS4a9kIZW8czcRtIyt0Xr0i2ZDrpI4X6P2IcbOS6mVHm3YnvTkQqZRlHfDZdA=w626-h174" width="626" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">The sun is
drifting closer toward the peaks to the southwest. I don’t have far to go from
here but the way home passes through more forest, and if I make a wrong turn or
lose the snowed-over trail (something I’d already proven I could do) things could
get interesting.</span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The
shadows of the trees cast by the late afternoon sun are so long I can’t see where
they end. The path winds up and down and left and right, for longer than I was
expecting. It leads me to a wooden shelter at the edge of a small lake – and vanishes
into the untouched powder.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQl4Prnn_kh4m2GE5PSn8-VwoQUeTLjR7-e3ZEiCubd8tj4F-YXdzYU4yIiObywLCh7cJPXOjCmkW1m0cTftFB01bX6AtNif9BGMWk4jI2Vf8_NIc0iel9etBpGZlpGfKsl7s7G0inhAAB1CXLjA92PugiFMORALTd0hbbeTmVf9fYe4gpzzF4s4Q5UQ=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQl4Prnn_kh4m2GE5PSn8-VwoQUeTLjR7-e3ZEiCubd8tj4F-YXdzYU4yIiObywLCh7cJPXOjCmkW1m0cTftFB01bX6AtNif9BGMWk4jI2Vf8_NIc0iel9etBpGZlpGfKsl7s7G0inhAAB1CXLjA92PugiFMORALTd0hbbeTmVf9fYe4gpzzF4s4Q5UQ=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Having regained the trail I pass a couple in their sixties. They are, by all
indication, no longer enjoying their cross-country ski expedition. They return
my quiet greeting and catch their breath and get back to grumbling out loud, to
and at each other.</span><p></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I see no
one the rest of the way through the woods. At a high point along the trail, with a wide view of the mountains from southeast to southwest, I can see Mt. Fuji. Navigating the back streets of Togakushi
village I encounter only two other people. I nod to them, in simple affirmation
of our shared existence in this moment in place and time. They nod in return, though
only after a discernible pause. They’re probably wondering if we know each
other. And if we don’t, why I should be nodding at them.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I stumble
quite by accident out onto Route 36. To my left, just out of sight, sits Chu-sha.
To my right, a paved and winding walk back to Hoko-sha and the bus back to
Nagano. Part of me wants to turn back down those side streets and find the
Kanmichi. Trudge back through the snow. Finish the hike as I started it, along the
way of the gods.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">But time
is growing short. And god my feet are cold.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">From the
window of the bus I watch the pale blue sky and the pure white snow slowly
blend into gray.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Solitude
in beautiful places can be rejuvenating. Therapeutic. Transformational even. Just
ask those yamabushi. Yet there is value in sharing that solitude; with loved
ones, because we love them, but also with strangers. Seeing and appreciating
beauty is human, and encountering strangers out in the middle of this beautiful
world reminds us that the desire to seek out beauty is alive and well among us.
That humanity in this form remains, wherever we all are coming from or heading
to.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Solitude,
then, does not necessarily mean being the only one in a place. Passing another
on a trail and exchanging simple greetings, or trading helpful words about the trails
we’ve just walked – I see this as contributing to the allure of solitude, even
as it interrupts it, because it is there we see a reflection of our values, of
our appreciation of this world. And a shared recognition that, for now, we need
nothing more.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The
ascetics who came here, to live in solitude in caves and in harsh conditions –
were they seeking complete solitude from humanity? Did they believe no one
could mirror their own values, or see the same beauty they saw? Or were they
seeking to clarify their own values, their own view of a world that might be
beautiful if seen with clear eyes?</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m not
about to go hide in a cave. But that internal view of the outside world is, I think,
why I am out here.</span></p><p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRnbSyq3dR3AFGFF9q-lGBOq6ggyndyUc0PK6_kkG2UPxtEQVK9QPMwmXVE1Uz7NpWnVtZ1VNUebaruZQD_otWYPXRVuapHQ2JXHXqjlByP5RoZAJF_n0MoW4LT6gj9IeaLOrA8xWbUOQe99r3lmosPdORnhHFRjxO66HLSdhZ5_kQgla9JEowEx68Tg=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRnbSyq3dR3AFGFF9q-lGBOq6ggyndyUc0PK6_kkG2UPxtEQVK9QPMwmXVE1Uz7NpWnVtZ1VNUebaruZQD_otWYPXRVuapHQ2JXHXqjlByP5RoZAJF_n0MoW4LT6gj9IeaLOrA8xWbUOQe99r3lmosPdORnhHFRjxO66HLSdhZ5_kQgla9JEowEx68Tg=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-17690650246366144012022-02-01T21:47:00.002-08:002022-02-09T18:47:10.945-08:00Finding New Faces in an Old Japanese Favorite: Hiking the Kiso Valley<p><span style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Whenever my wife tells me to go take a hike I happily oblige. She said it again last Friday at dinner and by daybreak I was on a train heading into central Japan's Kiso Valley.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiUgfgbHMymDC86Ykp7hrnksIq1AyGxWuxwn7zq6oqKRQa8UiFqPjEe8NyL7_5Gd8pA1Pbg3-jwSyI-kBr1uuti-giXIVnHUs-mUbsSsrSuG2240yYM3YYEqhzmTpjyygq7gB1zzZ4Y8YtZujQPEogWKicxla4lqmHDoi6WkgXbIOCC_P5BuCRQm0h_7g=s3455" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3328" data-original-width="3455" height="616" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiUgfgbHMymDC86Ykp7hrnksIq1AyGxWuxwn7zq6oqKRQa8UiFqPjEe8NyL7_5Gd8pA1Pbg3-jwSyI-kBr1uuti-giXIVnHUs-mUbsSsrSuG2240yYM3YYEqhzmTpjyygq7gB1zzZ4Y8YtZujQPEogWKicxla4lqmHDoi6WkgXbIOCC_P5BuCRQm0h_7g=w640-h616" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><p>The Magome-Tsumago stretch of <a href="https://www.go-nagano.net/en/theme/id=16492" target="_blank">the old Nakasendo trade route</a> is a well-known and well-trodden trail - and for good reason. Magome and Tsumago are two of the best-preserved Edo Era trade route towns in all of Japan, and are connected by a pleasant (albeit hilly) 7-kilometer walk that takes you through forests and fields and rustic villages that can - and have been - settings for numerous novels and films about the Japan of yesteryear.</p></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcI8peqjq0NJ81IXeZkWVsSAIMEU8Z49ijR51x8mPK5Ra4aiIyO6ZMbJkVKJHm8ufcuMUT3TJwu5Ho9Ql7thl3gl-t3N9jyqK_nlBdanuUL3bFr_ucAGajvVBbAqTyjhAtmf9cslYGcdxtyQ_gYlf28eF_TQeVHHK2JvxHbz1RLNkHlQ4QaudkUv_-_Q=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="475" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcI8peqjq0NJ81IXeZkWVsSAIMEU8Z49ijR51x8mPK5Ra4aiIyO6ZMbJkVKJHm8ufcuMUT3TJwu5Ho9Ql7thl3gl-t3N9jyqK_nlBdanuUL3bFr_ucAGajvVBbAqTyjhAtmf9cslYGcdxtyQ_gYlf28eF_TQeVHHK2JvxHbz1RLNkHlQ4QaudkUv_-_Q=w633-h475" width="633" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Magome is almost too pretty.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVifdFR9K5blk8umPVn6oxbVETMMViCSmKf3_igzxf0jyJQiDY8uWNDr-UjLn7qy9_VWocr4WRF4zdzlxpN2dCvTk_vndSvq8lEV4pPfk5sj9z-jEX69TnZKqmrw918GKWKIWWIlxYxbEESev6wZFd7uAFJ_0lNhsPRy309HJ--qvH7yOKjEYHlgnkhQ=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVifdFR9K5blk8umPVn6oxbVETMMViCSmKf3_igzxf0jyJQiDY8uWNDr-UjLn7qy9_VWocr4WRF4zdzlxpN2dCvTk_vndSvq8lEV4pPfk5sj9z-jEX69TnZKqmrw918GKWKIWWIlxYxbEESev6wZFd7uAFJ_0lNhsPRy309HJ--qvH7yOKjEYHlgnkhQ=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The sloping "ishidatami" part of the trail between Magome and Tsumago.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Beautiful and shaded in summer, beautiful and treacherous in winter.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_dR3bWHbnzbUQm__H8jmSdQ8qZ2yebQxdVCm19vcFoRyT0Zydx5Al8FROFG7u3L-zk2RM3OeaEV3qm9CKk_YrHldN4YcwU27UrqEeQxgH97GQFUNPUm9EtpzqYrvTIxtwWIL7zgBWOaxY8hiQupTWTPgrYx92AUyYAFLYHZ-xWlHMkTgKlmt74wrVMQ=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="475" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_dR3bWHbnzbUQm__H8jmSdQ8qZ2yebQxdVCm19vcFoRyT0Zydx5Al8FROFG7u3L-zk2RM3OeaEV3qm9CKk_YrHldN4YcwU27UrqEeQxgH97GQFUNPUm9EtpzqYrvTIxtwWIL7zgBWOaxY8hiQupTWTPgrYx92AUyYAFLYHZ-xWlHMkTgKlmt74wrVMQ=w633-h475" width="633" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Tsumago is less glazed (read: more authentic-looking) than Magome.</div><p>I'd walked this section of the Nakasendo several times, as a guide and on my own. But I'd never gone in winter. And I'd never ventured south of Magome or north of Tsumago. The original Nakasendo, the mountainous route between Kyoto and Edo, covered more than 500 kilometers. Tsumago and Magome were just two of 69 post towns where merchants, travelers, and nobility on their way to see the shogun would eat and sleep and trade.</p><p>I've no mind to walk the entire route. (I'd cycle it if not for all the stairs.) But I did want to see more of it. In short, that's how I ended up here:<span></span></p><a name='more'></a></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwSjtgH0jfumZX_mdsJhgK9leeYJXS_2ZUZCVKLMuu6rqOssrWvJW_g_WZp8eBC1MVyHoFikbwvu_6Uf7K6Vbu5vLju5ifrLXWGtlaND-9gwn3PO2CZJEE-WxFviekT0G7sO_9BduwVdIQT2NjwvOJfBpikreTpcHvDYIYTq__w5xfPIl3d52nAwS-nQ=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="471" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwSjtgH0jfumZX_mdsJhgK9leeYJXS_2ZUZCVKLMuu6rqOssrWvJW_g_WZp8eBC1MVyHoFikbwvu_6Uf7K6Vbu5vLju5ifrLXWGtlaND-9gwn3PO2CZJEE-WxFviekT0G7sO_9BduwVdIQT2NjwvOJfBpikreTpcHvDYIYTq__w5xfPIl3d52nAwS-nQ=w628-h471" width="628" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>The morning had warmed noticeably since we pulled out of Matsumoto. Good thing considering how I was dressed. The few people on the train, conductor included, likely thought I'd made a mistake by getting off here. Most round-eyes go to Nakatsugawa and take the bus to Magome.</p><p>For better or for worse, I've often been told I'm not like most round-eyes.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b>Ochiai Calling</b></h2><p>I like the feeling of being in a new place. Of not knowing what I'll find, even if the initial view looks like the opening shot of a third-rate indie film. The name Ochiai is made up of the characters 落 ("fall" or "drop") and 合 ("meet" or "match"). It would be easy enough to fabricate some degree of auspiciousness in this but instead I just started walking along the river, hoping I wouldn't fall in and match my head to the rocks.</p><p>Ochiai is the kind of place where even the new parts are old. It's a persistent theme in Japan, and not only out in the sticks. I think it's a mix of a lack of natural resources and, in line with the Japanese spirit of never changing, a reflection of the paucity of everyday life post-WWII.</p><p>But with that ingrained desire to cling to things of the past come pockets of the Japan I will never tire of.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgDsEbXpJ8XWFPl_vcpPagpvsPD8O8cKgZp_HSkOZ6Wea8EXJpIRpgQZOTIEtOEDzdebPw4MVbWX_6jpCPTmwNXuWdi3Fnha6oO0mA6lSspyJAOugP1lJ9v80votOljeXKBmWE2rxBCyr_BpSakQFrovXbKM5e8HLNdblv_QErR5rAmIkzBhm95i2tHNA=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgDsEbXpJ8XWFPl_vcpPagpvsPD8O8cKgZp_HSkOZ6Wea8EXJpIRpgQZOTIEtOEDzdebPw4MVbWX_6jpCPTmwNXuWdi3Fnha6oO0mA6lSspyJAOugP1lJ9v80votOljeXKBmWE2rxBCyr_BpSakQFrovXbKM5e8HLNdblv_QErR5rAmIkzBhm95i2tHNA=w626-h470" width="626" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGk3WSXF-fLsQ46fHPvom4QKhLWnTKjlNzDRYSBg1Rna7aoVBdaCc_TEZ2iUQ15wtixsIZwtlltAPeZT45ZobAzQxSiSVY1kH_xgpoVNzQPtYlrsiZhDnneDBqV2QFVCHeMUuJquR5alsr2Cw1tXpuSLxFA_pzXl7b1g0egmQopTXeN6WhyMbj22Ubug=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGk3WSXF-fLsQ46fHPvom4QKhLWnTKjlNzDRYSBg1Rna7aoVBdaCc_TEZ2iUQ15wtixsIZwtlltAPeZT45ZobAzQxSiSVY1kH_xgpoVNzQPtYlrsiZhDnneDBqV2QFVCHeMUuJquR5alsr2Cw1tXpuSLxFA_pzXl7b1g0egmQopTXeN6WhyMbj22Ubug=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtt4r5yWHPCQIBpGBpL1xwyN-QQ4hX1SebdZwYL7Up2Mun1yQcPN4oA72rANBRaciSuPo-8c7aIRvCKLP3QgfNHZpXmm8e0ZLoUSg6LddY4IuQR-NQ464POwkfOcdDAESTc2LkAgYBEIL5SPiY0jqOgqSn-40UX5UmfwDA0i2xmFzr6I7Yy_KujHCMaQ=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtt4r5yWHPCQIBpGBpL1xwyN-QQ4hX1SebdZwYL7Up2Mun1yQcPN4oA72rANBRaciSuPo-8c7aIRvCKLP3QgfNHZpXmm8e0ZLoUSg6LddY4IuQR-NQ464POwkfOcdDAESTc2LkAgYBEIL5SPiY0jqOgqSn-40UX5UmfwDA0i2xmFzr6I7Yy_KujHCMaQ=w630-h472" width="630" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>The walk to the old post town of Ochiai-juku led past a cement factory, down a weed-eaten roadside hemmed in by a chain link fence, and across an iron footbridge stretched high above the traffic rumbling and roaring through the center of a crowded, nondescript town. The sidewalks were oddly deserted.</p><p>The world grew quiet as the traffic and town fell away behind me. Along a side street homes sat mostly silent and noticeably unlit in the gray of the morning. Painted wooden signs pointed me toward Ochiai-juku in 200-meter increments. A brief and playful moment with someone's golden retriever was my only interaction with anything living.</p><p>Until I met Iguchi-san.</p><p>He seemed shocked to see me standing there outside Zensho-ji Temple where he was the <b><i>fuku-jushoku</i></b>, the second in priestly command. Injecting an occasional English word or two into his gentle Japanese, he invited me into the garden and the glittering main hall of the temple; lit three incense sticks for me to offer in prayer to Buddha; answered my simple questions, giving me his simple views on living well; gladly let me take a selfie with him.</p><p>He glanced at his watch, checked his smartphone, and handed me his business card. "Please, come visit again!" he implored.</p><p>The next day I sat down to send him a quick note of thanks. His email username was the Japanese phrase for "where are all the travelers?"</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLQBow6C_Uu_oEM2RdiNYskxt-0L6lucIcPSJYrTqog01tyqbfYjhQfD8RQrn5Pym-Tgi3Tigr10qNQIuMV6VaFnUKPi4gFTI0wPRUEsxGAuuLKdFghjJvieE5hPZGEs1rRGNpRhWMt1WgiVjt4sq4OyXM2mpT5-LAjZd3bORXwNNLh4OEsRL1lGXbPg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLQBow6C_Uu_oEM2RdiNYskxt-0L6lucIcPSJYrTqog01tyqbfYjhQfD8RQrn5Pym-Tgi3Tigr10qNQIuMV6VaFnUKPi4gFTI0wPRUEsxGAuuLKdFghjJvieE5hPZGEs1rRGNpRhWMt1WgiVjt4sq4OyXM2mpT5-LAjZd3bORXwNNLh4OEsRL1lGXbPg=w630-h473" width="630" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b>In & Out of Town</b></h2><p>Ochiai-juku retains scattered relics of its Edo Era existence. Stone lanters called <b><i>joya-to</i></b> stand conspicuously along the road. Markers indicate where government check points and tea houses once stood. One old wooden building, perhaps a merchant's shop back in the day, now houses an eclectic craft boutique. And then there's this stained wood, white plaster, tile-topped wall with a gate so grand it could only betray the importance of who and what was inside.</p><p>This was the <b><i>honjin</i></b>, the inn where the nobility of yore would stay before and after their trek to Edo to meet with the shogun. As if someone locked the gate and then lost the key, the large house behind this beautifully preserved wall looks like it was deserted three or four earthquakes ago.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQnRI0yN4O9TPV0V_gcK01GcESoRr23JMAU-JDQwllZj0NHnxXHLICp7170etzf1oBTHWFAdzWJg4q0LTbtdPOt3PQFhzwA5RAc4KS7u45fLoPwrfeEdle6btAE5_LBwYw9tfGh1L_4uH5_igPZCsl6QIX4wmskmP8DEqPE1jogDBbVtIvfn0JVrCd6Q=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2985" data-original-width="4608" height="405" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQnRI0yN4O9TPV0V_gcK01GcESoRr23JMAU-JDQwllZj0NHnxXHLICp7170etzf1oBTHWFAdzWJg4q0LTbtdPOt3PQFhzwA5RAc4KS7u45fLoPwrfeEdle6btAE5_LBwYw9tfGh1L_4uH5_igPZCsl6QIX4wmskmP8DEqPE1jogDBbVtIvfn0JVrCd6Q=w626-h405" width="626" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSdFfX3CTOspQiRoGMuOFl24-6cyyINyBkDAl7F99xZjB2XNgThMw_2tUvHaN5ixKAaSBTxlns_vpjlWl3ISjusHCm4gQuv5Sh1PFTZHKMiIdYX2txvxND3VxfxN1KIscv2LSlaEq9i0qyRLuf4K01xbSDak7S8v4HUEjHMXbz6lKlTvm2Gcd5icFYJA=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSdFfX3CTOspQiRoGMuOFl24-6cyyINyBkDAl7F99xZjB2XNgThMw_2tUvHaN5ixKAaSBTxlns_vpjlWl3ISjusHCm4gQuv5Sh1PFTZHKMiIdYX2txvxND3VxfxN1KIscv2LSlaEq9i0qyRLuf4K01xbSDak7S8v4HUEjHMXbz6lKlTvm2Gcd5icFYJA=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhw1v-lPyZYZpius_F9Q66g3kzpkLW34FeeJsBxd0OXceKgXp9EPTkvnenDX2F9ME-oq_aJvpa9_yeqnVgW_8PP6-f8pUOfSee0P7uyU64bqEHkccta35XTU9gz9hM8h4jTI5_sFcHfwLsdrR3s0CD9BDS5VQ17VEae_eXtdAqRjP5uYDGSWcbYz4sxMg=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhw1v-lPyZYZpius_F9Q66g3kzpkLW34FeeJsBxd0OXceKgXp9EPTkvnenDX2F9ME-oq_aJvpa9_yeqnVgW_8PP6-f8pUOfSee0P7uyU64bqEHkccta35XTU9gz9hM8h4jTI5_sFcHfwLsdrR3s0CD9BDS5VQ17VEae_eXtdAqRjP5uYDGSWcbYz4sxMg=w629-h472" width="629" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhR-CZ3p_5jHB1r8clIhi6OalBFCWDXdP9-bM0lmCBaTcmOB1QNbMhn_b3UlcZoyCzFJTabHSmGbfV8zQAS7ik5dg_zLyh-L-atzcvkJ4SnLjw2Mu0GePatetLJg8imuaDxT5WTHAuUeDfLwrxEi99WLW8WdEQfMGhgdDGqakVhxnFNe07qVLxB_rCjHQ=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhR-CZ3p_5jHB1r8clIhi6OalBFCWDXdP9-bM0lmCBaTcmOB1QNbMhn_b3UlcZoyCzFJTabHSmGbfV8zQAS7ik5dg_zLyh-L-atzcvkJ4SnLjw2Mu0GePatetLJg8imuaDxT5WTHAuUeDfLwrxEi99WLW8WdEQfMGhgdDGqakVhxnFNe07qVLxB_rCjHQ=w631-h473" width="631" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Kofukuji Temple has been standing just off Main Street since 1543.</div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>The street bends sharply at the spot where the control gate at the north end of Ochiai-juku once stood. Across a two-lane road (where, it became clear in the space of two minutes, people generally drive way too fast) a stone pillar marks the former site of the all-important and ominous <b><i>kosatsu</i></b>.</span><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQLSEZXjOi4WlXMboCfjdZ8eyVwnV3ZZBeBL0xWLG_jU06PFcTkpiZTKNSN9Hti34pihDl1kpScdLAqzkDnrhHHP1XzthOVoo7H9-dBgjPPH3UOgXNG44S1FN9d7qn-zmWWlNeskEzmDYoyUUQZ5IBCDxj_eZmsuCLpSOxqoN3iNfwiFCuU0_RmzIZTg=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQLSEZXjOi4WlXMboCfjdZ8eyVwnV3ZZBeBL0xWLG_jU06PFcTkpiZTKNSN9Hti34pihDl1kpScdLAqzkDnrhHHP1XzthOVoo7H9-dBgjPPH3UOgXNG44S1FN9d7qn-zmWWlNeskEzmDYoyUUQZ5IBCDxj_eZmsuCLpSOxqoN3iNfwiFCuU0_RmzIZTg=w480-h640" width="480" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span><div><span style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The kosatsu was a standard fixture at the entryways of these Edo Era post towns. Essentially a massive wooden bulletin board, the kosatsu was where the Tokugawa shogunate along with the local daimyo lords posted notices of legal import - what types of logged wood could and could not be transported, for example - along with the penalties and punishments for disregarding them. Death, for example. Hence the aforementioned control gate.</span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">More than a mere list of laws, the kosatsu was a stark manifestation of the shogunate's power and authority. That this stone marker faintly resembles a phallus could be a subliminal nod to this idea.</span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Beyond this point the Nakasendo dips down and away from Ochiai, crossing the rocky and shallow Ochiai-gawa River and crawling uphill into the stillness of the countryside.</span></span><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A stillness that was occasionally broken by a car driving way too fast down the narrow road.<br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzVl4RscywIf9yEBTCAXbb5dKhok-jQjUlZYAHO1N09NeGuL5T-pocnpwIIATIUQnYVdJRmFIh-Qnox13WjzCMqNoEEGWPU4i4ttaMuMwpmnwfKyMT9hfmNMJ-8GQay66dfrc42oPpOcm51O50qC0XLTewptrYv9C9Iyoo74DQRNXNpueZfz3whuNj-A=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzVl4RscywIf9yEBTCAXbb5dKhok-jQjUlZYAHO1N09NeGuL5T-pocnpwIIATIUQnYVdJRmFIh-Qnox13WjzCMqNoEEGWPU4i4ttaMuMwpmnwfKyMT9hfmNMJ-8GQay66dfrc42oPpOcm51O50qC0XLTewptrYv9C9Iyoo74DQRNXNpueZfz3whuNj-A=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqCz3jFvuziapzFv8DTi02s1Sa1TKXtGP2O1pMJXfvpBKwgtvuNeZ1c-zX6CM5u0ANVsKog8It7yvJs1dJdMNxp00LXloPninCmLUsgBJuY5lG744T53sqrwKqXhBnHga7e1BYHfHZD3oK84pUtiWzmGecD3KZEyeECblnRjmbNKqD8gAzKVjvBt8rpg=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqCz3jFvuziapzFv8DTi02s1Sa1TKXtGP2O1pMJXfvpBKwgtvuNeZ1c-zX6CM5u0ANVsKog8It7yvJs1dJdMNxp00LXloPninCmLUsgBJuY5lG744T53sqrwKqXhBnHga7e1BYHfHZD3oK84pUtiWzmGecD3KZEyeECblnRjmbNKqD8gAzKVjvBt8rpg=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhabbV4SbRya73c-elAWQU0xEwPVs7BPI399QRulPkO8SsCQBiIB62WbmtgNNJ_7EVtdj4fyW252xpEOeN1mAiiHr6LG4XeOD4LOoG9g2wuJyy44k3g4LcbNfqdLRFcIYsej-ACQyhFDnkV0mss9mIqttolK7YB03oxaNlIy9tKbFuIOm1jx1SHW3XfVQ=s3263" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2204" data-original-width="3263" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhabbV4SbRya73c-elAWQU0xEwPVs7BPI399QRulPkO8SsCQBiIB62WbmtgNNJ_7EVtdj4fyW252xpEOeN1mAiiHr6LG4XeOD4LOoG9g2wuJyy44k3g4LcbNfqdLRFcIYsej-ACQyhFDnkV0mss9mIqttolK7YB03oxaNlIy9tKbFuIOm1jx1SHW3XfVQ=w640-h432" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihhd_wip5q5dUzucTNl1k-GTsRImmxfz6Rm71aa7p5pC0EaoJ_gLWVJ01s13cFJKck7v3DHDlC_Uf65w9myM4u94Ed2OyAEw02H2yFdAWqWVZpeBYX9fLrFtt-2eGqdIPHm4CKpJ1uGlg1CoOxyAItWwuJ8XqahgryOgh8dJTj7R8rPS5cKZ7-3WJ9DA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihhd_wip5q5dUzucTNl1k-GTsRImmxfz6Rm71aa7p5pC0EaoJ_gLWVJ01s13cFJKck7v3DHDlC_Uf65w9myM4u94Ed2OyAEw02H2yFdAWqWVZpeBYX9fLrFtt-2eGqdIPHm4CKpJ1uGlg1CoOxyAItWwuJ8XqahgryOgh8dJTj7R8rPS5cKZ7-3WJ9DA=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQFkwbIRoWOY1fgsqVgJdtMv29kv07_tbVMGDO72kcfOu1xkiKIJD4SaFjJ3gzrpStIBlRuvEvHFI5WzUx-He5ZszqWexk27bCmHVGTMITf_tRjDfVjMC3zcKUaBr6RuGEGSKgemGNG5GEQ3dcxLNgwWd8_Q-aHYLtJ3yz7V_3pfLickl4I9RYOLnaAg=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQFkwbIRoWOY1fgsqVgJdtMv29kv07_tbVMGDO72kcfOu1xkiKIJD4SaFjJ3gzrpStIBlRuvEvHFI5WzUx-He5ZszqWexk27bCmHVGTMITf_tRjDfVjMC3zcKUaBr6RuGEGSKgemGNG5GEQ3dcxLNgwWd8_Q-aHYLtJ3yz7V_3pfLickl4I9RYOLnaAg=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYS2PhcQji8szEBK6yFzF03WadvQ_GSLVOjh4ahReiNmWtmBR3M5twT1O1qJoAnu1i-FZ-OLP4mY_MppWCFAwDOvAd-ecJk5CAUO98l4QDanyhmNNQJSvHie5nuKyHwWW19V04OhlJ4vUEBe4_G721Rs82_JQgElGCc_-c3K_mdWa2G10UymGrKpkTjQ=s3904" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2941" data-original-width="3904" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYS2PhcQji8szEBK6yFzF03WadvQ_GSLVOjh4ahReiNmWtmBR3M5twT1O1qJoAnu1i-FZ-OLP4mY_MppWCFAwDOvAd-ecJk5CAUO98l4QDanyhmNNQJSvHie5nuKyHwWW19V04OhlJ4vUEBe4_G721Rs82_JQgElGCc_-c3K_mdWa2G10UymGrKpkTjQ=w640-h482" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Getting Stoned</span></b></h2><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">For this 20-kilometer traipse through the Kiso Valley I'd packed a couple of tuna fish sandwiches, a couple of extra shirts, and a pair of sneakers should my dogs start barking in my boots. A 20K hike is a walk in the park for some, a fair endeavor for others. It's nothing compared to those who once traveled this road for hundreds of kilometers, hauling hundreds of pounds of stuff, with their dogs barking in their straw sandals.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">It's a hilly 20K too. Some of the hills along the trail were so menacing in those days of dirt roads that it was deemed necessary to haul thousands of stones up from the river, cut and chisel them, and set them evenly in the earth for hundreds of meters at a stretch.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The purpose was strictly practical, allowing people and horses to climb and descend the steepest parts of the Nakasendo without totally wiping out in the mud and snow. The people charged with the task, being Japanese, made it into nothing less than an artistic endeavor.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Some stretches of these <b><i>ishidatami</i></b> still exist. Other parts have been restored. The ishidatami on the road to Magome runs for 840 meters, with three parts totalling 70 meters in length sitting just as they did a few hundred years ago.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYgO0s7a5X4q-6tk1l7HxpPspMPmN9kjVCCpA2m9D6rB5wVO2hU86xaX0id2cGYAs9EAbrVrcgzzQguZOHJx9o_yATYBkxHJr34UAhkdlXJ2zsXYJMQnAUg4s7IkZht-zyFdvFDA2AQiVeIvJJYtrg937I814GvaeDwzlg75vo2agcdQN0AekKDPziDA=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYgO0s7a5X4q-6tk1l7HxpPspMPmN9kjVCCpA2m9D6rB5wVO2hU86xaX0id2cGYAs9EAbrVrcgzzQguZOHJx9o_yATYBkxHJr34UAhkdlXJ2zsXYJMQnAUg4s7IkZht-zyFdvFDA2AQiVeIvJJYtrg937I814GvaeDwzlg75vo2agcdQN0AekKDPziDA=w480-h640" width="480" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFwetmRnB63ugxHZ5VRWURhxqXVa32SKkzXCTK8kNklgEVXefXWpShfPH80itpSsO3RuaZlSLPoJugQ9bMr76GNnuSjs4qnqTjN75eQXJXZfPN0pIGuw6Evq1AU87En1HO7upEe9fX4w9B3jPLcjjleT9KUfP4urMe-3YKdH334o6CFHuNK3DuBQ2ceA=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFwetmRnB63ugxHZ5VRWURhxqXVa32SKkzXCTK8kNklgEVXefXWpShfPH80itpSsO3RuaZlSLPoJugQ9bMr76GNnuSjs4qnqTjN75eQXJXZfPN0pIGuw6Evq1AU87En1HO7upEe9fX4w9B3jPLcjjleT9KUfP4urMe-3YKdH334o6CFHuNK3DuBQ2ceA=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjltcx6p3anxVYXdQeRDeEvwWdSKyleJAg74s5fAQRNgDM8g0BxMkdYGrcFwpzY7CMRPhjfCxKe_U37nZWSIv5rkC6HndPZV4uqM2Ff-z6kh2w-hz1zjn-naSIbmY76iSsh0TE4MkHgam8Cf-9Atus02oKtChKrLSGzaJUKDpdul6ZcNV0o88BSX7NwBQ=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjltcx6p3anxVYXdQeRDeEvwWdSKyleJAg74s5fAQRNgDM8g0BxMkdYGrcFwpzY7CMRPhjfCxKe_U37nZWSIv5rkC6HndPZV4uqM2Ff-z6kh2w-hz1zjn-naSIbmY76iSsh0TE4MkHgam8Cf-9Atus02oKtChKrLSGzaJUKDpdul6ZcNV0o88BSX7NwBQ=w480-h640" width="480" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Over the Hill</span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Rivers generally don't go over hills. So why is the Nakasendo, which runs up through the Kiso River valley, so hilly? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">In some places the river cuts through terrain that is simply not flat. Where the banks are flat the land lies ever-susceptible to flooding. This was a constantly-recurring problem along the southern Tokaido Route between Kyoto and Edo, making this mountainous route a safer, more passable alternative. Related to this was the need for high and dry land to build these post towns necessary to support those traveling this road.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">If only these hills kept today's drivers from screaming along.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">At least in this region of the country (I have little knowledge of the Kaido running through other parts of Japan) these passes all seem to have something in common: tea houses. Many do not exist anymore, indicated only by a wooden post and a swath of overgrown grass. Here on Jukkyoku Pass, between Ochiai and Magome, the Shinchaya tea house contains an entire Japanese inn.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvY4kbgiUIlrex9M5BPfb-7i8GebgDZkwzUBLoaiXwxckO50XVGre652y8v7W_Cp07hkFeXFcPmJ2tewRa6OUVjgkg3GB_RZ7EBrec4Y_KYuHX14_1lbtbqhk4bORWobfwuYOCeLwNXqVvunWoyAD-IoHimsOIGu5MRQ8M_1YrZiQYUqk-CZM1AiL8Ow=s4586" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3193" data-original-width="4586" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvY4kbgiUIlrex9M5BPfb-7i8GebgDZkwzUBLoaiXwxckO50XVGre652y8v7W_Cp07hkFeXFcPmJ2tewRa6OUVjgkg3GB_RZ7EBrec4Y_KYuHX14_1lbtbqhk4bORWobfwuYOCeLwNXqVvunWoyAD-IoHimsOIGu5MRQ8M_1YrZiQYUqk-CZM1AiL8Ow=w640-h446" width="640" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Also up here on the pass is a stone marker denoting the boundary line between two Edo Era regions of Japan, <b>Shinano-no-kuni</b> (信濃国, country of deep/strong belief) to the north and <b>Mino-no-kuni</b> (美濃国, country of deep/strong beauty) to the south.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOYPir0nHsWKFOZBx9s73xi_H8N3oBkdO7QfoHOptbTcRN9z8UgBS0mSgcoJRtTmwpVLnoUJjMseRSHZdKKl8-PGrKqmfx8KKmN-Gn9gB4xMHkyCwCfPNwitJ4Q3kxnanBt61gznhgNaF7DG9WfJ3lYCeugpWHDiFyRhBiWAugWtZiw5ATjA44bQQjfw=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOYPir0nHsWKFOZBx9s73xi_H8N3oBkdO7QfoHOptbTcRN9z8UgBS0mSgcoJRtTmwpVLnoUJjMseRSHZdKKl8-PGrKqmfx8KKmN-Gn9gB4xMHkyCwCfPNwitJ4Q3kxnanBt61gznhgNaF7DG9WfJ3lYCeugpWHDiFyRhBiWAugWtZiw5ATjA44bQQjfw=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">From Jukkyoku Pass down to the post town of Magome it's all peaceful countryside, laced here and there with the Japan I never seem to tire of.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYJ7F2VL8cZHFoE0BRJeGjUzYgr7-vgr9DfpG7wWn7WGSYNRjeLKKo-7R-ovvgWfVfbeeljohWa8dFM8xzNmd9aD-ErnmrC9Vs5NTndz0qHx7e2Q091zyUFbYeDIGGG99VOySsYWnDwE8BxgNNfCbDPXyhaS6APa2Kzq4-TeC_H35k8cGKo8TQuMbWbw=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYJ7F2VL8cZHFoE0BRJeGjUzYgr7-vgr9DfpG7wWn7WGSYNRjeLKKo-7R-ovvgWfVfbeeljohWa8dFM8xzNmd9aD-ErnmrC9Vs5NTndz0qHx7e2Q091zyUFbYeDIGGG99VOySsYWnDwE8BxgNNfCbDPXyhaS6APa2Kzq4-TeC_H35k8cGKo8TQuMbWbw=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgmz8dFQhZ43m1IyC1jWEHLli6PoTuYMdfRSQm8rpiGmrYO_cF_L9DxnUZg7HSF1cbM44z6NnJkk77RAjEjub-LvtwesFea_AJeaASM-EBeAgFysQaTiyzPI-FEmOGk2FYputTp5d6KliQMERqW_8z2D4x2OK0Y_7XRTCSxsfyyASPU6R3QwFk2JldZrQ=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgmz8dFQhZ43m1IyC1jWEHLli6PoTuYMdfRSQm8rpiGmrYO_cF_L9DxnUZg7HSF1cbM44z6NnJkk77RAjEjub-LvtwesFea_AJeaASM-EBeAgFysQaTiyzPI-FEmOGk2FYputTp5d6KliQMERqW_8z2D4x2OK0Y_7XRTCSxsfyyASPU6R3QwFk2JldZrQ=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7Un1tjLqarsbFPq0zmnjqQGOniJhQbP3U5lHy5NKQAjdsLbFcUXsK3AWlcxtP_41I6I5eWpFV7n5hhn9APgiT7-vhg_8RsbfUhff4mhVb6v0iU6Eq9YUq_hIYfXQUH1R1OO99xV2zGJRHIoYXThDr0oxJKpEXxtRRKr6OAr3EdKscat-spxNOOdYENw=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7Un1tjLqarsbFPq0zmnjqQGOniJhQbP3U5lHy5NKQAjdsLbFcUXsK3AWlcxtP_41I6I5eWpFV7n5hhn9APgiT7-vhg_8RsbfUhff4mhVb6v0iU6Eq9YUq_hIYfXQUH1R1OO99xV2zGJRHIoYXThDr0oxJKpEXxtRRKr6OAr3EdKscat-spxNOOdYENw=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJ28KWTJ2Q-z1WNa8Hy1ALEFZR5kogncj5fR8BMCXIFhYLpeaa3WodHwpJETyQ1RU5O3cQ3xBIG_V0vI6JyofFQq1AU3j2UFJ2o4aSQckgm8RCwRdkTfYQXUsexhes7HHqTFg24NCAWVBZ1oDaprZFl6P2PRFZxqMM9xmYPhNlJzESPJ2e34bIytWhig=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJ28KWTJ2Q-z1WNa8Hy1ALEFZR5kogncj5fR8BMCXIFhYLpeaa3WodHwpJETyQ1RU5O3cQ3xBIG_V0vI6JyofFQq1AU3j2UFJ2o4aSQckgm8RCwRdkTfYQXUsexhes7HHqTFg24NCAWVBZ1oDaprZFl6P2PRFZxqMM9xmYPhNlJzESPJ2e34bIytWhig=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span></div><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>The North Side</b></span></h2><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Complimenting the train line that runs up and down the valley are local buses that connect certain train stations with Tsumago and Magome. It is worth noting, for entertainment if not practical purposes, that the person who makes the bus schedule and the person who makes the train schedule are evidently not on speaking terms.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The hike from Nakatsugawa Station (where the round-eyes usually get off the train) to Magome (where they usually start walking) takes upwards of two hours. Rare is the specimen with the time and desire for that. Ochiaigawa Station (where, you'll remember, this round-eye got off) isn't far from Ochiai-juku but is still an unappetizing option for the Magome-bound hoi polloi. Best to just wander the gift shop next to Nakatsugawa Station and wait for the bus.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The walk from Tsumago north to Nagiso Station, on the other hand, is an easy two miles and change. Take the bus out of Tsumago if your legs have had enough, but if the bus guy and the train guy are still refusing to sit down and hash out their schedules you'll be sitting at Nagiso Station waiting for the next train longer than it would take to hike those two miles.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">And trust me when I say that the hike is much more interesting and pleasant than the waiting room at Nagiso.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">After all your eyes have feasted on, from Ochiai to Magome to Tsumago, the sights along this final leg of the hike may not exactly jump out at you. But the path up to the hilltop where Tsumago Castle once stood offers one more bamboo forest stroll and a satisfying view of the valley through which you just walked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirUd3Bh1Mb3f7oML2XEi3_PjNUA7MItrvbbglb9Yzf_olstNf5YGYacDk646PuSRjuV5pC4ceqlZhpB5qrVVdzqLgffUchWAyMjA8iWBH_mOFQyKTZNlZ5Bo-hba2_hsjYQFAMFMnAeE4rEBuFl51e9fBhqoOd4xZLm21dOpM0wuR2MsP3s4urCfw__A=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirUd3Bh1Mb3f7oML2XEi3_PjNUA7MItrvbbglb9Yzf_olstNf5YGYacDk646PuSRjuV5pC4ceqlZhpB5qrVVdzqLgffUchWAyMjA8iWBH_mOFQyKTZNlZ5Bo-hba2_hsjYQFAMFMnAeE4rEBuFl51e9fBhqoOd4xZLm21dOpM0wuR2MsP3s4urCfw__A=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFOG94uyvfv3j0aM5vY_ZOhUPuiSphnlBpFGOkCJvAZ1hGycjaH9BCiKnSDqujXpJy34nN7QbkI6VhzqCm0CTIebCoSF2kyj_ZLfi8mPEMGxPN1il5dKid29mccjxrDA1KHKIQv_ykjeP9Lxj3cnynXpGDdcpf3Ud0cwKmTckHXKt3ZhpbdAM6fkymUA=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFOG94uyvfv3j0aM5vY_ZOhUPuiSphnlBpFGOkCJvAZ1hGycjaH9BCiKnSDqujXpJy34nN7QbkI6VhzqCm0CTIebCoSF2kyj_ZLfi8mPEMGxPN1il5dKid29mccjxrDA1KHKIQv_ykjeP9Lxj3cnynXpGDdcpf3Ud0cwKmTckHXKt3ZhpbdAM6fkymUA=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">But the way I see it, this isn't just one final chance to see the existing relics of history. This one last leg is a chance to walk, for a little while longer, through the "real" Japan that so many people come here looking for.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">So if you decide to come check out this neck of the Kiso Valley woods, and you've got some time and some gas in your legs, pack a couple of tuna sandwiches and head for Ochiaigawa Station.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">And if you think you might like some company, give me a holler. Chances are good my wife will have just told me to go take another hike.</span></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-55459860855575778902021-10-21T18:48:00.000-07:002021-10-21T18:48:10.125-07:00Hiking Mt. Norikura: What I Really Want For My Birthday<p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_SdIJvkMDPmvjSyCasZyCL7_FjKcG4PRvRDiI6ExDFzbRYSqc0HYpi-qwQZ6gwsCUq4tWVfGfl6Cs7aDY9gVc4PxDWHLTY-FdfZSBHNlOlW0nejIk8apEa1LfenVOXxgexQMoOuFwTRMwBexat9hsqBT0rRDVl5Wl-C6adcPbE8QL1-qyz2xp8TRvjw=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1057" data-original-width="2048" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_SdIJvkMDPmvjSyCasZyCL7_FjKcG4PRvRDiI6ExDFzbRYSqc0HYpi-qwQZ6gwsCUq4tWVfGfl6Cs7aDY9gVc4PxDWHLTY-FdfZSBHNlOlW0nejIk8apEa1LfenVOXxgexQMoOuFwTRMwBexat9hsqBT0rRDVl5Wl-C6adcPbE8QL1-qyz2xp8TRvjw=w640-h330" width="640" /></span></a></div><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">It's nothing special, how I approach each birthday as a father. I just tell my kids (whether they ask me or not) I'd like to do something fun, and encourage them to throw their ideas at me; where to go, what to do, and where and what to eat. It's fun to hear what they say.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US">I smile at their enthusiasm and bite my tongue when they argue, and ultimately go along with whatever they decide - w</span>hich is never what I silently hope for.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">What the lone wolf in me wants is a huge home-cooked breakfast
without having to cook or clean or listen to the kids go to battle over who
gets which pancake when the first batch hits the table. He wants to take off on his own, cycling or hiking or both, at his own pace and discretion, with no debating
where to stop for ice-cream. He'd get home just as the sun was dipping behind the
mountains, and take a long hot shower and sit down to a burger and a beer without having to wash the dishes or listen to the kids argue over who
gets to use the ketchup first.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Lone Wolf is going to have to try again next year.<span></span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQJUM62xJVSOZAeT959ETkUXim8HpI15E-SYRrimjDgwW_5kFSchzBFIpGo83LvZRar1Kd9hCm57U9NhsKRoykvvqtLz2UBVFRi1fpK7HygEvHuQXBBJzpwcKuTUP6JPfNmIRUP4l3eQit1DJMUTtEqASWAqXiyOUb47rruQCjdazjPAtkHWnb8Mqb6w=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1228" data-original-width="2048" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQJUM62xJVSOZAeT959ETkUXim8HpI15E-SYRrimjDgwW_5kFSchzBFIpGo83LvZRar1Kd9hCm57U9NhsKRoykvvqtLz2UBVFRi1fpK7HygEvHuQXBBJzpwcKuTUP6JPfNmIRUP4l3eQit1DJMUTtEqASWAqXiyOUb47rruQCjdazjPAtkHWnb8Mqb6w=w640-h384" width="640" /></span></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal"></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">At least I'm getting a mountain.</span></h2><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">My birthday fell on a Sunday this year. In a former life this would have been good news. Now it means the kids are home all day. Par for this antipodal life I've fallen into, weekdays are the bearers of what freedom remains.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was washing the breakfast dishes when my wife decided, after weeks of vacillating, that today would be the day we would head for the highlands of Mount Norikura. The blazing mountain foliage that had originally lit my wife's fire had faded but no matter, we should drive up
to Tatamidaira, a narrow valley among Norikura's many peaks; a swath of alpine gentility whose sea of summer wildflowers had long since dried up.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2NbTdmT9Sr3a0Y5Ny1_Ca4ErygkO-rQmZeOhSo1rJVQOjRdSYcveLnws7mk4Osc9-MScI7EXYYyqQsoBp4vIN2qYulP8ouafM6Yc65xgrFlrfhcpf_p4FTAumw6kFL5X3c62BNnejhiBkl1y6LkWtCgdYHqZjKrlcTZvV6od4Wf3vHmN2gAlmRwjg4A=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1308" data-original-width="2048" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2NbTdmT9Sr3a0Y5Ny1_Ca4ErygkO-rQmZeOhSo1rJVQOjRdSYcveLnws7mk4Osc9-MScI7EXYYyqQsoBp4vIN2qYulP8ouafM6Yc65xgrFlrfhcpf_p4FTAumw6kFL5X3c62BNnejhiBkl1y6LkWtCgdYHqZjKrlcTZvV6od4Wf3vHmN2gAlmRwjg4A=w623-h398" width="623" /></span></a></div><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Weather and Stomach Conditions</span></h3><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The clouds hung low and thick over town but
we threw the kids in the car anyway because the forecast for the top of the mountain
showed promise. Rain spattered the windshield on and off as we rolled through the
farmland on the far side of town. “Looks bad,” said my wife. “Blue skies up
top,” I replied.</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I say stuff like that a lot, though I rarely believe myself.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Our van groaned up Route 158, through a valley of twists and turns. The misty fog turned to soup.
“Looks bad,” my wife remarked. “Blue skies at the top,” I answered.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">By now my daughter was puking up her
breakfast. Nothing new for these winding mountain roads. We've learned to keep a stash of plastic
bags in the glove box.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Suddenly the world lightened, as if someone had opened a curtain. Patches of baby blue peeked through the swirling gray shroud overhead. Through another bend and suddenly the sun was reflecting off the wet road and the trees and the papers scattered on the dash. At around 2500 meters we left the clouds behind for good.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizlk17SDPVwsO5e28_kPvH1wwYcijVVfdQ-xNeX1KNhr3UUSbw6tPWExiuYUYBtWaLQF-RRY5vKFxtE0Pd5NlEaYMzmBIZGCzvJk7CS7CTKvZRMQ00eJSOF5Fx07eY_F8WfsNc3YdFHygzH__grf_mM-ONGiZqTzeyJeax9KBT-xIugL4vitl4SqPBig=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1537" data-original-width="2048" height="461" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizlk17SDPVwsO5e28_kPvH1wwYcijVVfdQ-xNeX1KNhr3UUSbw6tPWExiuYUYBtWaLQF-RRY5vKFxtE0Pd5NlEaYMzmBIZGCzvJk7CS7CTKvZRMQ00eJSOF5Fx07eY_F8WfsNc3YdFHygzH__grf_mM-ONGiZqTzeyJeax9KBT-xIugL4vitl4SqPBig=w615-h461" width="615" /></a></span></div><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Things Japan Does With a Mountain</span></h3><span style="font-size: large;">Technically, Tatamidaira is the name of that sometimes-flowering valley. Most people, however, use it to
refer to the sprawling parking lot and bus stop/rest area/restaurant/info
center/gift shop complex that, while convenient I guess, looks terribly out of
place. Cars aren’t even allowed up here, presumably because the allure of wildflowers and souvenirs and Japan's easiest high-altitude hike brought in the hordes and the place became overrun. Now people have to park 20 kilometers
downhill and take a thirty-dollar shuttle bus back and forth.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Unless someone in
your family is physically challenged, in which case you go to the police
station and get a permit for your vehicle and drive right up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I threw open the driver’s side door and
jumped out, my family gasping in unison behind me at the sudden blast of arctic-grade
wind freezing their eyeballs. This was the part where I expected everyone to tell
me that sure, I could go for a hike if I wanted, they’d happily wait right
there in the car.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">My oldest jumped out and zipped up his
coat. “I’m ready,” he said, that inextinguishable spirit of his warming the air
between us.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“Cool,” I said, biting my tongue as I looked over his thin black
warm-ups. If my fourteen-year-old son doesn’t know by now to bundle up when an
arctic wind is blowing he needs to learn the hard way.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">After a moment out there on the asphalt tundra he dove back into the van and grabbed his coat.</span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I thought my daughter had puked again the way
my second son came springing out the side door. That morning at home he’d put on a passive display of not wanting to come up here at all. He doesn’t talk a lot. Not in
English anyway. He’s made it clear over the past few months that he’d rather
not bother. Japanese has become his natural language. Speaking English takes too much effort. And does daddy really care how school was today? Just
let me play Fortnite in peace.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">But here he was now, pulling on his
gloves and tightening his hood around his ears. These moments when things just
fall into place can make all the rest seem trivial.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7-QYd86vqGZo2gw_wBjMPuWe2vonHJmd9XKncJwPU2n11hcsGb7n-XI1m60iq0If6raDpY1IgPUkSqFCinbyLJYdRDnt1L5oWdeQEX4TM8VPajR2yakmeKnGrECmPFR1h_6rXfmiIE5QbsvgJ_Fo18j4f4cuKo-qjC7cdJIyB7nnJFwOdlzgkbHt0jA=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1289" data-original-width="2048" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7-QYd86vqGZo2gw_wBjMPuWe2vonHJmd9XKncJwPU2n11hcsGb7n-XI1m60iq0If6raDpY1IgPUkSqFCinbyLJYdRDnt1L5oWdeQEX4TM8VPajR2yakmeKnGrECmPFR1h_6rXfmiIE5QbsvgJ_Fo18j4f4cuKo-qjC7cdJIyB7nnJFwOdlzgkbHt0jA=w640-h402" width="640" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Norikura is listed as one of Japan’s “Hyakumeizan”
– a term normally translated as Japan’s One Hundred Famous Mountains. I’d
propose this be changed to Japan’s One Hundred Notable Mountains, a more
conceptually accurate expression for the non-speaker of Japanese though I'd have no more luck trying to get people to stop saying “Let’s go to <i>carry-oh-kee</i>.” (It’s <b>‘kah-rah-oh-keh’</b>
dammit!)</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjj09ZrnmbcKioQBGxT9151fbEkVr1RATTOzfonC6oBC48IkqOvXDV-iWu4s63oxiF_ag-sBjtBDa5zOvS50WzKNloQaoK3I02dZMC7NSyBSdIzjc2BiV-baQokLNZ8pt_KXUdgCub5BzVvfHf3jovl05ssgYxye-4TqikLJX0UYJFByZ4mVxe878vzJg=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="592" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjj09ZrnmbcKioQBGxT9151fbEkVr1RATTOzfonC6oBC48IkqOvXDV-iWu4s63oxiF_ag-sBjtBDa5zOvS50WzKNloQaoK3I02dZMC7NSyBSdIzjc2BiV-baQokLNZ8pt_KXUdgCub5BzVvfHf3jovl05ssgYxye-4TqikLJX0UYJFByZ4mVxe878vzJg=w444-h592" width="444" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Among these one hundred mountains, Norikura
is one of the easiest to climb, assuming you survive that winding, vomit-inducing
ribbon of pavement leading up to Tatamidaira. The parking lot sits at 2700
meters above sea level (the bus stop in front of the gift shop is the highest
in Japan) which means it’s only another 300 meters to Norikura’s summit – if you
go the long way around.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The straightest route is the trail that first leads
down a long set of stairs, to the wooden walkway that loops around the real Tatamidaira, a hundred meters below the fake one. These stairs are the only way to get down
to Tatamidaira. They begin right next to the handicapped parking spaces. I have
no idea if the Japanese see the irony in this.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The map-makers write that the hike from the
parking lot to the top of Ken-ga-mine, Norikura’s highest peak, should take 90
minutes. Such estimates seem geared toward the retirees who make up the vast
majority of Japan’s hiking population.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN3q7YGuZutKjKl0LDKzlzXloquhTsCTDxDeCs4qTHcZwBPb96G8Tmmdrnr_M000ovOhK89FgHt7SpdAEda8UA5dM4udALU-77WTfPu27V6ASQcY6LdRh7PIYyNi18KGu1AjsV_Q0sdAFmZ8c65xamOavxEj1HDGcHsT_Z3VOmkVqHEEGyDRbq_vKOlg=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN3q7YGuZutKjKl0LDKzlzXloquhTsCTDxDeCs4qTHcZwBPb96G8Tmmdrnr_M000ovOhK89FgHt7SpdAEda8UA5dM4udALU-77WTfPu27V6ASQcY6LdRh7PIYyNi18KGu1AjsV_Q0sdAFmZ8c65xamOavxEj1HDGcHsT_Z3VOmkVqHEEGyDRbq_vKOlg=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Up and Down a Volcano</span></h3><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The first half of the hike, which is
much more a walk, goes down those stairs, up a smooth gravely path, along an
access road that runs between Fujimi-dake (“Mountain from where Mt. Fuji can be
seen”) and Marishiten-dake, atop which sits a Natural Sciences Research Center
and Observatory, and up to the Katanokoya Hut where you can, during peak
climbing season, pay 85 bucks for two meals and a 3’ x 6’ spot on the floor
among 200 other people who get the same.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJHuKEvsijshz7z3IfWLLINDhdjWIck4Kw81b5VVpqlyYWA5lhloYsRt6Qn8-UwbiIy5cJypQc768ypRzZG-TP5IJ4H3vEJNbuXhixuuQRA1sXDeU4uBZYH3KspZTVPgwzayq1TtkgYoWNbdtoOnrh0lgnBWuMUcG0cDL8QP11HUFJZSnh4CdT1qxK_Q=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJHuKEvsijshz7z3IfWLLINDhdjWIck4Kw81b5VVpqlyYWA5lhloYsRt6Qn8-UwbiIy5cJypQc768ypRzZG-TP5IJ4H3vEJNbuXhixuuQRA1sXDeU4uBZYH3KspZTVPgwzayq1TtkgYoWNbdtoOnrh0lgnBWuMUcG0cDL8QP11HUFJZSnh4CdT1qxK_Q=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The second half of the hike is all rocks and rough earth and solidified lava from when Ken-ga-mine blew its top
9,000 years ago. Norikura is classified as a potentially active volcano, with
the last eruption, around 50BC, creating nearby Ebisu-dake.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqpJZtS8UeucOrkyYKSBu-52545VvMTHsk2hkcO8_OFxa428fLIz3_ub1P-WTIqHiVuoSsou56Z05g9t3eNQyTtmAYGfoZ0OduVlZ6a9nOVVw1g_OkHjfNxjPvKe_TwyKAH2zLgLE8c1AuMWkP4-Fy7v14yYOFe94pYTQZk-bcBMAdWz7TYv3dZw5Tow=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqpJZtS8UeucOrkyYKSBu-52545VvMTHsk2hkcO8_OFxa428fLIz3_ub1P-WTIqHiVuoSsou56Z05g9t3eNQyTtmAYGfoZ0OduVlZ6a9nOVVw1g_OkHjfNxjPvKe_TwyKAH2zLgLE8c1AuMWkP4-Fy7v14yYOFe94pYTQZk-bcBMAdWz7TYv3dZw5Tow=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">However it was just
seven years ago when Ontake-san, 20 miles to the south, erupted right at
lunchtime. And the Yugawa River, running down Norikura’s eastern slopes, smells
nicely of volcanic gas.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpPRsAEaQtyxu6hU0mmNvdcv1RdMBuzQrQaHKA58WeOc9Ynr-VwswKdCxuvjr4Nb-LAvMUj8alMbbazLLTJ_cpE9qBeV_DpG6bBaPF2DEkkmKsouCqy2ynm834DmoJt_qwFyEOw8QjQNNRTNwRGBTekP8Ryc4dTM5BU6gMCNAKbZE_8dgYq6OIqaXb2g=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1149" data-original-width="2048" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpPRsAEaQtyxu6hU0mmNvdcv1RdMBuzQrQaHKA58WeOc9Ynr-VwswKdCxuvjr4Nb-LAvMUj8alMbbazLLTJ_cpE9qBeV_DpG6bBaPF2DEkkmKsouCqy2ynm834DmoJt_qwFyEOw8QjQNNRTNwRGBTekP8Ryc4dTM5BU6gMCNAKbZE_8dgYq6OIqaXb2g=w640-h360" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQGTuZTfhQBMnDyhJsKLhpB34kMj7vvG3951DhsoVul1MQMdyI6k-ijIAX2BewiJKwCYgSpjSmeSbjMtSlvXOa6vad_AjiLJ-iBaiaixOoPHE6k5DRLb1cHXHg8rPYQ0rl93FipQNb9o0GiBt-pUrwq-Ysr1vaqDpbK3lPOeylnOxbhZLHq5quYSDs3w=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQGTuZTfhQBMnDyhJsKLhpB34kMj7vvG3951DhsoVul1MQMdyI6k-ijIAX2BewiJKwCYgSpjSmeSbjMtSlvXOa6vad_AjiLJ-iBaiaixOoPHE6k5DRLb1cHXHg8rPYQ0rl93FipQNb9o0GiBt-pUrwq-Ysr1vaqDpbK3lPOeylnOxbhZLHq5quYSDs3w=w480-h640" width="480" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLWL8jh8kFu8GuJ1riFcu1a7a-9o634CLuJBaF1Pd8xShJnKXHWFjMt34bJWXMXpifbgf-kynO6v-AjKIUSUkrV6ZnJnNwWHx8lz3maRjlhbuFcEOF-cc7xcobP7qq8jjzQHJ5TtAh1HJuYy_dyX0ev55NjIAvR37sBSONumXul-KCm6j1ffYZW99Zlw=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLWL8jh8kFu8GuJ1riFcu1a7a-9o634CLuJBaF1Pd8xShJnKXHWFjMt34bJWXMXpifbgf-kynO6v-AjKIUSUkrV6ZnJnNwWHx8lz3maRjlhbuFcEOF-cc7xcobP7qq8jjzQHJ5TtAh1HJuYy_dyX0ev55NjIAvR37sBSONumXul-KCm6j1ffYZW99Zlw=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">My boys huddled against the south wall of
the unsightly shrine atop Ken-ga-mine, sheltered from the wind that almost blew
me off the mountain as I angled for a decent picture of the weather-beaten
torii gate with the summit of Ontake rising above the clouds in the distance.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I
lagged behind them on the way down, letting them enjoy the rest of the hike talking
with each other about whatever it is my boys might talk about amidst the cold
beauty of the clouds and mountaintops and crater lakes all around. Probably
Fortnite.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcx7J5dtSUibAtnlW54N1HLlP1FTOoqARmV6zPF2QkVJv9IjQ0wavbx9OjBsqZf2Dnc2kzpt6AryfkxJ7c7AEvgcfm5jmb0pGGZt8gmQMXXfLVQf0qzFtEa3grH977AeL9vIgaJiFk9jU4o6fHVZp292Jry4_EijluaKRXXD5MKlaDwoX6KM7C0DIqWA=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1181" data-original-width="2048" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcx7J5dtSUibAtnlW54N1HLlP1FTOoqARmV6zPF2QkVJv9IjQ0wavbx9OjBsqZf2Dnc2kzpt6AryfkxJ7c7AEvgcfm5jmb0pGGZt8gmQMXXfLVQf0qzFtEa3grH977AeL9vIgaJiFk9jU4o6fHVZp292Jry4_EijluaKRXXD5MKlaDwoX6KM7C0DIqWA=w640-h370" width="640" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Back in the desolate parking lot my daughter was sitting alone in the
van. “Where’s mom?” I asked. She looked around with empty eyes, at the hilltops and buildings
and pavement outside. Barely turning back to me she shrugged and resumed playing with the plastic candy wrapper in her hands.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I called my wife, but there was no answer. Either there's no reception at 2700 meters or she’s fallen off the mountain.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">A minute later she calls and says she’s on top
of Mao-dake, the minor mountain right next to the parking lot. This was convenient as I was already on
my way up Mao, not because I thought that’s where my wife was, but because if she
really had fallen off the mountain maybe I’d be able to see her from up there.
Plus the view might be really cool.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHUDDblMJ11a_F9mQrV7Q0EV4PZMvyh1r48tQRg7JSiz7hJiP1l1P_96Qnlu3IwOLBFMjL6tk3MsDyXwomXPB1ITYoIN9Odp3wsh2c47wTwHE8tSEasNErhuXAY0cFxrue9HKZwbAaFfXpvv9gpk7trZViFgqtD_d2Pfp876SsyUeu6qObBf0HyrTU0A=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHUDDblMJ11a_F9mQrV7Q0EV4PZMvyh1r48tQRg7JSiz7hJiP1l1P_96Qnlu3IwOLBFMjL6tk3MsDyXwomXPB1ITYoIN9Odp3wsh2c47wTwHE8tSEasNErhuXAY0cFxrue9HKZwbAaFfXpvv9gpk7trZViFgqtD_d2Pfp876SsyUeu6qObBf0HyrTU0A=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />I took in the view alone, as my wife had decided to leave me in favor of the van.</span><p></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">At the End of the Day</span></h3><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The parking lot was sitting in shadows when
we drove off. Down the winding road my daughter puked again, somehow missing the bag in
her hands and ending any talk of stopping for ramen on the way home.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">My older
son was sitting next to her. He was calm as a spring breeze as he tried to help
keep the situation from going from bad to worse. Mom and Dad were less patient.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Sushi for dinner – with one can of
beer for Dad – and there I was doing the dishes as everyone else fell into TV
and video games and homework. It was already coming up on nine o’clock. The
cake we’d picked up, it seemed, would sit in the fridge till tomorrow.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">My older son was alone upstairs. I thought
he was watching TV in my room. But just as I was finishing up at the kitchen
sink, ready to head for more fun in the laundry room, he came down and handed me a folded piece of paper.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“I wrote you a letter,” he says with a mix
of humility and pride as he hands it to me. “Sorry we couldn’t find a good
present for you.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I took his letter and, without reading it,
put it on the counter.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Norikura was great. Having my boys hike with me made it more
than a potentially active volcano could ever be on its own. This now – this simple
gesture of thought, time and effort – made my day complete.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“Thank you,” I
said, pulling him in for a long bear hug. “You just gave me what I want most.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Which, I sometimes forget, is true. Yeah, I
would have loved to cycle off for a day alone in the mountains. Go where I want
at my own pace. Stop for ramen – or a burger, should I find one – without anyone
tossing their cookies all over my ideas. Crack a second beer while the dishes
and laundry magically disappear without me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">My son walked into the TV room, leaving me
alone with his letter. And a welling in my chest that rose up, flooding my eyes.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Yeah. This is what I want most.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhezcUkhAW-MeW_Im02YZlPJ_7GrKMxEzaGvc5IsCSS_SuUCii1OdY87iVA-AblsiULHi3mZNGd01A8qhBqFN46mfTaLC4o5QeaMAdN6BnSY2k7NV0KfxqPQR6eveK0jmnN9SfWfPCO_nlRWqn5QHH8NRjSI-2GWIZHs2TVI1K9n7LlLpQRKS9pT4s4Ig=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhezcUkhAW-MeW_Im02YZlPJ_7GrKMxEzaGvc5IsCSS_SuUCii1OdY87iVA-AblsiULHi3mZNGd01A8qhBqFN46mfTaLC4o5QeaMAdN6BnSY2k7NV0KfxqPQR6eveK0jmnN9SfWfPCO_nlRWqn5QHH8NRjSI-2GWIZHs2TVI1K9n7LlLpQRKS9pT4s4Ig=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-81813693439833672202021-09-07T20:52:00.003-07:002021-09-07T20:52:58.802-07:00To Each His Own, Together: Cycling the Chikuma River<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Y14tNdgVggakeXclo_Od65m9dYuPUM9LD4QYnkUi-oLuqheQrspshTTeSbYkiFreHAeXS3dnhx1pRpQSrYJUBpDI3AOz71-medsWLb5PS-NKwhndw64AnUPPEcu9orVA2xq5DmrBjH-5/s2544/IMG_20210819_134041+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2544" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Y14tNdgVggakeXclo_Od65m9dYuPUM9LD4QYnkUi-oLuqheQrspshTTeSbYkiFreHAeXS3dnhx1pRpQSrYJUBpDI3AOz71-medsWLb5PS-NKwhndw64AnUPPEcu9orVA2xq5DmrBjH-5/w640-h310/IMG_20210819_134041+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">As a thoughtful, likeable human being, my
son is way ahead of me. I don’t know where he gets it, but I love when it’s on
display. Take one recent Sunday.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The morning skies were cloudy and uncertain.
I looked around at my kids, full of breakfast and lethargy, and felt a familiar
dull ache. An ache borne of a persistent and pesky awareness that my days are
numbered, both with my kids and in this body as I walk this good beautiful
Earth.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Standing in the living room, looking at my kids on the couch and at
those skies outside my door, I am torn between giving the next few hours to my
kids or keeping them all to myself.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">As usual, I give in to my compulsion to at
least try to be a decent dad.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“You guys want to get outside for a while?
Go for a bike ride, or an easy hike somewhere?” They remain entirely unfazed. What
dad can compete with a video game? “Maybe stop somewhere for ice cream after?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The kids have clearly reached the age when
soft-serve is no longer as interesting as Fortnite.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It was a pleasant surprise to hear my
oldest say that yeah, he’d be up for a bike ride. I must be one cynical father
because I wasn’t sure if his expressed interest was genuine or if he was simply
humoring me out of the goodness of his heart. If it was the latter, I thought,
then (a) what a good actor, and (b) what a phenomenal kid.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Then he added a perfect dose of honesty. “I
don’t really want to go hiking.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">We threw our bikes in the van and took off
for the Chikuma valley, an hour and a bit away.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPrGXT7ThMO-wpZyif2xstvk3FBkOa7vlTWqfuyN6ym9MQmtTrapSQnD2vNzFJNK2UqIGzZgb_nvC0HslsVjAgE0H3pG4nErBXkXcp-tarp-UAMGljdmvvBnRIOqZ_S6s0XF-KzYGk0QOh/s2048/IMG_20210819_121452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPrGXT7ThMO-wpZyif2xstvk3FBkOa7vlTWqfuyN6ym9MQmtTrapSQnD2vNzFJNK2UqIGzZgb_nvC0HslsVjAgE0H3pG4nErBXkXcp-tarp-UAMGljdmvvBnRIOqZ_S6s0XF-KzYGk0QOh/w640-h480/IMG_20210819_121452.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">My Own Addiction</span></span></b></h2><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I have this thing about maps. Having them
around makes me feel like I am always just a bike or car or train ride away
from the next exploratory fix. One or two or maybe five years ago I picked up this
map somewhere highlighting a bunch of bike routes emanating from a place called
Togura, in an area of the sort-of nearby town of Chikuma. Knowing nothing about
Togura, I nevertheless suddenly wanted to visit because hey, there’s a map!</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR6783f4yP6nxrHthZclZ_SH9IcmJwGFWNYrpDyTK7WH8DJQ0m9nPxS1oGES2fyIFR4bjlX8BWVK8sLHKAXYUixnBR3_4WzF2Oo3QYjE469OXN23ZQwW6lcjUnawxvHOVp7fDt8Y1YlY0W/s2048/IMG_20210908_121722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1247" data-original-width="2048" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR6783f4yP6nxrHthZclZ_SH9IcmJwGFWNYrpDyTK7WH8DJQ0m9nPxS1oGES2fyIFR4bjlX8BWVK8sLHKAXYUixnBR3_4WzF2Oo3QYjE469OXN23ZQwW6lcjUnawxvHOVp7fDt8Y1YlY0W/w640-h390/IMG_20210908_121722.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Togura lies near the mouth of the long,
fork-tongued Chikuma Valley. The Chikuma-gawa River originates
on the northern slopes of 8,000-foot Kobushi-ga-take, fifty miles to the southwest.
Past Togura and the city of Chikuma the river spills into the Zenkoji Daira basin. There between
two mountain ranges it joins the Sai-gawa, at a confluence of historical
importance.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Between 1553 and 1564 this land saw a
series of battles between the regional Uesugi clan and the invading Takeda clan.
Takeda had moved steadily north from the Kai region, conquering with relative
ease the armies of the lords whose lands he desired. Then he ran into Uesugi, and over the
next ten years the two sides engaged in the <a href="https://warfarehistorynetwork.com/2015/09/25/the-battle-of-kawanakajima/">Battle
of Kawanakajima</a> which, like much of Japan’s history, is wildly convoluted.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Chikuma-gawa meanders north from
Kawanakajima, through the city of Nagano and into rice-rich Niigata Prefecture.
Along the way the Chikuma becomes the Shinano, and by the time it empties into
the Sea of Japan that rain and snowmelt from Kobushi-yama has covered 367
kilometers, making this Japan’s longest river.</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">We wouldn’t be riding that far, although I
did muse out loud, and with fair sincerity, about how cool it would be to make
that kind of multi-day trip together. My son chuckled and agreed and rode off, leaving
me to wonder if he was just humoring me again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-US"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCo09h-cDN9wq1mVjmSbfPa-Y0X_41x2GljFMy9rQnCgIAEFonLL7VhXnVixbcsEMN3WbGjB1a69CFOWZ6fgfPHlcWmxZx8Dnmuvu0eSVdsmlUgqbMO8XHyen25q7UOg08ZEoIkHcZP37/s2048/IMG_20210819_122342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCo09h-cDN9wq1mVjmSbfPa-Y0X_41x2GljFMy9rQnCgIAEFonLL7VhXnVixbcsEMN3WbGjB1a69CFOWZ6fgfPHlcWmxZx8Dnmuvu0eSVdsmlUgqbMO8XHyen25q7UOg08ZEoIkHcZP37/w640-h480/IMG_20210819_122342.jpg" width="640" /></a></b></div><b><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b><p></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Taking the Low Road</span></span></b></h2>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The map that lured us here laid out nine
different cycling routes. Three were short loops through town. Four involved hill
climbs. (“I’d rather not,” my son said, quite predictably.) The riverside bike
path would take us a flat five miles downstream to the Awasa-bashi Bridge. There, on
the other side of the river, began the four-mile Mori Apricot Village Route. And who in their
right mind would pass on apricots?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The land below our left pedals lay rich
with farms and fields. In the distance a brown path snaked up the mountainside,
through the terraced rice fields of Obasute. Below us to the right more gardens
and groves of trees filled this side of the quarter-mile-wide riverbed. The mud
left from the recent deluge remained on the long grass, still washed flat. On a
bed of rocks in the middle of the river, where the valley began giving way to
the flats of the Zenkoji Daira, a flock of at least twenty white herons stood
in quiet refuge. The sky hovered in a hundred shades of gray. I felt lighter
for my son being out there with me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaynosqFRF3EsoOEFIhWozRl_L7N0MsGSXUTfNvR380PF2N0d11UOltN0tQABE5_y-eoSdwf5m7XmTejUuljOCL2IleMHhaCx-4RptiOgSdqPF8L-5dZ3Vh9MkN3RG4DnwkpdCJsDuKpHu/s3025/PANO_20210819_123133.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="3025" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaynosqFRF3EsoOEFIhWozRl_L7N0MsGSXUTfNvR380PF2N0d11UOltN0tQABE5_y-eoSdwf5m7XmTejUuljOCL2IleMHhaCx-4RptiOgSdqPF8L-5dZ3Vh9MkN3RG4DnwkpdCJsDuKpHu/w640-h220/PANO_20210819_123133.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">Across the Awasa-bashi and away from the
river the road remained flat. The official route led down Route 392, through an
area with plenty of urban lots and no apricots. When we stopped for a red light
I turned to my son. “There must be a better way.”</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">My words can be spontaneous and meaningful.
Rarely are they both. “Let’s try this way,” I said, and led him down the road
to the left. Squinting at the rice fields in the distance, I was hoping for two
things: for this not to be a dead end, and for my son to recognize the inadvertent
meaning in his dad’s narrow-minded spontaneity.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ESBwmWIiOhkD6yk9oTfNyaS0OwovlOXqDlZ2QN-1O-Ka06K_6yhit9vHvlfjkst-0Qx14OkFyqJCZFlzSThnOJa6zKA0e8jwznRdnLo9Xi_LX3QzDjJENxtSnkcHN2eKVvCLDAVFBWIQ/s2048/IMG_20210819_144806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1142" data-original-width="2048" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ESBwmWIiOhkD6yk9oTfNyaS0OwovlOXqDlZ2QN-1O-Ka06K_6yhit9vHvlfjkst-0Qx14OkFyqJCZFlzSThnOJa6zKA0e8jwznRdnLo9Xi_LX3QzDjJENxtSnkcHN2eKVvCLDAVFBWIQ/w640-h356/IMG_20210819_144806.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">We did find a better way, down quiet, empty
roads, through the rice fields fronting the gentle slopes of the valley of
apricots up ahead.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“There’s a lookout up there somewhere,” I
said.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">My son offered up not one plaintive word as
I led him slowly uphill, lost among the roads that wound and twisted past the
aging farmhouses and compact fields of apricot trees.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKDrxwnT60AHFw-chW41csNtLKJYzYxi-VLvA8hPPNjLE11Yu0mOEaF8282YcNhAzls6i1zdVl_69s74iE__C1qVioKzvXIu9wJLkXhxo8YlFziVpPJXcGHqh-5Ez25YMvGstt8RZ18e8C/s2048/IMG_20210819_134321.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKDrxwnT60AHFw-chW41csNtLKJYzYxi-VLvA8hPPNjLE11Yu0mOEaF8282YcNhAzls6i1zdVl_69s74iE__C1qVioKzvXIu9wJLkXhxo8YlFziVpPJXcGHqh-5Ez25YMvGstt8RZ18e8C/w640-h480/IMG_20210819_134321.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">We ate lunch in the shade, in the small
park overlooking the land we’d just traversed. My other son would have enjoyed
this, I thought. He is stubborn in his individualism and rarely accepts my
invitations to play. Honestly, I don’t know how to feel about it. He’s a highly
introspective kid; he gives thought to what he does or doesn’t like to do in
general, then applies it to the moment he finds himself in. I think this will serve
him well as he finds his way in life. Yet I wish he’d open up once in a while to
the thoughts and ideas of other people. Like his dad.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">We followed the main road as we began
heading back downhill. We couldn’t have retraced our snaking uphill route if we
had tried, but whether going back across town or back across the country the
inclination is always to go – and to see – a different way.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2YmyEEqFEWppbW_oDEVs2Bij9Y3N7pNRhl3RJJWopMMY3IxujW_Idnw_ROEkWige4BsL5fXYAMJ7AdTfjUz5ZxKYEinm1p5zdVzOma3UakwA2kEv_Af0qMqmXSLe8-Wre9NhndM-GRWD/s2048/IMG_20210819_154950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2YmyEEqFEWppbW_oDEVs2Bij9Y3N7pNRhl3RJJWopMMY3IxujW_Idnw_ROEkWige4BsL5fXYAMJ7AdTfjUz5ZxKYEinm1p5zdVzOma3UakwA2kEv_Af0qMqmXSLe8-Wre9NhndM-GRWD/w640-h480/IMG_20210819_154950.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The road dipped and curved, revealing a
path of dirt and rocks along a cement-lined stream. “Slow down,” I said over my
shoulder. “Let’s stop up here.” I squeezed my brakes, gently, giving my kid the
opportunity to not crash into my back tire.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I pointed down the road and over to the
trail. “Which way?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">He seemed a bit surprised that I’d asked. For
this, I blame myself. It’s an easy trap to fall into, always offering your
guiding advice to a kid who needs to learn to figure things out on his own,
even if it means letting him screw things up. Taking the main road or a dirt path was a
choice of little consequence. If he was hesitant to decide on this, how could I
expect him to have confidence in the more meaningful decisions he is surely
already having to make when his dad isn’t around?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Either way is fine,” he said.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I had no doubt he was fine with whichever
way we went. God bless him for that. I wanted to take the trail. But I wasn’t about
to say it. He had to make the call. I’d go happily along with it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfsOG96zBjZCN7ZJEiOYZnd5wHpK9FsLlsjqUBDcrxtc8yf9Qy2rWX4y1wpApSGdP_Clz1DjwXvtl0j7NypuMTWFDogJHjcpOm3DAS632QR3gUeZYRtDLTggsZOEL7OeiCKOW4Zkq1lNL0/s2048/IMG_20210819_153606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfsOG96zBjZCN7ZJEiOYZnd5wHpK9FsLlsjqUBDcrxtc8yf9Qy2rWX4y1wpApSGdP_Clz1DjwXvtl0j7NypuMTWFDogJHjcpOm3DAS632QR3gUeZYRtDLTggsZOEL7OeiCKOW4Zkq1lNL0/w640-h480/IMG_20210819_153606.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The trail was a little bumpy and loads of
fun and ended way too soon, spitting us like two apricot pits back out onto the
main road.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">We stopped at a couple of places along our
way back down toward the rice fields at the bottom of the hill. First was a
small shop that sold apricot ice cream and apricot jam and three dozen other kinds
of apricot-based temptation. The two women working had plenty of time to talk about
the area and our lives and the harsh effects of the pandemic. “Not many people
coming through these days,” they lamented, smiling. They invited us to come
back in the Spring, when the sloping valley will once again be awash in apricot
blossoms.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">For some reason, or maybe a few reasons, I
really did want to come back.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The other place, a brooding cement
monstrosity sitting where the land began to level off, sold a variety of
souvenirs along with the same three dozen versions of apricot indulgence, many
of them, my son found upon inspection, made with apricots from Turkey.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVH0bAlvA0D2-km81KDC87QUy6HEQUjPn505XLkZtZiKT3M03AXpWtbLjUNT-FCS0tOWQc3wGfuSyjpvfo_pxabMMjVVVwxai96WZoFgm3mHh60QL3IxftRLhyphenhyphen_hyphenhyphen5csTmEz123NGdx20a/s2048/IMG_20210819_144621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVH0bAlvA0D2-km81KDC87QUy6HEQUjPn505XLkZtZiKT3M03AXpWtbLjUNT-FCS0tOWQc3wGfuSyjpvfo_pxabMMjVVVwxai96WZoFgm3mHh60QL3IxftRLhyphenhyphen_hyphenhyphen5csTmEz123NGdx20a/w640-h480/IMG_20210819_144621.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">We did retrace, more or less, our route
back through the fields of rice and some green things neither of us could identify and up Route 392. Across the Awasa-bashi and back upriver
to Togura there were really no choices to make. And that was fine. We’d found,
thanks to one of the countless maps I’ve managed to accumulate, a new place to
explore and enjoy. And by bicycle no less.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_1vj5UFiQ7MNs9TBkPLjMaNeHAfL_TE20wk8JABYD-YASAGgU-Fq6wsotKwY9RtyFvUNKGeORpw_AKVh7qkN73EmQNSHQzojLfJMAwSe4JrH46mx944nHHjNIT_KYX1JwbE7lzLmv0EE7/s2048/IMG_20210819_154704.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1330" data-original-width="2048" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_1vj5UFiQ7MNs9TBkPLjMaNeHAfL_TE20wk8JABYD-YASAGgU-Fq6wsotKwY9RtyFvUNKGeORpw_AKVh7qkN73EmQNSHQzojLfJMAwSe4JrH46mx944nHHjNIT_KYX1JwbE7lzLmv0EE7/w640-h416/IMG_20210819_154704.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">But more than that – better than that – I’d
managed to stumble my way into an afternoon with my oldest son, thanks to his beautiful
willingness to give his day to his dad.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Now if only he could convince his little brother to come along...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn5ZtJyFXbDmvn71XJkVmySn4axNxOqOBh24cFbgYwLKp_mk-gEW0wPUELfvPLPOnJiKejvA17s2R-T3Z_i1QRgVa_yD6di16AEg0YaghnUTaLo2C-_04e1zhQxzhF3PuwRiFNr4Y-sFqx/s2048/IMG_20210819_134041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn5ZtJyFXbDmvn71XJkVmySn4axNxOqOBh24cFbgYwLKp_mk-gEW0wPUELfvPLPOnJiKejvA17s2R-T3Z_i1QRgVa_yD6di16AEg0YaghnUTaLo2C-_04e1zhQxzhF3PuwRiFNr4Y-sFqx/w640-h480/IMG_20210819_134041.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-91233825776412870982021-04-18T06:13:00.003-07:002021-08-17T02:23:00.559-07:00The Azumino-Yamabiko Cycling Road: Smooth Sailing Between the Mountains<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWAIvfL6E9eBA7cPHdi84wXw7ikSRWJ4mzU0i7EniIsTnNeyt2T-Dpc13dojl5ezHVFe0YsGD1uV2a4LyK2-0tUN4LYZ-tmUb0tpkZsUxAZgmXGwnNy8nxSVWTgp_XAQpv0_fMUQ_DRPCO/s2048/IMG_20180607_124608+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1238" data-original-width="2048" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWAIvfL6E9eBA7cPHdi84wXw7ikSRWJ4mzU0i7EniIsTnNeyt2T-Dpc13dojl5ezHVFe0YsGD1uV2a4LyK2-0tUN4LYZ-tmUb0tpkZsUxAZgmXGwnNy8nxSVWTgp_XAQpv0_fMUQ_DRPCO/w627-h378/IMG_20180607_124608+%25282%2529.jpg" width="627" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><span><span style="font-size: large;">John’s e-mails tell me that Spring has returned
to the central Japanese high plains we inhabit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yo Kev! Weather’s lookin sweet, bro! You
up for a ride?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">His enthusiasm is infective. Not that it
takes much to get me out on the bike.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">He talks sometimes of mountain biking the trails
of nearby Hachibuse-yama, though in his voice I hear more reminiscence than actual
suggestion. That’s fine with me. I run those trails on occasion, and to me there's no better way to communicate with the gods who reside there than entering their world on foot. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Besides, one broken collarbone is enough.<span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">More often than not we end up heading for
the Azumino-Yamabiko Cycling Road, a 15-kilometer path that arcs across the
Azumino Basin, just north of Matsumoto. Out there, Japan’s Northern Alps run the length of the visible
western horizon, towering over fields of rice and apple trees. To the east, the
2,000-meter Utsukushi-ga-hara highlands peek out from behind lesser ranges. In
between, a loose web of old-growth neighborhoods lies strewn over a slice of
earth that is as flat as it is quiet.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizXxStBfjwe1YJldmx5i8Q7CU_CPQyOWt4YRI9QLVi-4UJOCxhtTX4OK_oPudAqSQjGcfWzkPGoIXupkhhP4oWrLLGtSqWZRKSSk7IsbJlsPY77aObAa8VuqrmpQ1GThAhYuLMcsx2H03V/s2048/IMG_20210410_132313a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1437" data-original-width="2048" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizXxStBfjwe1YJldmx5i8Q7CU_CPQyOWt4YRI9QLVi-4UJOCxhtTX4OK_oPudAqSQjGcfWzkPGoIXupkhhP4oWrLLGtSqWZRKSSk7IsbJlsPY77aObAa8VuqrmpQ1GThAhYuLMcsx2H03V/w640-h450/IMG_20210410_132313a.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The path itself runs alongside a wide and
lazy irrigation canal, a waterway that not only gave birth to this cycling
road, but gave life to this once-intractable land.</span></p></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzU39zqk7JTlOYmo2t6lpQRblQoEBBB4uIqNSWnpXD3FZp0oaPNFcafcr6G35474IPKKT1LSmEZ2rhUaXt72ohb8dOuTU0Inm0ZKrCwz1sDP3dqi95uExz0cKotZQgnDUe7Ys6bUJaqjHB/s2519/IMG_20210410_130526a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1248" data-original-width="2519" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzU39zqk7JTlOYmo2t6lpQRblQoEBBB4uIqNSWnpXD3FZp0oaPNFcafcr6G35474IPKKT1LSmEZ2rhUaXt72ohb8dOuTU0Inm0ZKrCwz1sDP3dqi95uExz0cKotZQgnDUe7Ys6bUJaqjHB/w628-h312/IMG_20210410_130526a.jpg" width="628" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<h3 style="text-align: left;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Seafarers & Loose Soil</span></span></b></h3>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The area takes its name from the Azumi, a clan from the southwestern island of Kyushu whose religious beliefs and way of
life were centered around the sea. After serving as the de facto naval force of
the emerging Yamato imperial nation from the 3rd</span><span><span style="font-size: large;"> to the 7</span><span style="font-size: 20px;">th</span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Centuries they began migrating eastward. Inexplicably, some of them settled in this
region, about as far from the sea as you can get.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The rainwater and snowmelt running off the western
mountains is pristine and plentiful. But Nature, in all her indifference, left
this land with few rivers. The ground here does not hold water as it does
further south. What flows down the canyons quickly disperses and disappears
into the soil, creating what is called in geological circles an alluvial fan,
which until an hour ago was what I thought a dancing geisha held in
her hand.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">What rivers do run – the Karasu and the
Kurosawa – are too meager and unreliable to sustain crops. With few options
(moving somewhere else apparently not being one of them) the Azumi people established
small villages and subsisted on fresh-water fishing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2_pGxr14JHBXxHeSVtJoYoZvprM9zUVN4XnVmH4V2xC-4lsj91A38BSDXN_WiIm2wR6kkkM7_bNb0iw5GYqZp6A0eXqr1dS9ARd6pd3-RJ6bo3wWKjH7VMi7D0qlzoK7qQm3KhDdUELK-/s2048/IMG_20210410_132508.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="377" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2_pGxr14JHBXxHeSVtJoYoZvprM9zUVN4XnVmH4V2xC-4lsj91A38BSDXN_WiIm2wR6kkkM7_bNb0iw5GYqZp6A0eXqr1dS9ARd6pd3-RJ6bo3wWKjH7VMi7D0qlzoK7qQm3KhDdUELK-/w283-h377/IMG_20210410_132508.jpg" width="283" /> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jnAyzNyv3iwNtPJtF4o7MvOw5y5gfDUd2aVgj5RjVp8FXlel8IOuWFmZgQ9xQGvcbUIzGVPF0lbOhfu8v_-_GGGykVM6kGfUqehzsB5z-u-71Da7RD7DcQuCDk03dsvCrFowV5WzAbvZ/s2048/IMG_20210410_131647.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jnAyzNyv3iwNtPJtF4o7MvOw5y5gfDUd2aVgj5RjVp8FXlel8IOuWFmZgQ9xQGvcbUIzGVPF0lbOhfu8v_-_GGGykVM6kGfUqehzsB5z-u-71Da7RD7DcQuCDk03dsvCrFowV5WzAbvZ/w280-h374/IMG_20210410_131647.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>In the early 17th</span><span> Century several attempts were made to divert the waters of the Azusagawa running
across the southern plain. But their efforts proved fruitless; each time the
river rose the already-loose earth would get washed away. Skilled as the people
living here became at digging irrigation ditches, they got pretty god damn
tired of it.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>But man is a stubborn creature. At the tail
end of the 18th</span><span> Century two men, Magoichiro Todoriki and Wahe-e
Nakajima, began separately planning new irrigation systems. By the mid-19th</span><span> </span><span>Century the Jikka-segi was just one of several waterways in use, turning the
Azumino Basin green and fertile and delighting the people, who were by now
getting pretty sick of fish.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqkO8MATqjW1lQrs5vwPqOKPZRX1Z-ohKJNVooKw3DfXQ1eC-g7tk09jTTn9LD5aMJObYq0s7IZLhOpo42P1NqkkrPeUW5mr4mRbejSWJOX68nsYMO6nWdNkOYQrdObniVrZx1gTViY1t/s2048/IMG_20210410_143437.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqkO8MATqjW1lQrs5vwPqOKPZRX1Z-ohKJNVooKw3DfXQ1eC-g7tk09jTTn9LD5aMJObYq0s7IZLhOpo42P1NqkkrPeUW5mr4mRbejSWJOX68nsYMO6nWdNkOYQrdObniVrZx1gTViY1t/w624-h468/IMG_20210410_143437.jpg" width="624" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Taking In What Exists</span></span></b></h2><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">On paper, one stretch of the
Azumino-Yamabiko Cycling Road runs right through Matsumoto. In reality that
part of the path does not yet exist. There’s no sign of it ever being built
either.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No problem!” yelled John over his shoulder
as I chased him through the ever-busy Shiraita intersection, just northwest of
downtown. “We’ll go the back way!” He took us down a side road that threw us
into the woods and over a creek fed by an underground source of mountain runoff.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRd0gy9HHHqSEm6tqqXjGBwcELSUTuNA0B_c1lOCHbMLoM1H98hwnjiMgB7oHqxvuXlWC3gs-qELUzcIa5b9UF0o2pFwtAecaKemA2onkfeJA6LfRrwm8xeV9TfQtAUjWYoQQm1Lcaivic/s2048/IMG_20210410_151235.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRd0gy9HHHqSEm6tqqXjGBwcELSUTuNA0B_c1lOCHbMLoM1H98hwnjiMgB7oHqxvuXlWC3gs-qELUzcIa5b9UF0o2pFwtAecaKemA2onkfeJA6LfRrwm8xeV9TfQtAUjWYoQQm1Lcaivic/w627-h470/IMG_20210410_151235.jpg" width="627" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I knew nothing of the Azumi people or
failed irrigation projects the first time I rode this path. I cared little
about anything on my next dozen rides either except the mountains and the
quietude and the pleasure of being out there on my bicycle under the sun. I
didn’t know that creek in the woods flowed up from underground. I never even noticed
that the Jikka-segi canal, so close to the bike path one could (theoretically)
spit in it, suddenly disappeared near the yawning Azusagawa riverbed and
miraculously reappeared on the other side.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">But hey, you don’t need to know the history of this area
or understand the mechanics of the waterways to enjoy the Azumino-Yamabiko
Cycling Road. I am living proof of that. And yet these things are a part of the story
of this land. And like the mountains and the serenity, they are both priceless
and free.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">A busted collarbone, on the other hand, is both free and costly. Ride safe, my friends.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Nerding Out on Two Wheels</span></b></h2><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">On the other side of that creek the path leads to a road that runs along the Narai-gawa River. Sometimes there are cormorants, diving for fish or drying their wings in the sun. Occasionally I spot a snow-white heron. They are as skittish as they are beautiful; stop your bike two hundred yards away to try to take a picture and they'll fly away before you have a chance.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZHxT0NI9MTrKtte71m-gFO1FAONzN_rddinK2NVBIOusonILxQRsudc0TKrww0ZeYv0EpWRwmCfwvEnHbttBSz49EZ2aCCXvwh9DcQor8G9J_t4d1bwxLOEiQuzXVa350eEQxKZoTSJ9D/s903/boids.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="903" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZHxT0NI9MTrKtte71m-gFO1FAONzN_rddinK2NVBIOusonILxQRsudc0TKrww0ZeYv0EpWRwmCfwvEnHbttBSz49EZ2aCCXvwh9DcQor8G9J_t4d1bwxLOEiQuzXVa350eEQxKZoTSJ9D/w632-h357/boids.jpg" width="632" /></a></div><span><p><span style="font-size: large;">Under the tracks of the Oito Line and past Shimbashi Bridge and soon you come to the head of the Jikka-segi waterway. In Japan dams are as common as skittish birds, serving various and often multiple purposes. This one keeps the Narai-gawa from washing the nearby mountains away while feeding the Jikka-segi.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc2VZNje3ZZKPWvgJIZxpnDEmXS4am0-qReHgijgDmFrYxkGCwR-kW6gVKiiqSE6Afx4bdqlrb3DTTUTUdtP-t534fK4rpoGPKMMHEV3pqZwjj723Wplo1iKn92d6mPmDJGAs-7wMbosOE/s2048/IMG_20210415_121629a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1093" data-original-width="2048" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc2VZNje3ZZKPWvgJIZxpnDEmXS4am0-qReHgijgDmFrYxkGCwR-kW6gVKiiqSE6Afx4bdqlrb3DTTUTUdtP-t534fK4rpoGPKMMHEV3pqZwjj723Wplo1iKn92d6mPmDJGAs-7wMbosOE/w620-h332/IMG_20210415_121629a.jpg" width="620" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">Riveting, I know. But stick with me. We're heading for greener lands.</span></p><p style="font-size: xx-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTuB1XeNUaMDiRZosg9lI160ch_xNRTNz9vgm6h3_B-0S35BxTJh8y3yjKrnLaLvGqta32JoVwysSEmHOoDZY74vxu3xtss31n1vzkJVIcDWjqqKme28JjigHpirnnYekgrwIEUbVsl6rq/s2048/IMG_20210415_124029.jpg" style="display: inline; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTuB1XeNUaMDiRZosg9lI160ch_xNRTNz9vgm6h3_B-0S35BxTJh8y3yjKrnLaLvGqta32JoVwysSEmHOoDZY74vxu3xtss31n1vzkJVIcDWjqqKme28JjigHpirnnYekgrwIEUbVsl6rq/w620-h466/IMG_20210415_124029.jpg" width="620" /> </a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW01u_H2lVCFVONf8x6NCf7EQL2fOM1NTbHmAu-BBkrsQPybcv966cATceyC2dr6fyqM8na418PNQXCkAFeyhSNdkfZtGxGWGqmuMuWTCnrAZx0PnG-vUOWnGyi22yIBEMBBVn_66JWkMZ/s2048/IMG_20210415_124510.jpg" style="display: inline; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW01u_H2lVCFVONf8x6NCf7EQL2fOM1NTbHmAu-BBkrsQPybcv966cATceyC2dr6fyqM8na418PNQXCkAFeyhSNdkfZtGxGWGqmuMuWTCnrAZx0PnG-vUOWnGyi22yIBEMBBVn_66JWkMZ/w627-h472/IMG_20210415_124510.jpg" width="627" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihb4VXRhGdZCecXnsQeXXrZqVLhFKj79YRbx2TMvoV0unSn6Q3cTUvgMPPov_EQk95LxFxZD6tKCnmdA7V3R8do9OEK1sEaTf-DzU_71ut9h-x1O4guysoV9jityeWX9HXFUJdcVCGNtbg/s2048/IMG_8593.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="417" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihb4VXRhGdZCecXnsQeXXrZqVLhFKj79YRbx2TMvoV0unSn6Q3cTUvgMPPov_EQk95LxFxZD6tKCnmdA7V3R8do9OEK1sEaTf-DzU_71ut9h-x1O4guysoV9jityeWX9HXFUJdcVCGNtbg/w626-h417/IMG_8593.JPG" width="626" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">Just past the Hirase-bashi Bridge (in the picture above, down the Narai-gawa River) the Jikka-segi turns west and disappears through Door #1.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6oPoNd5I8hToJAXNLxRoAmDMwWMGkr3TGOK0CmhlJ2cbsG_NpRbRebohlHhFigF1RlLAeeiq2_wEvHagPkO1-WeDmUbn1AMY62w5j4lRoQ8oIZQD4ifNmQh4RH1hlWSkOwEgD3qaMpqM5/s2048/IMG_20210415_131947.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="469" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6oPoNd5I8hToJAXNLxRoAmDMwWMGkr3TGOK0CmhlJ2cbsG_NpRbRebohlHhFigF1RlLAeeiq2_wEvHagPkO1-WeDmUbn1AMY62w5j4lRoQ8oIZQD4ifNmQh4RH1hlWSkOwEgD3qaMpqM5/w625-h469/IMG_20210415_131947.jpg" width="625" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large; text-align: left;">350 meters later, on the other side of the Azusa-gawa...</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir20ToMIZO0TemlEqqK3A0gB8vA__7_gyeC8SP6C-4EIinY7kJ7QNQfG-3H0LgFTa4PuXRTLY5UPuta-XyA735eC2O-hRuLv8r_joYFoUIZQFNrQljidBLwaFbAvAERI4u8EulhKbiVmBQ/s2048/IMG_20210415_130013.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir20ToMIZO0TemlEqqK3A0gB8vA__7_gyeC8SP6C-4EIinY7kJ7QNQfG-3H0LgFTa4PuXRTLY5UPuta-XyA735eC2O-hRuLv8r_joYFoUIZQFNrQljidBLwaFbAvAERI4u8EulhKbiVmBQ/w626-h470/IMG_20210415_130013.jpg" width="626" /></a></div><br /><p style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">...and it reappears through Door #2.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvcAkboru1R0i10jbA3qWVZ3YqOD2hc6W_NG6djzBFRQYI0LAdFUca8s4X6g6tqVn9UbUO-w4ClPf_gDNNtTtyPGxmXJF3JVYKyazOHGhrIj1wIcHY1DeBK1At94yn8uu_DnF1hgDQ-CU/s2048/IMG_20210415_130322.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvcAkboru1R0i10jbA3qWVZ3YqOD2hc6W_NG6djzBFRQYI0LAdFUca8s4X6g6tqVn9UbUO-w4ClPf_gDNNtTtyPGxmXJF3JVYKyazOHGhrIj1wIcHY1DeBK1At94yn8uu_DnF1hgDQ-CU/w627-h470/IMG_20210415_130322.jpg" width="627" /></a></div><br /><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">And in the age-old Japanese way, there's a memorial to the construction of the tunnel under the river. It consists of a piece of the digging machine.</span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">It's nice.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr5bYPzWqOw8TZYCXoIZ8cBxBZieFQ_v5xA2UR3_g3J7CSlIZ_UJOa7RJ8IzU_QX6pk0x222bXI7BJblzPGSysnmreBp3SKxhDm6q6P1NxDe_AfZRQB9Jm3oiP1umMxOteiPb9tBgoxeXH/s2048/IMG_20210415_130827.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr5bYPzWqOw8TZYCXoIZ8cBxBZieFQ_v5xA2UR3_g3J7CSlIZ_UJOa7RJ8IzU_QX6pk0x222bXI7BJblzPGSysnmreBp3SKxhDm6q6P1NxDe_AfZRQB9Jm3oiP1umMxOteiPb9tBgoxeXH/w624-h468/IMG_20210415_130827.jpg" width="624" /></a></div><div style="font-size: xx-large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">A couple concrete tunnels and an industrial highway zone and the path rolls out into the Azumi Basin.</span></p><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia1vN1Xb9MpRD7XFhnpo7_vDwbMo8UhQbDwQcxDqiWaEz03G9Vck0dxrkTvet1AxnrtjdyCAX9yszLmJA2bAVS_ePqN6phQMXRbBXoEQKlYhtaLQTxET8gcdLxyLGRhyBzoaaIgRHRTis3/s2048/IMG_20210410_125605.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia1vN1Xb9MpRD7XFhnpo7_vDwbMo8UhQbDwQcxDqiWaEz03G9Vck0dxrkTvet1AxnrtjdyCAX9yszLmJA2bAVS_ePqN6phQMXRbBXoEQKlYhtaLQTxET8gcdLxyLGRhyBzoaaIgRHRTis3/w640-h480/IMG_20210410_125605.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOEkuI3wgy6LGOMacVmoRP5B7bxdnfsHCx8JSWXHJUH4cSU8b5PrxPCQ_L4_-3ORKG5srlTgvHI8IRnnarKtukAVplBCHJ_RAn9MqZDhbCOtXpLppFRKvjItIjMOztY1rw_1u-LvV3fuB5/s2048/IMG_20210410_142549.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOEkuI3wgy6LGOMacVmoRP5B7bxdnfsHCx8JSWXHJUH4cSU8b5PrxPCQ_L4_-3ORKG5srlTgvHI8IRnnarKtukAVplBCHJ_RAn9MqZDhbCOtXpLppFRKvjItIjMOztY1rw_1u-LvV3fuB5/w640-h480/IMG_20210410_142549.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy4yIjcYCk2aBxAw9nTEEhCKGUINXLlc-wR4j2-0mukSJOHLdAvACKtFu3L72ZlsqeTXAVGpLE6z4tnF87KJGnKc8bc7y_6ZjmOqOdVAb7jgnPOZ55ZUfWYGedO0fu7ci-mNsBgbQB_fTB/s2048/IMG_20210410_142324.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy4yIjcYCk2aBxAw9nTEEhCKGUINXLlc-wR4j2-0mukSJOHLdAvACKtFu3L72ZlsqeTXAVGpLE6z4tnF87KJGnKc8bc7y_6ZjmOqOdVAb7jgnPOZ55ZUfWYGedO0fu7ci-mNsBgbQB_fTB/w640-h480/IMG_20210410_142324.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7T-ZruOinZHYEFJ7eIEz8cHzZ2PRy5xT6X-1WS1F1fHcv7CtiYUCh87DPzhMsOsBICXbBtydzjYAWvM4JAvSW097yZid5nEUQKVLGF_0jh-FzuI3PQOB4EgZ6XwIRvrFZchzpT3O0CVC/s2048/IMG_20210410_144630.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7T-ZruOinZHYEFJ7eIEz8cHzZ2PRy5xT6X-1WS1F1fHcv7CtiYUCh87DPzhMsOsBICXbBtydzjYAWvM4JAvSW097yZid5nEUQKVLGF_0jh-FzuI3PQOB4EgZ6XwIRvrFZchzpT3O0CVC/w480-h640/IMG_20210410_144630.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjniXk1VRy_omX4CwvMRsWRly4XGVpsbgCm1MG0Jc4TQkjcdDExmp_v_NfkU7AzjIlbMK7Ck5DMpc_sqprvtL9Q5mXkbuTw_OTujOm8FMK11wTi-u5n7A_uy-sYGQ6a21PhvLCPbQEy9bpq/s2048/IMG_20210410_134925.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="465" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjniXk1VRy_omX4CwvMRsWRly4XGVpsbgCm1MG0Jc4TQkjcdDExmp_v_NfkU7AzjIlbMK7Ck5DMpc_sqprvtL9Q5mXkbuTw_OTujOm8FMK11wTi-u5n7A_uy-sYGQ6a21PhvLCPbQEy9bpq/w619-h465/IMG_20210410_134925.jpg" width="619" /></a></div><br /><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">There are always a handful of people cycling, jogging and walking. At the Jikka-segi Cycle Hiroba Plaza, when the seasons are at their most colorful, you'll get modest crowds showing up in their cars to take in this one small slice of the trail.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnzO93r_Vi8O6taugVDIbqezoHRQM1linJWhBZz42ZhzfNtXxVHAvb1OC6YFnv480GIzBizdsd8QEvTPr2fusElkpxlqH2m2i5D1IjCUmmhGq-kEUqU_s-aQ4GaMX8Rc3Jj9p2XNTN-Czm/s2048/IMG_20210410_130242.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="469" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnzO93r_Vi8O6taugVDIbqezoHRQM1linJWhBZz42ZhzfNtXxVHAvb1OC6YFnv480GIzBizdsd8QEvTPr2fusElkpxlqH2m2i5D1IjCUmmhGq-kEUqU_s-aQ4GaMX8Rc3Jj9p2XNTN-Czm/w626-h469/IMG_20210410_130242.jpg" width="626" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5a6tZGdoCCmW2WijoSDJeSsm_kfWtY-7zPg95YR5QtWF7f1Qk4mMmMBa0gUIiGUx__QZbMfnG5bgUNN-D-YTFvmDfo10WbJAnvmAPQWHPyLEAUtTfhyiPc-Jveb36pOfrccM-jSzIMra8/s2048/IMG_20210410_143736.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="469" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5a6tZGdoCCmW2WijoSDJeSsm_kfWtY-7zPg95YR5QtWF7f1Qk4mMmMBa0gUIiGUx__QZbMfnG5bgUNN-D-YTFvmDfo10WbJAnvmAPQWHPyLEAUtTfhyiPc-Jveb36pOfrccM-jSzIMra8/w625-h469/IMG_20210410_143736.jpg" width="625" /></a></div><br /><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Wander away from the path and you'll find a few more pockets of historical and cultural intrigue.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5YaKR6TRPUeNcVOTVVsfQvGBOCXZDtjUuLaj9ZpBAXgPjdKl_cMLDbQAiZ0IwvsW7ZYADyWXejgj67RF-mq6LNdFcroufbq7Jt597Kyre6g7yGXJN1e9BkAzyWKDIzxCJhZvXz8yRr4L/s2048/IMG_20180607_120105.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5YaKR6TRPUeNcVOTVVsfQvGBOCXZDtjUuLaj9ZpBAXgPjdKl_cMLDbQAiZ0IwvsW7ZYADyWXejgj67RF-mq6LNdFcroufbq7Jt597Kyre6g7yGXJN1e9BkAzyWKDIzxCJhZvXz8yRr4L/w266-h355/IMG_20180607_120105.jpg" width="266" /> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2-pqj5NWgxBok_Ex9POH_0I0IiJ_zpgEx-EkSA11OsCS2X05gBhfteE71ZtZAV_mLAcrAEw3eL7UV42LAz3sPpjZQNd5DLe3GMNmefDtDoP7myX5NQC2DmTiDdg2zsiMofYW7qRvCLzu8/s2048/IMG_20180607_122155.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2-pqj5NWgxBok_Ex9POH_0I0IiJ_zpgEx-EkSA11OsCS2X05gBhfteE71ZtZAV_mLAcrAEw3eL7UV42LAz3sPpjZQNd5DLe3GMNmefDtDoP7myX5NQC2DmTiDdg2zsiMofYW7qRvCLzu8/w265-h353/IMG_20180607_122155.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZK2o7w6lhyb7l0yxZ4y6alx6SbG7akuSHzs7UU5E1afO1uyZuFkIv4ct2Egz-xe3qC7WnTyTK9bJ0nC_mIHFeLgGyID_UZmyHe0-0SDCjygho1oHOG_FWIrHC1nQFv6Ce8cySKj6tq1xy/s2048/IMG_20180607_131626.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="359" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZK2o7w6lhyb7l0yxZ4y6alx6SbG7akuSHzs7UU5E1afO1uyZuFkIv4ct2Egz-xe3qC7WnTyTK9bJ0nC_mIHFeLgGyID_UZmyHe0-0SDCjygho1oHOG_FWIrHC1nQFv6Ce8cySKj6tq1xy/w269-h359/IMG_20180607_131626.jpg" width="269" /> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi760V7qVwDht2aSYbGrpshh_pZtIxUayA_6bGk1Narn81KxWrU4oPEmuEoLciZdIkJraE52kVSq2wLwN-GHR85f5MBCQF4_u2prxfEif6AqjCM_GfD3CjIPBDPXnjqNWHx92EqTS90gJnh/s2048/IMG_20180607_131921.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi760V7qVwDht2aSYbGrpshh_pZtIxUayA_6bGk1Narn81KxWrU4oPEmuEoLciZdIkJraE52kVSq2wLwN-GHR85f5MBCQF4_u2prxfEif6AqjCM_GfD3CjIPBDPXnjqNWHx92EqTS90gJnh/w267-h356/IMG_20180607_131921.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><br /><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">For everything this path and this area have to offer, the most amazing thing might be what is most easily overlooked.<br />For 15 kilometers the glassy, gentle waters of the Jikka-segi canal flow perfectly unimpeded. Remember that thing about the land here being flat? That's no figure of speech. From the beginning of this waterway to the end - over the course of nine miles, along a path that follows the almost imperceptible contours of the terrain - there is a vertical change of five meters. <b>Five meters!</b> Good grief, there are pool tables that aren't that flat. I should know, growing up I had one in my basement.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaWChKuB2P_XJeDxKLS6pm-bvMPgjUiwZRr_kKTtNX-ZbNKO21o70Ue7OBwqjnDXMywCHstV-OhNwZ_WFDLBf0rD7U5_F-1w9KY-2X6ITfki_I6bgnP8mx1r1YEGDdJ8Pk07-9ZPYwckdK/s2048/IMG_20180607_101801.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="467" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaWChKuB2P_XJeDxKLS6pm-bvMPgjUiwZRr_kKTtNX-ZbNKO21o70Ue7OBwqjnDXMywCHstV-OhNwZ_WFDLBf0rD7U5_F-1w9KY-2X6ITfki_I6bgnP8mx1r1YEGDdJ8Pk07-9ZPYwckdK/w622-h467/IMG_20180607_101801.jpg" width="622" /></a></div><br /><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The bike path itself is not quite that level all the way. Here and there it ducks through underpasses and crosses over the water. But still, the Azumino-Yamabiko Cycling Road may be the smoothest, flattest fifteen kilometers this side of California's salt flats.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Let me know if you want to check it out. I'm always up for a ride. On the off-chance I'm busy try shooting John an e-mail.</span></p></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-82732188975490876942021-03-07T07:59:02.275-08:002022-02-06T15:42:21.659-08:00Back Roads, Bike Paths & Quiet Surprises: Cycling (or Driving) Japan's Noto Peninsula<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitEtagrzB4tNeu8gPHtN2riiEQaMrDK_o3zthw8sCKApVz-yxxcNpK7XeGHIhbS-4gGZWHyS6yzjjA6d2HvDHMFyDu9BHhCcXmjNdZKQfp37kJbKXEPHsz8U1EDEuOMDDZ2_W76JTNqDfwAJcgcMYJOHSXlFeS8sZRUwrz0K4Ey0PJ3JuQst3zTJmS8Q=s4078" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2274" data-original-width="4078" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitEtagrzB4tNeu8gPHtN2riiEQaMrDK_o3zthw8sCKApVz-yxxcNpK7XeGHIhbS-4gGZWHyS6yzjjA6d2HvDHMFyDu9BHhCcXmjNdZKQfp37kJbKXEPHsz8U1EDEuOMDDZ2_W76JTNqDfwAJcgcMYJOHSXlFeS8sZRUwrz0K4Ey0PJ3JuQst3zTJmS8Q=w640-h356" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Noto Peninsula is a curious place. Found midway along the western coast of Honshu, i</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">t sticks out into the Sea of Japan like the thumb of a hitchhiker trying to escape the shadow of the continent</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">. Off the long arc of its eastern shore lies Toyama Bay which, at 1,000 meters deep, hosts an almost unimaginable variety of marine life. The shores exposed for eons to the winds and sands of far-off Siberia are marked by</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> weather-worn cliffs and rock formations only Nature could dream up</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Temples sit quietly in the skirts of the forested mountains, as they have for over 1,000 years. Farms and rice fields conform to the contours of the thick green land. Coastal villages wear clothes that only time and the elements can provide.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">All this, and nobody ever comes here.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYyv74TBjfS8lt0fvgDmVBWPF20A1QEDLAbs_4V12e09ClwBZCjaaIavK48J38nCZ_-c_xIU71TAHYqHMfxxtLhasRzUXj1cgUHtmHYNn-ZwWX3x2KtdcZy_KR5fq6fXKh0wNF2dvzY-2CciOteV4ZREfjZnPCHHWj-ynz5di-Hv5xPoOewiA7qdIW9g=s4159" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2427" data-original-width="4159" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYyv74TBjfS8lt0fvgDmVBWPF20A1QEDLAbs_4V12e09ClwBZCjaaIavK48J38nCZ_-c_xIU71TAHYqHMfxxtLhasRzUXj1cgUHtmHYNn-ZwWX3x2KtdcZy_KR5fq6fXKh0wNF2dvzY-2CciOteV4ZREfjZnPCHHWj-ynz5di-Hv5xPoOewiA7qdIW9g=w640-h374" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><p>Okay that’s not entirely true. Tour buses do rumble along the interior, blowing past the soul of the region up to a stretch of tourism standards along the northern coast and down to the hot springs of Wakura. Both are worthy stops on any trip to this haven at the edge of Japan. But beyond these trampled grounds lies that proverbial unbeaten path to
the stereo-mythical "real Japan" that some, perhaps, are still searching for.</p></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Today we're going to find it.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVc4ziRLEquxkS8CZkg2xK4_DSXLVisCKdxWL9k8W_bJ4KLVNzAqI2J_h6tenJiPSyWT7dy0m_aRfxiI1iGRwYGQW_b1ZTAtwo9Tr3KBqYQHQFLPOxKsci6Y5m4sRX4cA40aSgrQ0gmlanVLJbOYO0xqINW7oFxy1ZES-1R0y4LdneZ__AdgeV-HxKgg=s3901" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2392" data-original-width="3901" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVc4ziRLEquxkS8CZkg2xK4_DSXLVisCKdxWL9k8W_bJ4KLVNzAqI2J_h6tenJiPSyWT7dy0m_aRfxiI1iGRwYGQW_b1ZTAtwo9Tr3KBqYQHQFLPOxKsci6Y5m4sRX4cA40aSgrQ0gmlanVLJbOYO0xqINW7oFxy1ZES-1R0y4LdneZ__AdgeV-HxKgg=w640-h392" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi08lg7E35TfJ1yCQAUOCvUy0rCG-oQhqlVgjR1CEOPapfUkthefcW24PrF1ogenO8qnrfzqk8AlHUYLPYHVL5p983mhhsfDWDua4A9o_jWqNmVolMLimTKVq2F-4asnY4LgltJcDTZQXdwa4BcVC9-ve1_Tjq2hxPSFetcjyrGt-Mehhn5zy8JHA1JuQ=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi08lg7E35TfJ1yCQAUOCvUy0rCG-oQhqlVgjR1CEOPapfUkthefcW24PrF1ogenO8qnrfzqk8AlHUYLPYHVL5p983mhhsfDWDua4A9o_jWqNmVolMLimTKVq2F-4asnY4LgltJcDTZQXdwa4BcVC9-ve1_Tjq2hxPSFetcjyrGt-Mehhn5zy8JHA1JuQ=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqYbtO9faTI19W3hDGNTGszm0tk9kGSpX4OydAhP6Vrfpp6CwOUUN9E0mKjHI_HdTE-u3T5JXY6_SVUebQQhqOvHgVhe0hLJBIl9W8KcJiZxndCgKWnfkigFFR97Evl1XxEWNMT9U1i-Vj2vUozYrf4PSQTz_Ge2dF7eXXsfnTfOfClSpM0p9HXXJNFA=s4144" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="4144" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqYbtO9faTI19W3hDGNTGszm0tk9kGSpX4OydAhP6Vrfpp6CwOUUN9E0mKjHI_HdTE-u3T5JXY6_SVUebQQhqOvHgVhe0hLJBIl9W8KcJiZxndCgKWnfkigFFR97Evl1XxEWNMT9U1i-Vj2vUozYrf4PSQTz_Ge2dF7eXXsfnTfOfClSpM0p9HXXJNFA=w640-h378" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSVaD7afNwkrpfl6sHpO9piSUov9DxSxIZJegZuzbCfHbMW0xOCK8SEDopf4izoUQUmesUG-CXpRAS9-ykbFuNvElese9NAZXbWb0wf-nBHApo8AZQrkCWSnffl-jCq9ka75KcrcTtMKsepJdqTvqZIIQeLBmYqUy7ZiR5i4zRjZjVkUzJir1seLhZbA=s639" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="639" height="414" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSVaD7afNwkrpfl6sHpO9piSUov9DxSxIZJegZuzbCfHbMW0xOCK8SEDopf4izoUQUmesUG-CXpRAS9-ykbFuNvElese9NAZXbWb0wf-nBHApo8AZQrkCWSnffl-jCq9ka75KcrcTtMKsepJdqTvqZIIQeLBmYqUy7ZiR5i4zRjZjVkUzJir1seLhZbA=w640-h414" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b>Kanazawa, Gateway to Noto</b></h2><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: normal;">The city of Kanazawa is a great jumping off point for the peninsula. Center of power for <a href="https://www.ishikawatravel.jp/en/stories/samurai-art-and-culture-the-power-and-wealth-of-the-maeda-family/" target="_blank">the Maeda clan</a>, rulers of the Kaga domain during the Edo Era, Kanazawa plays host to Kenroku-en, one of Japan's most beautiful gardens. Nearby you'll find the expansive Kanazawa Castle grounds, encircled by stone walls from centuries past and lorded over by a stately array of castle towers and gates. Add to this the bustling and aromatic Omicho fish market, the narrow stone streets of the Nagamachi Samurai District, and an early morning stroll through the <a href="https://kevinkatoendeavors-japan.blogspot.com/2020/09/higashi-chaya-gai-cultural-standout.html" target="_blank">Higashi-chayaTeahouse District</a> and you may, for a while, forget all about Noto.</span></p></span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNv5vqUA04pZgJVzrHAjI8BHpt7TPdMYquUPQQbIvwds1-bkW-7cApltWw9oPExhrlJ-mG7NvA10TWLhAoDhUbsoMpvij8c89-Xa2tMYPvq4EodaLl-0wnTsqhbBVEKBUeJIUkCmR15vGoV1RzSDjjtMiKZW8SoVxdWTEHWAdefHwZKEqXxLJWNwibFg=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2843" data-original-width="4160" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNv5vqUA04pZgJVzrHAjI8BHpt7TPdMYquUPQQbIvwds1-bkW-7cApltWw9oPExhrlJ-mG7NvA10TWLhAoDhUbsoMpvij8c89-Xa2tMYPvq4EodaLl-0wnTsqhbBVEKBUeJIUkCmR15vGoV1RzSDjjtMiKZW8SoVxdWTEHWAdefHwZKEqXxLJWNwibFg=w640-h438" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSpqAFp6DvxEdT6cv9lRLhQ2qGshe1ELIBytCtSjDZiDRXC3nCnDNlbryyId9VrlMmXlRhckTKZfT5iYUU0WxxfL71x0CGu_zO4S9StV25RiOKdfGpIickqBaDc0r-NiItZEu9K1sIE79Lco1eES1DEHSeoEaMlQlZPs00wPeea1eJqsFtz5GH26QfYg=s639" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="292" data-original-width="639" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSpqAFp6DvxEdT6cv9lRLhQ2qGshe1ELIBytCtSjDZiDRXC3nCnDNlbryyId9VrlMmXlRhckTKZfT5iYUU0WxxfL71x0CGu_zO4S9StV25RiOKdfGpIickqBaDc0r-NiItZEu9K1sIE79Lco1eES1DEHSeoEaMlQlZPs00wPeea1eJqsFtz5GH26QfYg=w640-h292" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_qkREAm1v2ijdrrosFg0OudHHFMCCYBrUgCWqRePKZG26ntfrvaUWG6AxabgljMSSvFFSzyVJBG6CpP1BQEDZgVWFCkk9pPFBL0QHf45iQoGmGStLw9YGrUwcGRR2nu9SuNz5lm20wMYMIxY8b_UowX1uLYGyKvT_-xUsOjRcztAXsnjFRz5XGnkmww=s4065" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3049" data-original-width="4065" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_qkREAm1v2ijdrrosFg0OudHHFMCCYBrUgCWqRePKZG26ntfrvaUWG6AxabgljMSSvFFSzyVJBG6CpP1BQEDZgVWFCkk9pPFBL0QHf45iQoGmGStLw9YGrUwcGRR2nu9SuNz5lm20wMYMIxY8b_UowX1uLYGyKvT_-xUsOjRcztAXsnjFRz5XGnkmww=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIXpgjvGa7gjx6n3Y10tjLD0KWtwLwVezsk0Y_k0ITtmUJxTVfcxeSJNrf7IypF0gt66mUTI0RIouNDv6SGhLfeXEWBbM6Vj7XFjcOBos9e26IbGDzRy4VbC93JhzoGERkvDvILCqJorgxuMDIDK50pxcLAvLnmUfXQ9i1NDb2HvkHspdsVbPgpz9yoA=s4159" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2931" data-original-width="4159" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIXpgjvGa7gjx6n3Y10tjLD0KWtwLwVezsk0Y_k0ITtmUJxTVfcxeSJNrf7IypF0gt66mUTI0RIouNDv6SGhLfeXEWBbM6Vj7XFjcOBos9e26IbGDzRy4VbC93JhzoGERkvDvILCqJorgxuMDIDK50pxcLAvLnmUfXQ9i1NDb2HvkHspdsVbPgpz9yoA=w640-h452" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Take some time to get to know Kanazawa.</span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Then Get Out of Town</b></span></h2>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">There's no poo-pooing traveling to and around Noto by car. Once you get out of the Kanazawa Crush (my name for the city's congestion, hashtag it) the Noto Satoyama Kaido highway throws you into 25 miles of ocean views and harrowing truck traffic - a truly eye-opening mix. From there the speedway turns inland, and the pelagic scenery vanishes. For more ocean views and far fewer trucks hit the off ramp, hang a left on Route 249 and roll into the rural vibe.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Cycling out of Kanazawa is, for those inclined, a much more appealing proposition. The Sai River slips quietly through downtown Kanazawa, in the middle of a wide bed boasting grasslands for animals, grassy parkland for people, and one sweet, smooth bike path that leads right out of town.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYIAawlI4YjB6CZVGBa7BsDlDjMc439CXpTRshaGLA314VpjtBQhb0g1TLQX0PpX9feP7P7oKGX1D1bgpKGzhoRs6DeWFXaYni9DBAtHNCCcV0REA9DRMoboVpIuRnLxnz4dlc5p7gA4CoGrCCENCjAuyHuLQiQdYX1U7-ywqc6usL5npFvq8BK_VELg=s4153" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1222" data-original-width="4153" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYIAawlI4YjB6CZVGBa7BsDlDjMc439CXpTRshaGLA314VpjtBQhb0g1TLQX0PpX9feP7P7oKGX1D1bgpKGzhoRs6DeWFXaYni9DBAtHNCCcV0REA9DRMoboVpIuRnLxnz4dlc5p7gA4CoGrCCENCjAuyHuLQiQdYX1U7-ywqc6usL5npFvq8BK_VELg=w630-h185" width="630" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Well, almost. Beyond the path's end there is a bit of remaining</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> suburban sprawl where</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> you might get a final dose of #KanazawaCrush. But the good stuff is just ahead. Hold your breath and pedal like hell.</span></p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Or skip it all by bagging up your bike and hauling it into Kanazawa Station. Jump the first JR train for Nanao and get off at Hodatsu. From there it's a quick, easy ride to the beach.</span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Bike Tracks in the Sand</span></h2>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">In the global community, Japan offers a
thousand kinds of unique. But some spots are one-of-a-kind even in Japan. The Chirihama
Nagisa Driveway is one of them, comprised of eight kilometers of hard-packed beach that you
can cycle or drive on, sometimes right to the edge of the water.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Welcome to the Noto Peninsula!</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaVGEDSFCVfD2a8fBqtez4ziSxJLJfdibsbOz-B3kKK_wLZWILPN1CxPQoKmLJsfnfnKmrys7ngC0mhp4F9WvPrXXJjXslOlmdXocEN5qgaKSswR0ngfuBlDQ4F9M_lcAGhucIfz7KiTwX/s1600/20170510_125611.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="462" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaVGEDSFCVfD2a8fBqtez4ziSxJLJfdibsbOz-B3kKK_wLZWILPN1CxPQoKmLJsfnfnKmrys7ngC0mhp4F9WvPrXXJjXslOlmdXocEN5qgaKSswR0ngfuBlDQ4F9M_lcAGhucIfz7KiTwX/w617-h462/20170510_125611.jpg" width="617" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span><span>North of Chirihama the peninsula offers a mix of
bike paths and quiet roads that seem not to care whether you find them. Flat, narrow roads wind between the rows of salt-beaten wooden homes of innumerable fishing villages. Bike paths roll along the very edge of the land. Undulating hills lead through rough forest interrupted by fields of lettuce and cabbage and, recently, solar panels. Further on the terrain intensifies, bringing with it views that will take away whatever breath you have left after all the climbing.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiO9BSQszI98_DRLD4VzIi9hSMAiSHCK3WNlPWhhJGe8fDtgEyKUE1-OzyJNh87dUSMlTkBhf7V0sxE_psbJh_WVvlCnJpwc09qznnmEU-4c1oiy-MZ-OofRdS4x53otJlvFYqnt3D-5aIrR0ziwTmtBHje0ck_lIKz1ObYMnV3eyK57W1eD-BZFfAUtw=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2900" data-original-width="4160" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiO9BSQszI98_DRLD4VzIi9hSMAiSHCK3WNlPWhhJGe8fDtgEyKUE1-OzyJNh87dUSMlTkBhf7V0sxE_psbJh_WVvlCnJpwc09qznnmEU-4c1oiy-MZ-OofRdS4x53otJlvFYqnt3D-5aIrR0ziwTmtBHje0ck_lIKz1ObYMnV3eyK57W1eD-BZFfAUtw=w628-h438" width="628" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiucASAn9_F-HzUwmp450mB1WclY_L6BGalhiFAi8wKVDHBo0VQplAlRe2qqJDFV4Ox4qFhGH7Q9HEWAo8IxDM3EMz_7_VCcZMb52yQSELsCZ8j24liEh_TjH1gBUHAeQLUDxczX8HXw8ZO3a8yxX3g9ro9hY5EsGnovJw4f0hrH71A_7-QVfGQlhaKBg=s4159" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2509" data-original-width="4159" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiucASAn9_F-HzUwmp450mB1WclY_L6BGalhiFAi8wKVDHBo0VQplAlRe2qqJDFV4Ox4qFhGH7Q9HEWAo8IxDM3EMz_7_VCcZMb52yQSELsCZ8j24liEh_TjH1gBUHAeQLUDxczX8HXw8ZO3a8yxX3g9ro9hY5EsGnovJw4f0hrH71A_7-QVfGQlhaKBg=w630-h380" width="630" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhB3nH9wdBaQCx7m0iLgrRPbFFbVw3W2QCpmXCVtaeEswP7lEzxLUC0sPHD8UsLwLe7xiSt73ecs_T2JyHm2cBAS-hcwA1dr1VJA1Y0ATSUZtobzSXATdJxopoHlZ23W-QS2IHpeQvXXkvTvWF8dEC1jxAuOXLhYlIVcq-qGpakxm3QycB7hD8j0tHfvA=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhB3nH9wdBaQCx7m0iLgrRPbFFbVw3W2QCpmXCVtaeEswP7lEzxLUC0sPHD8UsLwLe7xiSt73ecs_T2JyHm2cBAS-hcwA1dr1VJA1Y0ATSUZtobzSXATdJxopoHlZ23W-QS2IHpeQvXXkvTvWF8dEC1jxAuOXLhYlIVcq-qGpakxm3QycB7hD8j0tHfvA=w632-h474" width="632" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4ftoacAQ6l_wvtyQuWHWqWfpUhHXrqo2tWXZNxxprBWhgWCgPDP0QLM0DbesiJ5lA_lA0f2u-qVL0Jf6jTVsXf8qbQ55-raHrEltfkqmudmQfkzQtBatbFIEe1zIlZL6cpcbjOZWTMBIccp_ci2rluyErTQFLEJRE_3-SWSVEQkgpgvlFYlRycLZTMQ=s4065" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3049" data-original-width="4065" height="477" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4ftoacAQ6l_wvtyQuWHWqWfpUhHXrqo2tWXZNxxprBWhgWCgPDP0QLM0DbesiJ5lA_lA0f2u-qVL0Jf6jTVsXf8qbQ55-raHrEltfkqmudmQfkzQtBatbFIEe1zIlZL6cpcbjOZWTMBIccp_ci2rluyErTQFLEJRE_3-SWSVEQkgpgvlFYlRycLZTMQ=w636-h477" width="636" /></a></div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiPfk4oN6EfyvI100AmMbhowylWrA3TQMqhnEO73soWwVrlPD8FtRZpIsWZvyZgkRFcYG2d2FlPBJ_NsNv-ODJoVRng3_qpTZuAoGpVM6ldPee4XjSO-0aIjhWI3bMUNQTAJ4NgQPWOCzDZj8XInnD-37BPD9OVkjwPsMuSWgUt41gJXzT_iUYmko_yxQ=s4076" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4076" data-original-width="3057" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiPfk4oN6EfyvI100AmMbhowylWrA3TQMqhnEO73soWwVrlPD8FtRZpIsWZvyZgkRFcYG2d2FlPBJ_NsNv-ODJoVRng3_qpTZuAoGpVM6ldPee4XjSO-0aIjhWI3bMUNQTAJ4NgQPWOCzDZj8XInnD-37BPD9OVkjwPsMuSWgUt41gJXzT_iUYmko_yxQ=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgbfq1fVsslg40oPiOE8DhNf6S0lnTBvDuaEAELfM7vo9am0bWS_-aQPxZ4l6nk4YDW3bA246Fn6JYu9ghDom1Q72qWfEHFTHzwZcr9BMPd3HXbsWX4pkmr9WLSJwvuG4Iq6Lihp5pmY9B-VFydoeu5lF0QngxVePXv83TcL4vlhjGdeu3KXPDRGF8UQ=s623" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="623" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgbfq1fVsslg40oPiOE8DhNf6S0lnTBvDuaEAELfM7vo9am0bWS_-aQPxZ4l6nk4YDW3bA246Fn6JYu9ghDom1Q72qWfEHFTHzwZcr9BMPd3HXbsWX4pkmr9WLSJwvuG4Iq6Lihp5pmY9B-VFydoeu5lF0QngxVePXv83TcL4vlhjGdeu3KXPDRGF8UQ=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqODuDbmlOu6Vq0-OpvlnPMwkpm2ukLrdcbAGpSf9uxIcM4IfPSnIJqbmhkxWbG_-TZxumHeYt0z_a0BS3MhfPHFpQ8l9hXGj6xdk0R0_gv81qLeTc4sgTT7KQwEOy3PWIYXMAREugDMXGcAQZbFynhbI77p7aWofMAf0Yk8mkUpXFIDKE3dCIvLKbwQ=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqODuDbmlOu6Vq0-OpvlnPMwkpm2ukLrdcbAGpSf9uxIcM4IfPSnIJqbmhkxWbG_-TZxumHeYt0z_a0BS3MhfPHFpQ8l9hXGj6xdk0R0_gv81qLeTc4sgTT7KQwEOy3PWIYXMAREugDMXGcAQZbFynhbI77p7aWofMAf0Yk8mkUpXFIDKE3dCIvLKbwQ=w637-h478" width="637" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span>Keep in mind as you take in the spectacle of the coast that additional treasures lie inland.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">An unmarked bike path at the north end of the Chirihama Sandway runs along the Satoyama Speedway, passing underneath then taking you above the trucks roaring into and out of the Noto interior. After a couple kilometers the path spits you out onto the quietude of Route 293.</span></div><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Ancient Place in a Timeless Land</b></span></h2><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Up ahead looms a massive </span><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>torii</i></b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> gate, ubiquitous symbol of the countless Shinto shrines that dot the Japanese landscape. Among the grassy nothingness, this particular torii appears to have lost its way. But down that long lonely road, through the village of Ichi-no-miya and up a short hill stands the Keta Grand Shrine, a place as attractive as it is old.</span></div><div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOFKaE-odCK2VKD6FP4etRXcUq5K1gk4oNlk4km3GMO-khEk_eTFh3r581pfyjHcyuZ1ofRbKYJJr-xTBF2zlM3RXSeCgheP9sXIq0GZ2I6GiBIaMvzKh1nN7jUVDyM8UWLH9Yg76EHTgx/s2048/IMG_20190510_100432.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="463" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOFKaE-odCK2VKD6FP4etRXcUq5K1gk4oNlk4km3GMO-khEk_eTFh3r581pfyjHcyuZ1ofRbKYJJr-xTBF2zlM3RXSeCgheP9sXIq0GZ2I6GiBIaMvzKh1nN7jUVDyM8UWLH9Yg76EHTgx/w618-h463/IMG_20190510_100432.jpg" width="618" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The earliest mention of
Keta Shrine is from a poem dated 748AD. When it was actually established is a mystery. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Behind Keta Shrine is a vast forest that no one is allowed to enter, not even Shohei Otani. Years ago, however, Emperor Hirohito said screw that and went in anyway because when people think you're a god you can pretty much do what you want.</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">To his credit he only took a few reverent steps into the woods, to leave a poem he wrote for the real gods.
(Whether his poem was any good remains unknown since no one is allowed to go read
it.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtX5BKCJpStdoHNTlzoeprodrx3axsKiRJkxPag4oNwjTP2S8ffPOwNCdejY2nh0Ity8QiMIYTallW4Id_ONzP3mHB-lX65XdZDCb9w6aDI0PzzO_NICmlqE2KOrPhbyf9mmNwuyREP9K-O3xiSAt1Eo-Q5kn68ZrzrKpd6IVEN6TTXJ-uvlLcKTZaiQ=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtX5BKCJpStdoHNTlzoeprodrx3axsKiRJkxPag4oNwjTP2S8ffPOwNCdejY2nh0Ity8QiMIYTallW4Id_ONzP3mHB-lX65XdZDCb9w6aDI0PzzO_NICmlqE2KOrPhbyf9mmNwuyREP9K-O3xiSAt1Eo-Q5kn68ZrzrKpd6IVEN6TTXJ-uvlLcKTZaiQ=w635-h476" width="635" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3QnwfHTjroRL39HzQOBz0Iqm-2B9kOFJqUV2CsPPJcRZY59hPEbd5N3xW5ApLrnK6g4eVSFdckZJgJ18kPPELe4LarNdzlt5JFkGIPGV3jEgguMitNNoinvq7xBdwQBKn5SIH_EOb4ucl/s2048/IMG_20190510_094619.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3QnwfHTjroRL39HzQOBz0Iqm-2B9kOFJqUV2CsPPJcRZY59hPEbd5N3xW5ApLrnK6g4eVSFdckZJgJ18kPPELe4LarNdzlt5JFkGIPGV3jEgguMitNNoinvq7xBdwQBKn5SIH_EOb4ucl/w621-h466/IMG_20190510_094619.jpg" width="621" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div>Occasionally in Japan you'll find bike paths that are numbered as if they were actual roads. Such is the case here, as Route 293 the road becomes Route 293 the bike path for the bulk of the ten kilometers north of Keta Shrine. From there it's a grab bag of side roads and scenery and that elusive untouched Japan. Pick a piece of pavement and see what you find.</div><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><b>Business, Buddhism & Bamboo</b></span></span></h2><div>Kuroshima is an historic merchant district preserved from the days when trade ships
circumnavigated the Japanese archipelago. Kadomike, the former home of one of
the area’s wealthiest ship owners, is open to visitors and is worth the modest price of admission.</div></span></span><p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3cwIoEQKq0QTYvG_FnkjPAzn5gOVVNlgE-zWP-SvOwZoSd935vCYTyqMe0qUMvML8kgzjrehi4yj1N4glF8isAYabjv6KjhIF-W0h5m0l2e4pSeyiGuO470QrreTOx-Cb4KsnOf8INTx5QTmdwA0ajPwxoPO_kybxeKRTxa_MTqciQRicTtvf7mNQig=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="471" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3cwIoEQKq0QTYvG_FnkjPAzn5gOVVNlgE-zWP-SvOwZoSd935vCYTyqMe0qUMvML8kgzjrehi4yj1N4glF8isAYabjv6KjhIF-W0h5m0l2e4pSeyiGuO470QrreTOx-Cb4KsnOf8INTx5QTmdwA0ajPwxoPO_kybxeKRTxa_MTqciQRicTtvf7mNQig=w627-h471" width="627" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtPOn7fgfMW4FbE7rNNaDoJG2Zqz8cxZYhnZiFLGKtCi8t0oQVZNbkye_9lYnXTYSk82-9DwT1X5b8INYK9dHVr41uuHstpc-E8D0NJt4AaVQtOE7E3sBfr3qLI7rNk3bGX2g3qGYvM1mizFCvh09P5-BWEc4dWIpbJZqzfjsABWGHEs0MVN3PuvzvtA=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtPOn7fgfMW4FbE7rNNaDoJG2Zqz8cxZYhnZiFLGKtCi8t0oQVZNbkye_9lYnXTYSk82-9DwT1X5b8INYK9dHVr41uuHstpc-E8D0NJt4AaVQtOE7E3sBfr3qLI7rNk3bGX2g3qGYvM1mizFCvh09P5-BWEc4dWIpbJZqzfjsABWGHEs0MVN3PuvzvtA=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTxc7nM3TPZcMWUMY-dbnKETAdBFTONffZsXmstcIUoeWFBXM8qEbsGW1KwsoRTNksqbF5s59GQj3z0bZdl5__HXAJlDIqzF3EW_rdlkrTaYncLoB94bMYsrbPo0wcQm4L9kphWc9s15InbcZLqXIXH9C5IC_1BmFtbxsz84rnwvRIyinjrh-tu_AIGg=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTxc7nM3TPZcMWUMY-dbnKETAdBFTONffZsXmstcIUoeWFBXM8qEbsGW1KwsoRTNksqbF5s59GQj3z0bZdl5__HXAJlDIqzF3EW_rdlkrTaYncLoB94bMYsrbPo0wcQm4L9kphWc9s15InbcZLqXIXH9C5IC_1BmFtbxsz84rnwvRIyinjrh-tu_AIGg=w627-h470" width="627" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8hPjU_8NJI3r6uSYysn5sVmBeb97Q0xPU9C9rxCMB6vmZKFfPLLrRa7AUBdvXp54xpoQQmQFod0A1i_mF5cpH-yJgYlCd_3JrjWGhIsKIuqhYGXc597gW-tV-WoD4YYpQmFdP-kUFjYg5yB_Tq-iIXGbNEIvGrOHMaYi79XEK70w7KTZldY7YcJ1N0A=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8hPjU_8NJI3r6uSYysn5sVmBeb97Q0xPU9C9rxCMB6vmZKFfPLLrRa7AUBdvXp54xpoQQmQFod0A1i_mF5cpH-yJgYlCd_3JrjWGhIsKIuqhYGXc597gW-tV-WoD4YYpQmFdP-kUFjYg5yB_Tq-iIXGbNEIvGrOHMaYi79XEK70w7KTZldY7YcJ1N0A=w631-h473" width="631" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span>Turning your front wheel inland will bring you
to <a href="https://kevinkatoendeavors-japan.blogspot.com/2020/09/soji-ji-soin-buddhism-in-noto-boondocks.html" target="_blank">Soji-ji So-in</a>, a Buddhist temple that can trace its roots back to the beginning of
the 8th</span><span> </span><span>Century. The story is a good one. The temple grounds are spectacular. Fork over the few hundred yen and check
it out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxY3ci6dr3y1bj8jLsSiPPObQ5momoQgwT5jTqG2bj3GZCBvIIo4bYB09URPKpPssPmE5mX5mZ1jX-y2NE0X9fWzTViuYOBHwTnXMcsuwNaeUpWQj1AuB0DNbBiNp8AqylaD-IzN6FBmQc/s2048/sojiji4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="457" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxY3ci6dr3y1bj8jLsSiPPObQ5momoQgwT5jTqG2bj3GZCBvIIo4bYB09URPKpPssPmE5mX5mZ1jX-y2NE0X9fWzTViuYOBHwTnXMcsuwNaeUpWQj1AuB0DNbBiNp8AqylaD-IzN6FBmQc/w608-h457/sojiji4.jpg" width="608" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The winds around Noto blow fierce,
particularly along the continent-facing northwest coast. To protect their homes from the fury of the elements the people here build bamboo fences three or four meters high.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHs4AloJcQCn0jiAiQ0rUxDdA_3-IQLbSDJTvq9ZKfSq5PhEjNe6nQbxbVBI1GAsKtigLsoo5lHDeFadyAjsxnBaWOtrbB7pg8ZW6JwReo8I-bQIShPWt9iJbs6i06EAC0_QoyLYaKKHKHHwBB-4IiWx5ryD17A4N-xWbZwNzRH23PlBT8tfOhha5plQ=s3972" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2748" data-original-width="3972" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHs4AloJcQCn0jiAiQ0rUxDdA_3-IQLbSDJTvq9ZKfSq5PhEjNe6nQbxbVBI1GAsKtigLsoo5lHDeFadyAjsxnBaWOtrbB7pg8ZW6JwReo8I-bQIShPWt9iJbs6i06EAC0_QoyLYaKKHKHHwBB-4IiWx5ryD17A4N-xWbZwNzRH23PlBT8tfOhha5plQ=w632-h436" width="632" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5qGsuuP2mLX9bwlI46awy-DDFHMPfXskOlnAh3ZChuLwpR5jslnTHuRBF3RFk1Voagy72vxbwJ31TaO9JVr020F_9vww-LMLNJFivQoLIEBYkKp1D32DM75KMZO9GDaYlCI7zq1DTQ8tx871cYcSJ9L08_QRChldCZygSKgXgeTxR4Ny4zXA7PEYesQ=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5qGsuuP2mLX9bwlI46awy-DDFHMPfXskOlnAh3ZChuLwpR5jslnTHuRBF3RFk1Voagy72vxbwJ31TaO9JVr020F_9vww-LMLNJFivQoLIEBYkKp1D32DM75KMZO9GDaYlCI7zq1DTQ8tx871cYcSJ9L08_QRChldCZygSKgXgeTxR4Ny4zXA7PEYesQ=w635-h476" width="635" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNwv5tyzHwnls6vIDQpUHW8smp2Mu2qgV1rrBY93qFDxe64PLf6fpLwh7B3tOLfyvckfnwOBzZe43Og3hEyrx4qWC9tLiMyNFd183r2hV6JGD9J0T7Aupfies6G2yxU3bLYUHddc5vY9OC6QB9S4wQkxXn6HhkgLvEs1mzKfH0yu7FnHw-lPIctap-6Q=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNwv5tyzHwnls6vIDQpUHW8smp2Mu2qgV1rrBY93qFDxe64PLf6fpLwh7B3tOLfyvckfnwOBzZe43Og3hEyrx4qWC9tLiMyNFd183r2hV6JGD9J0T7Aupfies6G2yxU3bLYUHddc5vY9OC6QB9S4wQkxXn6HhkgLvEs1mzKfH0yu7FnHw-lPIctap-6Q=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><b>The Touristed Northern Coast</b></span></span></h2><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span>Exploring Noto by bicycle takes four or five days of moderate pedaling. By car you can cover it in a day - </span><span>and come away with a bunch of pretty pictures
and no real idea of the laid-back feel of the place. Adequate for the Instagram
crowd I guess.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">But Noto's beauty is more than pixel-deep. Seeing it takes time. To this end, spending a night in Wajima is a great call, however you decide to get there.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Wajima is a fair-sized town, famed for a morning market believed to date back over a thousand years.
Kiriko Hall displays the beautiful, elaborate festival floats that are pulled
through the crowded, noisy streets on certain days in summer. A special form of
lacquerware called Wajima-nuri is a cultural treasure you can experience with your own hands. And while there are places to eat and stay scattered all over the peninsula, Wajima hosts a number of options to accommodate the crowds that tend to descend.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj72y0SElsEuhE7VS6DtjePfjW3P-nmqRN1Ir1Eacypdztmsf43JjXVN2YvBErdLRRagTkm31qQFBhdtU0asfsZJ-BNl_e6Z-Oso2_ksT4kWO5DBYzk052laZ3OxslGB6MJNO0sRD5WdJpK6db3y0EUT8Gu99da3aAqArEtlTTCQAPRCODhFEp-cF5w4Q=s4159" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2203" data-original-width="4159" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj72y0SElsEuhE7VS6DtjePfjW3P-nmqRN1Ir1Eacypdztmsf43JjXVN2YvBErdLRRagTkm31qQFBhdtU0asfsZJ-BNl_e6Z-Oso2_ksT4kWO5DBYzk052laZ3OxslGB6MJNO0sRD5WdJpK6db3y0EUT8Gu99da3aAqArEtlTTCQAPRCODhFEp-cF5w4Q=w640-h340" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUOXswnWR4HX8PWqNtqdQe6z3XPfrL4woIwO3a_bWfEj_iTCRHEb4PFauspijGAnHj8QyVRBStoCWRTQGDg7_LJF17OwUBvWZtzZuRFOPV0Ui3QTsTYYNZr22ROLAsmqQxPGKj0wCm2xGStHetQjq2Ht28IMUG3kf0DAs9PZealIIBvGEF7P5k6_eGsw=s639" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="639" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUOXswnWR4HX8PWqNtqdQe6z3XPfrL4woIwO3a_bWfEj_iTCRHEb4PFauspijGAnHj8QyVRBStoCWRTQGDg7_LJF17OwUBvWZtzZuRFOPV0Ui3QTsTYYNZr22ROLAsmqQxPGKj0wCm2xGStHetQjq2Ht28IMUG3kf0DAs9PZealIIBvGEF7P5k6_eGsw=w640-h284" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSMhuxDMowO0eBDSg-K6dpsw8cqcVWRKUDlBw8vANwt9FTVH-md-2ukK7vxaxZIJFlmIJenqmOkl8v81dT3FxJgiirQN_Xz4jnh_44J_5zkqvjO-Sw2HOo74KDsmbtVcOUhDqvdymLpUdKAeWH9zINYP7KpbdRgGbWd0kLgT4klBVc8gBm1R6VqiA41w=s639" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="329" data-original-width="639" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSMhuxDMowO0eBDSg-K6dpsw8cqcVWRKUDlBw8vANwt9FTVH-md-2ukK7vxaxZIJFlmIJenqmOkl8v81dT3FxJgiirQN_Xz4jnh_44J_5zkqvjO-Sw2HOo74KDsmbtVcOUhDqvdymLpUdKAeWH9zINYP7KpbdRgGbWd0kLgT4klBVc8gBm1R6VqiA41w=w640-h330" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhA33NBcH2blnT6oAT42ecu5pqvNRjihnqkvULnnrTdLnmqzygGEfBDnJWPdWFVknTUwvcCXKc2P93eBqVhscHgDMV0BSrl6XKCoDWWssKTgSSGdEhpPo9hefByu37WdTzM1RwkWWKF4_Oo0LKMZjeTpgfDaXlpp0sFEZ5-89SjzeXR_lsrXrfDmCPcJg=s617" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="323" data-original-width="617" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhA33NBcH2blnT6oAT42ecu5pqvNRjihnqkvULnnrTdLnmqzygGEfBDnJWPdWFVknTUwvcCXKc2P93eBqVhscHgDMV0BSrl6XKCoDWWssKTgSSGdEhpPo9hefByu37WdTzM1RwkWWKF4_Oo0LKMZjeTpgfDaXlpp0sFEZ5-89SjzeXR_lsrXrfDmCPcJg=w640-h336" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhV6qhH9WgJ_K2VAF26Orl1tKEmyvjdVhpTM0KYUN72QbYBqNRVxMQT5skLRHnqZngQenlps1Et_sNTQRwsEc_06PWGDYGnor4f1rX-kuRcXFrS2uPsebMaHB30LX3qGaUfqeUhvioW94-dPIFx2hWBGRVmRIeSzRXfkuErA4DtJWqnt7nv9QBBTG8rSg=s639" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="358" data-original-width="639" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhV6qhH9WgJ_K2VAF26Orl1tKEmyvjdVhpTM0KYUN72QbYBqNRVxMQT5skLRHnqZngQenlps1Et_sNTQRwsEc_06PWGDYGnor4f1rX-kuRcXFrS2uPsebMaHB30LX3qGaUfqeUhvioW94-dPIFx2hWBGRVmRIeSzRXfkuErA4DtJWqnt7nv9QBBTG8rSg=w640-h358" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">If you do decide to stay the night in Wajima, plan your evening around the nightly performance put on in front
of Kiriko Hall by a band of drumming, growling, shrieking ogres. Trust me on this.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span><span>East of Wajima are the terraced rice
fields of Senmaida. Imagining the work that had to go into turning this hillside into a thousand and four (someone counted) narrow, irregular-shaped steps makes cycling Noto seem like nothing.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiG31xrwH4svqzFeXmVe3t9KmkU_hANBGVNggAAXw4b1DQGHkQKcP2Kd3o12ibm6ni3H44NeOMQ6015lzGGW7POkYdwvCykmjuSXkJdddYPhgIDWemjgNen3tY25OhAJHHFYAKijNwhWWXoX6iYzf2yUD_u5xbPAX2SjTePEBDQWezUVMjZ_THJ1U-K9A=s4051" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2645" data-original-width="4051" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiG31xrwH4svqzFeXmVe3t9KmkU_hANBGVNggAAXw4b1DQGHkQKcP2Kd3o12ibm6ni3H44NeOMQ6015lzGGW7POkYdwvCykmjuSXkJdddYPhgIDWemjgNen3tY25OhAJHHFYAKijNwhWWXoX6iYzf2yUD_u5xbPAX2SjTePEBDQWezUVMjZ_THJ1U-K9A=w640-h418" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Further to the east are several “salt farms” – places where
people still practice the time-honored methods of extracting salt from sea
water by filling handmade conical baskets full of sea water and throwing it across their fields of dirt.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBm__VDCKJVSyJGu8kjiirMaF2zhd-0plUtoDH2C8eyBDVAmqi8eyF4pgdfWHsms50yJrylRTKTlIh6yUJOMg6hKjJ7Kg8lhhBm2Sau4LheSl94VryethCuODM3LSMJwELt66eccolgUSP1S-devTkBs8XQqWNlrxmCUXP7uUmMwCZ1MizaalOIKY9UQ=s4141" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2088" data-original-width="4141" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBm__VDCKJVSyJGu8kjiirMaF2zhd-0plUtoDH2C8eyBDVAmqi8eyF4pgdfWHsms50yJrylRTKTlIh6yUJOMg6hKjJ7Kg8lhhBm2Sau4LheSl94VryethCuODM3LSMJwELt66eccolgUSP1S-devTkBs8XQqWNlrxmCUXP7uUmMwCZ1MizaalOIKY9UQ=w640-h322" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><div><b>The Gentler Side of Noto</b></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>As if to punish you for all the pedaling you've already done, Noto throws this</span><span> long climb in your face.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-_vC72fSJRdt9NpILOb6Isb4j4BrykE5_VUq2-rt6Ii2G3QPxJZ2QNjNv9r4yYvehJlRv7ODByEQD1oFSUIyNwJ8kydbAfZufFb1TSm6t2G_1FK7ercXDdroH0VkkAaKhZVg0C1ejiUKeo7-R4HLfCxgJlvRUThAise9hR8vxnGGp_uvSxEb91WwIuw=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2970" data-original-width="4160" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-_vC72fSJRdt9NpILOb6Isb4j4BrykE5_VUq2-rt6Ii2G3QPxJZ2QNjNv9r4yYvehJlRv7ODByEQD1oFSUIyNwJ8kydbAfZufFb1TSm6t2G_1FK7ercXDdroH0VkkAaKhZVg0C1ejiUKeo7-R4HLfCxgJlvRUThAise9hR8vxnGGp_uvSxEb91WwIuw=w629-h448" width="629" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span></div><div>But the rise is gradual, and comes with a satisfying view of the land you’ve just conquered - and, across the street, the perfect place to refuel.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmgRanvVqXJfV7P0V7ItcVTj3ANmG4aYqvZOCrPyMY2NrfGCSM_257748m-l0Aw7gTcjUKX7k19Pcr0ASOYDCUDc1fM1yWbJAk-jwv-81kr58UjYU2GIHuqhAyMBZGOAoesyCzTI1T0RCyMVauQZsOU_RAIzufaxalMLXOAHTDWt5EJCP2nfJpyeYx4w=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="471" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmgRanvVqXJfV7P0V7ItcVTj3ANmG4aYqvZOCrPyMY2NrfGCSM_257748m-l0Aw7gTcjUKX7k19Pcr0ASOYDCUDc1fM1yWbJAk-jwv-81kr58UjYU2GIHuqhAyMBZGOAoesyCzTI1T0RCyMVauQZsOU_RAIzufaxalMLXOAHTDWt5EJCP2nfJpyeYx4w=w628-h471" width="628" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRUUIDOy9DMXw-IgNrC60pXQ-Ox9gbJOaYMSTd3FUK-q2YGYglwwx1rwXRoYfL7QepUWoRa7H6B7bQBxSXk3j7301cmw3GBLDDSI_cEUrfA-v_a2iYVb0NJKxiYmiFIEtTsnJAgTUXdwkn/s2048/IMG_20190513_114834.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="477" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRUUIDOy9DMXw-IgNrC60pXQ-Ox9gbJOaYMSTd3FUK-q2YGYglwwx1rwXRoYfL7QepUWoRa7H6B7bQBxSXk3j7301cmw3GBLDDSI_cEUrfA-v_a2iYVb0NJKxiYmiFIEtTsnJAgTUXdwkn/w635-h477/IMG_20190513_114834.jpg" width="635" /></span></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>From there it’s a
long downhill and a flat run out to the Noshiro Lighthouse at the far tip
of the peninsula. The lighthouse stands on a flat expansive hilltop, a
ten-minute walk up from the roadside Noshiro rest stop. (You’ve come this far,
why not?)</div></span></span><p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pGR4EWSA6eCBOXS83mPIFGeo4j_JS1loV4PX2LfsR7WoDtEZ6dNjFRj5mX8R3nFRjPjYNOE_zm_6rEyOws5gE4dCK_jUtz5JNRYgqzwP0O2KZS2AlTRs3-lY4hLp5y4ckbcfv5IlE2QA/s2048/IMG_20190513_130033.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="447" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pGR4EWSA6eCBOXS83mPIFGeo4j_JS1loV4PX2LfsR7WoDtEZ6dNjFRj5mX8R3nFRjPjYNOE_zm_6rEyOws5gE4dCK_jUtz5JNRYgqzwP0O2KZS2AlTRs3-lY4hLp5y4ckbcfv5IlE2QA/w596-h447/IMG_20190513_130033.jpg" width="596" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">After 100 kilometers of mountainous roads it doesn't take long to notice how flat the east coast of Noto is. If you've been cycling, the sudden absence of thigh-burning climbs may be a nice change, but the flat roads ahead lead through a land more frequented with people, cars, and towns. If the
skies are favorable you may be treated to a view of Japan’s Northern Alps,
rising stately in the distance across the waters of Toyama Bay.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwn2IXqIq6EX-sNVORlIwyHyjmN3VunjKFLZ1v9BZIgUSLDLABbV2wHaWNv8hGkD4KpL8AiuE7xXTNQ_AOtA5n7a2Md8zUjPNIsZJeYrBHDpx4MT7sXdXDq6MUoTS2bbblibmwm7O4be4Wd2iRvZ0fOMCgHz7cUPqIbJelfSb-7rVPX5c57-bNZ_YHmg=s4159" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2533" data-original-width="4159" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwn2IXqIq6EX-sNVORlIwyHyjmN3VunjKFLZ1v9BZIgUSLDLABbV2wHaWNv8hGkD4KpL8AiuE7xXTNQ_AOtA5n7a2Md8zUjPNIsZJeYrBHDpx4MT7sXdXDq6MUoTS2bbblibmwm7O4be4Wd2iRvZ0fOMCgHz7cUPqIbJelfSb-7rVPX5c57-bNZ_YHmg=w640-h390" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Pick Your Path to the Finish</b></span></h2></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Your approach to Wakura Onsen
can go one of three ways. The quickest and least interesting is to follow Route 249 along the peninsular coast and around the bay that Wakura looks out on. Much more scenic is the ride over Noto's Twin Bridge to Noto Island. As you near the far side look out over the tall trees to the right; there is often a flock of white herons scattered among the treetops screeching at each other or maybe the people on the bridge taking their picture.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAPOA9cXvvF_4X_A7FrVfIhiICvkd4QeYKTdZNuEyHbKxaeXeqoSfWR1gQu2kCgTwB-R0SqUlbO_DNB7qH8h6bJWJi9A99w0kVbaKshfg1k2M6QRI_6mwHGrN1_7rYDgMh5ZoVi_bG5h7z6R9OsAJP8IyaQTKo-Eq-oQL56Gl42AGAOvFHof_bwMbSLA=s4016" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2587" data-original-width="4016" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAPOA9cXvvF_4X_A7FrVfIhiICvkd4QeYKTdZNuEyHbKxaeXeqoSfWR1gQu2kCgTwB-R0SqUlbO_DNB7qH8h6bJWJi9A99w0kVbaKshfg1k2M6QRI_6mwHGrN1_7rYDgMh5ZoVi_bG5h7z6R9OsAJP8IyaQTKo-Eq-oQL56Gl42AGAOvFHof_bwMbSLA=w624-h402" width="624" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Once on Noto Island you can roll straight down to the Noto Ohashi Bridge and cross back over to the mainland. From there Wakura is mere minutes away. The extremely energetic can tack on a circuit of Noto Island before crossing the Ohashi Bridge; the so-called sights are few, but that may be the point. Plus there's an island feel to the place that sets it apart from the peninsula in some abstract sense. That's what I get anyway. Your mileage along these extra thirty kilometers may vary. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0HhfOFEG9iGITr0F76s-ZG1ScNtR-QYx-S-t3KWGzzE3qi7OxWHG1OCm9HFmAgDs66p6xPvpS5DW0NEWIQ_g5Dxo3duaTcjPP7nVf-7DDLYJ2LslB3Oiyj1xvZIGeOxyOXAvRADe-mjDeTmgzRLvhslse7-mIELf2KrEX8Mv2KXFAtpDWF4guZgxPDQ=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0HhfOFEG9iGITr0F76s-ZG1ScNtR-QYx-S-t3KWGzzE3qi7OxWHG1OCm9HFmAgDs66p6xPvpS5DW0NEWIQ_g5Dxo3duaTcjPP7nVf-7DDLYJ2LslB3Oiyj1xvZIGeOxyOXAvRADe-mjDeTmgzRLvhslse7-mIELf2KrEX8Mv2KXFAtpDWF4guZgxPDQ=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span>Completing the island circuit it's back across the water to Wakura.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdzqhUErkdVRsxJQJu8OFZcdIgHhpsNx0-50WfOjgMLI5RChyyXEpxgEDKctkGusZDPcnkoLCOEqVakIt6_cL5Ia0rpVO8lPqhnTPQcHyb2ak505BU88vtt10Pf1EkUInoJrkx4yE5p2oSGK_co8EfEBhh7fqsVyOsRU471APA9Ea5oxWg1-CTNHC-yw=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="467" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdzqhUErkdVRsxJQJu8OFZcdIgHhpsNx0-50WfOjgMLI5RChyyXEpxgEDKctkGusZDPcnkoLCOEqVakIt6_cL5Ia0rpVO8lPqhnTPQcHyb2ak505BU88vtt10Pf1EkUInoJrkx4yE5p2oSGK_co8EfEBhh7fqsVyOsRU471APA9Ea5oxWg1-CTNHC-yw=w623-h467" width="623" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhXySp-DMs4GnWzr7Ld25vA0hcjeAHSKYXC5IMGYX6xha4b6vIRwK9i1db7x6rCV8i9zkdxP6LYIhsPaydmDUI7PdPy5JljoKnoGFa38bwbmOP-10vylyOi5liw7pg6TEPSSRjGQp26-3zn0AgCSVwj3pgzDLj5KznEozCEUJ8zR0ZLyOt9FJtrq9MFLA=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhXySp-DMs4GnWzr7Ld25vA0hcjeAHSKYXC5IMGYX6xha4b6vIRwK9i1db7x6rCV8i9zkdxP6LYIhsPaydmDUI7PdPy5JljoKnoGFa38bwbmOP-10vylyOi5liw7pg6TEPSSRjGQp26-3zn0AgCSVwj3pgzDLj5KznEozCEUJ8zR0ZLyOt9FJtrq9MFLA=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span></span></div><div>And in Wakura is where our tour ends, because this hot spring town is as far as I've cycled on Noto and I have an aversion to talking about places I've never been. I do know the train out of Wakura will take you back to Kanazawa. I also know of a campground further south along Noto's east coast. I've camped there with my family. It's not real clean, but it's cheap and right on the beach.</div></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span>Keep riding south and you'll wind up in the city of Toyama, your gateway to further adventures on this big beguiling island of Honshu.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">People do go to Noto. But with most of them sticking to Wajima's north coast neighborhood and the hot spring town of Wakura, the rest of the peninsula remains largely left to the few who, by car or by bicycle, take those quiet side roads leading to some exquisite natural and cultural treasures - including that gem called the real Japan.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJxDQIy6bqWjek7w1luouk6qXYy5X6auyuRViGAXU9vI9cwpwYktk4EvdLdf45dUaLBwhr9zyvXDPNNRJEpYkzldRwhPm4iy2veq5IHA249WgGeImdrNBb2tnsid597gj4eos-D8jnY_At4v2-k74jSs8T7HxNqLk8hLYvd0Msp9lDt2XjkDCWCLCNvQ=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJxDQIy6bqWjek7w1luouk6qXYy5X6auyuRViGAXU9vI9cwpwYktk4EvdLdf45dUaLBwhr9zyvXDPNNRJEpYkzldRwhPm4iy2veq5IHA249WgGeImdrNBb2tnsid597gj4eos-D8jnY_At4v2-k74jSs8T7HxNqLk8hLYvd0Msp9lDt2XjkDCWCLCNvQ=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-69478689410962175932021-02-27T16:45:00.004-08:002021-02-27T16:46:42.869-08:00Hiking Slovenia's Uršlja Gora<h2 style="text-align: left;"> Mid-sized Mountain. Dubious Legend. Misplaced Church.</h2><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr3swM04VlM8NhWyHVg4f0N2MWeMIwguvblKrIAdVnM_lClLOVaCXo9hA01gFfBq5lD6VBPJQb_t8iE0CLrnkQGOW_KtirN5XsJyzS4grfn33vgBaCdenzqZH4mDMkc_4zIUZce5_Ig0k/s2571/DSC06327+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="2571" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr3swM04VlM8NhWyHVg4f0N2MWeMIwguvblKrIAdVnM_lClLOVaCXo9hA01gFfBq5lD6VBPJQb_t8iE0CLrnkQGOW_KtirN5XsJyzS4grfn33vgBaCdenzqZH4mDMkc_4zIUZce5_Ig0k/w635-h295/DSC06327+%25282%2529.JPG" width="635" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Pop Quiz: Upon hearing the name Slovenia, most people think of:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal"></p><ol><li><span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">Famed Slovene architect </span><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202122; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><a href="https://www.inyourpocket.com/ljubljana/joze-plecnik-the-man-who-built-ljubljana_73948f" target="_blank">Jože Plečnik</a>.</span></span></li><li><span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-size: medium;"><span class="searchmatch"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202122; font-family: Georgia, serif;">Maribor’s </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202124; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><a href="https://vinepair.com/wine-blog/this-grapevine-has-been-around-for-nearly-500-years/" target="_blank">Žametovka trta</a>, the world’s oldest known grape-producing vine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></li><li><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #cccccc; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; background: rgb(204, 204, 204); color: #202124; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.letsgoslovenia.si/predjama-castle-slovenia/" target="_blank">Predjamski grad</a><span>, the 12th Century castle built right into a karst cave.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #cccccc; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; background: rgb(204, 204, 204); color: #202124; font-family: Georgia, serif;">Nothing. Because that’s what most people know about Slovenia.</span></span></li></ol><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;">I too would likely know nothing of this European garden if not for my dear friend Damjan. My wife, wholly incapable of wasting an opportunity to make a new friend, was the one who met him first, on a day tour to a glacier in Iceland in 2001. She'd later tell me about "the guy who keeps sending me travel brochures".<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;">She'd also keep suggesting we visit him in Slovenia someday, and in 2007, thanks to Japan’s generous maternity leave policies, we did. (In this I can claim some credit.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnQWv580yyzPUT_TfiEFGPSt8HhjFeDFvILLPODz_mzuvA2zJBeLvXdq1fsCbqbBtn3vAqKQkd1NujhbjUmmo5bCT-WLOCxNZ8SA4tMfU94QqLpUWZZc7WhtRGS8_a75vkBaUE7nVp03w/s2048/DSC06248.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnQWv580yyzPUT_TfiEFGPSt8HhjFeDFvILLPODz_mzuvA2zJBeLvXdq1fsCbqbBtn3vAqKQkd1NujhbjUmmo5bCT-WLOCxNZ8SA4tMfU94QqLpUWZZc7WhtRGS8_a75vkBaUE7nVp03w/w639-h480/DSC06248.JPG" width="639" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><h2 style="clear: both; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: large;">Lay of the Land</span></h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Slovenia covers an area a few shopping malls larger than New Jersey. More than one-third of the country enjoys protected natural area status. A full half lies covered in forest. It’s nearly impossible to visit Slovenia without getting lost in some of it. Fortunately, this playground is home to just three kinds of poisonous snakes.</span></div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Mountains</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">also make up a respectable percentage of the land within Slovenia's borders. The largest and highest ranges spill in from the Alps to the northwest. Across the northern half of the country the lines of peaks run increasingly lower until they disappear altogether in the east where, as they say, the biggest hill is a cabbage.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Damjan lived on the south side of the Karavanke range, which runs along the Austrian-Slovenian border. We'd been staying in his apartment on and off for six months when he decided to invite us on a hike.<span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">He'd waited until the mountains were covered in snow - a ploy, perhaps, designed to compel us to pack up and leave</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Our day trip to </span><span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, serif; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Uršlja gora</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">only made me want to stay longer.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLyc65GQe8lL4Csd392ai4Xf15LcEBXI-nvy2o6Atc2P-SPsBX1wtxsH3ho5k3aASzgfsz5AEBMG0KxThtgEr6xaKqOQAJstEvv7YOw4GuOhQOivwyIlUh53areqd6hoLc_dw2c0cjYcg/s2048/DSC06253.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1438" data-original-width="2048" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLyc65GQe8lL4Csd392ai4Xf15LcEBXI-nvy2o6Atc2P-SPsBX1wtxsH3ho5k3aASzgfsz5AEBMG0KxThtgEr6xaKqOQAJstEvv7YOw4GuOhQOivwyIlUh53areqd6hoLc_dw2c0cjYcg/w636-h446/DSC06253.JPG" width="636" /></a></div><h2><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: large;">What's in a Name?</span></h2><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">The name<span style="background-color: #cccccc;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #cccccc; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; background: rgb(204, 204, 204); font-family: Georgia, serif; letter-spacing: 0.15pt;">Uršlja gora</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: #cccccc;"> </span>refers to (1) a mountain, (2) the town spread thin over the northern slope, and (3) the church near the top of the mountain. It is at once amusing and bewildering that the</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: #cccccc;"> church </span></span><span style="background-color: #cccccc;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: Georgia, serif; letter-spacing: 0.15pt;">Uršlja gora sits on the south side of the summit </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Uršlja gora,</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"> placing it</span><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: Georgia, serif; letter-spacing: 0.15pt;"> outside the boundaries of the town </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Uršlja gora.</span></span><span> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">All of it is named after St. Ursula, who comes with her own dose of confusion.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivrPJaFEHjUyWYq5qwhlWxK62eXtur7cjhAXFca9v0uxrvYF2JnF6T-4Yh6_11vxcXuwFNHRGsN1CqUKvPGBGZZD3-UONYtlH82S-gOldRPxjnhWES6dMrmLfg-jqXf-SeQAnyPWmPOH4/s2048/DSC06242.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="515" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivrPJaFEHjUyWYq5qwhlWxK62eXtur7cjhAXFca9v0uxrvYF2JnF6T-4Yh6_11vxcXuwFNHRGsN1CqUKvPGBGZZD3-UONYtlH82S-gOldRPxjnhWES6dMrmLfg-jqXf-SeQAnyPWmPOH4/w386-h515/DSC06242.JPG" width="386" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Named for the Latin for ‘Little Bear’, little Ursula is the center of a legend that, like any good legend, is at best scantily-clad in truth. According to the tales told with innumerable differing details, Ursula set sail from her father’s 4th Century domain of Dumnonia (present-day southern England) to go marry the pagan ruler of Brittany (now northwest France). She was, depending on who you believe, accompanied by two virgins, or eleven thousand, or somewhere in between. When her ship was blown off course she did the only logical thing: she walked across Europe and down to Rome to hang with the pope. After tea they set off for Cologne (why not?) and on the way met a band of Huns who did the only thing they knew how and beheaded the lot of them. Naturally, it should follow that a group of Caribbean islands would be named after free-wheeling Ursula, along with this mountain in northern Slovenia, in its own right a challenge to get straight.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;">This area of Slovenia – all of Slovenia, pretty much – was for a time a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Home to both German and Slovene speakers, many places had and still have, after more than a century since the Slovenes broke form their white-wigged oppressors, both Slovene and German names. Thus<span style="background-color: #cccccc;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #cccccc; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; background: rgb(204, 204, 204); font-family: Georgia, serif; letter-spacing: 0.15pt;">Uršlja gora</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Georgia",serif;"> is also known by its German name, Ursulaberg. To round out the mess, the mountain is also referred to<span style="background-color: #cccccc;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #cccccc; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; background: rgb(204, 204, 204); color: #202122; font-family: Georgia, serif;">Plešivec, meaning 'the bald one' - which could just as well mean Damjan.</span></span><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxYVn9rWhjF91xYiAcfVroW5I1MCmdzGjUiUsEL2ZBoTSm1j1GiKN5qpK84bNSbUSxtyKVoJ6dDdlMwircgdmoEeW-OjRmbGihh-ZF-7T5JVUE6_hg0uc2Up0BH9VYmwpKuzyAvcrhZs/s2048/DSC06263+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1149" data-original-width="2048" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxYVn9rWhjF91xYiAcfVroW5I1MCmdzGjUiUsEL2ZBoTSm1j1GiKN5qpK84bNSbUSxtyKVoJ6dDdlMwircgdmoEeW-OjRmbGihh-ZF-7T5JVUE6_hg0uc2Up0BH9VYmwpKuzyAvcrhZs/w627-h352/DSC06263+%25282%2529.JPG" width="627" /></a></div><h2><span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">The Hike</span></h2><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">1,699-meter Uršlja gora ranks just thirty-fourth on the list of Slovenia's highest peaks. It is almost a full hundred meters shorter than number thirty-three, a mountain called</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;"> </span><span style="color: #202122;"><span>Snežnik. ("Na zdravje.") The modest vertical and the attendant short trail translates into an easy three-hour ascent.</span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1uk0J7eaRpHxNZf4vV8Adfeb8FoIgEscNBElcD5ac0qZ_H5BDkiMzduSAHrOtTwTYgoygG7n3ZaxATofhRHW-VluunTxajgbEDM5LODfKFPhL6TaVoVh8UGGOnYGosd5PiPIr-GmGuoA/s2048/DSC06295+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1386" data-original-width="2048" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1uk0J7eaRpHxNZf4vV8Adfeb8FoIgEscNBElcD5ac0qZ_H5BDkiMzduSAHrOtTwTYgoygG7n3ZaxATofhRHW-VluunTxajgbEDM5LODfKFPhL6TaVoVh8UGGOnYGosd5PiPIr-GmGuoA/w631-h428/DSC06295+%25282%2529.JPG" width="631" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqYLLYnPp7P969t57Al8i17NPmPyBzsx79ThEnhva_5qmTn5ukShzByMcLD90knDYoA-kyKgO61lXOAEzgMTZi_6yt8drEntge3BVkyKLf7GeMIj09O7zKe1ZWMrqqanuFC167Swpg3mI/s2048/DSC06277.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="471" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqYLLYnPp7P969t57Al8i17NPmPyBzsx79ThEnhva_5qmTn5ukShzByMcLD90knDYoA-kyKgO61lXOAEzgMTZi_6yt8drEntge3BVkyKLf7GeMIj09O7zKe1ZWMrqqanuFC167Swpg3mI/w628-h471/DSC06277.JPG" width="628" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCwpPDONwTPQ1miBf-f3EtgaG2dVEflVOvd3X0ceM-C1wzW03BKiGxCI5fxYL8gpowV-HEOo5eVOraVmDusfA78uYEiMDcsoMVywKvasF1Uhnnyq30sLHfaPwgX_k6v2K-f4sBRsnjWY/s2048/DSC06273.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="469" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCwpPDONwTPQ1miBf-f3EtgaG2dVEflVOvd3X0ceM-C1wzW03BKiGxCI5fxYL8gpowV-HEOo5eVOraVmDusfA78uYEiMDcsoMVywKvasF1Uhnnyq30sLHfaPwgX_k6v2K-f4sBRsnjWY/w626-h469/DSC06273.JPG" width="626" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: #cccccc; color: #202122;">As you approach the upper reaches the forest falls away, leaving you to gaze across at a good number of Slovenia's thirty-odd other taller peaks.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNw3qDawDt1wsK5j2L2lYdxij5ZE2j54ZK7y2IQRdkmxQOA0FepNfnu6iD0h7YZkYq9L5vB2lAvs5tvnbVOxlmtmPY_5UC_KEscjA-7Xi3zbUH5XrHbdNQnnucTT-68lf8SyPhQps5slE/s2048/DSC06328.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="471" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNw3qDawDt1wsK5j2L2lYdxij5ZE2j54ZK7y2IQRdkmxQOA0FepNfnu6iD0h7YZkYq9L5vB2lAvs5tvnbVOxlmtmPY_5UC_KEscjA-7Xi3zbUH5XrHbdNQnnucTT-68lf8SyPhQps5slE/w628-h471/DSC06328.JPG" width="628" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1YP3w3urEIyF4hLfRlECuWT-IE7Vk_Mcf2fVPIX6Jz1Qs4oBMiCqLzzreVJRJi8fQ1xGKQ4T769B1BvYxPLhDjosXF8gfKVD_ZHr0gHDwBWLUVGQxBErJuHHyiFmvjujDJXO4FhvRV4/s2048/DSC06317.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1376" data-original-width="2048" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1YP3w3urEIyF4hLfRlECuWT-IE7Vk_Mcf2fVPIX6Jz1Qs4oBMiCqLzzreVJRJi8fQ1xGKQ4T769B1BvYxPLhDjosXF8gfKVD_ZHr0gHDwBWLUVGQxBErJuHHyiFmvjujDJXO4FhvRV4/w632-h424/DSC06317.JPG" width="632" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI5AMdNTBgFLrXOTUgyW4_Q7VW7RquCc224idJj612TCyV1NrhsPqBiKtGEZnphKvw99AafaIwNfpnvDgJ0pv7USbUQQAdhAJ7bP3VK5Mv7NG-FNIikDnwIuzLXhNZYaFRo6gEwJU7FrQ/s2048/DSC06335+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="2048" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI5AMdNTBgFLrXOTUgyW4_Q7VW7RquCc224idJj612TCyV1NrhsPqBiKtGEZnphKvw99AafaIwNfpnvDgJ0pv7USbUQQAdhAJ7bP3VK5Mv7NG-FNIikDnwIuzLXhNZYaFRo6gEwJU7FrQ/w631-h347/DSC06335+%25282%2529.JPG" width="631" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The Church of St. Ursula seems quite out of place up near the summit. It's hard enough to get people to go to Sunday Mass at the cathedral in downtown Ljubljana.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDhqkHlwJ5EVQqmtkwpHNP4iP_shG-fzjSPlMFWNV29Sm4g4A8ei84W3t8stPkTq0wuHNwyvyqBWXDejFqcbYqUN2s8A9eotXO_8DQkh3u9jY3ylgcbAoMvKtxyT1cpq1yGY0CItMeU4w/s2048/DSC06308.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDhqkHlwJ5EVQqmtkwpHNP4iP_shG-fzjSPlMFWNV29Sm4g4A8ei84W3t8stPkTq0wuHNwyvyqBWXDejFqcbYqUN2s8A9eotXO_8DQkh3u9jY3ylgcbAoMvKtxyT1cpq1yGY0CItMeU4w/w624-h468/DSC06308.JPG" width="624" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The actual high point of the summit is also marked with a sign of God.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFze8OGccb8rqsU1lK9PwnkYgH7zmAGES0qzdSGFWQhTZ9o3mzk_WFuMxKipsY8M_PbLRLeNmXBebWq0yP-LRxGWhuu9UcEYbeXBgCrFlFmS4S7hh7Nw2TB-rIV17Jz7fXyhZViwgoF0M/s2048/DSC06346.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFze8OGccb8rqsU1lK9PwnkYgH7zmAGES0qzdSGFWQhTZ9o3mzk_WFuMxKipsY8M_PbLRLeNmXBebWq0yP-LRxGWhuu9UcEYbeXBgCrFlFmS4S7hh7Nw2TB-rIV17Jz7fXyhZViwgoF0M/w623-h468/DSC06346.JPG" width="623" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As if there weren't enough reminders around.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX_vWV9PPJRQxcX1zVzXehSaR_8w1YaNHLkEK32Lm_xzWfDQ4xYC43owR229L18S3VRZoAPQ0WPu50vhQJfunV_3MpSjyNA5gZZNr85BhsWrnI7aicxtJ4yhyphenhyphenwQ1Mt2Ntoy4aEf0iaLRo/s2048/DSC06321+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="462" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX_vWV9PPJRQxcX1zVzXehSaR_8w1YaNHLkEK32Lm_xzWfDQ4xYC43owR229L18S3VRZoAPQ0WPu50vhQJfunV_3MpSjyNA5gZZNr85BhsWrnI7aicxtJ4yhyphenhyphenwQ1Mt2Ntoy4aEf0iaLRo/w617-h462/DSC06321+%25282%2529.JPG" width="617" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbTkOdPP5ogErK83XuZYD4qwJP7kK8qSQI9gVA5TyfHmK6jyMW2xTXQssdbsolmKGUJVgLwMqrVBpUkEkCF0yCHCqtBeQ6Tj1CpOMUfQB22h8u9WrlE0vUt2FpkQIXt2SWxdms07_syXE/s2048/DSC06324.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="459" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbTkOdPP5ogErK83XuZYD4qwJP7kK8qSQI9gVA5TyfHmK6jyMW2xTXQssdbsolmKGUJVgLwMqrVBpUkEkCF0yCHCqtBeQ6Tj1CpOMUfQB22h8u9WrlE0vUt2FpkQIXt2SWxdms07_syXE/w611-h459/DSC06324.JPG" width="611" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMuVg861DOXxdKbuz3NNaoW8g1_gT-n1nUUeHq5KL_s4issaSOcQiB-f6Nb5yA42HQcuS3uLK4TgYnzb1YYrNLWo4VIj7OSuJHm6D4yv5dEoPc8u3CR7R0j7AyrqJPGRD9-tsjNlpM_pU/s2048/DSC06278.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="459" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMuVg861DOXxdKbuz3NNaoW8g1_gT-n1nUUeHq5KL_s4issaSOcQiB-f6Nb5yA42HQcuS3uLK4TgYnzb1YYrNLWo4VIj7OSuJHm6D4yv5dEoPc8u3CR7R0j7AyrqJPGRD9-tsjNlpM_pU/w612-h459/DSC06278.JPG" width="612" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZIWg-l_7CUWYpssJpuc5fCuCcZS0f_M0KoyxuqS_-oS374Xs5bmPu9C0xtOC3m_L5h5t55iMe-LUkEpfB3Ss3D-w2sOAdpEnW5XRAOipBuAfe607qz917-eGacGIds6x9cwc8QmpUc-U/s2557/DSC06349+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="2557" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZIWg-l_7CUWYpssJpuc5fCuCcZS0f_M0KoyxuqS_-oS374Xs5bmPu9C0xtOC3m_L5h5t55iMe-LUkEpfB3Ss3D-w2sOAdpEnW5XRAOipBuAfe607qz917-eGacGIds6x9cwc8QmpUc-U/w608-h267/DSC06349+%25282%2529.JPG" width="608" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">With some good friends, additional pleasures can come to pass as well.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0CHYHyIB10Jjr61vEFTZRt05lQiYIaw-6X4aYB_e3_eUmaUgeHi3-BISBvVvgQl1oyrmuhJnvo_48m_KNM6fkMWLubJZn5rDfP2Pq0zg_IGcGECcjVt1OYDEs9VG4NtQrbB8wOvKp8z8/s2048/DSC06351+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1264" data-original-width="2048" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0CHYHyIB10Jjr61vEFTZRt05lQiYIaw-6X4aYB_e3_eUmaUgeHi3-BISBvVvgQl1oyrmuhJnvo_48m_KNM6fkMWLubJZn5rDfP2Pq0zg_IGcGECcjVt1OYDEs9VG4NtQrbB8wOvKp8z8/w600-h371/DSC06351+%25282%2529.JPG" width="600" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96WUJ0zKC-p-OGGx59_MTmwRqofpqNPJzoO7GJqsv_XHPQgwfgtMK9cReOqnRBTpghmsy5Hfow5BIeqr9qIBOUtD5onoGRwriyOVh0HZDJ9NSfeZnqMptCWi56X5OYYktvju4aeFkBmc/s2007/DSC06375+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1351" data-original-width="2007" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96WUJ0zKC-p-OGGx59_MTmwRqofpqNPJzoO7GJqsv_XHPQgwfgtMK9cReOqnRBTpghmsy5Hfow5BIeqr9qIBOUtD5onoGRwriyOVh0HZDJ9NSfeZnqMptCWi56X5OYYktvju4aeFkBmc/w602-h404/DSC06375+%25282%2529.JPG" width="602" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8S0u-1wEQ1U4RXdWDAyKhQbboX23zwQQ92IdhpTzafeMXZDltmSOTalMgN7X1ctXismfyLrYua0fXZxgpKMXiqXCGVDXxXzbtVhhzFcpsc_o6qT9zTG0KkGirK0fkgGUUUnvMQ8y4ahQ/s2048/DSC06377.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="517" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8S0u-1wEQ1U4RXdWDAyKhQbboX23zwQQ92IdhpTzafeMXZDltmSOTalMgN7X1ctXismfyLrYua0fXZxgpKMXiqXCGVDXxXzbtVhhzFcpsc_o6qT9zTG0KkGirK0fkgGUUUnvMQ8y4ahQ/w388-h517/DSC06377.JPG" width="388" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Slovenia enjoys all the blessings that four distinct seasons bring. Thanks to our friend Damjan, my wife and I - and my son, though he may not remember - had a chance to live through three of them.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Sadly, Damjan is no longer around to show us Slovenia in Spring. But through his giving nature we are privileged to call many others in Slovenia our friends.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">As if we hadn't reason enough to want to go back. Plenty more mountains out there.</span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi77hV6EXR3ItXmKFkxAzDQrE49zivt36kqM_TqJynIyDiLxrL4MC3nn2ArSVC_LpqYDZ99CD8RGKBA4L989xrEr3t3EA7uscRBhNiFtClw1vmuSPbFSxQ9N4AZgVISvzAK7JerVS7BNJc/s2048/DSC06353.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi77hV6EXR3ItXmKFkxAzDQrE49zivt36kqM_TqJynIyDiLxrL4MC3nn2ArSVC_LpqYDZ99CD8RGKBA4L989xrEr3t3EA7uscRBhNiFtClw1vmuSPbFSxQ9N4AZgVISvzAK7JerVS7BNJc/w585-h438/DSC06353.JPG" width="585" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com02394 Uršlja Gora, Slovenia46.5113559 14.951487118.201122063821153 -20.2047629 74.821589736178851 50.1077371tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-83567096771220382802021-01-31T03:14:00.000-08:002021-01-31T03:14:01.656-08:00Kaimon-dake: Up Close & Passable<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivFxBAM19wym9xHPDpm57gifzGlbkYwkiOrjD94quxWKBFmWOwyJbgMql2G-XqPKPNDEBGfWI-XPL7keHfIRNdXdwYifA6hBCb94-C7g8GUMRmh_k3yNMM_WWRGFf5tyxTGvlBIMIcekXt/s2825/banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1113" data-original-width="2825" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivFxBAM19wym9xHPDpm57gifzGlbkYwkiOrjD94quxWKBFmWOwyJbgMql2G-XqPKPNDEBGfWI-XPL7keHfIRNdXdwYifA6hBCb94-C7g8GUMRmh_k3yNMM_WWRGFf5tyxTGvlBIMIcekXt/w638-h251/banner.jpg" width="638" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">Kaimon-dake had been high on my to-hike
list since I first cycled the Satsuma Peninsula in 2017. Under sapphire skies this
conical peak rose like a perfect Mt. Fuji, floating on the edge of the ocean at
the southwest tip of Japan, calling me in that silent language to come see
things that exist beyond words.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Now, two weeks into 2021, circumstances had brought me back to this quiet, scarcely-traveled place. I’d just finished up a three-week working vacation down on the island of Yakushima, a
mountainous place of monkeys and deer, spidery Banyan trees and gnarled, thousand-year-old
cedars, and daily rainbows that naturally occur with daily rains. As with hiking Kaimon, I had fantastic expectations for this random opportunity to travel. In Yakushima,
it can be hard to take three steps without having your breath taken away yet again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Sadly, my working vacation came with little vacation. But in some places you can see a year’s
worth of beauty in a day.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMsi2iW42FTkk22xt5XAc704SsXmB5A3AjT3Ztvfo3GVjPP48hz1QBAMT5bI63oz0akkuFml8irN1BNBHpRZ64fg9uQaZKkP4DvKblWEDIg6w_Ge7k7isAf3rarCXuNylm-O9MNUJhUSIB/s2048/PANO_20201230_121137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1234" data-original-width="2048" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMsi2iW42FTkk22xt5XAc704SsXmB5A3AjT3Ztvfo3GVjPP48hz1QBAMT5bI63oz0akkuFml8irN1BNBHpRZ64fg9uQaZKkP4DvKblWEDIg6w_Ge7k7isAf3rarCXuNylm-O9MNUJhUSIB/w636-h384/PANO_20201230_121137.jpg" width="636" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Back on the mainland but not ready to go
home, I booked a hotel in Kagoshima and made a date with Kaimon. My visions of what was to come were stark and fantastic: I’d stand on the summit, the land and the
sea stretching into eternity before me; I'd gaze down on royal blue Ikeda Lake to
the north, then turn to take in the scattered gray-green islands swimming in the
distant pelagic south. The beauty would be encompassing.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I had no mind to consider whether reality
could actually measure up.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlCCPE-nkMwZo1BSzpjWoZ1tt9XeDqxVgcw1ZnSArtCKJnPPPhoBECMPAwoDVYUwL5MhicSKXgaGxrNgghTgvcQFVUqk-PUD0tjNFQ24EEOntX-5G_jJVbVkXzqKw5BpNUdZd4EHIVryB/s2048/palms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="2048" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlCCPE-nkMwZo1BSzpjWoZ1tt9XeDqxVgcw1ZnSArtCKJnPPPhoBECMPAwoDVYUwL5MhicSKXgaGxrNgghTgvcQFVUqk-PUD0tjNFQ24EEOntX-5G_jJVbVkXzqKw5BpNUdZd4EHIVryB/w609-h381/palms.jpg" width="609" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Kaimon-dake is one of Japan’s Hyakumeizan,
the accepted but debatable list of the country’s one hundred most famous mountains.
Some people make it a mission to climb all one hundred of them simply because they’re
famous. I wanted to climb Kaimon because it was beautiful.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">How many of Japan’s Hyakumeizan are an easy
thirty-minute walk from the nearest train station? I have no idea, but Kaimon
is one of them. It is also one of the very few summits on the short side of 1,000
meters. It may be the only one whose slopes rise right out of the ocean. It is
also a rarity in that you can hike it with little trouble and no special gear all
year round. If you happen to find yourself in this out-of-the-way area it’s well worth it to at least pass by.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Look for the big cone-shaped hill. Very
instagrammable.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Reality Comes Into View</span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The train pulled away, and it was just me
and my puffy steamy breath on the Kaimon Station platform. Dirty white clouds drifted
high in the silent morning, far above Kaimon-dake’s 924-meter reach. Though thick
and opaque, they showed signs of breaking. It was
8am. Wednesday. There wouldn’t be another train coming through this way for
another seven hours.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqCRzHgBfX23-puaBZJRwE0c9zY2GFrXL_45pUW6DpMG3Jw4hMAQJ1LdStzTsKXkHsI_e47PBrAB8HZMTkEPfrRe5ZbgnV9etYHi8YNa-BG5yAHTrNkmRTcHOlWJNLdrOvqwW0OzASyoNj/s2048/IMG_20210113_080250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="519" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqCRzHgBfX23-puaBZJRwE0c9zY2GFrXL_45pUW6DpMG3Jw4hMAQJ1LdStzTsKXkHsI_e47PBrAB8HZMTkEPfrRe5ZbgnV9etYHi8YNa-BG5yAHTrNkmRTcHOlWJNLdrOvqwW0OzASyoNj/w389-h519/IMG_20210113_080250.jpg" width="389" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">A massive sign hung over Route
226 like a bilingual billboard. Ikeda Lake to the left. Straight ahead, the hot
spring town of Ibusuki. And to the right, the Kaimon-dake trailhead (as if the mountain itself
weren’t a clue). That road led past a decrepit guesthouse, a junior
high school, and not much else as it ran south, toward the ocean yet rising
slowly, the initial ascent of a mountain that seemed to be getting shorter the closer I got.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“Last restroom before the trail” read a hand-painted sign, listing next to
a short set of concrete steps. I don't have any issues with whizzing in the woods. Then again I wouldn't be completely surprised if the bears in Japan used the restroom too.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">On a damp wooden bench next to another low-budget sign, this one pointing
into the woods, I switched my sneakers for boots and started off. The all-encompassing beauty of Kaimon awaited.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Reality soon set in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The first part of the trail is interesting
in that it looks not so much like a trail as a long snaking trench. The
walls of this overgrown ditch reached as high as my elbows, or even my shoulders in some places. The exposed earth was
black and rocky and wet. I could scarcely imagine the need for digging such an
unsightly and massive gash in the dirt unless they were planning on putting in a
water slide.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyYaAle_Z6bZ8ugXpFaZnfLep46Zl6IchdZRM264ytj53vnj3H1103wmzJvjQ8RmllSIZBbRMu3-PjbinKQECAdbWQSFdzihWenNBoJeI_1Pi3Cl43XLbJO_ke3CQRp39E1GfDwsKO7Rj/s2048/IMG_20210113_090626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="629" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyYaAle_Z6bZ8ugXpFaZnfLep46Zl6IchdZRM264ytj53vnj3H1103wmzJvjQ8RmllSIZBbRMu3-PjbinKQECAdbWQSFdzihWenNBoJeI_1Pi3Cl43XLbJO_ke3CQRp39E1GfDwsKO7Rj/w472-h629/IMG_20210113_090626.jpg" width="472" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">Though if there was ever a mountain that needed
a water slide to liven things up, this was it.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">For forty minutes I saw nothing
but trees and wet rocky dirt. Then came a wooden observation deck that gave the impression it was made from the trees that were cut down to create this view of the southern end of the Satsuma Peninsula.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDxAY7KkuV1CsLso7Bu_HhQD_76xVUa_J39ox39aV26VGyEXxV-aVE7A34rH2VgPcTP7-rxkoUMzsv6yZTEwvoORFukhVflQj2hXyockhNUQeq78AtehIVx3vDDEGiZJGKt0C-_xsjBVAE/s2048/IMG_20210113_091622.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="479" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDxAY7KkuV1CsLso7Bu_HhQD_76xVUa_J39ox39aV26VGyEXxV-aVE7A34rH2VgPcTP7-rxkoUMzsv6yZTEwvoORFukhVflQj2hXyockhNUQeq78AtehIVx3vDDEGiZJGKt0C-_xsjBVAE/w639-h479/IMG_20210113_091622.jpg" width="639" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">On a brighter, bluer day the sight would be stunning. Not that I didn't appreciate the scenery, but if views were comedians,
this one would be Steven Wright here:</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihisb1thQI-K37eoEHUSOF-7mhzrhet4Gh1ac9hVm9JBUdo4LzazLA97S-9aEWpU4fgFOdjbWTcmk_4flfyt0y5Hrk-WLbmSMZfsS1bmUl7uVdm2pdMGOyY3jcEbAi8JsbxlOSChY5OGR2/s1500/IMG_20210108_114402.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="1500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihisb1thQI-K37eoEHUSOF-7mhzrhet4Gh1ac9hVm9JBUdo4LzazLA97S-9aEWpU4fgFOdjbWTcmk_4flfyt0y5Hrk-WLbmSMZfsS1bmUl7uVdm2pdMGOyY3jcEbAi8JsbxlOSChY5OGR2/s320/IMG_20210108_114402.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">I walked on. The trees closed in again. The
ditch disappeared.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">As the trail winds in a slow spiral around
the south side of Kaimon the hike becomes a game of rocks and ladders. (In winter you get to play the icy version,) Near the top, patches of tall
brush start nudging the trees aside, and the world to the west comes into view.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mZPU4OprK2p3sdAZ7YNcIXaB35wCb-oJAQJeCcl0T20gHWOAVkpO_Bfm4N-PULebGVRu8DwUx_M_Aun3wDeRk9DU_6y0vkModa2VgbLZOIZU_hI4WvXuRMOPo3ivwPMdwRCTlefDtBEa/s2048/IMG_20210113_104439.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mZPU4OprK2p3sdAZ7YNcIXaB35wCb-oJAQJeCcl0T20gHWOAVkpO_Bfm4N-PULebGVRu8DwUx_M_Aun3wDeRk9DU_6y0vkModa2VgbLZOIZU_hI4WvXuRMOPo3ivwPMdwRCTlefDtBEa/w622-h466/IMG_20210113_104439.jpg" width="622" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">On a clear day you might be able to pick out the smoke wafting right through
the rooftops of the large wooden structures along the Makurazaki coast where skipjack
tuna are dried, fermented, and shaved into the flaky and ubiquitous Japanese
curiosity known as katsuo-bushi. I searched the coast for signs of that smoke, but
while Makurazaki was visible, there was no sign of the town’s core economic endeavor.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The clouds above still persisted, thick
enough to mute the colors of the world but high enough to allow for far-reaching
if fuzzy views. The one thing I couldn’t see at all, besides another human
being, was Yakushima. Not surprising considering the island manages to pull in
every rain cloud passing over the East China Sea. At times you can actually be standing
on Yakushima and not be able to see Yakushima.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Ikeda Lake was gray and sullen. The rounded
hills and low-lying ranges bubbling up across the Satsuma landscape; the
shoreline running off and disappearing in the mist; that unmoving ocean of slate;
none of it looked like the Japanese Eden of my dreams.</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjeuuLJaCCMtpNyWbqroVOICAlo1LiedEgDi15mJxKp3VnbJmT7ANdDoZVom_GjhIBnuCAPakR9zYLiVZj8HhKYqjrY_Ai332ChUD4ICTymcmzXej6qSDUy97N6Dx7EhNpD2Fun3KbdJ-u/s2048/IMG_20210113_103726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="469" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjeuuLJaCCMtpNyWbqroVOICAlo1LiedEgDi15mJxKp3VnbJmT7ANdDoZVom_GjhIBnuCAPakR9zYLiVZj8HhKYqjrY_Ai332ChUD4ICTymcmzXej6qSDUy97N6Dx7EhNpD2Fun3KbdJ-u/w626-h469/IMG_20210113_103726.jpg" width="626" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">But nor was it raining. And it occurred to
me that all throughout my modest hiking career I’ve never once been caught in a
storm while at altitude. Much of my climbs have been blessed with near-perfect
skies. Even my venture up Fukushima’s Adatara-yama, on a day when they’d been calling
for a typhoon, would end in clear blue paradise.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">I guess I'm just spoiled.</span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Kaimon Down<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I was about halfway down the mountain when a
sudden shower of speckled sunshine lit up the forest. I paused. It was still
only noon. And Kaimon isn’t that high. It would be easy enough to head back to
the top and try to see Ikeda-ko in all its romantic cobalt glory; to take in a
more colorful version of Satsuma and the sea; to maybe catch a glimpse of Yakushima
this time.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The spotted sunshine faded and returned and
faded again as I wrestled with my indecision. Five minutes before this I’d passed
two people on their way up – a guy with ski poles huffing and puffing and a girl
wearing jeans and sneakers and jewelry. Come on, I was the one who’d boarded a
train before dawn to get here, and here were these late birds appropriating my blue-sky
dreams.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">As a tour guide I’d likely (hopefully) be
cycling through here again before long. But when would I have another chance to
hike up this water slide in the making to maybe see a much bluer Ikeda and my
beloved Yakushima from afar?</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRiI8Z53MhyWASJZbqMjH8XBTcrT5R0LR_ILRRPPvCDBNboIPZyG-KlH0jSCeQ6N5Npb530iiIUHD2uVNRdkYBDb25cTUqUo550U40qu__dzTeITTx0TIgdHIRWSvS5_vOhCFEO-SyNhih/s2048/IMG_20210113_114933.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="643" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRiI8Z53MhyWASJZbqMjH8XBTcrT5R0LR_ILRRPPvCDBNboIPZyG-KlH0jSCeQ6N5Npb530iiIUHD2uVNRdkYBDb25cTUqUo550U40qu__dzTeITTx0TIgdHIRWSvS5_vOhCFEO-SyNhih/w482-h643/IMG_20210113_114933.jpg" width="482" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Through the treetops the sky was still overwhelmingly
gray.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Scheduled maintenance along the train line
between Kaimon and Ibusuki that day meant there were no trains going toward Kagoshima
until later in the afternoon. So what point was there in rushing back down the
mountain? Why not return to the top? Answer: it might be cool to go check out
Ikeda Lake up close. Head to the north side and see Kaimon’s conical silhouette
from across the water.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Get in one more failed fantasy.</span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Bringing sneakers for before and after the hike
was my best move of the day. My feet felt light as I walked down the road, away from Kaimon. Outside the entrance to the junior high school a
guy who looked like the gym teacher was finishing up his cigarette. Among the
trees crowding a bend in the road was an unusual roadside shrine. The
guesthouse was silent and still decrepit.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHF9ap6muVAn6pNCgoB8sjO18BqV4B_maPpOzBQ7C02U9NEZb82fwQfUDfm4HcDvxB_MJsGjBbqgoAVWtwmpNEWV5qjF9glcPgxYNc1RYNgBkbY_dG9T961fOS49ydOn4AN_apQ0XR-EnF/s2048/IMG_20210113_121547.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHF9ap6muVAn6pNCgoB8sjO18BqV4B_maPpOzBQ7C02U9NEZb82fwQfUDfm4HcDvxB_MJsGjBbqgoAVWtwmpNEWV5qjF9glcPgxYNc1RYNgBkbY_dG9T961fOS49ydOn4AN_apQ0XR-EnF/w623-h468/IMG_20210113_121547.jpg" width="623" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">I turned right on Route 226 and spent
a half hour looking foolishly for a place where I could rent a bicycle. I should
have been looking for a bus stop. It takes a while to walk to Ikeda-ko.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Farmland dominates the flatlands of
Satsuma, and the area along the road to Ikeda-ko is no exception. For a time this region was ruled by the Shimazu clan, major players in the 19th Century overthrow of the Tokugawa Shogunate and the return to Imperial rule. These days Satsuma is
best known for its eponymously-named sweet potatoes though all kinds of
vegetables are grown here, along with some of the country’s best green tea. I
passed a team of workers – family, I imagined – harvesting carrots in the sun.
Yes, the sun had come out, and looked now to be planning to stick around. By
this time I was far enough away from Kaimon to easily do away with any thoughts
of running back up her.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5EevDe0ipiHm-pET46yu7Mzk-7UZrobsQyMlHq9GJyjSQ3BKLoBNEv6fZ-bKhzVfH0OFOoj4aY2dWf0Boul2I04O1sJ_y3Ido295pZXaZ94oQ6-eEERup3klkWqN4Oh91-9362KDvHYZc/s2048/IMG_20210113_132625.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5EevDe0ipiHm-pET46yu7Mzk-7UZrobsQyMlHq9GJyjSQ3BKLoBNEv6fZ-bKhzVfH0OFOoj4aY2dWf0Boul2I04O1sJ_y3Ido295pZXaZ94oQ6-eEERup3klkWqN4Oh91-9362KDvHYZc/w605-h454/IMG_20210113_132625.jpg" width="605" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">The walk to the edge of Ikeda Lake and
around to the north side would be a doable four miles. After a four-mile round
trip up and down Kaimon and a fruitless thirty minutes on 226 this bonus jaunt began to seem
much longer. A bus rumbled by, heading in the direction I was going, barely
slowing down as it passed the bus stop sign a couple hundred yards further up.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The schedule under the sheet of plastic
pinned to the bus stop sign told me two things. One, the bus that just rumbled by was pretty much right on schedule. And two, the next one
wasn’t coming for another fifty minutes – which, to be honest, was much sooner
than I would have expected out here.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx0_6sWo6DloVD3KamJV4VjHUCB3Mv3kUMukew87yoIx-JrRChyphenhyphenJZFsgII8fNT3Gq0NRjCQxYbKHebN_UfHxuJZrPN-qR94jXs7eW0Lmb7yZCpbbbbIfwpDb-5RxXQ5UaahXVSXSV40oDx/s2048/IMG_20210113_132932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx0_6sWo6DloVD3KamJV4VjHUCB3Mv3kUMukew87yoIx-JrRChyphenhyphenJZFsgII8fNT3Gq0NRjCQxYbKHebN_UfHxuJZrPN-qR94jXs7eW0Lmb7yZCpbbbbIfwpDb-5RxXQ5UaahXVSXSV40oDx/w611-h458/IMG_20210113_132932.jpg" width="611" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">The road running around the northwest part
of Ikeda Lake is the epitome of the expression “form follows function”. One
gets the impression that, for these people, the lake is something not to enjoy
but merely to get past. Even with sneakers on, I was beginning to feel the same
way.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The north side of the lake was marked with
a pocket of Japanese tourism and long waterfront fields of yellow flowers.
Kaimon rose unmistakable from beyond the hills hemming the lake in.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Mountains are
curious. Seen from afar then seen up close they can appear as completely
different creatures. They are kind of like people in this respect. Throw in the
weather and you can’t be sure what you’ll be getting.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LB81HmxN1LdkjbwHbaVIRWZCfnKZGWFObPyyb-idhowyvo11d0N1fg5otrmQLwzQqlXlFYuikWSa3PTrn5io8XKS6uT04A8JXQ8H-Xrf3q0bOy6A3Jj89ytkpPYClWUTlf3SbSEfMQHW/s2048/IMG_20210113_141201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="465" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LB81HmxN1LdkjbwHbaVIRWZCfnKZGWFObPyyb-idhowyvo11d0N1fg5otrmQLwzQqlXlFYuikWSa3PTrn5io8XKS6uT04A8JXQ8H-Xrf3q0bOy6A3Jj89ytkpPYClWUTlf3SbSEfMQHW/w620-h465/IMG_20210113_141201.jpg" width="620" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">At the eastern edge of this dead end of
tourism twin bus stop signs stood on opposite sides of the road. The bus going
the wrong way would be coming first. It was still just 2:30, but except for a couple
more buses in each direction the schedule for the rest of the day was
noticeably blank. With nothing left to see around here, except maybe a statue
of a dinosaur named Issy, I’d jump on the next bus. I didn’t much care which
way it was going – though if it turned out to be the one going past Issy that
would be cool.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It wasn’t.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“We’re taking the long way to Ibusuki,” the
driver said as I got on. He wasn’t kidding. From my window I got a second look at
the four miles of road I’d just walked up. The bus turned right and drove in a circle in the empty lot at Kaimon Station where my hike began seven hours previous. We rumbled down Route 226, past all the bicycle rental shops that aren’t there. We rolled over miles and miles of the peninsular
route I’ve ridden several times as a cycling guide.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The tea fields of Satsuma
are spread out like neat, textured blankets. We passed the road that dips down
to the shoreline and the torturous hot sand baths of Yamakawa. We swerved
down a narrow spit of land to the tourist patch fronting the rocky Nagasakibana coast where we picked
up one lone traveler. We blew past the Kagoshima Flower Park and the place that
serves mango curry and little else. I kept glancing back, wanting just one more
glimpse of Kaimon before her forest green face melted into gray.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyT1hs7HE4_qaHREdCELRnRPFX9TS-D3rB_6NdU45PaTrehQjPQsaysxsgSiDL_TxZqKxdmVg-2I_ONMmVGEq99bJgyp9AUeNcYo9JGuVepyZwT27DZRToqTqT4r2EAgxqUb-oPvHQ6glh/s2048/IMG_20210113_154002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyT1hs7HE4_qaHREdCELRnRPFX9TS-D3rB_6NdU45PaTrehQjPQsaysxsgSiDL_TxZqKxdmVg-2I_ONMmVGEq99bJgyp9AUeNcYo9JGuVepyZwT27DZRToqTqT4r2EAgxqUb-oPvHQ6glh/w642-h482/IMG_20210113_154002.jpg" width="642" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">It was 3:30 by the time we finally rolled up
to Ibusuki Station. For the time it took I could have saved the 900 yen and
walked the five miles from Ikeda Lake to Satsuma-Imaizumi Station, a few stops north
of Ibusuki and just that much closer to my hotel in Kagoshima.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Here in Ibusuki I had fifteen minutes to spare. I spent it eating what food I had left while soaking my dogs in the outdoor foot bath.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Given the opportunity I’d give Kaimon
another go. I want to see if that cobalt blue Ikeda-ko of my romantic visions
actually exists. I want to see Yakushima and Tanegashima and all those other
scattered islands, floating dark and green and clear out there in the sparkling ocean. I want to see the line of the Satsuma coast, the fishy smoke
of Makurazaki, the contours of her hilly land in all the clarity that the blue
heaven of a nicer day might grant.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I want to see if they’re putting in a water
slide. Which they absolutely should.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I don’t think I’d say that about any other
mountain. Kaimon-dake is special like that.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_fv8qeAmMiZV0-EeS7uZvYMzkfISpuvELKQNbrL7d3Yxv6MaIufphCMD8OV4s_x5J7e4MAZ4hlH7qwexFid7j8lbS0sUOvDF6Baol8qaljhfgRJmsfUHaPMRyhHCjCHkuhv2HHX0cCcq/s2048/IMG_20191111_123515.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1146" data-original-width="2048" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_fv8qeAmMiZV0-EeS7uZvYMzkfISpuvELKQNbrL7d3Yxv6MaIufphCMD8OV4s_x5J7e4MAZ4hlH7qwexFid7j8lbS0sUOvDF6Baol8qaljhfgRJmsfUHaPMRyhHCjCHkuhv2HHX0cCcq/w629-h352/IMG_20191111_123515.jpg" width="629" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-24815912931199417992020-09-26T04:18:00.003-07:002020-10-08T21:22:44.772-07:00Jonen-dake & Cho-ga-take: How We See the World<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizgZAd8YJGlpbhFG2snoxaAkU6kvQku9mKrzxMD3MzK-Fr4TLbUrmBeojxj2pYdO33zERKbdhcAAB4u6xC55BbXVwR7RXG8yGiLE8iFOLWPJFKGmTy2CxOxudEkBZkjjn6n3C_zFOGyyss/s2048/banner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1132" data-original-width="2048" height="349" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizgZAd8YJGlpbhFG2snoxaAkU6kvQku9mKrzxMD3MzK-Fr4TLbUrmBeojxj2pYdO33zERKbdhcAAB4u6xC55BbXVwR7RXG8yGiLE8iFOLWPJFKGmTy2CxOxudEkBZkjjn6n3C_zFOGyyss/w631-h349/banner.jpg" width="631" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I leaned my bike against the wall of the
toilet hut, right under the yellow Watch Out For Bears sign. Such warning signs
are common in these mountains. Actual bear sightings, not so much I don't think. Not in a
normal year anyway. But when you close down an entire mountain range for four
months, eliminating the usual throngs of hikers and campers, the bears start acting like they own the place again.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">This was how I thought it should be. It was also how I feared it was.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">In the immediate moment though my biggest fear was having to go into that putrid bathroom to switch out of my sweaty clothes. Since when are toilet hut cleaner people non-essential? Holy stench.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUCbuuOZI0VClLhj7UByVRJ9Q-Np_4jveIcwCip9fSIpPUaaJyBjYMDme0yCDeRYqXPiBDhlsqmZh2kDm1VDPz44Z2OXxuHs5iHzhZkB_qLLNUY4gUEbBCsaNKGXbEJM8oNm8Td4LQc97/s2048/IMG_20200919_080410a.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1615" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUCbuuOZI0VClLhj7UByVRJ9Q-Np_4jveIcwCip9fSIpPUaaJyBjYMDme0yCDeRYqXPiBDhlsqmZh2kDm1VDPz44Z2OXxuHs5iHzhZkB_qLLNUY4gUEbBCsaNKGXbEJM8oNm8Td4LQc97/s320/IMG_20200919_080410a.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Fall's chill was in the air this morning as I pedaled
along the Susukigawa River. The low-hanging clouds to the west were so thick you
wouldn’t know there were any mountains out there. To the south, over the Kiso Valley
and maybe as close as Shiojiri, the grays gave way to a swath of blue
sky that offered hope but nothing you could call promise.</span><p></p></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">Two hours, thirty-five road kilometers and
seven hundred vertical meters later I was rolling, sweaty and excited, into the Mitsumata parking lot and the gateway to Mt. Jonen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I’d biked up here a few weeks prior. The
place was utterly deserted. So was the hut at the trail head, at the far end of a rocky access road, where there were signs
asking anyone who had come this far to please turn around and go home – and oh
by the way watch out for bears.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">This morning the parking lot was packed,
mostly with cars from out of the area. The two auxiliary lots further away had looked pretty
full too as I rode by them. Evidently these mountains were now crawling
with people. This was both good and bad. People are generally safer than bears,
but on a hike in the wilderness I almost prefer bears.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">My bear-related fears now (presumably)
gone with the hordes, I had only the minor concerns of weather and time. (I didn't have a
trail map, nor did I have any clue how strenuous the hike ahead of me would actually be, but for me such things don't rise to the level of 'concern'.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">Outside the hut at the trail head three men were
helping people fill in their 'tozan todoke' - little forms with the info necessary to identify who got eaten by a bear. They couldn't have looked any more excited to talk to me, if for no other reason than the pleasure of listening to the gaijin's Japanese.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqAG_1JnJ8J_7pDIaF7ba0Erla_rHcBKhZCP2Nr-6OBtu1KtgyBNIc7xcTTvRYK5b6ono-R8-9OHFcw5fpT6ViXoINdEEyEflPHWa5fS109CuYJTWmeW9W4cgaCYZ24uIKPAQMjj943fr/s2048/IMG_20200919_081617.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="403" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqAG_1JnJ8J_7pDIaF7ba0Erla_rHcBKhZCP2Nr-6OBtu1KtgyBNIc7xcTTvRYK5b6ono-R8-9OHFcw5fpT6ViXoINdEEyEflPHWa5fS109CuYJTWmeW9W4cgaCYZ24uIKPAQMjj943fr/w303-h403/IMG_20200919_081617.jpg" width="303" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">“Doko made ikimasu ka?” asks the guy in the middle.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">“I want to do the Jonen-Cho Loop,”
I say, wondering, as I often do, how bad my Japanese accent really is.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">”Ii ne! Sou suru hito ga ooi ne!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">I scan the massive trail map behind them.
“According to that it takes about fifteen hours,” I say, pointing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">“Sou da yo ne...” Either they didn’t get my
Japanese or they’d been wearing masks at altitude for too long and weren't tuned into the mortal visions floating into my head.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">“It’s already 8:20,” I say, as if they
might not be aware.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">One of them checks his watch. “Sou da ne. Jikanteki
ni muzukasii kamo ne.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">Yes, 8:20 plus fifteen hours means not
good.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">“Rampu wa aru?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">“Yes, I have a light.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">“Do you have rain jacket?” one of them
asks in English, smiling and gesturing like he's pulling a blanket over his head.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">“Motte imasu yo,” I reply.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">Then one of them, oddly, asked if I’d come here by bicycle.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">“Muri shinaide ne,” he said, pointing to
his chest – basically telling me not to overdo it and end up having a heart attack.
Then he added: “Tozan hoken wa arimasu ka?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">No, I didn’t have any mountain climbing
insurance. Nor was I worried about dying in any way, not with all these people scaring off all the bears. I bid my three friends farewell and took off on a jog across the grass, up to the entrance to the trail.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I have a few reasons for running when I am
in the mountains. For one, I love the simple act of climbing, of throwing
myself into the mountains, and running somehow intensifies that feeling. I also
think I’m trying to prove something to myself, trying to keep in shape as if I can fend off the inevitable advance of the years. Then there’s the fact that
eight-twenty plus fifteen, or even ten, equals dark.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I had no illusions about running the whole
way up and across and down, but I figured the first half hour or so might be doable.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The trail had other ideas.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIA854ALaTJ1JYerO_vkVubL0JXD8KBIeqPqhbkJngjM4MDsBsY0hrUg9a_J9ud1U5nREptkieYW5UU2MMAOfxKmgID0W_-ENnQFIgHYkG1LjgQ32F4Hz-s8yl0wCUg1IhJbmiEtnKyMgo/s2048/IMG_20200919_083004.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="459" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIA854ALaTJ1JYerO_vkVubL0JXD8KBIeqPqhbkJngjM4MDsBsY0hrUg9a_J9ud1U5nREptkieYW5UU2MMAOfxKmgID0W_-ENnQFIgHYkG1LjgQ32F4Hz-s8yl0wCUg1IhJbmiEtnKyMgo/w611-h459/IMG_20200919_083004.jpg" width="611" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">The terrain was surprisingly rocky, not like a mountain so much as what I imagine is left after the controlled
demolition of a building full of dirt. Massive tree root systems stood like meter-high retaining walls keeping the trail from being washed away with all the rain. And it had in fact been raining. The air was still
swirling with mist. Nothing underfoot was dry.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">Slick roots and wet rock faces. Muddy, slippery
inclines. Loads of fun, really.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I toyed with the idea of going back and
hanging with my friends at the hut.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I spent most of the climb scrambling up rocks and navigating the Jurassic tree roots in my way, all the while reminding myself
that wiping out and breaking my ankle would be bad. Sprinkled in were quick moments of running the semi-flat stretches, and slow moments of passing people with heavy-looking packs and
heavy-sounding breath. They all, it seemed, were geared up to spend a night or
two in the mountains - which might increase one's chances of seeing a bear though I think most people simply want to see the sunset. And not have a heart attack.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">I kept looking for chances to run, even
just for a few steps. The old mossy forest, wet and cool and misty, was fairytale beautiful (albeit a Grimm Brothers fairytale). But if the way down was anything like this I was going to have to take it super slow so I wouldn't slip and break something. This could very well mean hiking long past sunset but hey, with a light and without mountain
insurance (whatever that even was), dark would be preferable to broken.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;"><o:p>Ah well. I'd worry about that later.</o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US">The mist thickened and dissipated, with
some rainfall in the middle. Then, for the first time since riding along the Susuki River three or four hours ago, I caught a glimpse of blue sky. Through the trees a rounded peak appeared; a false peak, no doubt, but a peak, covered with </span>shrubby foliage and littered with big white boulders. The trees
gave way and the view opened up. Further off and up above I could pick out the top of Jonen-dake, playing hide and seek with me amid the swirling white clouds.</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVK06sPG1whCYxe8LnXf0L5_t-hvDH6L0Va77GU9gvZbm4Ru36lx6xgJb9l2toRnRmHNet6c_vRLTCJVG0X0nZxFLBewhx84_NHP1H8pqSMWi7WB61L6M80QmQ_qmCGmslI_lurD7qSrI2/s2048/IMG_20200919_094013.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="632" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVK06sPG1whCYxe8LnXf0L5_t-hvDH6L0Va77GU9gvZbm4Ru36lx6xgJb9l2toRnRmHNet6c_vRLTCJVG0X0nZxFLBewhx84_NHP1H8pqSMWi7WB61L6M80QmQ_qmCGmslI_lurD7qSrI2/w474-h632/IMG_20200919_094013.jpg" width="474" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">From a distance Jonen-dake looks like a pyramid.
There is, however, a ridge that runs east from the main peak. The highpoint of this
ridge is Mae-Jonen-dake.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">For a minute it was right in front of me. Then the trail ran left, leading across the whitened rocks to the south face of the summit where, quite suddenly, the peaks of the Hotaka range came into view.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">These peaks are not visible from
town. You have to make the trek up here if you want to see them. Or you can take a
bus up to Kamikochi and walk for ten minutes but where’s the satisfaction in that? Then again the bus driver probably doesn't ask if you have tozan hoken.</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOz5pWbOeFuRY6j-UEU45ZWL7mjhWsGgIYPiOojCAfrFlcmG_bqn7d7FDZgbt7_Js4eYWmJecWalZVA5SR4s1janGXXSRtJZ_ULWYn9LGXg5SLqgPLmG9-QZxgyX9uQrdSnVUM8VleThc/s2048/IMG_20200919_095042.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOz5pWbOeFuRY6j-UEU45ZWL7mjhWsGgIYPiOojCAfrFlcmG_bqn7d7FDZgbt7_Js4eYWmJecWalZVA5SR4s1janGXXSRtJZ_ULWYn9LGXg5SLqgPLmG9-QZxgyX9uQrdSnVUM8VleThc/w573-h430/IMG_20200919_095042.jpg" width="573" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">Most of the Hotaka range - and most of the rest of the world - sat hidden behind the clouds. But I don’t think
that took away from my wonder at it all one bit. I was out there, up above the
clouds covering my town and my house, looking across at peaks 10,000 feet high, backed by that sapphire blue heaven.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">This isn't what I come up here for. Not exactly. It's what this gives me that is the ultimate prize; something intangible that defies explanation but is shared, to varying degrees, by the others who make the hike up here - or up anywhere.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">The trail turned right and ran up the steep southern slope of Mae-Jonen. Countless boulders sat among criss-crossing paths running through a sea of low-lying pine brush. Unlike down below, the dirt up here was dry and crumbly. It was hard to walk without sending mini avalanches of earth and pebbles downslope with every step.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large;">As I sent another stream of debris rolling downhill I wondered if that climbing insurance covered people knocked off the mountain by the landslides I was creating.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg74dh6hfHaSvtXyedeC7oiBoKU-zXY7aIkyo21qd4v2_Z17qRz4_7ecldyZCuDh22jXFXU8dCXn0s6mwbT2Fkla2VgTteN3TWZvNUpb2eWPWA5RB94Ck2AjlRIzK6Pb3VSZlMkFD4k_jjC/s2048/IMG_20200919_095842.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg74dh6hfHaSvtXyedeC7oiBoKU-zXY7aIkyo21qd4v2_Z17qRz4_7ecldyZCuDh22jXFXU8dCXn0s6mwbT2Fkla2VgTteN3TWZvNUpb2eWPWA5RB94Ck2AjlRIzK6Pb3VSZlMkFD4k_jjC/w619-h464/IMG_20200919_095842.jpg" width="619" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">I came across three people on my way up Mae-Jonen. All of them had big packs. One of them also had a camera with a zoom lens like a rocket launcher. He had it pointed toward his friend. I said konnichiwa and kept climbing, soon catching up to the third guy.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“Raicho ita,” he said to me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Ah! The elusive rock ptarmigan! It's a great bonus to see one out here. I scanned the terrain below us but those birds are hard to spot even close up. I kept climbing, preferring to see the trail going down the mountain later than a faint glimpse of a skittish bird now.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">From atop this mountain of massive boulders and dwarf pine was an unobstructed view in every direction. To the north and northwest a series of brown peaks ran off into the horizon; one was Tsubakuro-dake, one of the only other mountains around here I've managed to climb since moving here six years ago. To the south and southwest clouds swirled up from the lowlands, obscuring all but the tips of the Hotaka range. The view of the east was like looking out the window of an airplane: nothing but an ocean of clouds.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">And right in front of me, directly west, was triangular Jonen-dake.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The path snaked along the ridge, slowly rising, and as I rounded a wall of boulders I almost stepped on a ptarmigan.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">He or she didn't fly away in a frantic burst of feathers. The thing didn't even run, it just waddled away from me, disappearing behind some rocks before poking its head out of the pine brush off to the side of the trail up ahead.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">He or she didn't seem bothered as I stepped easily, quietly along, closer and closer until I'd drawn even with its not-so-hidden hiding place. I wished I had a zoom lens like a rocket launcher. Or a water gun even. The Japanese Rock Ptarmigan is not just elusive. These birds are a natural monument, a nationally protected species that has found its way onto the endangered list.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOLcm8miaA_NzYvGT9aTc8xRrCFhvOPSGSHsCop2OI3MAjr-7tBfx4G9GidTuCEFBXgz9XfA4PQAJipNE275z3_zA-SYNGR6XhrxrLMGSEtPQzq-HHd073vTq-YOX99FJfiisNW11RTX3b/s2048/IMG_20200919_104809a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1126" data-original-width="2048" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOLcm8miaA_NzYvGT9aTc8xRrCFhvOPSGSHsCop2OI3MAjr-7tBfx4G9GidTuCEFBXgz9XfA4PQAJipNE275z3_zA-SYNGR6XhrxrLMGSEtPQzq-HHd073vTq-YOX99FJfiisNW11RTX3b/w633-h348/IMG_20200919_104809a.jpg" width="633" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I said thanks and goodbye to my feathered friend and looked up to see, piercing the brilliant blue sky from behind Jonen, the iconic, unmistakable pointed peak of Yari-ga-dake.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW8WZ2yrTeCogIArhY87M9exCPqan-wMOAdpgIn5jJZbveWb9EWKOm1BRqoKasVz4rhwpk1VCG8yMhyphenhyphenobO6AVDWoVYnsWVzZjej5NtW1q44Gu4PkaU02stDniEA7Q18DDu9bNEvh7h_WDZ/s2048/IMG_20200919_105450.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW8WZ2yrTeCogIArhY87M9exCPqan-wMOAdpgIn5jJZbveWb9EWKOm1BRqoKasVz4rhwpk1VCG8yMhyphenhyphenobO6AVDWoVYnsWVzZjej5NtW1q44Gu4PkaU02stDniEA7Q18DDu9bNEvh7h_WDZ/w630-h473/IMG_20200919_105450.jpg" width="630" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">At 3,180 meters Yari-ga-dake is Japan's fifth highest peak. It is visible from the area where I live. On any fairly clear day its pointed summit peeks out from behind Jonen's south side, twenty miles away. Now here was Yari only five miles from where I stood - yet somehow it seemed no closer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">This would magically change as the valley between Jonen and Yari opened up into full view.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">For the first time in two and a half hours the trail split. Downhill to the right was Jonen-goya, one of the many lodges in these mountains that get so crowded in summer that people end up sharing six-foot by three-foot straw tatami mats with complete strangers. (Strangers not for long, I'd say.) Up to the left, the top of Jonen awaited.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Somewhere behind me was Mae-Jonen. If there was a sign marking the actual peak I missed it.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKXf1DJ7yXDsAdv322GSIjmlC6XU65n1So2hPh89dPD1gbbZhbuPcvj4hhtAIUlnvxtCF5orZpcJaopClXse6vh3NRpr7EGPDvDm6HTcEUnvJUIdqaX7v1ExhEH0fPVN81vsvPPliESJt/s2048/IMG_20200919_105833.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="457" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKXf1DJ7yXDsAdv322GSIjmlC6XU65n1So2hPh89dPD1gbbZhbuPcvj4hhtAIUlnvxtCF5orZpcJaopClXse6vh3NRpr7EGPDvDm6HTcEUnvJUIdqaX7v1ExhEH0fPVN81vsvPPliESJt/w609-h457/IMG_20200919_105833.jpg" width="609" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">According to that map at the trail head, the hike up to the summit of Jonen was supposed to take something like six hours. I made it in a little over two and a half. The clouds and the mist swirling through the forest lower down the mountains seemed a distant memory under that endless, impeccable blue heaven. I was dry again after getting drizzled on down below. Forget about bears, I hadn't even seen any bear poop. And finally, after years of gazing longingly at this triangular peak from the invisible ligatures of home, I'd made it to the top of 2,857-meter Jonen-dake, entirely under my own power.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">It was strangely anti-climactic.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIifcXjyr2eHVUMwxK5UXupVHt-vwRmPEun5OQkY1rgOaUxWPbssnmz3AhfXsUNPw_3YjdYUJF-z6eiGmpE7lf9zqjq_ma9mAhaervmwx9sFBWT201gWjMGFVWAZXAH57ypJsDUijajYHB/s2048/IMG_20200919_110437.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="545" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIifcXjyr2eHVUMwxK5UXupVHt-vwRmPEun5OQkY1rgOaUxWPbssnmz3AhfXsUNPw_3YjdYUJF-z6eiGmpE7lf9zqjq_ma9mAhaervmwx9sFBWT201gWjMGFVWAZXAH57ypJsDUijajYHB/w409-h545/IMG_20200919_110437.jpg" width="409" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I was standing 2,200 meters above my home - well over a mile. The view to the west could not have been more spectacular. The sea of clouds to the east was no less dramatic a scene. I had reached the highest point of the day, and had more than enough daylight and gas in my legs to complete the loop and maybe even make it all the way home before dark.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">But from here...with the world spread out into infinity all around...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">There was still so, so much more to see.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzcaaeZwfhXYbFIHBMh7sJNiEsAShVofSM7SlzwYRGVgUJiAy5fXNxbdJYi7NdvMlOBZqQRcWbaUMUWNaEkYrO_SujCU6EFVZ7dBaD60sONHJO5VPi8sefiZoE5yMs9qlehqEVS8gXHqJA/s2048/IMG_20200919_112256.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="469" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzcaaeZwfhXYbFIHBMh7sJNiEsAShVofSM7SlzwYRGVgUJiAy5fXNxbdJYi7NdvMlOBZqQRcWbaUMUWNaEkYrO_SujCU6EFVZ7dBaD60sONHJO5VPi8sefiZoE5yMs9qlehqEVS8gXHqJA/w625-h469/IMG_20200919_112256.jpg" width="625" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I wished I had a huge pack on my back. I'd share a tatami mat with a stranger if it meant more time out here. My family could live without me for a few extra days. They might actually prefer it that way.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">For now I'd have to settle for lunch with a view.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9tuPKh-tu6GgwqdWuufPVSQat2XTReOxrac9BxkdLk82sqJTx5AIqbs7f0zzlmzjd4Vl-Z2L-Lzk0VRfZAGLZ5fL4RFg0aKf9xhAfiP0v22yF8-3jUPRJdfGFw4dvKW1-5a7MDfrzmXtL/s2048/IMG_20200919_110704.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="467" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9tuPKh-tu6GgwqdWuufPVSQat2XTReOxrac9BxkdLk82sqJTx5AIqbs7f0zzlmzjd4Vl-Z2L-Lzk0VRfZAGLZ5fL4RFg0aKf9xhAfiP0v22yF8-3jUPRJdfGFw4dvKW1-5a7MDfrzmXtL/w623-h467/IMG_20200919_110704.jpg" width="623" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Looking south it's not hard to spot the trail for Cho-ga-take. What is hard is believing that it's supposed to take four hours to get there.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA07NCWqOqNvazfWSw1vVr6ZLa-khMf_yGYqatLi-ZWrfPnPuAbYknwZ-9kn-p-R5Yc0KLHjac0WeU1af2x_mJ93wkw0lpo7uddIXdahWyKsllOOzbSF9niEaksmuMqeriTqcq6SVdyLHM/s2048/IMG_20200919_112546.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA07NCWqOqNvazfWSw1vVr6ZLa-khMf_yGYqatLi-ZWrfPnPuAbYknwZ-9kn-p-R5Yc0KLHjac0WeU1af2x_mJ93wkw0lpo7uddIXdahWyKsllOOzbSF9niEaksmuMqeriTqcq6SVdyLHM/w600-h450/IMG_20200919_112546.jpg" width="600" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">The south face of Mae-Jonen had been an obstacle course of boulders and pine brush and loose, gravely dirt. The south face of Jonen would prove similar, except now I'd have the forces of gravity helping me along - whether I liked it or not.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The clouds to the east still swirled, thick and uneasy. I was in no rush to head back down into them. But despite having put the day's highest point behind me I still had more than half of the loop to go. And I couldn't shake my vague fears that the trail from Cho-ga-take back down to Mitsumata would be just like the one going up Jonen.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Ah well...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Despite all the crab-walking and slow-stepping over the boulders, all the scree fields and the sudden drop-offs, I thought I was descending at a pretty decent clip. After forty minutes I turned around.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiueXjodb7k4okbgoEEWpovpmvT3TBQb14H4a4WabiJGiWgoDatyZnhuJEFeWEJQUYpUaZLrC4h2hnJpt1dGtbXhruLrd_b7JYtSz8CBC1fTUJgdEyQWo9MDJYyembkr2zkrYEQ4kY0ZuFu/s2048/IMG_20200919_120353.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="564" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiueXjodb7k4okbgoEEWpovpmvT3TBQb14H4a4WabiJGiWgoDatyZnhuJEFeWEJQUYpUaZLrC4h2hnJpt1dGtbXhruLrd_b7JYtSz8CBC1fTUJgdEyQWo9MDJYyembkr2zkrYEQ4kY0ZuFu/w423-h564/IMG_20200919_120353.jpg" width="423" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">That's it? That's as far as I've gotten?</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The trail led relentlessly downward. Soon I'd be back in the shade - and probably mud - of the forest.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg24GzD20aQd6d8_rdy3htb35q1TOGX_Y-uaA9Ptr-aRdPOwOEriT0BiWSHIgU9LgtCyb7yL6sYDEA6oCMUV034QtLztHw725ZgdZNQNa-rqEPOBu6nSULnkDbVLv_D8Ykhxodv_8EqX6_C/s2048/IMG_20200919_120515.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="377" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg24GzD20aQd6d8_rdy3htb35q1TOGX_Y-uaA9Ptr-aRdPOwOEriT0BiWSHIgU9LgtCyb7yL6sYDEA6oCMUV034QtLztHw725ZgdZNQNa-rqEPOBu6nSULnkDbVLv_D8Ykhxodv_8EqX6_C/w503-h377/IMG_20200919_120515.jpg" width="503" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Yet it was here I could finally run uninterrupted for a while. Okay, I could stutter-step for a fifteen minutes. Then I hit the muddy bottom. Then came more rocks and roots on the way back up through the trees. My thoughts drifted back to those things I couldn't control: the length of the trail and the passage of time. And the wanderings of bears.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Without warning the trail spit me out onto this unassuming hilltop. The sign, maybe some kid's Eagle Scout project, read 'Cho-ga-take'.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Really?</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCNlQ6waRbi79nPNnfBIlWHENpIl75aaVKBAnhKVlEtsxaECe582IYfJQG8_K3DV8moTpnRrDA_K95YSQY5cHjZHRFp6PVDdISZnauNwNsMaqrAmV968aC8uhyy8qNDx59PD6ZUSYZsgIM/s2048/IMG_20200919_122649.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCNlQ6waRbi79nPNnfBIlWHENpIl75aaVKBAnhKVlEtsxaECe582IYfJQG8_K3DV8moTpnRrDA_K95YSQY5cHjZHRFp6PVDdISZnauNwNsMaqrAmV968aC8uhyy8qNDx59PD6ZUSYZsgIM/w535-h402/IMG_20200919_122649.jpg" width="535" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">If this was Cho-ga-take then I'd be back at my bicycle by 2:00 easy. That is, if I could find the trail leading back to my bicycle. Our little Eagle Scout wannabe, it seemed, forgot to include that part.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Hey wait, what's that little red triangle on the side of the sign? Looks like an arrow, almost. Pointing that way. Towards...oh.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">More downhill running, more rock-hopping through the forest...</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqSC3QxJCGyobxBWRLJ4CI_EZzUZ_T7K1TU6aTqGVOik79MDrZwZO3HurtyobLNqMkalnMmmHlhuCgTdGM-QnaP9TOfo7bEddlTl82clC1DaCUxbaKZ4JRS-GvHUzW-yfFX8B2QaRCKOIS/s2048/IMG_20200919_124244.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqSC3QxJCGyobxBWRLJ4CI_EZzUZ_T7K1TU6aTqGVOik79MDrZwZO3HurtyobLNqMkalnMmmHlhuCgTdGM-QnaP9TOfo7bEddlTl82clC1DaCUxbaKZ4JRS-GvHUzW-yfFX8B2QaRCKOIS/w627-h470/IMG_20200919_124244.jpg" width="627" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">...and up again, back above tree line, in view of Heaven on Earth and Oku-Hotaka-dake (left), Japan's third highest peak.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ3OCe9NWz5RANb05PWfavAjq8UuDCg6C2LyGoL9LQTvSxQAflH9Id_vYsOJCFc_tnm9RLRNYMCcmG23KQdSDZvOk62lNUC3VWbNlI_D_U9l_OCVMaCu17pLs3Fa61iOq3dW06bf9w0bRI/s2048/IMG_20200919_125405.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="469" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ3OCe9NWz5RANb05PWfavAjq8UuDCg6C2LyGoL9LQTvSxQAflH9Id_vYsOJCFc_tnm9RLRNYMCcmG23KQdSDZvOk62lNUC3VWbNlI_D_U9l_OCVMaCu17pLs3Fa61iOq3dW06bf9w0bRI/w623-h469/IMG_20200919_125405.jpg" width="623" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Looking back, Jonen seemed suddenly much, much farther in my past. Interesting how that ridge running off to the right just below Jonen's pointed summit is not even noticeable from home.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">More incomprehensible than any of that is how I thought that little hill in the foreground was Cho-ga-take.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRAIklekgkw686uVYTbAysDC9yh0jWxYqKDrS7z_j-TT9-T_CHA324DGWoSluhTszSwDgfYmaWHDlPuW41U5zJCjtwV9YFHosxrdSfPHx8Mb10V2eBB7hZBgsBHLX6RsMNleclfzWpSu3m/s2048/IMG_20200919_125203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="461" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRAIklekgkw686uVYTbAysDC9yh0jWxYqKDrS7z_j-TT9-T_CHA324DGWoSluhTszSwDgfYmaWHDlPuW41U5zJCjtwV9YFHosxrdSfPHx8Mb10V2eBB7hZBgsBHLX6RsMNleclfzWpSu3m/w614-h461/IMG_20200919_125203.jpg" width="614" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">As an encore, a few minutes later I wrongly thought for a second time that I was standing on top of Cho-ga-take.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTGl0MEtN8dj9ar1iTfzeWjogqC5X3_O96gsDsknZK3vao001grT5nld8fuKPZcU5WYtkUwvR-Sdgwo_3p3CBdN2h_zk57D3G9gm-rjKNbL8RImQuY1pltYKcx4MeyftvQV12Jg7tWvBzh/s2048/IMG_20200919_130100.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="573" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTGl0MEtN8dj9ar1iTfzeWjogqC5X3_O96gsDsknZK3vao001grT5nld8fuKPZcU5WYtkUwvR-Sdgwo_3p3CBdN2h_zk57D3G9gm-rjKNbL8RImQuY1pltYKcx4MeyftvQV12Jg7tWvBzh/w430-h573/IMG_20200919_130100.jpg" width="430" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">But nope. This was Cho-yari, a pointy peak that juts up from the long ridge that basically makes up the expansive upper reaches of Cho-ga-take. I figured that out a few minutes later when I came across this sign telling me Cho-ga-take was still that-a-way.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ZlcF9lADbOK5O89Dc1x2LRP03pPLnf-aoNOvg1Sv-FbwASAp-eKCyNUPxZ0YpgGRXZPlztd0yYdIQB8WGOKU25aYZejEDi1xefbWtzqU1TuDB_eubv8nwKbfacQv9HKr7KoWXoNDn4A4/s2048/IMG_20200919_131801.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ZlcF9lADbOK5O89Dc1x2LRP03pPLnf-aoNOvg1Sv-FbwASAp-eKCyNUPxZ0YpgGRXZPlztd0yYdIQB8WGOKU25aYZejEDi1xefbWtzqU1TuDB_eubv8nwKbfacQv9HKr7KoWXoNDn4A4/w581-h436/IMG_20200919_131801.jpg" width="581" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Not sure what that blurry blue thing in the corner of the picture is.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">By now I'm wondering if I'm going to ever find Cho-ga-take. How do you not find a mountain? If I were down in a valley somewhere the situation might be a bit more concerning. Up here, I found it hard to care all that much. Trust in the signs and your sense of direction, such that it may be. And wherever you can, run.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg46AUDm1Yf46R2ttQVJF2gQioffhuR1WsWgEunnIEVnjZjCWa0NHIOi9iVgtIzekWbMTKA0zig6NGFpVW5CHMoZvh4yJwdsgiAiBzg5gj1jCr0WnW8EdSLGuhk3pVm19JNo_zFOqk9IonB/s2048/IMG_20200919_132142.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg46AUDm1Yf46R2ttQVJF2gQioffhuR1WsWgEunnIEVnjZjCWa0NHIOi9iVgtIzekWbMTKA0zig6NGFpVW5CHMoZvh4yJwdsgiAiBzg5gj1jCr0WnW8EdSLGuhk3pVm19JNo_zFOqk9IonB/w600-h450/IMG_20200919_132142.jpg" width="600" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">As the only idiot running along the path, I passed several people who were walking slowly along under heavy packs; laboring, it seemed, like mules. Up ahead I could see the lodge and, just beyond, what was, I absolutely sure, the summit of Cho-ga-take. The sun was high in the sky. The heavens were smiling gently down, on all of us. I kept running, soaking it up, past more people and past the lodge until I reached the sign I'd been looking for.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX21ZL3Bj4_TukQyKuR8iXxAzTQ5VHB6UTeQGgxgp96KMdjG4JGGZdPgbEYmA-xEsygUZsYlOjmy7vQ4lq9ASmwlDvtRILaIIvAKcaieNLOZGVh87nhztZOoufrTiOx2mf5VOOq91Ic5cA/s2048/IMG_20200919_133249.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="451" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX21ZL3Bj4_TukQyKuR8iXxAzTQ5VHB6UTeQGgxgp96KMdjG4JGGZdPgbEYmA-xEsygUZsYlOjmy7vQ4lq9ASmwlDvtRILaIIvAKcaieNLOZGVh87nhztZOoufrTiOx2mf5VOOq91Ic5cA/w601-h451/IMG_20200919_133249.jpg" width="601" /></a></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">For the moment I had the top of the mountain to myself. The people I'd passed would be here soon, after dropping their packs at the lodge where more people milled around, checking their tents or gazing out at the world and the circular horizon surrounding it all. Some folks were just hanging around, like they didn't know what to do.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I kind of felt the same.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to keep running. I wanted to keep following the trail, wherever it went. I wanted it to not matter which peak I was on. I wanted the present to always remain.</span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKhNq3Hhfuq2HsUZGq0NZ6B1CbPb2ypkPHctwDyLsnOYsqjvhZd4kKZLzU1AFWW4gNF3N5pPe7IzSW4ccETeCEub4ilO8q-elVLOIfXSgIzMjsfTdmKCYKUh0zREvMIR1mR-d-ycusgMvv/s2048/IMG_20200919_134048.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKhNq3Hhfuq2HsUZGq0NZ6B1CbPb2ypkPHctwDyLsnOYsqjvhZd4kKZLzU1AFWW4gNF3N5pPe7IzSW4ccETeCEub4ilO8q-elVLOIfXSgIzMjsfTdmKCYKUh0zREvMIR1mR-d-ycusgMvv/w631-h474/IMG_20200919_134048.jpg" width="631" /></a></div><br /><div><span style="font-size: large;">The winds were blowing over from the west. In a spot on the eastern slope of the summit of Cho-ga-take I sat and ate my other sandwich. With each passing minute another pair or small group of people would pass in front of me, some of them coming to the end of their climb, others just beginning the long walk down.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">In the distance that sea of clouds still hovered, thick and white - and likely very gray underneath, over that part of the world called Matsumoto. The little slice of this Earth I call home.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">It wasn't yet two when I began my own descent, down a trail that was still a mystery to me. Through the trees, Jonen-dake showed its elongated face. Over there and down below was the muddy, wet, obstacle-ridden trail of the morning.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Over here the trail began gently, a ribbon of loose but dry dirt and stone. Past the split where going south would lead you to Otaki-yama the trail steepened - and with that, sets of solid, safe wooden steps began to appear. In strings of two or three or a dozen they came, in between stretches of semi-flat and perfectly-runnable terrain.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">After a morning of navigating boulders, massive tree roots, and slick muddy slopes, I felt like I'd hiked into a different world.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The air turned warmer as I dipped down once more into the mist.</span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKXXJw-ell6kpFZ3WVQpMip7m6gK_PctE6S7Ki86OSQ2Wc12mxAS0ZY8wUg6p2euWhNqI3GwmZPs9hpYocuCYJdZpQTwELMVNlSDzdcITmiO9Lpq_Ksn7vtB8qFkOOjkcjhdzoAo3eCmRY/s2048/IMG_20200919_143953.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKXXJw-ell6kpFZ3WVQpMip7m6gK_PctE6S7Ki86OSQ2Wc12mxAS0ZY8wUg6p2euWhNqI3GwmZPs9hpYocuCYJdZpQTwELMVNlSDzdcITmiO9Lpq_Ksn7vtB8qFkOOjkcjhdzoAo3eCmRY/w607-h456/IMG_20200919_143953.jpg" width="607" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I was disappointed to find the hut at the trail head deserted. I wanted to talk to my three friends.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The rocky access road leading back to the parking lot seemed much longer now than it did this morning.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The clothes I'd left hanging on my bike were still damp. I put on my last dry shirt, and the rain jacket that had been in my backpack all day. I held my breath and ducked into that putrid toilet one more time.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Then I rolled away, down the long forested road where I'd see wild monkeys and think about my next hike. About how far I could go. About how long I could run.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Because there is so, so much to see.</span></p><p></p><p></p><p></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-52257062303379173642020-08-30T07:53:00.001-07:002020-09-15T23:21:04.948-07:00Hiking Mt. Bandai: Fatherhood and Who to Feed <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8KzXgGUH9p8Jjtt0oQk7CAKKopXrMtoqzry2PbHltHkT8dZxTgw8yEZT_a-QGtONay2NAyYNQDY5M6n04YFNhuCTx9nNaHY4MrfsJ69QzgrGXa3KtdtKU7-Di6HtVnuy41s7tqWRjAdjM/s2048/IMG_20200805_125233.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="2048" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8KzXgGUH9p8Jjtt0oQk7CAKKopXrMtoqzry2PbHltHkT8dZxTgw8yEZT_a-QGtONay2NAyYNQDY5M6n04YFNhuCTx9nNaHY4MrfsJ69QzgrGXa3KtdtKU7-Di6HtVnuy41s7tqWRjAdjM/w640-h332/IMG_20200805_125233.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">My kids were staring at their grandma’s TV for the fifth night in a row. Not that there's much else to do after dark out here in the sticks, unless you want to stay up and keep watch for the wild boars and black bears that have recently been coming around.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">A shortened summer vacation and a resurgent coronavirus had nixed our plans to visit the oft-overlooked, quietly intriguing island of Shikoku. To compensate we opted for a relaxing week at my wife’s parents’ peach farm in Fukushima, north of home but just as
hot and three times as humid.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">I’d spent most mornings helping my mother-in-law pick and
pack peaches. As a family we’d done little else, remaining distant from the people and places that normally take up our time here. The days had passed sluggishly, slipping unremarkably by until suddenly it was Wednesday and we had a mere thirty-six hours before we'd have to return to Nagano. Tomorrow, then, was my last chance to carry on a nascent personal Fukushima tradition: going off for a day to climb one of the region's innumerable mountains.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">It's a rather selfish endeavor, but we all need to feed our souls. And walking
up really big hills then walking back down them is how I feed mine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">To this point it had been a private affair - just me and a mountain - so I was surprised at the words that were now falling out of my mouth.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">“Any of you guys want to go hiking with me tomorrow?”</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">I confess I had mixed feelings when, to my surprise, my
oldest son looked up at me and said he'd go. His brother seemed to be tossing the
idea around in his head, though I think this was deliberate. He didn’t want to
go, but too quick an answer might be taken as too easy and outright a rejection
of dad. He’s ten, but this is how he thinks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">Their little sister tossed out a cheery and utterly
empty “Okay!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">Okay? Something wasn’t right. “You do? You want
to go hiking tomorrow?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">She turned to me. “What?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">Nope. She hadn’t even heard the question.
She just heard something that sounded like dad or maybe it was someone on TV or hey do we have any more cookies?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">I asked her again. She laughed – “Oh! No.” –
and got back to staring at a shampoo commercial.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">It wasn't me that was asking them to go. It was my ruinous
sense of fatherly obligation. A responsible father doesn't let his kids melt the plasma right out of grandma's TV</span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> But more than this, a decent dad, I'd come to believe, always puts his desires last, to be attended to only after everyone else's have been fulfilled.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I still believe it. But after years of adhering in self-flagellation to this right and noble Way of the Father, I've also come to the realization that such extreme pragmatism can destroy one's soul.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">At times I feel like I'm actually figuring out this crazy balancing act. And I guess I should admit that I like it when one of my kids thinks I'm more interesting than a shampoo commercial.</span></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtnpI2IkH40rpR3Wetp2ha2R1kt8gv-Pjf9klrL6e2vjWhVDYfZ8HRJIaChAUZFF28MRv_-s3sFG2mFRn5I_2e83gfmfH5C7jWGBIi_KKrGql03ZnYbb5VkZ3ChQJ2YyWxQPeTPdv0NJ50/s2802/IMG_20200323_142548.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1122" data-original-width="2802" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtnpI2IkH40rpR3Wetp2ha2R1kt8gv-Pjf9klrL6e2vjWhVDYfZ8HRJIaChAUZFF28MRv_-s3sFG2mFRn5I_2e83gfmfH5C7jWGBIi_KKrGql03ZnYbb5VkZ3ChQJ2YyWxQPeTPdv0NJ50/w640-h256/IMG_20200323_142548.jpg" title="Mt. Bandai in March, seen from the southwest." width="640" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><span lang=""><br /></span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><span lang=""><br /></span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><span lang=""><br /></span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><span lang=""><br /></span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="text-align: center;"><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="text-align: center;"><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i style="text-align: center;">Bandai-san in March, viewed from the southwest.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="" style="font-size: large;"><span><i>July 15, 1888 – Mt. Bandai erupts in the
worst volcanic disaster in recent Japanese history. In the preceding days and
hours several earthquakes had shaken this Aizu region. Unbeknownst to the inhabitants of the area, who were accustomed to the occasional tremor, these quakes gave rise to magma so hot it would turn the groundwater beneath Bandai to steam instantaneously, creating an intense amount of pressure that could quite literally move mountains.</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="" style="font-size: large;"><span><i>O</i><i>n the 15</i></span><span style="font-style: italic;">th</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, at 7:45
am, in the midst of an earthquake lasting more than a minute, the magma beneath Bandai was forced upwards into the groundwater. the resulting and immediate phreatic reaction bringing a thunderous
noise and a massive explosion that rocked the Aizu highlands.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">Each passing minute brought another explosion. Columns of black smoke billowed thousands of meters into the air. Ten minutes after the initial
explosion the northern peak of Mt. Bandai, known as Ko-bandai ('small Bandai'), collapsed with an earth-shaking roar as 1.5 cubic
kilometers of earth and rock - equal to one thousand Roman Colosseums, with
seven hundred pyramids of Giza thrown in for good measure - created an
avalanche of debris reaching speeds, according to eyewitness accounts, of 80 kilometers (50 miles) per hour. Several villages and over 450 people disappeared as the landslide buried thirty-four square kilometers</span></span></i><i><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;"> of land (New York's Central Park times ten, or about 77 Vatican Cities), laying waste to an area that, over time,
would become beautiful once again.</span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">My son was just four days shy of becoming a teenager. I should be
pleasantly surprised he’d want anything at all to do with his old man. Watching
him snoozing in the passenger seat on the way up to Aizu I wondered if he
agreed to come along on this expedition not for him so much but for me. I can be a terribly impatient and sarcastic father, and my son, too often on the receiving end of my failures, was still willing to spend time with me. Perhaps he saw my invitation as an effort to make up for my foolish and frequent shortcomings.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe he just thought it would be fun to go on a hike with me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Either way, I couldn't escape the sense that he was giving me more than I was giving him. More than I deserved. The idea that I likely was not the first dad in history to feel this way might have helped mitigate my middle-age angst if I were the type to compare myself with others. But I am not.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">He woke up as we wound along a narrow forested road called the Lake Line, one
of the area's several scenic diversions that used to require tolls. In the
aftermath of the March 2011 earthquake the toll system was suspended before being permanently abolished. This may or may not have helped the survival of
the tourism industry around Bandai-Asahi National Park. These days it’s hard to
tell with the coronavirus situation keeping most people away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">“Check it out!” I said as we came to a stretch of road overlooking Lake
Akimoto, one of the major changes in the landscape brought about by Bandai's eruption. Looming over the forest in the distance were the soft triangles of Bandai's peaks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">“Cool,” he said, with genuine or maybe feigned interest. Likely a mix
of the two. My instinct was to pull over and snap a couple of photos. But I’d
barely begun to take my foot off the gas when my son had already turned away
from the window.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">We passed the turn for the boulder-rich playground of Nakatsugawa Gorge. We’d
gone to see it a bunch of years ago as a family, and I described the place as best as I could to my blank-faced son. "We all went down and put our feet in the river," I said though I wasn’t really sure
we had. After a moment his eyes brightened, accentuating a smile as he seemed to suddenly recall the place. This time I
was sure his reaction was real.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span><span style="font-size: large;">We cruised along the south shore of Lake Hibara, where a sprawling
parking lot played host to a total of three cars. Another quarter mile west along Route 459 we
turned down the side road that would lead to the trail head. First, though, it
would lead to a small roadside parking lot of grass and dirt that was already full
of cars.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span><span style="font-size: large;">Fifty yards up we could see that the paved road gave way to gravel. There was a sign, but from that distance, it was unreadable. Not really thinking, I turned around and we went back
to that parking lot next to Lake Hibara.</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN0FiiqQpMiUzMTRrkzVMR0YoZJfIW2fCHj-FZf_7B9_7qtlZSbuwv7BgtCx7bVOLHnpKMUyUgi05KU6Cc1NaZmQyhR3BUBWQS9kOidOnlimfjuMHNalmz7raMdJDWNk4babK4P1w_ZPgx/s2048/IMG_20200805_091502.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN0FiiqQpMiUzMTRrkzVMR0YoZJfIW2fCHj-FZf_7B9_7qtlZSbuwv7BgtCx7bVOLHnpKMUyUgi05KU6Cc1NaZmQyhR3BUBWQS9kOidOnlimfjuMHNalmz7raMdJDWNk4babK4P1w_ZPgx/s640/IMG_20200805_091502.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">The Yomiuri Shimbun was founded in 1874. Originally a modest daily
newspaper, through the 1880s and 1890s it was largely known as a literary arts
publication. It was during this period, however, that the paper printed its
first news photograph – an image of post-eruption Bandai. The Japanese Red Cross, established just ten months prior, found itself facing its first big challenge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">The massive flow of earth and debris into the Ura-Bandai area north
of the mountain blocked the flow of the Nagasegawa River and its tributaries. This lead to the formation of Akimoto-ko, Hibara-ko, and several other lakes,
along with a series of marshland ponds known collectively as Go-shiki-numa, which
means either Five Colored Ponds or Five-Colored Ponds. Neither of these names
makes perfect sense as there are way more than five ponds, and together
throughout the year – or even throughout the day – they appear as more than
just five different colors.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span lang="">As the largest and, subjectively, the most beautifully colored of the
ponds, Bishamon-numa is the main attraction at Go-shiki-numa. Tour buses growl
and cough up exhaust as they roll into the long, crowded parking lot to spit
out streams of tourists visiting this, the easternmost of the Five Ponds. The visitor center, comprised mainly of souvenirs and
food, is a two-story affair. Most people never get past the western reaches of
Bishamon-numa though the walking path extends for four more kilometers, ending at a
gelato shop across the street from Lake Hibara’s sprawling lot.</span></i><span lang=""><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span lang="">Lake Hibara, and the greater expanse of the Ura-Bandai region, is a popular yet understated destination for outdoor recreation which, as far as I could tell, is presently fighting for its very survival.</span></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqYO_xj8wND3rUEXFBvq495rbzdcc_YG1LI_YIDpLh9ttq8HM1UrNnfAMEtGS8PG-bPPtEBAG9Gnvn1br6Wddf91BV6RgD3gwTEP7Keq9DPyGVDtBHkW7CjzfbJvP_HLvLRbr80vpSWVn/s2048/IMG_20200805_091322.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqYO_xj8wND3rUEXFBvq495rbzdcc_YG1LI_YIDpLh9ttq8HM1UrNnfAMEtGS8PG-bPPtEBAG9Gnvn1br6Wddf91BV6RgD3gwTEP7Keq9DPyGVDtBHkW7CjzfbJvP_HLvLRbr80vpSWVn/s640/IMG_20200805_091322.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The two-toned stone marker with Bandai-Asahi National Park and Lake Hibara inscribed in two languages reminded me of my first trip here, in the Fall of
2001. I was a brand new English teacher at the time, still wide-eyed at every
turn here in these novel surroundings, and had made the trip up from the city
of Fukushima with another, only slightly more experienced foreign teacher. I don’t remember
what we actually did that day besides take a few pictures at this stone marker
and, at 2pm, toy with the possibility of scrambling up to the top of Bandai and
back down before dark.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“I think we can make it,” my fellow ignoramus said in a classic case of blind
leading the blind. I think he was hoping I’d be the pansy and decline – which I did.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">My second trip up here, the following year, was with my girlfriend at the time. All I remember of this episode is a series of fragmented moments of our climb up Bandai together. One of those moments was the sight of
a long flying insect that, as it sat sunning itself on a rock, seemed to be smiling. In a long, drawn-out burst of inspiration that would make Stephen King proud (or make him barf, I'm not sure) I would, from the sight of this one bug, write an entire book of fictitious stories about people climbing a mountain.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">Twenty years later, neither wide-eyed nor blinded by testosterone, I was sure I'd remember a lot more of this trip - as I tend to do now, attributable to the recent and profound realization that my mountain-climbing days are numbered.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">After having our picture taken next to that stone marker by a nice man
with little idea how to take a decent picture, my son and I headed for the sidewalk along 459. We turned up the side road and walked past that small, packed lot and up
the gravel access road. Another thirty minutes and we came upon the wide grassy
parking lot at the foot of the Ura-Bandai ski slopes.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang=""><span>A rather boring
walk, and a waste of time not to mention energy. Two miles of walking for
nothing. </span></span><span>I felt a familiar lump of anger rising up from my gut. </span><span>It's normal for me to get pissed at myself for being an idiot. But walking next to me was my son, exuding a silent, palpable calm</span><span>, compelling me to do the same.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">In Japan there's a saying: The parents don’t raise the children, the
children raise the parents. Somehow I don’t think this is quite what they mean.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">He chuckled at my comment about parking here next time. He wondered aloud
which of the peaks visible beyond the forest-lined ski slopes we’d be climbing.
I had to be honest and tell him I wasn’t sure, which made me think that maybe one
of the reasons I like to hike alone is that no one else suffers if I don't know where I’m going - or can’t find the right parking lot.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">That lump in my gut lingered, waiting, like it was expecting to be let out in a rumbling stream of bad words. Meanwhile my
kid, whether intentionally or not, was the one keeping that lump down - and my spirits up.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ0h7CZLM_kQooxoB3aWaWpjLbrlgMdyqvenL1eOmIfGD83EY00_11HpF_CBU_iDLfReEYEzFF8YTWVFTninA3XY9TK_tUOGN-OdLJTrvcPXVI3eJAm0a0a5PZVGeTGPOlOrZELEQKGCxF/s2048/IMG_20200805_095537.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ0h7CZLM_kQooxoB3aWaWpjLbrlgMdyqvenL1eOmIfGD83EY00_11HpF_CBU_iDLfReEYEzFF8YTWVFTninA3XY9TK_tUOGN-OdLJTrvcPXVI3eJAm0a0a5PZVGeTGPOlOrZELEQKGCxF/s640/IMG_20200805_095537.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">As we
climbed the steepening path, up the grassy and desolate ski runs, the sun
getting hotter by the minute, I sparred with a familiar thought: my kids deserve
better than me.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang=""><span><span style="font-size: large;">There are several trails leading to the top of Bandai, originating at
various points around the mountain. The route leading up from the Ura-Bandai
ski slopes goes past Aka-numa, which means Copper Pond. Formed in
the eruption of 1888, it gives off a burnt orange hue thanks to the iron
hydroxide-rich mud sitting below the clear shallow water. Reflected in the
surface and standing tall in the near distance are the two most obvious peaks
of Bandai-san, with the scarred, rocky earth clearly visible in between, marked
by swaths of rock face colored yellow from the sulfur, a </span></span></span></i><i><span lang=""><span><span style="font-size: large;">stark contrast to the lush green slopes on the south side of the mountain.</span></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang=""></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHBtJlsJspmrcu-6W58HClErNeb5H7Xlh5A9jtnTeeW0cdt-oXmmbO8iQAlWqSlb0F8q7V9JhWwfspr8VAkToSyBRT-lkIiB5S7kCzdQoL8SuQZhHEmvkFnzvdUF4KtLsQw1iwN0L_oAnO/s2817/PANO_20200805_102859.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1116" data-original-width="2817" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHBtJlsJspmrcu-6W58HClErNeb5H7Xlh5A9jtnTeeW0cdt-oXmmbO8iQAlWqSlb0F8q7V9JhWwfspr8VAkToSyBRT-lkIiB5S7kCzdQoL8SuQZhHEmvkFnzvdUF4KtLsQw1iwN0L_oAnO/s640/PANO_20200805_102859.jpg" width="640" /></a></i></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">This is not to say Bandai’s volcanic history is limited to the north.
Two pyroclastic flows, one 90,000 years ago and another 50,000 years ago, scattered
earth and debris across the land to the south, damming the river flowing
through the Inawashiro Basin and creating, over time, Lake Inawashiro, Japan’s
fourth largest lake. These relatively recent events only occurred after periodic eruptions spanning the previous two hundred thousand years (or,
according to another source, six hundred thousand years).</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">Even at six hundred thousand years Bandai is the new kid on the block. Just to the west stands Mt. Nekoma, which began wreaking geologic havoc on the area around 1.1 million years
ago, finishing up 750,000 years later. Further west, and in every other direction, more volcanoes sleep, for now or for eternity.</span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">Beyond Akanuma the path leads across a sunny marsh where I saw a
dragonfly like no other I’d ever laid eyes on. Dragonflies swarm all over the
mountains (and rice fields) of Japan, and I’d seen a variety of colors. This
one, though, was positively alien. It was huge and black with big bright green
polka dots all over its body. It looked hungry – or maybe that was just me.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">I
remarked out loud my surprise at the sight of it, then again my delight when it
shot erratically toward us again. I pointed it out to my son like I’d just
discovered a set of dinosaur bones. “Oh yeah, I’ve seen a few like that before,”
he said easily.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">So much for dad’s great discovery. As consolation I could write a book
about it.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvyXsRrhUnRMZj7-n7jJaw76XOOsLT8z9h5Tz8WDL4dSW1TSdU9iBSS0D11T8pRNP3sgM6QXRxcPuKIwoZSJrFpLJNLflAC93MvTJVg7Uge2kKXDn8ZlYWi3rnqqUa7VQ0aho721k8xfBY/s2048/IMG_20200805_105344.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvyXsRrhUnRMZj7-n7jJaw76XOOsLT8z9h5Tz8WDL4dSW1TSdU9iBSS0D11T8pRNP3sgM6QXRxcPuKIwoZSJrFpLJNLflAC93MvTJVg7Uge2kKXDn8ZlYWi3rnqqUa7VQ0aho721k8xfBY/s640/IMG_20200805_105344.jpg" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">From the edge of Alien Dragonfly Marsh the path tossed us into the blessed cool shade of the woods. I let my son walk ahead, with a little space between us, thinking this might amount to some kind of exercise in nurturing his independence. At the same time I wanted to maintain some fragmented semblance of conversation, something that, as a father, I find strangely difficult at times.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">Recently both my boys have shown a developing self-sufficiency
in everyday life. As a middle school student my older son can now bike to
school, something that, after asking me for a ride practically every god damn day of
elementary school, is a welcome change.
His brother, meanwhile, walks fiercely to the beat of his own drum. Though for a time he
loved to play soccer he never showed any enthusiasm for playing on a team.
While his siblings take piano and swimming and violin and calligraphy lessons
he stubbornly refuses to anything but his own thing, which used to mean Legos
and toy cars though he’s transitioned to running off to play with his friends
after school and playing computer games before and after dinner, on his mom’s
smartphone or on my laptop.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">I’m delighted at their growing independence. It
certainly beats having to feed them and bathe them and brush their teeth for them every
night. I just hope that their development and eventual contentment with their identity will, in some small positive way, stem from their involvement with their dad.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">Despite my eruptions I hope that they will, like this place, grow into something beautiful.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">I guess that's where my ruinous sense of responsibility comes from. I have to remind them - and prove to myself - that I am not just one never-ending phreatic explosion.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang=""><span>The path rose gradually – too gradually, I thought as we</span></span><span> </span><span>plodded along streams and through mud patches</span><span lang=""><span>. </span></span><span>I wondered aloud if there was going to be a rope ladder at the end. Some chains bolted to a rocky cliff. An elevator perhaps.</span><span> My son let out a quick chuckle, the kind usually reserved for his friends.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Yet the occasional glimpse of Bandai-san through the trees told us we were inching higher and closer. Behind us, to the north, we could see Lake Hibara, incongruously distant, pressed flat under the weight of the haze hanging over the land. Today, it seemed, would be as humid as every other day
of our week here in Fukushima. Not that that should come as a surprise. I’d
heard once that Kyoto and Fukushima were the two most humid areas in all of Japan. My
experiences can serve to back that up, though after biking around Kyushu in August, 2004 I’d say Nagasaki is a close third.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJ9ha8XBM1yu5NJy5Pg9NZYN4BO5RbSxFO3k5jL40-0_sAsIZ6LzjFTBZvDkPw-oA5VFgFiIm3DIwMfbAw-wuyroGlocRhxGnthM7ACWvNGSkRbTVJF76s9_SpQo6u15GggHGdw9boBmb/s2048/IMG_20200805_111846.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJ9ha8XBM1yu5NJy5Pg9NZYN4BO5RbSxFO3k5jL40-0_sAsIZ6LzjFTBZvDkPw-oA5VFgFiIm3DIwMfbAw-wuyroGlocRhxGnthM7ACWvNGSkRbTVJF76s9_SpQo6u15GggHGdw9boBmb/s640/IMG_20200805_111846.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Bandai-san's highest peaks practically disappear behind the rim of a geologically-infant crater.</div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCKMAgm4dcKALxbGSeKH7KhVyIL7T14wmsGvjNdWEpZWHfxvzjzitTGYMjjC10P5hCiwEHEuXPfVXsEJvQVkJm0OYPiauBEcaqPQaNG8Szu7xataqm9tMka0z80AJdqNHh-HLYHDqfN6gO/s2048/IMG_20200805_112800.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCKMAgm4dcKALxbGSeKH7KhVyIL7T14wmsGvjNdWEpZWHfxvzjzitTGYMjjC10P5hCiwEHEuXPfVXsEJvQVkJm0OYPiauBEcaqPQaNG8Szu7xataqm9tMka0z80AJdqNHh-HLYHDqfN6gO/s640/IMG_20200805_112800.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Hibara-ko (upper left), the ski slopes (middle), and Akanuma Pond (lower center-right) </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAhDCAYKaqT3KUxsLxyd_iAyVrYGdl653JpfrfqztuKOJfYPunq0cLF43p24CknxOlMW7hf3U25vB10IlkgZNXeHyXa8XPoT5EZ1hxgg-vow8bWAvpZ0t35OeCypuvwj1aaB34fYLF2hRz/s2048/IMG_20200805_105138.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAhDCAYKaqT3KUxsLxyd_iAyVrYGdl653JpfrfqztuKOJfYPunq0cLF43p24CknxOlMW7hf3U25vB10IlkgZNXeHyXa8XPoT5EZ1hxgg-vow8bWAvpZ0t35OeCypuvwj1aaB34fYLF2hRz/s640/IMG_20200805_105138.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Life and cool water where once was ash and desolation.</div><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">At 3.5 kilometers, the Happohdai Route is the second shortest of the
half dozen trails up Bandai. Only the 3-kilometer Okinajima Route is shorter - albeit much steeper as this path involves a full 1,000 meters of vertical climbing. The Happohdai trail
head sits up near the pass over the ridge between Bandai and Nekoma, cutting
the vertical to a mere six hundred. Consequently the Happohdai Route involves
a relatively gradual ascent, opening up Bandai to more hikers at both ends of the age spectrum.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="" style="font-size: large;"><span>The Urabandai Route, from the base of the ski slopes we had walked up, would
rise 900 meters over a six-kilometer stretch. From the top, the Kawakami Route
runs east along the upper edge of the 1.5 cubic kilometer hole in Bandai’s
side, then drops down to a place called ‘Kako-hara’, or maybe ‘Kako-bara’,
where the trail then splits. The Kawakami Route heads right, leading down to the hot
spring village of Kawakami Onsen, seven kilometers away from – and 1,100 meters
below – the top of Bandai-san. The trail running left from Kako-hara/bara loops
back to join the Urabandai trail. This was my hope at least.</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">Like that trip around Kyushu in 2004, and like most of my travels – and
like most of my life come to think of it – for this hike up Bandai I didn’t
have much of a map. I was leading my son around using a smartphone photo of the barely-detailed map in the
guidebook I got from the library. Again, if it were just me...</span></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">The trail had turned steep when we passed two women, decked out with
all the accouterments of mountaineering and sweating like crazy underneath it
all. They were, I think, from Germany. We exchanged greetings and bounded on
ahead of them.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1nfbYvfjRdFQAqB93mkeZCMn4iV7TiWA-8PFQ9YADr49czK4XMOSWkAID71vea-Soslbg71RAQdwDxOgkXiyMamzHbHWBdjWMMN_uivDc7Qm60LElu2sQkv0FLcmmRZU5eDguWnBofCJ/s2048/IMG_20200805_110530.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1nfbYvfjRdFQAqB93mkeZCMn4iV7TiWA-8PFQ9YADr49czK4XMOSWkAID71vea-Soslbg71RAQdwDxOgkXiyMamzHbHWBdjWMMN_uivDc7Qm60LElu2sQkv0FLcmmRZU5eDguWnBofCJ/s640/IMG_20200805_110530.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">Abruptly our upward path merged with the Happoudai trail. From here it
was one mile to Kobo-Shimizu, the landing spot just below the final climb to
the peak. My son and I were both mildly excited to know we were now most of the way there.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span><span style="font-size: large;">I find it strange that even as we voluntarily undertake an endeavor
like climbing a mountain we feel relief in knowing our destination – a.k.a. the
end – is near. Conversely, finding out the remainder of our path is longer than we
thought or hoped brings a vague sense of disappointment. Why, then, are we even out
here?</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span><span style="font-size: large;">Another question arose as I pored over the details on my photo-map. Apparently there was an onsen somewhere near here, a place called Naka-no-yu, meaning either 'hot spring in the center' (of what we are not told) or 'hot spring in the middle of nowhere' (more apropos a name I'd say). My map was from a book published in 2001. At that time the onsen was closed. I had no idea if it had reopened - or where it even was - but either way, sitting in a tub of scalding hot water in the middle of the day in the middle of the Fukushima summer is not my idea of fun.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZexplYp70wkO8fP8SPg5P4zsXc21frbWy_Q5R05Q1lz1t-XxQX7_YQn7c3wx1nZTkJUuF7gD0AJwD5K_8oQr1RaczYjZL8MOhVcEQem3uL2Sti-UHNxMOJIdYB5_vrUGvwSKMaLkE0Ozz/s2048/IMG_20200805_114301a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1548" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZexplYp70wkO8fP8SPg5P4zsXc21frbWy_Q5R05Q1lz1t-XxQX7_YQn7c3wx1nZTkJUuF7gD0AJwD5K_8oQr1RaczYjZL8MOhVcEQem3uL2Sti-UHNxMOJIdYB5_vrUGvwSKMaLkE0Ozz/s640/IMG_20200805_114301a.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span><span style="font-size: large;">Past the junction the trail up to Kobo-Shimizu brought stretches of steep and rocky staircases – and, for us, two more German women. Another sign, posted at
another junction, told us we had a mere 300 meters to go. We passed through more woods,
then stepped out into a clearing and the flat-ish expanse of rocks and dirt and bare-bones amenities that make up the Kobo-Shimizu experience.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span><span style="font-size: large;">There's shelter, from the summer sun or, in winter, from the wind and snow. Food and
drink, including cold beer, can be had for a price. Three bucks gets you use of
the toilet. The views to the north are stunning and satisfying.</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJcg8KGQsDJiDk1DpX4FRT-P3klaGKgl9yBWft8RCxVRCa8JCagZSe3e9RsOYhsoKGM1p6w1eWbAEKfaI2OVI9dr66qnq7QqdkHqhgzXJd72b4LDe9dhRj7OUI3I8dzvvCmqDNa9elFaKc/s2048/IMG_20200805_121523.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJcg8KGQsDJiDk1DpX4FRT-P3klaGKgl9yBWft8RCxVRCa8JCagZSe3e9RsOYhsoKGM1p6w1eWbAEKfaI2OVI9dr66qnq7QqdkHqhgzXJd72b4LDe9dhRj7OUI3I8dzvvCmqDNa9elFaKc/s640/IMG_20200805_121523.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwupNDhoix4irBs1t_Oo6ps2K6_H1izbDOjNgV3cExNtdNu2JzYZakVm0mLpV6twGuu_s_5UZNkbLhlUPmxwGKjfaNz1EG_uIHf6nbwaOBcn9Bg-0-g7JU_nY0FVL5-hhbjZSBP35puhk/s2048/IMG_20200805_120521.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwupNDhoix4irBs1t_Oo6ps2K6_H1izbDOjNgV3cExNtdNu2JzYZakVm0mLpV6twGuu_s_5UZNkbLhlUPmxwGKjfaNz1EG_uIHf6nbwaOBcn9Bg-0-g7JU_nY0FVL5-hhbjZSBP35puhk/s640/IMG_20200805_120521.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwwVV5jt2GgXKsYDF5kvt_k_EyH8QZp62QtcbFr4aN1-CH-4rVqm_xOrQDDm7z-Ft_yxSW4trzu3yUKCBENpmJAQS7PlLZoOiAgZHh0_vfRLCk0xS1aJ7UMowyLsWQZNOXMXULMYkzWGA/s2048/IMG_20200805_120545.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwwVV5jt2GgXKsYDF5kvt_k_EyH8QZp62QtcbFr4aN1-CH-4rVqm_xOrQDDm7z-Ft_yxSW4trzu3yUKCBENpmJAQS7PlLZoOiAgZHh0_vfRLCk0xS1aJ7UMowyLsWQZNOXMXULMYkzWGA/s640/IMG_20200805_120545.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">Lunch with a view and we tackled the final (and steep) 200 meter vertical climb. Through thick groves of short trees then some thick bush we emerged onto the rocky summit. It was just after high noon. Less than three hours had passed since we started up Route 459.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">We bounced
around that pile of rocks, taking in the view, wide and vast in every direction.
And as I watched my son's face, as I listened to his quiet exclamations of wonder and affirmation, it became
crystal clear: This is why we are here. This is why I invited my son to do this
with me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""><span style="font-size: large;">We asked someone nearby to take our picture, standing together next to
the small stone shrine that sits atop Bandai-san. In my son’s smile, in his face, in
his eyes, I saw a happiness that, at least today, had something to do with his
old man.</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang=""></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXZ3jdemJMZ6X4RGN6213j3D3uMvr6h8vH5ttwiyVZ5QlO7XElSNy6hPWGB4mNPwwANOEy_Dz3G5P2wcWaNSPsfhK2YtOqKBK8t0OY6kjsKuYqXjQYKZraDxHIbd1bU9Fy3PHpDtDFmxGv/s2048/IMG_20200805_125506.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXZ3jdemJMZ6X4RGN6213j3D3uMvr6h8vH5ttwiyVZ5QlO7XElSNy6hPWGB4mNPwwANOEy_Dz3G5P2wcWaNSPsfhK2YtOqKBK8t0OY6kjsKuYqXjQYKZraDxHIbd1bU9Fy3PHpDtDFmxGv/s640/IMG_20200805_125506.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEO6EjfDEvyaJ7KmNiv91PX64pe5Df3J0p_TmR3LHhG5q9da_gT_xolmqCuqW9N5FsI0xkDly0HSPYkvFTvbcDrB7QOco9HXd9Xyp2DF8rN5VRaTClsyIuilR82Jt9Qv3gMMWJffw8vFsr/s2048/IMG_20200805_123855.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEO6EjfDEvyaJ7KmNiv91PX64pe5Df3J0p_TmR3LHhG5q9da_gT_xolmqCuqW9N5FsI0xkDly0HSPYkvFTvbcDrB7QOco9HXd9Xyp2DF8rN5VRaTClsyIuilR82Jt9Qv3gMMWJffw8vFsr/s640/IMG_20200805_123855.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkQv_xfBgSPiNrfOlKOys-Rav4DguFAI9V4ufHSId1D2ajeAHYYUHpWAntrJbY6etOcCqI9Lf68jTUHupBLVOvT4bIQIfMYbT2AHQUVBQAG-UMFn0MtqAaFXcOsff20Bv1UB_kweQrgTPY/s2048/IMG_20200805_123551.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkQv_xfBgSPiNrfOlKOys-Rav4DguFAI9V4ufHSId1D2ajeAHYYUHpWAntrJbY6etOcCqI9Lf68jTUHupBLVOvT4bIQIfMYbT2AHQUVBQAG-UMFn0MtqAaFXcOsff20Bv1UB_kweQrgTPY/s640/IMG_20200805_123551.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">My fifty-year-old eyes are still good enough to pass the vision part of the driver's license renewal process, but they are no match for the fine print on a one-page map of an entire mountain, no matter the language. Fortunately I knew the name of the path we wanted: the Kawakami Trail.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span>Unfortunately the only sign anywhere with that name was back at the place with the beer and instant noodles. The arrow pointed toward Vladivostok for all I knew.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">We headed down a path through a place called 'Flower Field' and before long found ourselves stepping back onto the trail we'd come up on. While this would get us home, it wasn't the Kawakami Route. And there was no way I was going to abandon our original plan. If I did, any lesson I'd be teaching my kid wouldn't be the right one.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">We backtracked until we found a split in the trail. Right led back up to the sign for Vladivostok. Left ran north, towards an outcropping that I was sure would prove to be a dead end.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi97GaygIK2dahwfnQUNm2fREDTbt65qig1u89osNnux7R4Gu8LpNWZDp2PwJGaGrsTQgeG5uUNTib2JO-M2xCewTXZsk8ajUE_TXEu0Qf8IKWgCtmkoV7CWTMnmtBgIdvpbr1CMzicr0ms/s2048/IMG_20200805_132237.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi97GaygIK2dahwfnQUNm2fREDTbt65qig1u89osNnux7R4Gu8LpNWZDp2PwJGaGrsTQgeG5uUNTib2JO-M2xCewTXZsk8ajUE_TXEu0Qf8IKWgCtmkoV7CWTMnmtBgIdvpbr1CMzicr0ms/s640/IMG_20200805_132237.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Before reaching the outcropping the trail would veer right, bringing us to an overhead view of the hole where part of the mountain used to be.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwgeZbohZ0p5gGeTQ-6fiR0DFbnndsYPB71G1eEVZbX5BbU01-TF5sykv8aDp6e1o0B0uS6-Xpd-YA7eDYsJ4pwgCYNlTR3UYW1DimxTEpq1XhUY-RGumgXBZM3XGdaRC-GQJnaPz5Rv2m/s2048/IMG_20200805_133212.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwgeZbohZ0p5gGeTQ-6fiR0DFbnndsYPB71G1eEVZbX5BbU01-TF5sykv8aDp6e1o0B0uS6-Xpd-YA7eDYsJ4pwgCYNlTR3UYW1DimxTEpq1XhUY-RGumgXBZM3XGdaRC-GQJnaPz5Rv2m/s640/IMG_20200805_133212.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">From this vantage point it didn't seem like one thousand Roman Colosseums and seven hundred Giza Pyramids would even come close to filling this place up.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihwpQNAe50y0NUJ1zVSTP2FV_aqrG8vPmK9q2tASn0hFYpQs6Yyf3ygOxjijy2pbZVEeVHCxPvXimojB-6kf4GguUR83sQKNS6LacwTM-cPgzsKtrez2GLrtpX9FmsB-1CulZyDn5uZCZJ/s2048/IMG_20200805_133351.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihwpQNAe50y0NUJ1zVSTP2FV_aqrG8vPmK9q2tASn0hFYpQs6Yyf3ygOxjijy2pbZVEeVHCxPvXimojB-6kf4GguUR83sQKNS6LacwTM-cPgzsKtrez2GLrtpX9FmsB-1CulZyDn5uZCZJ/s640/IMG_20200805_133351.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Further along the edge of eternity we came upon this sign, noticeably lacking the word Kawakami.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1c9qEDm3HPi2X5bgfP12xThmi0BGyLJZKngCvxDzVg2tkSx8zi9MkfgJ-GCe0ajuERjKKG4OOvi99QPsIL09tInAT4egpaeTu38_e7Kb_OdRz3vhpvMdkekhtO9ik02EJvgamue7CDkMz/s2048/IMG_20200805_134821.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1c9qEDm3HPi2X5bgfP12xThmi0BGyLJZKngCvxDzVg2tkSx8zi9MkfgJ-GCe0ajuERjKKG4OOvi99QPsIL09tInAT4egpaeTu38_e7Kb_OdRz3vhpvMdkekhtO9ik02EJvgamue7CDkMz/s640/IMG_20200805_134821.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">One side pointed right, toward trail heads on Bandai's eastern and southeastern sides. Continuing along the rim of this sort-of crater would apparently take us to Urabandai and, somehow, Happohdai, which was, I could have sworn, somewhere far behind us.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Any time I hike I prefer a loop over an out-and-back. Not only is circumnavigating an area naturally more exploratory than merely walking up and down a single path, the chances of seeing the area in a completely new way, from an entirely different vantage point, vastly increases. And this brand new angle of Bandai-san's north face made for delicious vindication of dad's momentary directional snafu.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9T__2EUzA8Wj02bsQDKCi1SUXt-aHPBa3JWQ6lB7G-gO3uJ-x1My5Z_8bJhFEjV86f5oUY4DNnIzI1cpUnl0MFKGAlHMrS2_OR9wFocXolStDeWWgoY984sb9O-LK2NlYywi5z_q_Kqmo/s2048/IMG_20200805_135708.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9T__2EUzA8Wj02bsQDKCi1SUXt-aHPBa3JWQ6lB7G-gO3uJ-x1My5Z_8bJhFEjV86f5oUY4DNnIzI1cpUnl0MFKGAlHMrS2_OR9wFocXolStDeWWgoY984sb9O-LK2NlYywi5z_q_Kqmo/s640/IMG_20200805_135708.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcq_kvZj6kPByClgsrtl_8-EhBrXRL2Ge1Hk6vjeu8FWphEdPIk3borM7jKxozqKM7xwD5nUGDAyBRRN5asIMI8BTP543_b1aLUmP_P0g2G8e4HecfQPCp37KQubRSOOaslHlGf6s53PCu/s2048/IMG_20200805_140246.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcq_kvZj6kPByClgsrtl_8-EhBrXRL2Ge1Hk6vjeu8FWphEdPIk3borM7jKxozqKM7xwD5nUGDAyBRRN5asIMI8BTP543_b1aLUmP_P0g2G8e4HecfQPCp37KQubRSOOaslHlGf6s53PCu/s640/IMG_20200805_140246.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxx9muwzVB-hwVkgQuAd7yt2KnrPNM7e79lUvu45ba64JxallZKMEwF9PRtlZkqFrPuJmZXAg0tL7Kfs3c8i9as59TKJTupl0Jh2uYP2K2S4ikHsq6aOgTjoGQBctrOAberwCbRKJENf4w/s2048/IMG_20200805_140903.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxx9muwzVB-hwVkgQuAd7yt2KnrPNM7e79lUvu45ba64JxallZKMEwF9PRtlZkqFrPuJmZXAg0tL7Kfs3c8i9as59TKJTupl0Jh2uYP2K2S4ikHsq6aOgTjoGQBctrOAberwCbRKJENf4w/s640/IMG_20200805_140903.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Much like the lower part of the trail we climbed earlier, the upper portion of this path seemed to run too flat for too long. I wouldn't have been completely surprised to come to a dead end out here, at a point overlooking the changes a hundred and thirty years of Nature can bring - and the ways in which the Earth has remained since the terrible, awesome eruption of 1888.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But the trail suddenly fell off, taking us sharply down into the forests now thriving this once-ravaged land. We crossed a river of boulders and dove into another forest, the path winding and undulating and giving no indication whether we were going where we hoped. The trail and the land were so beautiful I wasn't sure I really cared. The few words my son let out told me he wasn't too concerned either. Though that may have just been his eternally calm, kind spirit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihSItD4_KfFIuI-0p4dYkSOkWyLvC-_D4vCM0B-D7Kgd_5c-3wmOvE3_tv_65w24R1-QLAl9kVQYDtbM5oNux_qVE97X2-9rHJ4DX5XORT38VJHsRDRcaRWnjr7CqqiIu98PvEmRpEhVIu/s2048/IMG_20200805_145358.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihSItD4_KfFIuI-0p4dYkSOkWyLvC-_D4vCM0B-D7Kgd_5c-3wmOvE3_tv_65w24R1-QLAl9kVQYDtbM5oNux_qVE97X2-9rHJ4DX5XORT38VJHsRDRcaRWnjr7CqqiIu98PvEmRpEhVIu/s640/IMG_20200805_145358.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then suddenly we fell out of the trees, into the clearing at the top of the ski slopes and this sign we'd seen however many hours ago.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7yz6r_K9-DJy5IeS2bLRJxjq8YOLV1BHWWIb95PZ5t5o7iiociUPt4gm-9r8CZd7PbejCld-aclNZRlOO-IVQNPgLrgS-FCp61HBYW0S45ZMnvxmycVTmWtRbpPB062x4ZSgUQ_xmiJX-/s2048/IMG_20200805_150053.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7yz6r_K9-DJy5IeS2bLRJxjq8YOLV1BHWWIb95PZ5t5o7iiociUPt4gm-9r8CZd7PbejCld-aclNZRlOO-IVQNPgLrgS-FCp61HBYW0S45ZMnvxmycVTmWtRbpPB062x4ZSgUQ_xmiJX-/s640/IMG_20200805_150053.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />As we walked down the grassy slopes, toward that gravel road and Route 459 and Lake Hibara and our car, my son remarked that this was definitely the farthest he'd ever walked. In his voice I could tell he was tired, but mixed in was the sense that he was happy he had done it. Not a hint of regret. Not a word about the extra miles we had to walk thanks to dad's parking skills.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We ended up covering eighteen kilometers in all - a shade over eleven miles, with an additional 1,000 meters (almost 3,300 feet) of climbing, all in about six hours.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We got ice cream at the shop by the lake. My son fell asleep in his seat on the way home.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I'm glad we did that," I'd told him before he dozed off.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Me too," he said. "That was cool."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Driving in silence back toward Lake Akimoto and home, I thought about his siblings. Maybe they'd enjoy tackling the Happohdai Trail with me on our next trip to Fukushima.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE5KShfOiVKbFL_zveN4v66b5GpVkLPEpmj1OGqruJ2MajPgElcUybnI99Egbe_grQLB5MpcnDKDPFj2O0nWnKXqu5NCPnIJw9WYEXOWcm8Oj7r5EQbvcF0iESUZx3ujYqcxAMB9COT7jY/s2048/IMG_20200805_142136.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE5KShfOiVKbFL_zveN4v66b5GpVkLPEpmj1OGqruJ2MajPgElcUybnI99Egbe_grQLB5MpcnDKDPFj2O0nWnKXqu5NCPnIJw9WYEXOWcm8Oj7r5EQbvcF0iESUZx3ujYqcxAMB9COT7jY/s640/IMG_20200805_142136.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-11800060186971996552020-04-19T20:42:00.001-07:002020-04-20T06:51:47.886-07:00Nasu-dake: Navigating Through Snow and Fatherhood<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaHQhQwMM-GXawpy_rTUa4D5p_0VAUMG_xq_Z-diTWK_Q2yXLyFDRASTCHLkByDe9kockqwYxNxPVtAf7bQYBgAdG3WdwFZksgSoJ0-fbyzq_LPIkWWLeU-iCEvqqb4Rn3zaz36C6YcHqq/s1600/IMG_20200326_104750a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="839" data-original-width="1600" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaHQhQwMM-GXawpy_rTUa4D5p_0VAUMG_xq_Z-diTWK_Q2yXLyFDRASTCHLkByDe9kockqwYxNxPVtAf7bQYBgAdG3WdwFZksgSoJ0-fbyzq_LPIkWWLeU-iCEvqqb4Rn3zaz36C6YcHqq/s640/IMG_20200326_104750a.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">We visit my wife’s parents at their
peach farm in Fukushima once or twice a year, and every time I bring three
things: my hiking boots, my guide to Japan’s 100 Most Famous Mountains, and a
hollow optimism that <i>this </i>time I’ll get out and do some hiking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Then we get there and my wife and kids want
to do a million things that don’t involve hiking and my boots end up sitting by
the front door all week while I spend all my time playing daddy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s just like being at home, except I don’t
have to do the dishes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I did make it out a few years ago, on a
day that any normal person would have stayed home. “I think I’m gonna go climb Adatara
tomorrow,” I told my wife as the weatherwoman on TV talked politely about the typhoon
on the way. My wife was planning on everyone going shopping in the morning, then
to lunch at the same ramen shop we always go to (not for nothing, their
portions are massive). Her plan, I’m sure, included me. “I’ll take that orange
bicycle out there. You going to be okay with the kids?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yes, of course,” she replied, sounding
less than excited about the perfect storm brewing. “You don’t want to eat lunch
with us at Kuntaro?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I did. But I didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Everyone was still sleeping when I
slipped out the door and pedaled off into the gray, misty morning, heading for
#21 of those Hundred Famous Mountains.</span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUi97v9IuVz_K8sBerQ3QKUi6Rugu4MpSQ5K9UovmVKVH_YgUz0qlvyv6iSugFsCJh78gnPKHAkWfdMOBVcHeksW81hqCIT43kh-RBFw7U9MqEnqPI04GeDaDpx1Gg7U9squFQEmwHqO8/s1600/nasublogbanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="869" data-original-width="1600" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUi97v9IuVz_K8sBerQ3QKUi6Rugu4MpSQ5K9UovmVKVH_YgUz0qlvyv6iSugFsCJh78gnPKHAkWfdMOBVcHeksW81hqCIT43kh-RBFw7U9MqEnqPI04GeDaDpx1Gg7U9squFQEmwHqO8/s640/nasublogbanner.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from Mt. Minowa, a little north of - and much more enchanting than - Mt. Adatara</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I learned two lessons that day. One, I have
secret anti-typhoon powers; the skies could not have been much bluer. Two, a
discussion needs to be had on what makes a mountain famous. Adatara? Really?</span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">There
was something else I got from that day, though; a sort of lesson that I am
still learning.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Being a good father doesn’t
mean always being present.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Last month I brought my boots and my
book to Fukushima again. But in place of the hollow optimism was a burst of
forward-thinking inspiration as foreign to me as sex these days.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I normally spend our first evening on
the peach farm sitting in the living room, staring in resignation at the
calendar on the wall while my kids ignore their grandparents in favor of the TV.
This time, with my kids deep into another slapstick variety show, I glanced at
that calendar over and over like it was going to try to escape as I interrogated
my wife about the next several days.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">“When do you want to go to Kuntaro? When
are we going to Katsumi’s place?” Katsumi, her hair stylist friend, would give
us the bulk family rate if we all got haircuts. I kind of felt compelled. “Does
your mother need help with the peach trees? You said you wanted to go put fresh
flowers on your grandparents’ grave, right? And what about the dentist?” The
dentist was my wife’s cousin. He gave a great deal on teeth-cleaning – and, as
with my hair, my teeth were overdue for some attention.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Mixed in were the mandatory trips to the
park and the hot spring village and the old-fashioned candy store on the hill. This
left Thursday open.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I checked the weather forecast. Whatever
kryptonite I possess for typhoons is useless against the rain.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Thursday promised a mix of sun and
clouds with little chance of the sky falling. At the same time, this was March
in sort-of northern Japan. The mountaintops still wore the white of winter. The
weather could be impetuous, even downright impolite.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">As my kids argued over the remote,
unaware their grandmother had walked in and then out of the room, a voice whispered
to me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Every year people disappear hiking
Japan’s still-snowy mountains. Some get lost and succumb to exposure. Others
fall right off the mountain, either from a lack of experience or a lack of
proper equipment, or both. At minimum one should have those spiky crampon
things on their boots, and a map they know how to read.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t have much experience hiking in
winter. I don’t have any crampons. I can read a map, more or less. But none of
that worried me. All I needed was a bag of cookies and my bear bell. I was sure
I’d be good.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’m going to go climb Nasu-dake on
Thursday,” I told my wife. “As long as the weather’s okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">My boots couldn’t believe it when I put
them in the car and drove off into the mountains, heading for #24 of Japan’s
famous <i>Hyakumeizan</i>.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSi4R6GHUBYU7SMOUh9ISr9FOLI0MWU0RLuJeDENj8xABMsjJiTOfmwUBowQg9ypjN3t0MZ5u9gjWek1DHlZi83jv5QgxQqwL7GLpGUIOpNE8LzJH09lTznoj0Ca9pqZV3Ng86gRET5ocb/s1600/nasublogroadtonasu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="611" data-original-width="1600" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSi4R6GHUBYU7SMOUh9ISr9FOLI0MWU0RLuJeDENj8xABMsjJiTOfmwUBowQg9ypjN3t0MZ5u9gjWek1DHlZi83jv5QgxQqwL7GLpGUIOpNE8LzJH09lTznoj0Ca9pqZV3Ng86gRET5ocb/s640/nasublogroadtonasu.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
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<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Promising Conditions. No Equipment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The road to the Nasu-dake ropeway station
was perfectly clear and dry. Only the final quarter-mile, the winding stretch
leading up to the main trail head, remained closed off. This seemed a matter of season
rather than snow. In Japan, following rules and adhering to schedules is not
the best way. It is the only way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The valley below sat awash in sun,
sleepy under the pale blue eastern sky. Even up here at 1,380 meters above sea level
the morning air held a hint of warmth. The ropeway was running. Parking was
free. Why was this place almost deserted?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">It couldn’t have been from social
distancing. The coronavirus currently ravaging the globe had not hit Japan very
hard, not yet anyway. And from what I’d seen, the people here didn’t seem to be
too concerned that it would.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe most people are just smart enough
not to go climbing mountains in semi-northern Japan in March.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">There were three others there in the
lot; men draped with the accouterments of safe winter climbing. A voice came over
an unseen PA system, announcing to no one that the ropeway was running. One of
the men looked over, probably thinking I'd be taking it while wondering if I understood the announcement.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYyNkFKPlVBIX8OrKYPt7m3rJfdYbmVUDJQZgxHoNYrzcjI7UXA_RUtatGOSL7S2KssnVQht4Nh7D4O0iMCwDxSkp4rZs47UkkfuLML_WwdP7XFXDBtPzhDW50nIP61g1wldVl75nn0Moz/s1600/IMG_20200326_095554.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYyNkFKPlVBIX8OrKYPt7m3rJfdYbmVUDJQZgxHoNYrzcjI7UXA_RUtatGOSL7S2KssnVQht4Nh7D4O0iMCwDxSkp4rZs47UkkfuLML_WwdP7XFXDBtPzhDW50nIP61g1wldVl75nn0Moz/s320/IMG_20200326_095554.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I laced up my boots, stuffed a
couple of extra shirts into my cheapo backpack along with my bag of cookies and
two half-liters of watered-down vegetable juice and headed for the trail head.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The mountains looming overhead wore an unsettling mix of snow and rock.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Things looked sketchy at the trail head.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The snowdrifts on the wide stone steps
looked both harmless and ominous. Thirty seconds of walking and the ground was completely
blanketed in white. <i>Not very deep,</i> I thought. Until I came to this stone
torii. Normally tall enough for everyone but Yasutaka Okayama to walk under,
this one didn’t leave enough room for Muggsy Bogues, even in his defensive
stance. Was there really that much snow?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU9RxssofBIh3Wfe1Zu5u5K3Bu8sPPYrBVvImO6Gb3Fz1r7pYnzcYMnOMy-v_C9DOLWWHhznGwvXRKj4bTDsTUdG-226l7AIVZLnv37Ja_keWhe7lu3JPvs1WBE_K8vr7AdoMUihMdRMTY/s1600/0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="1600" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU9RxssofBIh3Wfe1Zu5u5K3Bu8sPPYrBVvImO6Gb3Fz1r7pYnzcYMnOMy-v_C9DOLWWHhznGwvXRKj4bTDsTUdG-226l7AIVZLnv37Ja_keWhe7lu3JPvs1WBE_K8vr7AdoMUihMdRMTY/s640/0001.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yasutaka, Stone Torii, Muggsy Bogues (L to R)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile these komainu dogs normally sit
on five-foot high pedestals. And though most kinds of broadleaf ‘sasa’ bamboo sit
low to the ground, there is at least one variety that reaches two meters or
more. Naturally, I didn’t know what kind this one was.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNb7wz92CgfszuXAutYfUSkPXWnTcMfI6HgPsl1hVXeKPDEC_gzTHzw34DZxJSWuCW_xJn1TMVaskT9Arn4oS-n18C78-0sKOzjFxHZyMOXadNxijtKcXRIx-kwvHUUeqnwcSiqMi4TEmF/s1600/IMG_20200326_101557.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNb7wz92CgfszuXAutYfUSkPXWnTcMfI6HgPsl1hVXeKPDEC_gzTHzw34DZxJSWuCW_xJn1TMVaskT9Arn4oS-n18C78-0sKOzjFxHZyMOXadNxijtKcXRIx-kwvHUUeqnwcSiqMi4TEmF/s320/IMG_20200326_101557.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The possibility of sinking through the
snow and falling into a crevasse notwithstanding, I told myself I’d made the
right choice today and started walking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I told myself ‘I told you so’ when the trail
reappeared. The ground underfoot was now a spring-like mix of dirt, rock, mud
and shallow (I assumed) patches of snow. To the right the land fell away.
Across the canyon was the steep, craggy southern face of Asahi-dake, one of the
peaks of Nasu-dake. As the path curved left with the terrain another peak,
Chausu-dake, came into view. Up on the ridge, a half-mile away, was the low
rectangular figure of an emergency hut.</span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD35_if1tW9nmXjYCs1GunVncdIx6P1JN7Q-8BvdI6TPHPRxZ2MyXXu30ciwj3IN8Dhc6YI7nAsy5UESN3YZ7jgdMK7duhVYqEqiteK5SAyYazLw-kiVJg4WO7y5fqKq0ji4fY83gk_ad8/s1600/IMG_20200326_102615.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD35_if1tW9nmXjYCs1GunVncdIx6P1JN7Q-8BvdI6TPHPRxZ2MyXXu30ciwj3IN8Dhc6YI7nAsy5UESN3YZ7jgdMK7duhVYqEqiteK5SAyYazLw-kiVJg4WO7y5fqKq0ji4fY83gk_ad8/s640/IMG_20200326_102615.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stately Asahi-dake (R) and Surly Ken-ga-mine (L)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIBp7EXpezEasJ0aZFz9DICaGL8awo8w8ERGN-anpoVWwgLKy7bqzntVPpRuXUWWFSPX8rC8YsRyhi9RKPoBbbg61Sx-q-z8oTpxRiWiw3Wt46Wautsh2eJLw8nhyG4cWyAEax1xQEVIH/s1600/IMG_20200326_102758.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIBp7EXpezEasJ0aZFz9DICaGL8awo8w8ERGN-anpoVWwgLKy7bqzntVPpRuXUWWFSPX8rC8YsRyhi9RKPoBbbg61Sx-q-z8oTpxRiWiw3Wt46Wautsh2eJLw8nhyG4cWyAEax1xQEVIH/s640/IMG_20200326_102758.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">800 meters to the ridge. Chausu looks rather unassuming back there. Remember this view.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV6VwaxpE8jxv625iPc5gUxHaon4Aon18IAV9TkX52XmlS_cdz0rbEj16smXkOSOxDupROGj00ZOHZjDnaYXU-_3iqO6Gh9Mt3yLbGrReAwoh0T2EwpDAkpPeufkmAodT4KuAi7cQWWxdh/s1600/IMG_20200326_102953.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="697" data-original-width="1600" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV6VwaxpE8jxv625iPc5gUxHaon4Aon18IAV9TkX52XmlS_cdz0rbEj16smXkOSOxDupROGj00ZOHZjDnaYXU-_3iqO6Gh9Mt3yLbGrReAwoh0T2EwpDAkpPeufkmAodT4KuAi7cQWWxdh/s640/IMG_20200326_102953.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emergency hut on the ridge, and a snowy traverse on the face of Ken-ga-mine. (Remember this too.) </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">From a distance the ridge appeared largely
free of snow (and, presumably, snow-covered crevasses). The sky was eminently,
royally blue. I walked easily, excited, hoping my family had done something
good with the day so far.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Cresting a mountain ridge will often bring
two things: a great unfolding of the view of what lies on the other side,
and a sudden blast of wind screaming up from the valley on the other side. In awe of the first, caught off guard with the second, I nearly lost my cap.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I stood looking out over that
vast mountainscape, smiling inside and out. This was why I was out here. This was good. This
was God.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s worth keeping in mind, of course,
that God can be wildly unpredictable.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNjjglUKfY9EgO8JVgVEgohY8MO9aVxFcDOw3KI6S8vUAE9LM6AOWpqrRg_sIl2qJl5R-MzN72LFWAGvn-5qfabeuJdO0W885Btgh7O6s3Ap5u0WND9dvyyaapni1aZfOy1OHzQ7SAsRZu/s1600/IMG_20200326_104434a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="710" data-original-width="1600" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNjjglUKfY9EgO8JVgVEgohY8MO9aVxFcDOw3KI6S8vUAE9LM6AOWpqrRg_sIl2qJl5R-MzN72LFWAGvn-5qfabeuJdO0W885Btgh7O6s3Ap5u0WND9dvyyaapni1aZfOy1OHzQ7SAsRZu/s640/IMG_20200326_104434a.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The Point of Today</span></span></b></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I come to these places not just for the
view, but for the value I sense in the attainment of it. For the physical
immersion. For the feeling of having nothing but the air between me and a
million square miles of Heaven on Earth. And while it is rather selfish, given
the choice I’d have it all to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Today I’d share this heaven with a few
other souls. Two women and one man took turns taking pictures of each other, that
vastness to the west in the background. I thought they were a group but the man
soon walked off on his own, up toward Asahi-dake. I traded smiles and greetings
with the women and walked after him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The rocky peaks of Asahi, draped with
sparse, thin tendrils of snow, stood in earthy contrast to that fiercely blue
sky. A rugged jewel, the kind of harsh beauty only Nature can create. A place
some men would conquer though for me commune with is a better term.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The trail to Asahi ran up the ridge and around
the eastern face of 1,799-meter Ken-ga-mine. More a protuberance than a mountain,
Ken seemed intent on spiting its taller, more alluring sibling like any little
brat would.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">While Asahi stood proud and bare, Ken-ga-mine
still clung to his thinning winter blanket. As the path rose with the mountain the
trail narrowed, winding up and down, tripping over rocks and through stubborn
vegetation, slipping and disappearing under that tattered layer of snow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The man up ahead of me had crampons. He moved
gingerly along, testing the snow under each step forward. Tramping along in his
wake, I caught up to him pretty quick.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">We exchanged greetings. He looked at my
boots, noticeably devoid of spiky things. “Sugoi, ne,” he said, impressed by my
courageous ability or perhaps my profound stupidity. I smiled and invited him
to keep up the good work. I’d be right behind him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I lied. I let him get ahead of me so (a) he could check the integrity (or not) of what looked from my vantage point like had a massive and fantastically treacherous snow slide, and (b) to take a couple of pictures of him. The sight of him traversing this crooked white monster was striking. Plus if he suddenly went sliding off into
oblivion I could show the search party what he looked like.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB_z3iKQYDonLrQ3wWvb8e_d6mqis0Zz-SCDpuorGf83W7K2nNhiFcx2RN7Kqezw5AatYmY8XzoysskYHF4ZbwS3aMccVUFulUJyMYY3-vN55I9oYE5rREev9rdREx9Xcc6lBuS6ej8El/s1600/IMG_20200326_104551.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB_z3iKQYDonLrQ3wWvb8e_d6mqis0Zz-SCDpuorGf83W7K2nNhiFcx2RN7Kqezw5AatYmY8XzoysskYHF4ZbwS3aMccVUFulUJyMYY3-vN55I9oYE5rREev9rdREx9Xcc6lBuS6ej8El/s640/IMG_20200326_104551.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This would turn out to be just a warm-up.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Magically the two women appeared behind me. They both had crampons. They smiled at my boots. "Sugoi, ne," they said.</span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Asahi inched closer as we navigated
Ken-ga-mine’s bad attitude. On the far side of this white death slide dirt
and rocks peeked out from the snow. Small trees, sticking to the general mood
of the neighborhood, bristled in defiance of their high-altitude existence. Our
steps quickened, our voices lightened as the path leveled out. Asahi came into
fuller view as we rounded a bend – and came face to face with a traverse that ensured
Ken-ga-mine would never endear himself to anyone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>(Yes, the death trap in that picture up there was just a warm-up.)</i></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .5gd; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Faint tracks showed that people had not
only crossed here recently, but had made it to the other side. Clearer tracks
ran straight down the mountain, left by rolling clumps of snow that probably got
bigger and bigger like they always do in cartoons right before rolling over and
swallowing up the coyote or the curious monkey or the hiker with no crampons.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I’d encountered such a scene before – a
traverse across a part of Rishiri-zan in Japan’s far north. It was the end of
summer, so there was no snow. There was just a ferocious wind roaring over the
ridge line above, bringing with it swirling, dirty gray clouds that added an extra element of adventure as they made it impossible to see the rocks and pebbles careening down the mountainside until it was too late.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">“Sugoi, ne,” I’d said to myself as another
rock flew past my face. I turned around and went back to the sunny side of
Rishiri where there was no wind and no killer rocks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2JnP-58J3uF59kqTjHyYa8TkhuHMr0ZyTQLZG9_sBmlM1yG2CfcrybBlSPVH6cTBtdGaj99H5y_QDK5CKkrAZ0FnV2VtCzcXRz5lqumgyfe1lPp7Hd780duz64Kyz_dsTDpRgY3mvDvf/s1600/IMG_20180913_120400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2JnP-58J3uF59kqTjHyYa8TkhuHMr0ZyTQLZG9_sBmlM1yG2CfcrybBlSPVH6cTBtdGaj99H5y_QDK5CKkrAZ0FnV2VtCzcXRz5lqumgyfe1lPp7Hd780duz64Kyz_dsTDpRgY3mvDvf/s400/IMG_20180913_120400.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rishiri-zan's Excellent Adventure</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Looking over this latest traverse, pointing out those snowball tracks as
if they couldn’t see them, I said something to the three of them about the possibility of a </span><i style="font-size: x-large;">nadare</i><span style="font-size: large;">. They nodded and looked longingly at Asahi-dake –
and fearfully at the snowed-over side of Ken-ga-mine waiting to eat us. After a minute it was easy to
see that only one of us was going any further.</span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I told them all to have a nice hike and walked
off toward my possible death which, in a weird but familiar way, made me feel more immersed,
more alive in the middle of all this.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">My three friends were still standing in
the same place when I got to the other side. The trail, though still covered,
had become apparent again as a path of level, packed snow. I gave them a
thumbs-up. They didn’t move.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I turned toward Asahi, its coat of dirt
and loose rocks now looming overhead.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipuvVGX_P0TdF8J9Rjax_5lUIfEbCaRyt792EV6BG2pUCzHdKF92TlXpuBsvJ10XpI3shUXgrhb7Lqk5cFR3DgjG6cyVHK8QfhLDzi8vUCNaUQSFmEWisVfseGAa3C-sGchSo3n4I3-3ic/s1600/IMG_20200326_105351.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipuvVGX_P0TdF8J9Rjax_5lUIfEbCaRyt792EV6BG2pUCzHdKF92TlXpuBsvJ10XpI3shUXgrhb7Lqk5cFR3DgjG6cyVHK8QfhLDzi8vUCNaUQSFmEWisVfseGAa3C-sGchSo3n4I3-3ic/s640/IMG_20200326_105351.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">For Those Not Here<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">To this point I’d only covered two,
maybe three kilometers of the trail; just a fraction of the 15-kilometer loop. Conditions
(the snow) and time constraints (getting here late because I decided to take the
scenic route) would make hiking the entire trail a challenge. Having only a bag
of cookies to get me through was not a concern. Having no crampons, or helmet
or rope or experience hiking in the snowy mountains; this floated heavy in my
head.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The three main peaks of the loop were
all on the eastern arc. Asahi would be the first. Further north, past a few
lesser peaks was Sanbon-yari, at 1,917 meters the trail’s highest point. If
fate and the snow kept Sanbon out of reach, 1,898-meter Chausu-dake would have
to stand as consolation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">And while making it up Sanbon-yari was among
the day’s aspirations, and perhaps the foremost goal of the hike, it was not
integral to the endeavor. I was not out here to get to a point somewhere outside.
I was here to reach a place inside – a place I have neglected countless times
in favor of what I believed were my fatherly responsibilities.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve always loved the mountains. But
they’ve taken on new meaning for me since I traded my freedom for a family. I still
come out here for myself, but by extension I’m out here for my wife and kids too.
It’s hard to treat others right if you don’t take care of your own state of
mind, no matter how noble your intentions. It’s hard to make others happy when
you are not.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">My wife understands this as it pertains
to me. I wish she would practice it for herself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile my kids are just happy they
don’t have to listen to me telling them forty times an hour to stop watching so
much TV.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The trail leading toward Asahi’s highest
slopes is a winding outdoor museum of rock formations. The pass around the
western face is also mostly rock, but with all the ropes and chains – and the
possibility of a quick and uncomfortable descent into the valley if you don’t have
a good grip on them – it’s not so much a museum as a reminder of your mortality.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYymmIWFqGiiSHw154u1h1IJthGgspVKWr0Sn_BukLfr0dniqEBBFIas6eZQDekxcakR2KClR7CwyZDvq0jmIDB6eAFsB9-0_8EWHw02G9QvF0xNUtwiwtLKtNHoOD4gn9KrDWBgkckx5d/s1600/IMG_20200326_110406a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1054" data-original-width="1600" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYymmIWFqGiiSHw154u1h1IJthGgspVKWr0Sn_BukLfr0dniqEBBFIas6eZQDekxcakR2KClR7CwyZDvq0jmIDB6eAFsB9-0_8EWHw02G9QvF0xNUtwiwtLKtNHoOD4gn9KrDWBgkckx5d/s640/IMG_20200326_110406a.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The more forgiving rock formations of Asahi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Asahi, at 1,896 meters, is the lowest of
the trail’s three main peaks. From the top you can see in every direction. To
the east, rivers of flat land run through distinct mountain ranges. Roads and
houses and fields lie blurry in the distant haze. Opposite all this is a vast panorama
of slopes and peaks and sky. To the south Chausu is easy to recognize, for its
shape but moreso because it’s right there in front of you. Face the innumerable
mountains to the west and you feel like you are looking out over an immense and
restless ocean, eternally frozen in time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5BzcVnj23jO6yi1r7qQCOdqqfYBTyVBvppDyP9aF7jWrJHin5tGeNzZAc-EpV8zwH8pX1sDmsuYPzfqUaMznQ7McQHdeWSNjeH7gLBiPPI4IAvWb3ad01SruqnEdtWDHcGyxdmuONsEKU/s1600/IMG_20200326_112425.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5BzcVnj23jO6yi1r7qQCOdqqfYBTyVBvppDyP9aF7jWrJHin5tGeNzZAc-EpV8zwH8pX1sDmsuYPzfqUaMznQ7McQHdeWSNjeH7gLBiPPI4IAvWb3ad01SruqnEdtWDHcGyxdmuONsEKU/s640/IMG_20200326_112425.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking southwest from the top of Asahi-dake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />To the north lay the trail and, somewhere
among the hills and mountains beyond, Sanbon-yari. I studied my map. I looked
out over the land. I had no idea where Sanbon was. So much for my map-reading
skills. At least I wasn’t lost. Yet.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6mZf-1MveNeyve7d_uh3PF-C0DovQNviZwpE-iXI2g8dOz7W7upy6sk8kD9BDOqAJ9JtMadTSIJ-CRs4UHQ0ACzzvEpeoScgQWvoQYd_5l2hDyI0LwHunPqmU18Xh4sIVQBe9ExBk29FN/s1600/IMG_20200326_113149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6mZf-1MveNeyve7d_uh3PF-C0DovQNviZwpE-iXI2g8dOz7W7upy6sk8kD9BDOqAJ9JtMadTSIJ-CRs4UHQ0ACzzvEpeoScgQWvoQYd_5l2hDyI0LwHunPqmU18Xh4sIVQBe9ExBk29FN/s640/IMG_20200326_113149.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sanbon-yari: out there somewhere</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioxwvhtSiXlGA8j9LHlO3u1Zy0OrfzxVKPIW_cnu2f6MTzywBtt86o4_4lm2DUMJKUYQq-Mpntt_NahDiy5J0ECx6akUPOaAtekr4HvLvFVmX4-mS0in5rJQ7G4H2tIx4hcfr9JSaHh2Iz/s1600/IMG_20200326_115406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioxwvhtSiXlGA8j9LHlO3u1Zy0OrfzxVKPIW_cnu2f6MTzywBtt86o4_4lm2DUMJKUYQq-Mpntt_NahDiy5J0ECx6akUPOaAtekr4HvLvFVmX4-mS0in5rJQ7G4H2tIx4hcfr9JSaHh2Iz/s640/IMG_20200326_115406.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking back at Asahi (L) and Chausu (R) - both of them much different in appearance now</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">This Ever-Changing View<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Among the intangible treasures I find
out here is the sense of distance and spatial relation. On a map you see where
things are. On a mountain you are a part of the immensity of the land. Down in
the valley places that seem so close on the map can take forever to get to in a car. On
a mountain those same places can seem close enough to touch. Moving through the
terrain you can watch points in space become nearer or farther, watch mountains
appear and disappear behind other peaks. The slow assault on the senses is
magical.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">As is a mountain’s seeming ability to
make itself invisible.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">On my map Sanbon-yari looked well within
reach. If distance were the only factor I could run there and back without giving
it a thought. But the land to the north was covered in snow. And while it was
obvious which direction Sanbon-yari was, I couldn’t figure out which of the
peaks, if any of them, was the one. It might be that lazy round mound over
there. It might be that steeper, rougher climb hiding behind. It might even be
that massive snow-covered banana slug of a mountain further over to the west.
If so, forget it. But nah, that couldn’t be Sanbon-yari. Could it?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">My first instinct was to just start running.
My boots might start wondering what the hell was going on but for me, running heightens
the senses. Running changes the dynamic, putting me more in touch with a place.
I don’t know how to describe it. I can’t even explain it to myself. I only know
that running, even if only for a moment, brings me closer to what I come out
here for.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Back down below Asahi’s rocky summit I did
start running. Along the ridge leading north, past the marker pointing back toward
the obstacle course and up to Kumami-sone Bungi there was barely any snow. </span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4yHgw5s5OE4sp92vuuYehh8DgdeE71dSIqogBF3haDMJhI9Le4_7f7_cGYywd0ReScP5VMrxoiYJ0YNNklJC8AKrjIlEEXJyess-AMSOj-3VRJv7Di4yV9gokEsFKQL7JJ3v3JFAy1t7g/s1600/IMG_20200326_114815.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4yHgw5s5OE4sp92vuuYehh8DgdeE71dSIqogBF3haDMJhI9Le4_7f7_cGYywd0ReScP5VMrxoiYJ0YNNklJC8AKrjIlEEXJyess-AMSOj-3VRJv7Di4yV9gokEsFKQL7JJ3v3JFAy1t7g/s640/IMG_20200326_114815.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">熊見曾根 - "Kumami-sone" - basically means 'bear-sighting part of the trail'. Luckily I had my bear bell with me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Down a little, up a little, I
jogged and ran and walked and jogged again. Sliding down a snowy slope that was
both fun and clearly potentially ruinous, I came to a place called Shimizu-daira, which probably becomes a beautiful marshy plateau in summer. Today it was all white, broken up only by
the low-lying green and brown scrub.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">According to my map it was just 35
minutes from this point to the top of Sanbon-yari. The lay of the land looked
different from here than it had from the top of Asahi, but I still didn’t know
where Sanbon-yari was. If it wasn’t that big round hill in front of me then it
was behind it. Somewhere. Either way I’d have to climb that hill. And from my
vantage point the snow covering that big bump in the earth looked deep enough
in places to swallow me whole.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmRBXSZEs0ZawNTVTt63wJN_JPHV01SFfD2cO4_tNbMl0YddVS6iP8fuyRWzGIuYoyO-S538fyWNyU5c2CyPPAD7DSNSuKNDYCgbJsP7F7HYnsBsFzza9_ODxdtd4yewpSdxjOO4sp46sL/s1600/IMG_20200326_121106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmRBXSZEs0ZawNTVTt63wJN_JPHV01SFfD2cO4_tNbMl0YddVS6iP8fuyRWzGIuYoyO-S538fyWNyU5c2CyPPAD7DSNSuKNDYCgbJsP7F7HYnsBsFzza9_ODxdtd4yewpSdxjOO4sp46sL/s640/IMG_20200326_121106.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best guess, Sanbon-yari was off to the right, past that snowy ridge.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The trek out to this point had only taken
2.5 hours, including the side trip up Asahi. Hiking out to Sanbon-yari and back
would be an hour in dry conditions, maybe a half hour more with the snow. Getting
back to this spot around 2:00 would put me back at the parking lot by 3:30 at
best. But that meant skipping the climb up Chausu, which would require an extra
hour as far as I could tell. Accounting for a degree of fatigue thanks to my
poor planning in the food department I could be looking at 5:00. And while it
would still be light, the land would be turning shadowy.</span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Or worse.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The skies to the north and west were
clear and blue. My hike to Sanbon-yari would likely be spectacular – at least until
I fell into a crevasse. But the skies to the south were thick and gray,
like a storm was moving in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Ten years ago I would have continued on
toward Sanbon-yari, at least until I was waist deep in the snow. Twenty years ago
the entire Japanese rugby team wouldn’t have been able to hold me back. Today,
Sanbon-yari would remain a distant acquaintance. I still wasn’t sure what she
looked like, but she no longer felt like a stranger.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span lang="EN-US">Next time</span></i><span lang="EN-US">,
I said to myself. And that was all right. I hadn’t seen Sanbon-yari, but I had once again seen God.<i> Time to
go home and see my family</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Dang my fatherly instincts.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2nedfsCH_EecRQu68ejYWnHLyTSz1hHohAMvPSmfYP8bJmHPwexyCEaGbgeSjjWxSj-pjxlxE9O00Kh5VB9cRCi2V7-t2I4l7pMuv09Q9X446xqEvBEAieZ0xWNRpfG0GVyhqzZVazgF/s1600/IMG_20200326_121405.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2nedfsCH_EecRQu68ejYWnHLyTSz1hHohAMvPSmfYP8bJmHPwexyCEaGbgeSjjWxSj-pjxlxE9O00Kh5VB9cRCi2V7-t2I4l7pMuv09Q9X446xqEvBEAieZ0xWNRpfG0GVyhqzZVazgF/s640/IMG_20200326_121405.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Suddenly sketchy skies over Kumami-sone, Asahi and Chausu.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Turning to Chausu<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">While hiking a loop constantly puts you
in contact with new terrain and new vantage points, backtracking can show you
new ways of seeing familiar things. You look at things from new angles. You see
things you missed. The skies may have cleared, or turned a different blue,
remaking the entire experience.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Backtracking also increases
(theoretically) your chances of meeting people out on the trail. For the most
part I do prefer solitude out here, but the occasional meeting can add a
welcome extra element to a hike – particularly if it’s at the traverse that looks
about ready to turn into an avalanche.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">He was on the other side, standing at
the edge like he was debating whether to go for it or turn back. I crossed first. Only twice did I lose my footing, and only one of those times did I get that feeling of your chair about to fall backwards.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Safe on the other side I exchanged
greetings with the man. He had crampons on his boots, poles in his hands, a
helmet on his head and a seriousness in his face. I said something about the conditions
on the traverse, though what I don’t quite remember. The guy headed off across
the snow without a word. Not even a quick ‘Sugoi, ne.’</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUSzxZyivVAA8ZQGaWdiNCUqV1HmBFMOJCj2Xt5CQEzVA4eC041g1uK9qrLwMEuSozIRYSzff3ZE8yyLvht_XuMDVHWek30M4izHYk6W00IB5XjN_c7CdmmysGRxAZIkwCVc_-E5V0wd1z/s1600/IMG_20200326_130617.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUSzxZyivVAA8ZQGaWdiNCUqV1HmBFMOJCj2Xt5CQEzVA4eC041g1uK9qrLwMEuSozIRYSzff3ZE8yyLvht_XuMDVHWek30M4izHYk6W00IB5XjN_c7CdmmysGRxAZIkwCVc_-E5V0wd1z/s640/IMG_20200326_130617.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Traverse. Doesn't look so bad now..</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">An hour later, near the top of Chausu-dake,
I ran into my three friends. They said they saw me standing at the top of
Asahi. They asked me how far I’d gone. I wanted to tell them the traverse
wasn’t that bad – not bad at all – and that the hike on the other side was
breath-taking. But such one-sided exuberance doesn’t go well with typical
Japanese conversation so I told them the views were nice but the trail was slippery
in places so it might have been a bit risky. This made little to no sense to
them, coming from a guy with no crampons, but they smiled and nodded and asked
to take a couple of pictures together.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyuMkOn7W9QHr6f0USehUwxlAlpZnlBEQpbfqTTqqo3U7vsVubXDHQ7o9FJoH9rswO2s2xBj9sm_BU1UOY8Z3eDr6MUy-ESApOK9m6mH7C_FPoM6rZbsGrZpqhvaZxdlwXCWEEhzTqJQ0w/s1600/IMG_20200326_135253.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyuMkOn7W9QHr6f0USehUwxlAlpZnlBEQpbfqTTqqo3U7vsVubXDHQ7o9FJoH9rswO2s2xBj9sm_BU1UOY8Z3eDr6MUy-ESApOK9m6mH7C_FPoM6rZbsGrZpqhvaZxdlwXCWEEhzTqJQ0w/s640/IMG_20200326_135253.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Chausu is an extinct (I remember hoping) volcano.
A trail runs over the rocks and around the entire crater, layered at the bottom
with snow. From the western edge one is presented with another wide, uninterrupted
vista of that choppy mountain landscape. The long range of peaks in the
distance looked the same, but the mountains closer in – the ones that look so
deliciously within reach, sat differently once again in relation to each other.
And from here I thought I might have seen Sanbon-yari.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_mTcFePySHjeCub_eYsa6pBJDFK_RaCgGa8OTxzILwIiHGxqbRMRqdzmy3mPvTKS0HztPFymEndD5HDwd7bBE-zzPN9vLi_Wxkwl5Om6CmuqORBMaKrQkyHTOZMRKYQ1gb37bqWDRov2n/s1600/IMG_20200326_140436.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_mTcFePySHjeCub_eYsa6pBJDFK_RaCgGa8OTxzILwIiHGxqbRMRqdzmy3mPvTKS0HztPFymEndD5HDwd7bBE-zzPN9vLi_Wxkwl5Om6CmuqORBMaKrQkyHTOZMRKYQ1gb37bqWDRov2n/s640/IMG_20200326_140436.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Chausu, like so many mountains in Japan,
is topped with a small Shinto shrine. The one on Chausu looks brand new. Meanwhile
the wooden <i>torii</i> nearby looked so makeshift and worn I thought I might have
built it.</span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">With the ropeway running, the top of
Chausu was lightly populated. Including my three friends, who were now on their
way back down toward the emergency hut, I counted about a dozen people besides myself.
Ten people at best on this big huge rocky summit – and one of them manages to
walk up to that mini shrine right when I'm about to snap a picture of it through
the wooden frame of the torii.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Normally this would be a non-event.
Normally, a person would walk up to a shrine to look at it for a minute, maybe snap
a photo, or toss a couple of coins on the front porch and say a quick prayer.
No problem. We all want to look at things. Some of us like to pray. This
person, however, walked up to this shrine and stood right there in front of it
for the apparent purpose of eating a rice ball.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">She wasn’t even looking at the shrine. She might not have realized it was there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBaglSFH3KC0JQJi-Pj5Pc9c_D7Oq_0JGOiDLj6SL2P7vI5AN83bXbOFcQRZDHt-EeIKX-bLX7rr-brXgWLh05epQohDMyeUqYvOa3Yuqmc41_yqwUwWIvDRrBSOyS5GGRTCdtZcG3hPZq/s1600/IMG_20200326_140222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBaglSFH3KC0JQJi-Pj5Pc9c_D7Oq_0JGOiDLj6SL2P7vI5AN83bXbOFcQRZDHt-EeIKX-bLX7rr-brXgWLh05epQohDMyeUqYvOa3Yuqmc41_yqwUwWIvDRrBSOyS5GGRTCdtZcG3hPZq/s640/IMG_20200326_140222.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photobomber finally finished her rice ball and left.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ah well. It was only two o’clock. I’d
made better time than I expected, retracing my steps and making the hike up
here. And those sketchy gray clouds looming thick and wet over this mountain
when I was back at Shimizu-daira contemplating the hike to Sanbon-yari? Gone
without a trace. Nothing overhead but the sun and a royal blue sky.</span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">If only those clouds could have disappeared
two hours ago. I might have met Sanbon-yari.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I caught up with my three friends on the
way back down Chausu. ‘Nice weather, isn’t it?’ I said as I bounced alongside
one of the women.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Oh, hello! You’re fast! Great, we can
take our time and all walk down together!’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">‘We could, couldn’t we,’ I replied,
jumping over a few boulders and clomping down the trail, leaving them all behind.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR1hINBGF7dODtF3uU47r96lmqwRtQxsKvfQn3f_cNJXfQcnsb4yAch9An2pvrXXR6dZRWZ7yBHwGcoCMQjzwsHDo74_a9ymBQLnjH8t_C1lkW3ZsR1ysEKDqm_5R5twb1BmlxTMY3PG8Q/s1600/PANO_20200326_134612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="1600" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR1hINBGF7dODtF3uU47r96lmqwRtQxsKvfQn3f_cNJXfQcnsb4yAch9An2pvrXXR6dZRWZ7yBHwGcoCMQjzwsHDo74_a9ymBQLnjH8t_C1lkW3ZsR1ysEKDqm_5R5twb1BmlxTMY3PG8Q/s640/PANO_20200326_134612.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view heading back down Chausu-dake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Not that I was in a rush. I had plenty
of time and daylight left. And really, I could have hung around and looked out
on those mountains until the sky over Nasu grew dark. But I had two other, more
important things on my mind.</span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">One, I had a family to see.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">And two, I was out of cookies.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-92216073629885030642019-06-16T09:39:00.007-07:002019-06-16T09:42:43.108-07:00Cycling Rishiri Island: Mountainsides, Shorelines & Heaven<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZpGOTVtJLP9PnVcXXBZsGCw0acAi8DJTgv1F6CfJHjoHO5yTE0AfNuoEXC0xBcX2QJghfmkTgeIj5m6svFX_r4HptfIGs45yDsgpP307eEm5boebrowa3lGXivE2JDP1N7ktvZsDtcKCm/s1600/blogpic+copy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="543" data-original-width="1600" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZpGOTVtJLP9PnVcXXBZsGCw0acAi8DJTgv1F6CfJHjoHO5yTE0AfNuoEXC0xBcX2QJghfmkTgeIj5m6svFX_r4HptfIGs45yDsgpP307eEm5boebrowa3lGXivE2JDP1N7ktvZsDtcKCm/s640/blogpic+copy.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">That's how I felt, there at the edge of the water.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEMFSBPh3raIuljEPADZPbYrk2vUPQdkLuzUndamJPW314nJwV-rd9clkkRN9_5m4I9PtCdIkbZRSKmsvXiG8N9Pvs9GhbuTGWYAxUAmrQOt32tzK0RRowdGr0o4aloWJDpaxe_19UfYF/s1600/banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="1600" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEMFSBPh3raIuljEPADZPbYrk2vUPQdkLuzUndamJPW314nJwV-rd9clkkRN9_5m4I9PtCdIkbZRSKmsvXiG8N9Pvs9GhbuTGWYAxUAmrQOt32tzK0RRowdGr0o4aloWJDpaxe_19UfYF/s640/banner.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“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.</span></div>
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</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDgKmO8baax5gmHnMknK8XBq-rYOqp43RSehVHvqeIv7pTVEDjBo1cf3-dPAwwzgYD4m4ICZBomMAj1lsTZqUIu_4MFWydL0z1rLBGUpQQI1je0mLcum0KidYet-3_YUn8-MwXDhX4hyXu/s1600/IMG_20180912_061043+copy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="1600" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDgKmO8baax5gmHnMknK8XBq-rYOqp43RSehVHvqeIv7pTVEDjBo1cf3-dPAwwzgYD4m4ICZBomMAj1lsTZqUIu_4MFWydL0z1rLBGUpQQI1je0mLcum0KidYet-3_YUn8-MwXDhX4hyXu/s640/IMG_20180912_061043+copy.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">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.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Definitely my kind of boss.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCx8ADsT8sOf6S8B6QNQbjQeBf3rDfgE9ZhY1o8eUUtqbOr88yJTw5RPr1ADOEIxkbdponp6U1_sYqa4Dh3vpEblKBoHDLAxyi8b63Y5B6WM5MDadyF4BFq5Oa5kxNl66nXUfcQ4TnOhWC/s1600/IMG_20180912_092040_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="1600" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCx8ADsT8sOf6S8B6QNQbjQeBf3rDfgE9ZhY1o8eUUtqbOr88yJTw5RPr1ADOEIxkbdponp6U1_sYqa4Dh3vpEblKBoHDLAxyi8b63Y5B6WM5MDadyF4BFq5Oa5kxNl66nXUfcQ4TnOhWC/s640/IMG_20180912_092040_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl78gq7KCJwZb7lGz-0GVIyqMS6EODvBOV1Av4s5ybjJ9tZR7Lqzu7jlZkzhLUrtB_q2bjiBW-tuDnFlVoZnCxReKYcCHeOtlS_zNBzeudahNGY25Ee8MP2fefuXCRyFRYA5k99mskTm82/s1600/IMG_20180912_094656_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1098" data-original-width="1600" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl78gq7KCJwZb7lGz-0GVIyqMS6EODvBOV1Av4s5ybjJ9tZR7Lqzu7jlZkzhLUrtB_q2bjiBW-tuDnFlVoZnCxReKYcCHeOtlS_zNBzeudahNGY25Ee8MP2fefuXCRyFRYA5k99mskTm82/s640/IMG_20180912_094656_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ponmoshiri Island is a rocky, uninhabited natural shrine.
That’s how I see it at least.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiiTncJHAG7smgWYZbydtRwLu4CSBos1yKfGfyKWWPm05Oz5bywuyJOPX6_rWf8dGX1w-ZYNFmL9pqhCLrjI6MSSNnHPOvy36Q_gpFbYCcuKD5TsdUlbOkstBxrBfGdWK10BKTCpO7GF5h/s1600/IMG_20180912_095149_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiiTncJHAG7smgWYZbydtRwLu4CSBos1yKfGfyKWWPm05Oz5bywuyJOPX6_rWf8dGX1w-ZYNFmL9pqhCLrjI6MSSNnHPOvy36Q_gpFbYCcuKD5TsdUlbOkstBxrBfGdWK10BKTCpO7GF5h/s640/IMG_20180912_095149_3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkhlm3YX9-of5tAdQWN9muRKCpFZTMuOVIAXev33WpfP34nRGVofGFAJ7fSi8EkQXXIEVnrTz8aRHK-69TrpkA-X9CDtY67dQs6A3laUF5inOPqRlumrhdbzWhFNHtuWz5rYFnVLqok3T_/s1600/IMG_20180912_100609_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkhlm3YX9-of5tAdQWN9muRKCpFZTMuOVIAXev33WpfP34nRGVofGFAJ7fSi8EkQXXIEVnrTz8aRHK-69TrpkA-X9CDtY67dQs6A3laUF5inOPqRlumrhdbzWhFNHtuWz5rYFnVLqok3T_/s640/IMG_20180912_100609_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhanoAGkA3tdcUJESqSgliTtTTcHfxBgHNAeVQY37qeQTQ0r-40s9O7fla2iDeFAOI4RtTW7NJbPHaWmY0E4cF2IZcBfNibrCaox0LbHRqk6hJfb1d5Lmnj1hfVzSyX_ueItmYtoKqrCvs1/s1600/IMG_20180912_102923_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1600" height="612" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhanoAGkA3tdcUJESqSgliTtTTcHfxBgHNAeVQY37qeQTQ0r-40s9O7fla2iDeFAOI4RtTW7NJbPHaWmY0E4cF2IZcBfNibrCaox0LbHRqk6hJfb1d5Lmnj1hfVzSyX_ueItmYtoKqrCvs1/s640/IMG_20180912_102923_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQfuMhmra26voAp-WR0ST5tsCO2Il7S-m1qAk-kaG3OJtEvdwn0qvYRkOuI4X7IEl2Jive799kumjwY6HHvDzwMKb6TF1X9v3ccpucfSor424CajTUM6klfxQIef0zEHzgjGGSaPc11t5/s1600/IMG_20180912_103230_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQfuMhmra26voAp-WR0ST5tsCO2Il7S-m1qAk-kaG3OJtEvdwn0qvYRkOuI4X7IEl2Jive799kumjwY6HHvDzwMKb6TF1X9v3ccpucfSor424CajTUM6klfxQIef0zEHzgjGGSaPc11t5/s640/IMG_20180912_103230_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRHUZp4KJMm8EoVrjtFqLKkMNETtFbKXTA4ytKu2H5THSc-6n6fU1Mv1sbhwnRDhwNPe1B92lL5Qcg51gWNWUmxLH-XMCS91sqUpSHkOrJrRIFzpwxboLzq07F_rrm0mcQaitj2ufp7CPN/s1600/IMG_20180912_103324_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRHUZp4KJMm8EoVrjtFqLKkMNETtFbKXTA4ytKu2H5THSc-6n6fU1Mv1sbhwnRDhwNPe1B92lL5Qcg51gWNWUmxLH-XMCS91sqUpSHkOrJrRIFzpwxboLzq07F_rrm0mcQaitj2ufp7CPN/s640/IMG_20180912_103324_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Away from the shoreline the threat of seagull poop is
replaced with the evident dangers posed by aggressive, bug-eyed crows.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3xnVMCxfnZIdigRgtIapnF47-0p4G_K93uw4pp6uZgBdrcrJKiaTD6ctWB9keq0VAZT9dUqYX7BLdGgMfpwrxFQU3LqyTINCw9HFmZZ15VAKoc5t4vBg2N5SkcxMfH3vO7rh0KujaS3rh/s1600/IMG_20180912_105557_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3xnVMCxfnZIdigRgtIapnF47-0p4G_K93uw4pp6uZgBdrcrJKiaTD6ctWB9keq0VAZT9dUqYX7BLdGgMfpwrxFQU3LqyTINCw9HFmZZ15VAKoc5t4vBg2N5SkcxMfH3vO7rh0KujaS3rh/s640/IMG_20180912_105557_2.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This place is beautiful. But damn.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiozpgOFgkm-uxn7elmA_-Rea-hItXOFHThoPSGxfre54y7ha0-GAZVcA57sK-kiQ2vNSyJJpIpJ2z3shEqWdAZbUsSUOGvuG5VKFJukaMzvDDMNgR32g4UCIhKvqNwBRb4nJgwASjSHJg/s1600/IMG_20180912_114603_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiozpgOFgkm-uxn7elmA_-Rea-hItXOFHThoPSGxfre54y7ha0-GAZVcA57sK-kiQ2vNSyJJpIpJ2z3shEqWdAZbUsSUOGvuG5VKFJukaMzvDDMNgR32g4UCIhKvqNwBRb4nJgwASjSHJg/s640/IMG_20180912_114603_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgjZH2keZBTjiUkL-rS074BCRNYyQ_Wcp3tbFZOHOyCvs-iftzxhOLpzmQR3_fRGPm0v7RRjW3o8tHd-067AcdB_ashcZc5aqoVPNX4596s2A_C6BHjf59y7G5XbSDuCVrQptAGEbEH-B/s1600/IMG_20180912_121847_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1144" data-original-width="1600" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgjZH2keZBTjiUkL-rS074BCRNYyQ_Wcp3tbFZOHOyCvs-iftzxhOLpzmQR3_fRGPm0v7RRjW3o8tHd-067AcdB_ashcZc5aqoVPNX4596s2A_C6BHjf59y7G5XbSDuCVrQptAGEbEH-B/s640/IMG_20180912_121847_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNzn143eaAsW6kiZGBUiZ_SDGdxALfPdiJN6AJ90IZHpowxEQ-MkEvUkLQLMQFmgDfao4nommXW2U5agP3vZSDi7QadH8InHfI87HtE5xAMxsmijdkatr3VGQYqHNZW7nWFHGUlpOQmlj8/s1600/IMG_20180912_125042_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNzn143eaAsW6kiZGBUiZ_SDGdxALfPdiJN6AJ90IZHpowxEQ-MkEvUkLQLMQFmgDfao4nommXW2U5agP3vZSDi7QadH8InHfI87HtE5xAMxsmijdkatr3VGQYqHNZW7nWFHGUlpOQmlj8/s640/IMG_20180912_125042_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj22mfMkv8rQYID0uhg8ndql_ZHoQV9XysqNgBuFpY8iMgmA6nBW8bEZhh3mevHSI5GGqZtYFK8smX3_u0Uq1XDpvR1BoWKRnMh5cBo5MVwvFevKHlVfNKIkCee9olpDa-tZVtsZ_79Ju2H/s1600/IMG_20180912_125808_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj22mfMkv8rQYID0uhg8ndql_ZHoQV9XysqNgBuFpY8iMgmA6nBW8bEZhh3mevHSI5GGqZtYFK8smX3_u0Uq1XDpvR1BoWKRnMh5cBo5MVwvFevKHlVfNKIkCee9olpDa-tZVtsZ_79Ju2H/s640/IMG_20180912_125808_2.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0ewfa1u05f0cEd95XlPVWsspqWInrG-tsgI92NGzYwtv8bIxJzuYjcJeVKUphw7yPxFICvPA8PFX0nkvhzxcJ_EsepGNbYize68pDNhv4SYi8a9vwRvyy5qOT57_aVXixCjfvrzKPuTE/s1600/IMG_20180912_133433_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0ewfa1u05f0cEd95XlPVWsspqWInrG-tsgI92NGzYwtv8bIxJzuYjcJeVKUphw7yPxFICvPA8PFX0nkvhzxcJ_EsepGNbYize68pDNhv4SYi8a9vwRvyy5qOT57_aVXixCjfvrzKPuTE/s640/IMG_20180912_133433_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcVWeD12fITUqRkG2i9y-6Vm_hcSP4sPF3fXoULbK6xuVjZxA5kxTFaVq0HSyngi3odaUqf9WppxSaF7UIHFpZdnduv8TTmI0tozQCEdsh54fYVyuvjeImK6JNqYjlXYSC74uM1pl5tQmF/s1600/IMG_20180912_130732_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcVWeD12fITUqRkG2i9y-6Vm_hcSP4sPF3fXoULbK6xuVjZxA5kxTFaVq0HSyngi3odaUqf9WppxSaF7UIHFpZdnduv8TTmI0tozQCEdsh54fYVyuvjeImK6JNqYjlXYSC74uM1pl5tQmF/s640/IMG_20180912_130732_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5GJMSLWllzBH7wayqeNgGDTDKuLe7warZ00DSNNuX-PDZbb929hGvnG1h6utJ1nwzpjavPV8Q-r9ulP-Fp6wNGF2-5rnhXld1dbLJ1Yy62q7m3zcorPyDuBbhMilViC4VQxWMDDoOJ5oq/s1600/IMG_20180912_145922_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5GJMSLWllzBH7wayqeNgGDTDKuLe7warZ00DSNNuX-PDZbb929hGvnG1h6utJ1nwzpjavPV8Q-r9ulP-Fp6wNGF2-5rnhXld1dbLJ1Yy62q7m3zcorPyDuBbhMilViC4VQxWMDDoOJ5oq/s640/IMG_20180912_145922_2.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZO8LXjuQ3ZzuJo2Rj6xjwU1Xqc3vlARhspBX2OU4M_uGmI6ZG-wr8qqvBuRcU2tgvBefZXNEdQBFH9I3OPXH7H-Uc9ZmTTXFuNCM3ec728Mmt527Qyx5ftpmdgjhjLC811dlCneiGtRyY/s1600/IMG_20180912_153143_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZO8LXjuQ3ZzuJo2Rj6xjwU1Xqc3vlARhspBX2OU4M_uGmI6ZG-wr8qqvBuRcU2tgvBefZXNEdQBFH9I3OPXH7H-Uc9ZmTTXFuNCM3ec728Mmt527Qyx5ftpmdgjhjLC811dlCneiGtRyY/s640/IMG_20180912_153143_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq4Wn-wEBmLOTYxUn4PExxJzt-qNNNr6nkCoAwwxjWf7OBxwO2rcgYCwW-hsRGkOm5Q2xUsizMib2VkPgQEO_dqxoPNyoj3C3QyKbHl_9H3c_FefhzJ3tb_pd98b7Zcm6PXUTfqOXeO1nR/s1600/IMG_20180913_152843_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq4Wn-wEBmLOTYxUn4PExxJzt-qNNNr6nkCoAwwxjWf7OBxwO2rcgYCwW-hsRGkOm5Q2xUsizMib2VkPgQEO_dqxoPNyoj3C3QyKbHl_9H3c_FefhzJ3tb_pd98b7Zcm6PXUTfqOXeO1nR/s640/IMG_20180913_152843_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I thought about riding with them. But I heard Rishiri-zan’s
rocky peak calling me, coaxing me toward the trailhead up the road.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">And frankly, I didn't know for sure whether I’d ever be back
here either.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie0quiqJGiLmdtSg_BmGAIS6tSdwR83mec-l48VuBchQcB7uNT386_Aty-piVJKz96nFiQEtvpVyHI_Nalfrjq0kRGdtRk4IG8dP1SxRmbB9Hq3Pv3BbkOYx0Ih73JD5qCc8ZN6ptyGctt/s1600/IMG_20180912_151124_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie0quiqJGiLmdtSg_BmGAIS6tSdwR83mec-l48VuBchQcB7uNT386_Aty-piVJKz96nFiQEtvpVyHI_Nalfrjq0kRGdtRk4IG8dP1SxRmbB9Hq3Pv3BbkOYx0Ih73JD5qCc8ZN6ptyGctt/s640/IMG_20180912_151124_2.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-36306970684531020452019-06-07T01:26:00.000-07:002019-06-07T01:26:17.741-07:00Eboshi-iwa: Somebody Doesn't Want Me Here<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjppQoys7qS-oxPXhyphenhyphen_lmiofCJpabdwLPqfDUqry8SCTwGFBMcSOqDQiTpBeq-PHt_v7SPmaqd_S-2yTGjJTOTA-krOsnDDQnU3Px81gILuQPEnrBjZ0Ue5LgBzmTqPzu26t1amW0Z6rePB/s1600/PANO_20190529_120335.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="1600" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjppQoys7qS-oxPXhyphenhyphen_lmiofCJpabdwLPqfDUqry8SCTwGFBMcSOqDQiTpBeq-PHt_v7SPmaqd_S-2yTGjJTOTA-krOsnDDQnU3Px81gILuQPEnrBjZ0Ue5LgBzmTqPzu26t1amW0Z6rePB/s640/PANO_20190529_120335.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The ride from my house to the trailhead wasn’t particularly
challenging: three hundred meters of vertical (that’s almost a thousand feet
for you Americans) over twelve kilometers of road. (Forty thousand feet, please
learn the metric system, people!) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Granted, it wasn’t as easy as it could have been. I had to
take my cheesy foldable bicycle with the twenty-inch wheels because Yeti, the
road bike that has taken me across Alaska, Japan, Malaysia, Thailand, Cambodia,
Laos and Vietnam, is now sitting around refusing to fix itself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">My goal was Eboshi-iwa, a tall skinny tower of rock that
makes for a fine excuse to go hiking in the hours between fatherly responsibilities.
I’d been there before, albeit by a different route, so I knew nothing of the
length or the terrain of the trail I’d be taking today. I wasn’t even sure
there was a trail; last year, in a moment of gracious insanity, I lent my primo
trail map of this area to my wife’s friend, Ryoko.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I haven’t seen Ryoko or my map since.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was about a kilometer (figure it out yourself) from the
trailhead when my back tire went flat. I didn’t have a patch kit, or a spare
tube or an air pump because I generally don’t bother to prepare for such
occasional contingencies. I’m too busy trying to get out of the house before
someone can ask me to do something else for them. Besides, this bicycle had
been operating perfectly for the almost four years since I rode it home from
the garbage heap at the collection site down the street. It’s unbelievable the
things people will just throw away. (Bringing home a discarded bike; maybe this
is why Yeti is pouting in the shed.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWfHv1ry01bsXF0lP1TESO8TiHB4TPJ-xbZj0HoKnMPLZt84ZNKgaHJhyphenhyphenqmnDAMI2ornBsRvskvNRgO9EOd9pCYvppICh7byOT5ssX1J1jrLzDqUmv-AGiccQpHTqwZdk84dET8RC9WRbC/s1600/IMG_20190529_104309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWfHv1ry01bsXF0lP1TESO8TiHB4TPJ-xbZj0HoKnMPLZt84ZNKgaHJhyphenhyphenqmnDAMI2ornBsRvskvNRgO9EOd9pCYvppICh7byOT5ssX1J1jrLzDqUmv-AGiccQpHTqwZdk84dET8RC9WRbC/s640/IMG_20190529_104309.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Aside from being unprepared, I also tend to travel light. I
don’t like hauling around unnecessary bulk – like extra sneakers – so I had
nothing but the hiking boots already on my feet as I began running (a generous
term) with my bike up the road. It wasn’t until I finally found the trailhead
that I knew how long the trail to Eboshi-iwa was. And I still didn’t know the
terrain. But no matter. I could worry about the time – and that flat tire –
later.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I locked my bike and took off clomping down the trail - or maybe someone's driveway.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzUf1lkLou0FgAJOybdiclpPxk43GXzNWr52N025McTvzXuorzbTNr9m8flerU5TobMl0UcWacRP24MZqR6v6PDnUI-Wl1H8dztdo1o9JFiq34ocxaztHFAYC-sBU3Kc7cK5BDFkV0UKWD/s1600/IMG_20190529_104926.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzUf1lkLou0FgAJOybdiclpPxk43GXzNWr52N025McTvzXuorzbTNr9m8flerU5TobMl0UcWacRP24MZqR6v6PDnUI-Wl1H8dztdo1o9JFiq34ocxaztHFAYC-sBU3Kc7cK5BDFkV0UKWD/s640/IMG_20190529_104926.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A minute later I stopped.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ua10DpEeJb9DOY8hQ6Sip800ggLJ-pEcos-iOhhgfNV-U2guaNRFh3qA7vLwhN4PGUXpUVd0oJE9Jz1ISCchzXiZWb0O5Y09DhoylK7APVzE7iEIEQV3hDVEr-CrHUpCfkRCJkbvboLX/s1600/IMG_20190529_105037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ua10DpEeJb9DOY8hQ6Sip800ggLJ-pEcos-iOhhgfNV-U2guaNRFh3qA7vLwhN4PGUXpUVd0oJE9Jz1ISCchzXiZWb0O5Y09DhoylK7APVzE7iEIEQV3hDVEr-CrHUpCfkRCJkbvboLX/s640/IMG_20190529_105037.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Two gates before me. I had to choose. It felt like a game
show.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I won! And on down the hill my boots clomped.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">To this point the trail resembled a rutted access road.
Probably because it was. Door Number Two took me down a path of dirt, then
gravel, then concrete that crossed a stream and rose sharply before turning
into a crumbling mix of all three. A sign for Eboshi-iwa pointed me left,
bringing me up a dirt path that soon morphed into a lush, level ribbon of grass.
This soon gave way to more dirt.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaHfH5wIXEfzMMhVky9LthahjZxEPYkBOfUsStO2ObJi21WacGy3fV9udDCbxnyODRpdYA5muQooQfR9HK-6E7M0Q-YN50seTx_6W2sUHmtej92rO4ZRi6soEJNdcDFdO8uaoRVmEWZ_2c/s1600/IMG_20190529_105931.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaHfH5wIXEfzMMhVky9LthahjZxEPYkBOfUsStO2ObJi21WacGy3fV9udDCbxnyODRpdYA5muQooQfR9HK-6E7M0Q-YN50seTx_6W2sUHmtej92rO4ZRi6soEJNdcDFdO8uaoRVmEWZ_2c/s640/IMG_20190529_105931.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Swaths of grass can be hard to come by on a school
playground in Japan, never mind on the side of a mountain. Rock walls are more
prevalent out here, though as remnants of centuries-old castles and such. And
I’d never seen or heard of any old fortress ruins out here.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMqdPzrC2L6hWIoG_fDdeag0VxT8nZLLeiR3lu4FPi7tccFoxLzJUfhbwQeuc01P6GcWIG2e1vvbui8-HWyXSFvqmXPHyJRwm-ZTsczaJm6VPc0E92IuBspGjPWlRt6dKYf6mad9Xv6iXd/s1600/IMG_20190529_110023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMqdPzrC2L6hWIoG_fDdeag0VxT8nZLLeiR3lu4FPi7tccFoxLzJUfhbwQeuc01P6GcWIG2e1vvbui8-HWyXSFvqmXPHyJRwm-ZTsczaJm6VPc0E92IuBspGjPWlRt6dKYf6mad9Xv6iXd/s640/IMG_20190529_110023.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I have noticed an increase in signs on some of the trails in
this area, in many cases the new ones replacing the old, weather-beaten ones.
Here, however, were two signs for Eboshi-iwa pointing in two opposite
directions. Neither sign looked very old. One of had only Japanese characters.
The other had “Eboshi-iwa” in English lettering as well as Japanese. I suspect this
was an attempt by someone to keep the invading foreigners out of certain areas
now that the castle walls are mostly in ruins.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjGo_E-JmlBu3NKMpCrVH-Ml6gGHrUGaKeMzoPGj_Wy060c6-iqk5M9AAWiK4lE6wPPcaprml8raIqzHMDpDsyA6ItOxJmRwcpZ6GRy5x37cEQdNsJ-8WMx5O4xDLl4lsK5H7xF41w9PvO/s1600/IMG_20190529_110159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjGo_E-JmlBu3NKMpCrVH-Ml6gGHrUGaKeMzoPGj_Wy060c6-iqk5M9AAWiK4lE6wPPcaprml8raIqzHMDpDsyA6ItOxJmRwcpZ6GRy5x37cEQdNsJ-8WMx5O4xDLl4lsK5H7xF41w9PvO/s640/IMG_20190529_110159.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">With my primo map of the area gone right along with Ryoko, I’d
had to resort to a third-grade level download of these trails. The path leading
left, marked by the Japanese-only sign, was on my digital navigator missing a
chunk in the middle. Whether this was meant to dissuade people from hiking up a
trail that had fallen into disrepair or was another part of someone’s
Keep-the-Foreigners-Out scheme I couldn’t say.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">If the clock wasn’t ticking I might have gone left.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDcu0l-NnP9cDOmFMkTP-7FxYQiqeVAdLiOzhAu8Wid7kthyphenhyphenQUiq2dF4frHnKdGNedDg22WID99H2Dro4oNd_M7ImtsIBzegQrOK1jNIg-VjrS9EpYLx58U6sbQnz-CuJ_bP-jqihhrEh2/s1600/IMG_20190529_110759.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDcu0l-NnP9cDOmFMkTP-7FxYQiqeVAdLiOzhAu8Wid7kthyphenhyphenQUiq2dF4frHnKdGNedDg22WID99H2Dro4oNd_M7ImtsIBzegQrOK1jNIg-VjrS9EpYLx58U6sbQnz-CuJ_bP-jqihhrEh2/s640/IMG_20190529_110759.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">As the path wound and rose the ground underfoot slowly shed
its multiple personality disorder. Eventually the evidence of the ongoing
deadwood removal work was the only thing interrupting the consistency of the rolling
dirt trail. The fresh, bilingual signs kept coming, assuring me I was on the
right path – or should I say the path someone wanted me to stay on. The signs
appeared with an almost irritating frequency, actually. Every few hundred
meters I was reminded how far I still had to go, which in turn reminded me that
I had twelve kilometers to cover on a flat tire once I was back down off the
mountain and out of the woods.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQjjq0N-Rv6VbKQr43bYgT7eHJVUMu9Vx-R2d8sslVq1CFxAnZL2lxBDM2Ol76I65lWm2-FI-YP_bWZSUZwURsilLixmcwV6-5F9pKWO3qfYrvN3ljb8Cr2iwPeLl6jeMlYamzRovDPo-x/s1600/IMG_20190529_105901.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQjjq0N-Rv6VbKQr43bYgT7eHJVUMu9Vx-R2d8sslVq1CFxAnZL2lxBDM2Ol76I65lWm2-FI-YP_bWZSUZwURsilLixmcwV6-5F9pKWO3qfYrvN3ljb8Cr2iwPeLl6jeMlYamzRovDPo-x/s640/IMG_20190529_105901.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">At an apparent fork in the trail the forest turned suddenly,
suspiciously disheveled. All over the uneven ground fallen branches and leaves that
somehow seemed imported lie strewn like the aftermath of an intemperate storm. Sitting low in the midst of the contrived disaster scene was a rock
sporting two characters, for “stop” and “mountain”. They were bright orange and
arguably hastily-painted, and together made no sense to me. Stop the mountain? Stop! Mountain! The rock’s odd placement on the ground didn’t help in
discerning what the grizzled elf sprite that did this was trying to say.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLgtMkz0omRemctmABvvoqas2yN7wVNOFgVEtxy-gYZ4FMMVhS2BCa8GiT8-G4OuPkT1Ko9oNwwPFRfhVJ-ntUJPjKH07S3_MDU9FmKNQ5t3eL-RGZjgU2l3ehYFbKppilj4Q0MNxV0O5/s1600/IMG_20190529_112114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLgtMkz0omRemctmABvvoqas2yN7wVNOFgVEtxy-gYZ4FMMVhS2BCa8GiT8-G4OuPkT1Ko9oNwwPFRfhVJ-ntUJPjKH07S3_MDU9FmKNQ5t3eL-RGZjgU2l3ehYFbKppilj4Q0MNxV0O5/s640/IMG_20190529_112114.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Either someone really doesn’t want me here, or wants me lost
out here forever.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCzVnLwIv7zQxvZlGSSCgWkYNk_1vw8LgtVZh0uT-Yws3Zurpuw3MK_ATsyuRRmBT3LgXSkAt-ERpYPovwzBNQ2E19QFv2EqhjOTFEeTx026pt88uMiHoXS6r9heqX_7_IcestzDtbQvG9/s1600/IMG_20190529_113859.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCzVnLwIv7zQxvZlGSSCgWkYNk_1vw8LgtVZh0uT-Yws3Zurpuw3MK_ATsyuRRmBT3LgXSkAt-ERpYPovwzBNQ2E19QFv2EqhjOTFEeTx026pt88uMiHoXS6r9heqX_7_IcestzDtbQvG9/s640/IMG_20190529_113859.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Despite the suspect nature of the man-made bits, Nature
remains beautiful.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYi_6WHOAGrLqLNLdQkmXNnssa-0qELtaVdChDCI2mVRsp1VkjrTb-8h86jypHNRBC1Axb6Mwx_g5MOEB7kSUwySoy_Qrgem29ZPOIsb-vRS1tGS_HymI-bkEFeNgowoxcl_920TEMSUkF/s1600/IMG_20190529_113803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYi_6WHOAGrLqLNLdQkmXNnssa-0qELtaVdChDCI2mVRsp1VkjrTb-8h86jypHNRBC1Axb6Mwx_g5MOEB7kSUwySoy_Qrgem29ZPOIsb-vRS1tGS_HymI-bkEFeNgowoxcl_920TEMSUkF/s640/IMG_20190529_113803.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile the Shinto-infused evidence of man’s infliction on
the land remains magically, beautifully harmonious. Traditional Shinto deifies
all aspects of Nature, and the expression of Shinto (“The Way of the Gods”)
manages to enhance rather than detract from that to which it ascribes its
spirit.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXAE4q6aZ5MvhG3PRSdbq5YCGoux7W01Vs-n-VBKVFimMThAIPFU7EJpbZKvcxYV7yVDBCrAvPbN5a4hbCHY-KenF-gMA2pjYUJEbk6Mx2hJyqH07eea29vq-EDSBD-svZvDkhyPmsup6/s1600/IMG_20190529_115721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXAE4q6aZ5MvhG3PRSdbq5YCGoux7W01Vs-n-VBKVFimMThAIPFU7EJpbZKvcxYV7yVDBCrAvPbN5a4hbCHY-KenF-gMA2pjYUJEbk6Mx2hJyqH07eea29vq-EDSBD-svZvDkhyPmsup6/s640/IMG_20190529_115721.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">And though I may harp on man’s other intrusions, I do
appreciate the signs.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The name Eboshi-iwa literally translates as “Crow’s Hat Rock”
though it comes with the added meaning of “nobleman’s headgear”. Viewed from
certain angles and mixed with a touch of imagination the name seems like it could fit.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFHu2VwbD0tPOrf6DfiL9RBMAkLlnWpKGtRNZ9XAQbIvahb76QIVZY1WHJszwwFSkSPxR7qf6HNOb4p2J25YikkzBC5oZ3jbTMWcP9K5EH2fu460mvVel_DYv09J2cF6huCN3sIj0N-9h3/s1600/IMG_20190529_115818.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFHu2VwbD0tPOrf6DfiL9RBMAkLlnWpKGtRNZ9XAQbIvahb76QIVZY1WHJszwwFSkSPxR7qf6HNOb4p2J25YikkzBC5oZ3jbTMWcP9K5EH2fu460mvVel_DYv09J2cF6huCN3sIj0N-9h3/s640/IMG_20190529_115818.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Though if I saw someone walking around with a hat shaped like that? Noble probably wouldn't be the first word to come to mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">For some, Eboshi-iwa means a chance to test their rock-climbing skills. That’s
fine I guess, although judging from the gear left behind on top of the crow’s
hat they might want to also practice their cleaning-up-after-themselves skills.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjplP6YOwvFTauWmVIMIhVq3eUOrjcPnw8CK_rEPxz_yXWA-UtnV3OdsuHjAxgwzg1jHpCU617xyuRTD6JE_qBr7wRjZgB2M2d7ELTBBOmhQqBFbS1MlTinPIRNb6TMkSjRf0fr2szgeZjC/s1600/IMG_20190529_120633.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjplP6YOwvFTauWmVIMIhVq3eUOrjcPnw8CK_rEPxz_yXWA-UtnV3OdsuHjAxgwzg1jHpCU617xyuRTD6JE_qBr7wRjZgB2M2d7ELTBBOmhQqBFbS1MlTinPIRNb6TMkSjRf0fr2szgeZjC/s640/IMG_20190529_120633.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On a clear day the view from the rocks that sit slightly
above Eboshi-iwa is fantastic, if limited to the southern half of the surrounding
mountain landscape. Even under less than perfect skies this is still a great
place to feel above the gentle crush of the everyday.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheP2MchvK40zeqqpQKDiOViSqpbIuygSMDdM3qOohiWuzxqvpdRBt5iixZZ-uFINwWAzf47DhbQvU5Iv2P8UqZeOXzjYAcep4Wbvwo69oEtPXWmEPGqbSYGkQeObYXQMLWACWJgt2ewN0N/s1600/IMG_20190529_120714.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheP2MchvK40zeqqpQKDiOViSqpbIuygSMDdM3qOohiWuzxqvpdRBt5iixZZ-uFINwWAzf47DhbQvU5Iv2P8UqZeOXzjYAcep4Wbvwo69oEtPXWmEPGqbSYGkQeObYXQMLWACWJgt2ewN0N/s640/IMG_20190529_120714.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3CFuVSl9iZh3iqyJ_pi-ZKUx94bSebQxxIuIv3b8o1aXKlZazAWCRI0eiGEeALoS6uV0GWw9kUJPnkjnRWxJ064QikjnqzS4Z0dWOMtUpODOkIcKBGOsK5HXRBOxFUjhb4Zsnq2qbez_h/s1600/IMG_20190529_120645.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3CFuVSl9iZh3iqyJ_pi-ZKUx94bSebQxxIuIv3b8o1aXKlZazAWCRI0eiGEeALoS6uV0GWw9kUJPnkjnRWxJ064QikjnqzS4Z0dWOMtUpODOkIcKBGOsK5HXRBOxFUjhb4Zsnq2qbez_h/s640/IMG_20190529_120645.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The hike up there and back down ended up taking less time than I’d allowed
for. So did the trek home as I decided, after twenty minutes of running with my
bike along the side of the road, to jump on and roll downhill, daring that flat
tire to turn to powdered rubber from the grinding pressure of steel bike wheel and pavement. After four years it had become pretty worn, it needed to be replaced
anyway. Plus it would be fun, I thought, to see how absolutely shredded it
would get over the next ten kilometers.</span></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQnCwzx9Uh9FnQ5eTjdcHlI7TeukQ1ip4J0blF-DvGKfLwG3tKgEUSneGBHtXSknJHbFVn0nXdRtTteKtCbIYLhNwkbv5BsGnZ9GXXzQnSPHuR9FfC1exUvtN5_VpSZ7rBBn8-NYx_DS7l/s1600/IMG_20190529_130530.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQnCwzx9Uh9FnQ5eTjdcHlI7TeukQ1ip4J0blF-DvGKfLwG3tKgEUSneGBHtXSknJHbFVn0nXdRtTteKtCbIYLhNwkbv5BsGnZ9GXXzQnSPHuR9FfC1exUvtN5_VpSZ7rBBn8-NYx_DS7l/s640/IMG_20190529_130530.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">To my amazement, it not only survived, it remained usable,
if barely. The tube inside should have been torn to ribbons, but upon
inspection I found only the original single pinhole that had almost destroyed
the day.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I patched it up with some expired glue and a dried-out bit of rubber from the
shed. The next day I found the patch had held.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I guess there are some people out there – sign makers and
tire patch manufacturers among them – who want us to be able to keep on exploring.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’d say it’s only right to oblige.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg1VRZbmLfoasYzrhJzdANinzEYZx-brInQo2tzvflL8M4FD73f2c2PRkXiGL-qV6wVBW6qr3ycUfHSve2_7rIxoNHoywngTBaWo7W7bH9SwCp1uqKO0R31ZwrWz6tMMrpuiCI4bli2mu5/s1600/IMG_20190529_111635.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg1VRZbmLfoasYzrhJzdANinzEYZx-brInQo2tzvflL8M4FD73f2c2PRkXiGL-qV6wVBW6qr3ycUfHSve2_7rIxoNHoywngTBaWo7W7bH9SwCp1uqKO0R31ZwrWz6tMMrpuiCI4bli2mu5/s640/IMG_20190529_111635.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-33800021633870011432018-01-29T23:54:00.000-08:002019-05-30T23:56:35.866-07:00Yufu-dake: Encouraging the Kids to Climb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHdlyCc7pNuDUGNfP9nYCeCdlsqrm0xRv2SnGD3uOyOtZb8WQBHswEMoh86Bns5QAcBDFDkj8oclnLHWVhEaH91f4CtReMEPhsxSRPYmLs5pVs8nyiyb5dqfPTkQWq_7ZDIpq0eLNGBT79/s1600/yufublogbanner.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="1600" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHdlyCc7pNuDUGNfP9nYCeCdlsqrm0xRv2SnGD3uOyOtZb8WQBHswEMoh86Bns5QAcBDFDkj8oclnLHWVhEaH91f4CtReMEPhsxSRPYmLs5pVs8nyiyb5dqfPTkQWq_7ZDIpq0eLNGBT79/s640/yufublogbanner.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Like most events in my life, my introduction to Yufu-dake
came about quite by accident. I’d gone down to Kyushu, to the hot spring
village of Yufu-in, to help lead a cycling tour. Set among the mountains of
geologically-active Oita Prefecture, Yufu-in reminded me of a village in Slovenia, where one might also encounter steam billowing into the air from scattered
underground vents.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">East of town Yufu-dake (Mount Yoo-Foo) dominated the
skyline, rising higher than the others. Its double peaks floated pale in the late
afternoon sun. Seeing them flipped a familiar switch. I wanted nothing but to
go climb them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnygfft_g9i-5Jf-QuqyFhofsbBdIJBbOeHMsRheMDGQJJZgRXkyvgFA5PUuofxsqz3nJnUhECuTerm8ogXV0xfX5x2AWiArFHHq0A_qQ-Es05cIeWH3Blfi0Yq2b6TPSZWXXAa95p7IRf/s1600/5pmYufu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnygfft_g9i-5Jf-QuqyFhofsbBdIJBbOeHMsRheMDGQJJZgRXkyvgFA5PUuofxsqz3nJnUhECuTerm8ogXV0xfX5x2AWiArFHHq0A_qQ-Es05cIeWH3Blfi0Yq2b6TPSZWXXAa95p7IRf/s640/5pmYufu.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But the next day would be taken up by the indispensable task
of reconnoitering by bicycle the first leg of the tour. In the morning the other two guides
and I would pass by Yufu-dake’s doorstep, but I would get no closer. A
fifty-five-mile bike ride through the hilly Oita countryside was fair
consolation, but still…</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMM90IJRx4MU1FMDb06bSKu186I5MtFN5dqsoJO6kl5EFamBfzNQLI2wPEN0py0QwbV9i98dhr4ptFGkh1cu4_HsuTDDPescmKUUtM7dl_xewva1LYzTMpPDd54i1sLqPny-QWOlswCmNq/s1600/IMG_20171106_101134.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMM90IJRx4MU1FMDb06bSKu186I5MtFN5dqsoJO6kl5EFamBfzNQLI2wPEN0py0QwbV9i98dhr4ptFGkh1cu4_HsuTDDPescmKUUtM7dl_xewva1LYzTMpPDd54i1sLqPny-QWOlswCmNq/s640/IMG_20171106_101134.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Two weeks later I was back at home, telling my wife how
beautiful Kyushu was. She’d never been there, and seemed only lukewarm on the
idea of taking the kids there during their winter break. But slowly the idea
grew on her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Where should we go first?” she finally asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yufu-in,” I replied without any explanation as to why.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I’ve tried, with varying degrees of failure, to introduce my
kids to the wonders of being in the mountains. My boys would rather go kick
their soccer ball around. My daughter won't usually hesitate, but then every ten minutes along the way she'd mention ice cream.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vufSp7ZjNqXaf9cYPvnQKuEpymmiwIBaAeiGLqNIxlLepAxXxdnHL8BUGUITdJsH5pZ8G92QsOtt90BPzcrXXae8WLR2Zo1Hwbu8HnU0rfmkMmYWR4sO_Z9vtOqXBceeQeGXLKzUCDKt/s1600/IMG_20171230_094704_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="968" data-original-width="1600" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vufSp7ZjNqXaf9cYPvnQKuEpymmiwIBaAeiGLqNIxlLepAxXxdnHL8BUGUITdJsH5pZ8G92QsOtt90BPzcrXXae8WLR2Zo1Hwbu8HnU0rfmkMmYWR4sO_Z9vtOqXBceeQeGXLKzUCDKt/s640/IMG_20171230_094704_3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">My wife is generally, quietly non-committal on the
idea of a hike. But the view of Yufu from a nearby roadside lookout point sold her, and
soon the five of us were on our way across the golden grassy flats leading to
the climb up the Yoof.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76Q35bgT-mR-uzQR1gYGPP1EROg5IeO1WlmpzafgcYx1kuwGU_vt5Iv2L5qKJD6_v4bGxremh5teqJ_pRW7wplBe0P28v7CibnSi9lXlHkD9cZLLrM0LpJ64_-ZQJisegpPakDQpCXwYy/s1600/IMG_20171230_101928_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76Q35bgT-mR-uzQR1gYGPP1EROg5IeO1WlmpzafgcYx1kuwGU_vt5Iv2L5qKJD6_v4bGxremh5teqJ_pRW7wplBe0P28v7CibnSi9lXlHkD9cZLLrM0LpJ64_-ZQJisegpPakDQpCXwYy/s640/IMG_20171230_101928_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My boys were excited, walking and running, walking and
waiting, then sprinting ahead again. My daughter, not quite up to the task,
rode in her carrier on my back. Compared to her delight of being able to go up
a mountain the extra weight is nothing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">It was chilly, even there in Japan’s southern reaches. I had
on my ski jacket. My older son wore his long soccer coat. My wife and daughter
had scarves around their necks. My younger son, true to form, was wearing gym
shorts.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Forty-five minutes had passed when we took our first break,
among the trees of the lower slopes. The scenery, or, more likely, the nascent
talk of ice cream, kept the kids happy for a while. My younger son kept
hurrying ahead, though less out of excitement, it now seemed, and more out of
wanting to get to the top and back to the car.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ihfXi77bf9NJDhLXMvLjdDUUNe3nr_t_rFdsAGVCpUXGIjTTWhufrWTKiTXXnXR1X9Yg2J9u8dGAA23xIaJuJskKECZEuL5g7qIQ_UltODqyv0-Qgce3zfoFSMRPpJV2AJj4UscNdIxM/s1600/IMG_20171230_115210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ihfXi77bf9NJDhLXMvLjdDUUNe3nr_t_rFdsAGVCpUXGIjTTWhufrWTKiTXXnXR1X9Yg2J9u8dGAA23xIaJuJskKECZEuL5g7qIQ_UltODqyv0-Qgce3zfoFSMRPpJV2AJj4UscNdIxM/s640/IMG_20171230_115210.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">We were going on two hours when we took another break, above
the trees at a point that offered an expansive if hazy view of Yufu’s conical
little sister, Mt. Iimorigajou, and the town of Yufu-in. Big brother passed
around a bag of cheese doodly things. Little brother passed around quiet hints
of his displeasure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3JWd50IzHpkfPWD-AgaA9oxCLtcr58iCxAD6o5rXbmYtvgSN-KJEVsfpVM1uGkdMmTRjhIbvIjO9JoqJV4Q_2LP-1EHvtyb85gsvuca_sjVTeynudeXtjVCTQc2J42SzVe1OOL9ClWf-M/s1600/IMG_20171230_120340_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3JWd50IzHpkfPWD-AgaA9oxCLtcr58iCxAD6o5rXbmYtvgSN-KJEVsfpVM1uGkdMmTRjhIbvIjO9JoqJV4Q_2LP-1EHvtyb85gsvuca_sjVTeynudeXtjVCTQc2J42SzVe1OOL9ClWf-M/s640/IMG_20171230_120340_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Twenty-five minutes later the top of Yufu seemed to be
inching within reach – though such determinations can often prove false and dispiriting.
Yet another twenty minutes we’d made it to the saddle, the ridge between Yufu’s
twin peaks. Nishi-mine, the western peak, is higher by a handful of old
volcanic boulders. The climb involves a series of chains and, for a dad hiking
with two anxious boys up ahead and an increasingly-heavy daughter on his back,
a fair bit of consternation. Without any protest from anyone we elected to
climb the eastern peak.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYyhNBgnHJzYLB5inzN5Ee3qqhCFmo3ljP8AV9anRKLDRPHrHmBl9XSzF_0nYD5J2bgJTc_J00ta4WiSyRUm2R_SjIGhES1H72zyhu8LJ9OIZCuE6byngF2NVGEcj82DvOH-HvzaNhfiba/s1600/IMG_20171230_125305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYyhNBgnHJzYLB5inzN5Ee3qqhCFmo3ljP8AV9anRKLDRPHrHmBl9XSzF_0nYD5J2bgJTc_J00ta4WiSyRUm2R_SjIGhES1H72zyhu8LJ9OIZCuE6byngF2NVGEcj82DvOH-HvzaNhfiba/s640/IMG_20171230_125305.jpg" width="480" /></a></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My little girl, ever ambitious, wanted to walk to the top.
It was a struggle for both of us, though not one that could dampen our
enthusiasm. We were going to make it to the top, all of us. My sons, visibly
agitated for a chunk of the climb, were now clearly satisfied for having
conquered this dormant volcano. They scampered about the rocks and scrub of the
summit, enjoying what lie underfoot more than the 360-view of the land far
below us.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkMGYt200n9DZ5E4VcP5tZso8LGpQPoBtDaFpVztZDftmAX_7I-3OL0eG2Gy19s9jNLcU8t2RHKJJSX97yppTXWLGlgXDgcFjE1_VD4RvnlQCzyec6aXvhr7uSXjj59gFnB0ONudCPj3rF/s1600/IMG_20171230_130607.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkMGYt200n9DZ5E4VcP5tZso8LGpQPoBtDaFpVztZDftmAX_7I-3OL0eG2Gy19s9jNLcU8t2RHKJJSX97yppTXWLGlgXDgcFjE1_VD4RvnlQCzyec6aXvhr7uSXjj59gFnB0ONudCPj3rF/s640/IMG_20171230_130607.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Eventually my wife appeared, spent but smiling after our
four-hour uphill journey. She still had her coat on. I’d shed mine long ago.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">For a while we took in the view, of the quiet land and of
our rejuvenated children. We took pictures and passed around the hodgepodge of
breadstuffs and bento we’d brought. We wondered aloud where the zip line back
down was. We spoke of coming days.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSP7LRn2BlkqI9G6strH4WJDnc96tioaeslixDhG2JBxHZIhcsIl9wz8R1s1qDxI8wCQH84KNFNc85iUMcG_YrevacS42uW1m_7JEKG_X3a7AJ8Z1dyMmQ9LMK6wSiEDEyr1EeVhYp2atN/s1600/IMG_20171230_135629.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSP7LRn2BlkqI9G6strH4WJDnc96tioaeslixDhG2JBxHZIhcsIl9wz8R1s1qDxI8wCQH84KNFNc85iUMcG_YrevacS42uW1m_7JEKG_X3a7AJ8Z1dyMmQ9LMK6wSiEDEyr1EeVhYp2atN/s640/IMG_20171230_135629.jpg" width="480" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">As proud as my boys may have been to be up there, they slowly turned antsy, telling dad in quiet but clear terms they were ready to get going on the long trek back down. My wife asked them - several times - if they didn't want to rest just five more minutes.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK-w943_xaYnVWiqGyg3-VrP7cL5pcmtXlxF5NLCDgrr-HQHgGLPOu6Cx54rlS8l-5RjeFPjp5VQ2gUe2e68EFbnwYEd8VxNgOJwsI1VIDFrTn5SwGcA4zfS7X7vtXJcjvvmknh0o1U-kR/s1600/IMG_20171230_140705.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK-w943_xaYnVWiqGyg3-VrP7cL5pcmtXlxF5NLCDgrr-HQHgGLPOu6Cx54rlS8l-5RjeFPjp5VQ2gUe2e68EFbnwYEd8VxNgOJwsI1VIDFrTn5SwGcA4zfS7X7vtXJcjvvmknh0o1U-kR/s640/IMG_20171230_140705.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Gravity can be a sneaky fiend on a descent,
particularly one laced with snow at the top and strewn with leaves and rocks
and roots the rest of the way. I reminded my boys of this several times, in
part to remind myself as well. A twisted ankle wasn’t going to make hauling my
daughter, who seemed to be gaining weight by the minute, any easier. I welcomed
each moment she said she wanted to get down off my back and walk for a little
again.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcrFBZqe3a-toiBmGlY7vKNLjRCdnlC07z1GXHAkgQsIloS92hqD9n6r54L2L7Mq94s-ES0ilWzyKn8p6NAfuwTQkmBHvoDWtscrtiJnwMZ8zDgKZHficf5L8vC8x32KfY4XJ9gmuvo2Hb/s1600/IMG_20171230_162018_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcrFBZqe3a-toiBmGlY7vKNLjRCdnlC07z1GXHAkgQsIloS92hqD9n6r54L2L7Mq94s-ES0ilWzyKn8p6NAfuwTQkmBHvoDWtscrtiJnwMZ8zDgKZHficf5L8vC8x32KfY4XJ9gmuvo2Hb/s640/IMG_20171230_162018_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">We reached those grassy plains marking the end of our hike ten minutes shy of four-thirty - a full six hours after we’d set out. If I had thought it would take that long I
probably would have put my dreamy plans of climbing Yufu aside for another day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">But it was a great hike and a worthwhile endeavor for all of
us, I thought. My daughter now has a photo of herself on top of a mountain. As
far as she’s concerned she climbed it, and if that spurs her on to keep reaching
for new heights that’s fine with me. (She has since climbed several more peaks.)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefuJP-rjgudcwefBXkGCx_Qj7BNvlBnK0GbKVlrB5-dhsBNOF4WAstfmitB_Yamivw5FnH3rWrWt9mOhNHndaeGKOgs4PuOxqxxdvb2ZBChBFuSHd9ejRF_TpSao8eMAk6OZKJ7zKjGM4/s1600/IMG_20171230_160011_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefuJP-rjgudcwefBXkGCx_Qj7BNvlBnK0GbKVlrB5-dhsBNOF4WAstfmitB_Yamivw5FnH3rWrWt9mOhNHndaeGKOgs4PuOxqxxdvb2ZBChBFuSHd9ejRF_TpSao8eMAk6OZKJ7zKjGM4/s640/IMG_20171230_160011_3.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">My boys, though the day may not have
steered either of them toward a life of seeking out new mountains to climb, now
have their memories of this day to add to their growing wellspring of accomplishment that,
I believe, will serve them well regardless of their eventual chosen road.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Besides all that, it is without question that ice cream
tastes so much better after a challenge.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">And the hot springs feel so, so good.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5X2NirW29jf7yPzQVmFsQnxJppbGFtsDlCNLGuuuSvhdj339ZN1MHqIYpho1hyEisZZPOovVqwyblyKbtVd8EuofxrKXI4myzHFbbqgBC4dN-v3jGghgh9CrLE_GB3sa24IZIalpb97jq/s1600/IMG_20171231_084958_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5X2NirW29jf7yPzQVmFsQnxJppbGFtsDlCNLGuuuSvhdj339ZN1MHqIYpho1hyEisZZPOovVqwyblyKbtVd8EuofxrKXI4myzHFbbqgBC4dN-v3jGghgh9CrLE_GB3sa24IZIalpb97jq/s640/IMG_20171231_084958_3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-78859669776217592122017-12-10T06:16:00.006-08:002022-01-24T16:35:29.582-08:00The Monsters on Yakushima's Mocchomu-dake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxKZ8CFoBVAj-mp7GPmgr0uwSzJ4tmbZKzJB6DB_nQ8HuRvpKp8zs82sL50F7SYuth5Gm6bHhuM30fHZsA5XmozQqFQZXoqM5eJM3wpyFa205zZIFda2cEtzYjDeqQ1JQEaEpD1gdmCe5ONznCFzOMgtdMavJCdBm-Mwc5oXGzy-iEFR5tu4kGQ4lXOA=s640" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="640" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxKZ8CFoBVAj-mp7GPmgr0uwSzJ4tmbZKzJB6DB_nQ8HuRvpKp8zs82sL50F7SYuth5Gm6bHhuM30fHZsA5XmozQqFQZXoqM5eJM3wpyFa205zZIFda2cEtzYjDeqQ1JQEaEpD1gdmCe5ONznCFzOMgtdMavJCdBm-Mwc5oXGzy-iEFR5tu4kGQ4lXOA=w640-h192" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span><span>Boasting fairytale waterfalls, relentless rain forests, and giant </span>cedars older than Jesus, <b>the Japanese island of Yakushima</b> is a dense display of natural mystique</span>. Spring each year sees the return of sea turtles to Inakahama Beach, where the females lay their eggs in the same spot they themselves hatched 25 or 30 years prior. Wild monkeys sit in the road along the western Seibu-Rindo, staring down motorists, daring them to hit them while the deer quickly turn tail and disappear into the woods.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">And then there's the rain - <b>as much as 8 meters annually</b> in some places. This soil-soaking climate contributes not only to the hardiness of those multi-millenial cedars but to moss-covered forestscapes so captivating you're bound to fill up your memory card.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I'd wanted to see Yakushima since the moment I knew it existed. I was so intrigued with the whole rain-soaked package that by 2004 I was ready to cycle the 400 miles from Osaka through Shikoku to Kagoshima where I would pedal right onto the Yakushima ferry and cycle and hike the hell out of the place - and then cycle home, all in the space of my upcoming two-week winter break.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Instead, in a strange and sudden change of heart, I put on a suit
and tie, bought a box of tangerines, and hopped a train north to Fukushima to ask
a peach farmer for his permission to marry his daughter.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">A potentially ruinous turn of events, but thirteen years and three kids later I finally found myself on my way to Yakushima, as a guide on a two-week cycling tour that would end with a one-day, 100-kilometer circuit of this mystical, monkey-ridden island. No matter I'd never been there. "Just follow your Garmin, guys."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">We pedaled past waterfalls; negotiated the monkeys along the Seibu-Rindo and spotted several deer (more specifically, their asses as they ran away); had lunch on the pale yellow sands of Nagatahama Beach (it wasn't nesting season); and gazed on those mountains of age-old cedar from afar. Not bad for a day's work, but seeing those ancient forests up close demanded I head off on my own after the tour.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Badgered by vague recollections of a small number of small children waiting for me back at home in Nagano I thought making the three-day traverse over the top of the island would amount, according the vague female voice shouting at me over my thoughts, to an unforgivable shirking of fatherly responsibility. So I set out instead a day hike up the relatively modest mountain known as
Mocchomu-dake, which probably doesn’t mean “forest with some crazy shit” but it
very well could.</span></div>
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<h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>A Friendly Send-Off to My Death</b></span></h2>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span>Kasai-san has a heart as enduring as his smile. A few years ago he’d told the Tokyo rat
race to piss off and moved with his wife to Yakushima. They now run a laid-back
guesthouse called Sora-mame, which translates literally as “sky bean” though Kasai-san says it refers to the observatory that came with the property when he bought it. It may also serve as a warning to incoming guests that the place is a mere speck among the vastness of the boondocks of southern Yakushima. I still can't believe I found the place.</span><br />
<span><br />"Would you like to order some dinner?" Kasai-san asked me as I dropped my pack on his until-then spotless floor.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>I was ravenous. "Actually, I think I'll go down to the supermarket," I said.<br /></span>
<span><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, it's a long way from here. But I can give you a ride, if that's okay." He probably needed something too. Polish for his now-soiled wood floor maybe.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>"I'm planning to climb Mocchomu-dake tomorrow morning," I told Kasai-san in the car. "There's a bus stop close to your guest house, isn't there?"</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>“Yes, but the buses don’t run very often,” he said. “And it’s a long walk from where you get off the bus up to the trail head. Why don’t you let me drive you, after you finish breakfast?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God, I love these people.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I almost never take selfies. But photos of just waterfalls tend to suck so into frame we went. Back there behind us is Senpiro Falls, the
60-meter highlight of the Tai River’s winding path through Yakushima's monstrous mountains
of granite. This picture would serve to remind me of both the falls and of Kasai-san. It could also be used later to identify me, if necessary.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The trail head for Mocchomu-dake sits almost three hundred meters above sea level. The weathered sign at the trail head and the modest shrine to the side were entirely predictable. The café and gift shop, not so much. But it was this cartoon ogre that caught my attention. He looked childish yet somehow ominous - a first clue of what was to come.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The sign pointing me toward Mocchomu had long disappeared from sight when
I crossed my first river. Though it wasn’t really like a river. It was an inch deep
and ten meters wide.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">No river is one inch deep and ten meters wide. This was
some sort of line between worlds. It had to be. Because soon after crossing
this watery line the Stephen King shit started.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0UqjPiA-eP3Js-DuOX5nnPpFaFPx6nf4_H3lbVsJWroAJD7xiYUyIFx0AQbRZgL7xo5aE7R3HVRdQNPNLt9jow5gzXzyVM6_epKwFXLLcRD7p2dU1OayiNlXDxPgbguaahItsXVHUQqeO/s1600/IMG_20171116_074821_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0UqjPiA-eP3Js-DuOX5nnPpFaFPx6nf4_H3lbVsJWroAJD7xiYUyIFx0AQbRZgL7xo5aE7R3HVRdQNPNLt9jow5gzXzyVM6_epKwFXLLcRD7p2dU1OayiNlXDxPgbguaahItsXVHUQqeO/s640/IMG_20171116_074821_3.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Maybe it's just me, but if a tree has like a thousand roots it feels like a warning. Kind of like finding someone has a garage full of old skin mags. Or newspaper clippings of Jeffrey Dahmer. Not that I know anyone like that.</span><br />
<br />
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpEbY9TIy-Bl1y5L6bazCjNhuDnXqStgeSqfntI2dEX3ETOoJplogkS7ys3lpPmE0GMqJcN93UhPPbwMCvZN-462wWdqyBdfz2XZknsF29rf8xfMwf1GrOlBdHfI0zv-KqWjNaDOlP3pp_/s1600/IMG_20171116_080325_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpEbY9TIy-Bl1y5L6bazCjNhuDnXqStgeSqfntI2dEX3ETOoJplogkS7ys3lpPmE0GMqJcN93UhPPbwMCvZN-462wWdqyBdfz2XZknsF29rf8xfMwf1GrOlBdHfI0zv-KqWjNaDOlP3pp_/s640/IMG_20171116_080325_2.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span>Yakushima is widely known for its iconic “sugi”
cedar trees, some of which are thousands of years old. Some are so revered they
have names. This sign points visitors (read: potential victims) toward the “Bandai-sugi”. That's right, that
middle character is pronounced “die”.</span></span><br />
<span><span><br /></span></span>
<span><span>Coincidence? I doubt it.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Forests like those on Yakushima possess an undeniable beauty. Still, if a movie calls for a creepy, scary forest
for where all the bad shit happens, it’s going to look like this.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It’s easy to fall into a trance, gazing at the rugged beauty of the old wood, the
streams, the moss-covered rocks...and that’s EXACTLY what the forest wants, so
you won’t notice until it’s too late that you’re walking right by the
feet of an eighty-foot-tall pterodactyl.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Or that there’s a 400 million-year-old dinosaur camouflaged in
moss sticking his head out of his hole like a moray eel, ready to bite your
face off.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0sDA-ENe5UBMR3dJ8tR292AWdMyd1ZJcnXEazIE56Sl64dK6Ut7o9stsqYrUce2KLRwSGXbTUjMAh7vY3AMTHR8D8bkIA7CxIuzRZfqEIGUv3_-Q_S9ibmHnRp-TqoaMFQrdJ9PypE6OI/s1600/IMG_20171116_082800_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0sDA-ENe5UBMR3dJ8tR292AWdMyd1ZJcnXEazIE56Sl64dK6Ut7o9stsqYrUce2KLRwSGXbTUjMAh7vY3AMTHR8D8bkIA7CxIuzRZfqEIGUv3_-Q_S9ibmHnRp-TqoaMFQrdJ9PypE6OI/s640/IMG_20171116_082800_2.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Or trees just sitting around, acting all
nonchalant, waiting to stick their roots out and trip you as you hike by –
which is easy now that you’re all freaked out by the pterodactyls.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05v71uVplX7iYjgb-_VnEsCu9BoVrj_EJaPElLbyFUo7JQNu3KxV3yIvt9a1hm7cqZABAbyhc1gD-9OY79rzxqv_1aNLrgnQVlmSEmDswYVrcncU4LmTZNxzHO1mr_F5g_nlPlAVN6vNE/s1600/IMG_20171116_083555_2+%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05v71uVplX7iYjgb-_VnEsCu9BoVrj_EJaPElLbyFUo7JQNu3KxV3yIvt9a1hm7cqZABAbyhc1gD-9OY79rzxqv_1aNLrgnQVlmSEmDswYVrcncU4LmTZNxzHO1mr_F5g_nlPlAVN6vNE/s640/IMG_20171116_083555_2+%25281%2529.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The forest, of course, holds innocent charms as well: trees
exposing beautiful wood-grain patterns;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUNdZIWYYIO9gi8G_nkbcY2jxWAzJFDfhEgBXglC1EzNSx0C2mrIaLbH7spHVsPWyPGGG95GuDDXOaIN2_ruIyOrG8lgm61J65UNuG30mo4Y-JwznsUD7i0d5RDOhrgHxYHBsyxL-G6Bak/s1600/IMG_20171116_094949_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUNdZIWYYIO9gi8G_nkbcY2jxWAzJFDfhEgBXglC1EzNSx0C2mrIaLbH7spHVsPWyPGGG95GuDDXOaIN2_ruIyOrG8lgm61J65UNuG30mo4Y-JwznsUD7i0d5RDOhrgHxYHBsyxL-G6Bak/s640/IMG_20171116_094949_2.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">mushrooms that, for mushrooms, are pretty cool (and possibly psychedelic but who needs that out here?);</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibz4aj_nFg5mhoJUSvqFt7j8GlzzT47DBuUrezB9hLA2DRuQu5NEGq2uXqBsAbnG_SgM745vGQwKHesXDrKi1QbzG_Ce_5OHPtUgAZwp9fPiw7IQqKhqVDozqSPYhW6ksBjrbU76G6P2dp/s1600/IMG_20171116_093034_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibz4aj_nFg5mhoJUSvqFt7j8GlzzT47DBuUrezB9hLA2DRuQu5NEGq2uXqBsAbnG_SgM745vGQwKHesXDrKi1QbzG_Ce_5OHPtUgAZwp9fPiw7IQqKhqVDozqSPYhW6ksBjrbU76G6P2dp/s640/IMG_20171116_093034_2.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">baby woolly mammoths;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">and spiders and bugs that won’t hurt you. Probably. Though
they can damn near give you a heart attack if you don’t notice them before their
legs are all up in your nose.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52maFXOZnylRernHNk9ylbMe3fSfcfFlhP3cI96IMcnZ2MtykWtOTTPLv8BpkN983Q1nZzFsJ7rfXb7cukqoW_ZW36-NkXc6qTp6C2B3Ku-V6SnVbAJWohOhIM0W-erXGmvS9OdaR7D3s/s1600/millipede.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1204" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52maFXOZnylRernHNk9ylbMe3fSfcfFlhP3cI96IMcnZ2MtykWtOTTPLv8BpkN983Q1nZzFsJ7rfXb7cukqoW_ZW36-NkXc6qTp6C2B3Ku-V6SnVbAJWohOhIM0W-erXGmvS9OdaR7D3s/s400/millipede.jpeg" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">But make no mistake, these seemingly innocent diversions,
close to the ground, are there to distract you from the trees standing above the
trail like wooden ninjas, waiting to pounce on your head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And while your attention is fixed on the 30-meter,
3,000-year-old Bandai-sugi…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTZdVtNV3MtzGdwmeA3yhauNnz_PJu4QohcDiaxj-et_B5s9ssGunMbcQ_7xXu6hJiY6LZsfr0wyQsk4ZoMeiGWDnxlf-zvEqoo-O0F1Fn1XTaH_OF1BAjXNHlVk1_AkxnOtOaZeSkKVRG/s1600/IMG_20171116_084925_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTZdVtNV3MtzGdwmeA3yhauNnz_PJu4QohcDiaxj-et_B5s9ssGunMbcQ_7xXu6hJiY6LZsfr0wyQsk4ZoMeiGWDnxlf-zvEqoo-O0F1Fn1XTaH_OF1BAjXNHlVk1_AkxnOtOaZeSkKVRG/s640/IMG_20171116_084925_2.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">… these slithery wooden tree-devils will lean over, reach out and grab you right in the ass.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">You can imagine my relief
when I finally escaped the trees and saw the predator-free peaks of Mocchomu in front of
me.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">From the highest summit the world looks so peaceful.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk1VVHyt6TtF646-EbSbGE7hI-R0EVx5GKtb4KKQPgkT-O-QbqMh7dZCAXwEMlmRg800X774zbt5Vo3mLYjtxrbXIijU8YPdHWqWyeXFGqum35y3dB9y3b_lY8dbRLqOjAL1Lf8M-iKUwy/s1600/IMG_20171116_101940_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk1VVHyt6TtF646-EbSbGE7hI-R0EVx5GKtb4KKQPgkT-O-QbqMh7dZCAXwEMlmRg800X774zbt5Vo3mLYjtxrbXIijU8YPdHWqWyeXFGqum35y3dB9y3b_lY8dbRLqOjAL1Lf8M-iKUwy/s640/IMG_20171116_101940_2.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The
sleepy town of Hara lies almost a kilometer below your feet, the ocean beyond stretching into oblivion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXdTUh2jnRXcnW-MMF7A_XSyI3bQnlzfrrEAAKzOb4ThFBaT_0dKsZT0o86rBAR0J64qMbOZRc5lXy6P1u15WxK_SEzoWrZLsZrMzrIPWT5XONL3gnBJ1e0ve1dgujc2BHcrDhRJhuQbj/s1600/IMG_20171116_102237_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXdTUh2jnRXcnW-MMF7A_XSyI3bQnlzfrrEAAKzOb4ThFBaT_0dKsZT0o86rBAR0J64qMbOZRc5lXy6P1u15WxK_SEzoWrZLsZrMzrIPWT5XONL3gnBJ1e0ve1dgujc2BHcrDhRJhuQbj/s640/IMG_20171116_102237_2.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The sweeping granite slopes elicit thoughts of the magnificence of Nature, albeit coupled with stark whispers of her
deadly trappings should you get too close.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPtz15IoJUhguYKX5fbucovP8yi4xP_NY4xRBa-YQ1sqVwhdmOW5H285LUspdMT_ELR8HvT5LNTWUl7fFSDE2wB8Zq-3BxHS6iBIZIfkvYREy6G4wPmAF12C-Q-hxtQUDvyY6lgFiHN7Fl/s1600/IMG_20171116_100751_2+%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPtz15IoJUhguYKX5fbucovP8yi4xP_NY4xRBa-YQ1sqVwhdmOW5H285LUspdMT_ELR8HvT5LNTWUl7fFSDE2wB8Zq-3BxHS6iBIZIfkvYREy6G4wPmAF12C-Q-hxtQUDvyY6lgFiHN7Fl/s640/IMG_20171116_100751_2+%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The path leading south from Mocchomu's summit, away from the
moray dinosaurs and the pterodactyl trees, seems like it will take you safely back down to town. There are a few steep descents, but some intrepid survivor of this mountain left us his ropes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLg1k2UhS6aZi-xmswiOFMumMVjgcuWAIZfNWeMkfEiJ-axpPylBmc2dCmZyfZqp0xG34r0oF7GvdcZrGY3GDRYIclh0wZh2KXysuxw4cX_VIrGHLbsH3HGoi1X7SdukFUhAKGfp9ElGfH/s1600/croppedrope.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1503" data-original-width="1197" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLg1k2UhS6aZi-xmswiOFMumMVjgcuWAIZfNWeMkfEiJ-axpPylBmc2dCmZyfZqp0xG34r0oF7GvdcZrGY3GDRYIclh0wZh2KXysuxw4cX_VIrGHLbsH3HGoi1X7SdukFUhAKGfp9ElGfH/s640/croppedrope.jpeg" width="508" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The descending ridge soon leads up again, with more ropes to pull you out of the trees and onto Mocchomu’s front peak. And it is only here you realize this is a dead
end. The only way down is back along the ropes and the ridge you just survived, to face those monsters once more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IQSrE-2RCka4boL2P4v9bsT4BCoJowGLB68thESWdk1c3rjn-4-ctxMBz7payvtnl9R0V7aRAIgh_Xy5mx1g7U-oohi9_uAyhXchv5zUTQgVBCHnr_6WXXO7j4scfv0UwlKRMzqM_67K/s1600/IMG_20171116_102043_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IQSrE-2RCka4boL2P4v9bsT4BCoJowGLB68thESWdk1c3rjn-4-ctxMBz7payvtnl9R0V7aRAIgh_Xy5mx1g7U-oohi9_uAyhXchv5zUTQgVBCHnr_6WXXO7j4scfv0UwlKRMzqM_67K/s640/IMG_20171116_102043_2.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">That is, if you don’t get knocked right off that ridge by
the trees that are picking up rocks to hurl at you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">If you’ve got any coins on you, offer them to the tiny stone gods hiding in the hollow of the rock on that dead-end peak. Hey, it
can’t hurt. Besides, getting rid of your spare change and lightening your load may be your last resort in outrunning a tree.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2M9j42PqGKY1CQ0KuaNyf91NPi622GRNoMUmvcuPAq7cS6VebSfKwG24Bz42mnSgISHh80tV6twLb0DEvfpvgbijyl3caIP0oXqfFbevORk2iE2syQjYD6fapmCAFfRvOqAwXx02Qtg8q/s1600/IMG_20171116_104039_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2M9j42PqGKY1CQ0KuaNyf91NPi622GRNoMUmvcuPAq7cS6VebSfKwG24Bz42mnSgISHh80tV6twLb0DEvfpvgbijyl3caIP0oXqfFbevORk2iE2syQjYD6fapmCAFfRvOqAwXx02Qtg8q/s640/IMG_20171116_104039_2.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Having survived the forest myself, I feel compelled to relate these things to
you now. Because what I witnessed leaves no doubt: there be strange creatures in the
thick-wooded mountains of Yakushima.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Then again, there are dangers lurking everywhere. And yet we
venture forth. Into the woods. Up mountains. Down rivers and across deserts.
Into the very depths of marriage and parenthood. Because it is in these places
that we find not only the strangest of things, but the most beautiful of
things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">And when we make it back to relative safety - back to the places
where we first saw the signs pointing us to these things, and met the good
people who helped us move forward - we can gaze up at the heights we climbed and say “Yeah, I was there.
And it was good.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9Iui6kRFibkfq0UwTEYH2irrsTuXIsqALMu9eZSs1i-9T8q89SUN8G21ZmIg_AK7CTq19mX04tGdaAFeoI3IBPNpfR_nnD_MmpVniSzY78Xt5HFhAIli_75uf6ky1htPJQhi4xVJDAapTjU5abszS18hzyYqtR6I5S9waJkkTOqx7jGqZW1wEh4-idA=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9Iui6kRFibkfq0UwTEYH2irrsTuXIsqALMu9eZSs1i-9T8q89SUN8G21ZmIg_AK7CTq19mX04tGdaAFeoI3IBPNpfR_nnD_MmpVniSzY78Xt5HFhAIli_75uf6ky1htPJQhi4xVJDAapTjU5abszS18hzyYqtR6I5S9waJkkTOqx7jGqZW1wEh4-idA=w640-h480" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I had time enough before catching my bus to the Miyanoura Ferry Terminal to run down the short path to this view of Mocchomu-dake fronted by Toroki Falls. This is the end of the same river that flows over Senpiro Falls where I parted ways with Kasai-san. Toroki is Japan's only waterfall that drops directly into the ocean.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">As my bus rolled along the island's eastern coast I noticed crowds of people lining the road near Yakushima Airport. The Emperor was flying in, I'd heard. He, along with the Empress, would be meeting residents of this area's outlying islands over the next few days; in particular a group displaced from nearby Kuchinoerabu Island after a volcanic eruption two years prior. As the Emperor put it, he thought it important to meet personally with people in these far and remote places.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Evidently, the people here agree.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkC8UwPX7ePQ0vpbpOb2VsQR-jok9srYMKXQ9VdFMbvkyWvNT1U3otQaXEe7jpmYm9l1TdHhjgHDKuz4PmhC8TIbBIbkrfNvvnLyI-0fGT1-87EPWm_rR9vzyYNSpYGc5wVLi7bNyDRsZB/s1600/IMG_20171116_140123_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1033" data-original-width="1600" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkC8UwPX7ePQ0vpbpOb2VsQR-jok9srYMKXQ9VdFMbvkyWvNT1U3otQaXEe7jpmYm9l1TdHhjgHDKuz4PmhC8TIbBIbkrfNvvnLyI-0fGT1-87EPWm_rR9vzyYNSpYGc5wVLi7bNyDRsZB/s640/IMG_20171116_140123_2.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I hope they warned him about the monsters up in those mountains.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-13691120138518370682017-06-25T07:37:00.001-07:002022-11-02T03:46:03.537-07:00Why Shouldn't You Go Hiking with a Strained Oblique?<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'll give you one reason.</span></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I’d been itching to get out and climb Mt. Hachibuse for weeks. Then suddenly the day came. The sun was rising bright in the sparkling sky; immediate responsibilities, both parental and professional, were nil; the car keys were just </span><b style="font-size: 12pt;"><i>sitting</i></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> there.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My wife yelled in my general direction as I was pulling out of the driveway; something about one of the kids and a piano lesson. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“One of my kids takes piano lessons?” </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</span> sped along Route 63, winding along the foot of the mountain range that culminates in this curious, non-descript peak I was rushing toward.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Honestly, I don’t know why I wanted to climb Hachibuse-yama. Of all the countless mountains around here it is nowhere near the highest. It is nothing you could call dramatic. There’s a road that takes you within a half mile of the top. Hachibuse means ‘prostrating bowl’ for Pete’s sake.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJdzT8BFFIEKrVC1zI2Qk05LmnqTlVI3ovkGlDk-K3slmCBUQd9V14A1IETnXjMKuBhllrPblqjBSbVTvyadCirp5_VObWnV_KtbjWCreR97H0dMsP-QCxgG3HiA3jqMnaLszSLTlvif8k/s1600/IMG_3599.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJdzT8BFFIEKrVC1zI2Qk05LmnqTlVI3ovkGlDk-K3slmCBUQd9V14A1IETnXjMKuBhllrPblqjBSbVTvyadCirp5_VObWnV_KtbjWCreR97H0dMsP-QCxgG3HiA3jqMnaLszSLTlvif8k/s640/IMG_3599.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If I'm careful what could possibly go wrong?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If you decide to hike the short trail (built for those of us with a wife who needs the car later) you'll find it meanders through the woods until, halfway up the mountain, it spits you out onto the road. As if suddenly aware that it wasn’t supposed to be playing in the street, the trail quickly dips back into the woods. Then as if it were one of my kids it forgets it isn’t supposed to be playing in the street and runs out onto the pavement once again. At this point the trail turns into a squirrel in a panic, running into and out of and into and out of traffic’s way until it finally dies like road kill at the blacktop’s edge.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From there it’s a twenty-minute walk along the rocky shoulder, up to the parking lot where the smart people start walking.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="more"></a></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Despite the fact the rainy season had officially begun (according to whoever decides these things) we hadn’t had any rain since before the rainy season. This meant the trail would be dry and…whatever the opposite of slippery is. My knees felt great. My body felt light. In an unusual moment of clarity I would remember to take some water with me. The day’s hike was shaping up perfectly. I only had one concern.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was still recovering from a strained oblique muscle in my right side. Don’t ask me how it happened.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Every time I get hurt – not that it happens every week – I have the same problem: I am entirely unable to just hang out and let my body heal. Getting better takes too long, and I have to get out and do something before my mid-life crisis worsens. I can’t let a beautiful day in the midst of the Northern Japanese Alps go to waste because of a strained muscle, or a sore knee, or a broken collarbone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I promise myself I’ll take it easy as I bend over to tie my shoes, grimacing against the pain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Speeding along Route 63 I tell myself again and again to be extra careful not to aggravate my stupid injury. We had a softball game coming up. But before the hike would be over I’d find there’s one good reason not to climb a mountain with a strained oblique, no matter how careful you promise yourself you will be.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Precautions to the Wind</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrcEcyFiNZIIJm3D9r6sDClRMwGZz77zbwJHdqcRPLxoqJCcYITfIx-e2YUtnYXE4lZ5NV5vY7qR3KYouKbaeJsKwCJFwzl2xeRlfRzfV71Y9ljXYZJf_ATma5E30AzhzxfbEGnol2NbQ4/s1600/IMG_3584.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrcEcyFiNZIIJm3D9r6sDClRMwGZz77zbwJHdqcRPLxoqJCcYITfIx-e2YUtnYXE4lZ5NV5vY7qR3KYouKbaeJsKwCJFwzl2xeRlfRzfV71Y9ljXYZJf_ATma5E30AzhzxfbEGnol2NbQ4/s400/IMG_3584.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The trail leading up into the trees was marked by a sign so broken and weather-beaten I might have made it myself. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hachibuse 5.7km</i> it read. Whether this meant the top of the prostrating bowl, the ridge forming the bottom of the bowl, or the parking lot below the bottom of the bowl I didn't know. I did know that my trail map, courtesy of the City of Matsumoto Something-Something Department, put the distance from the parking lot to the top of Hachibuse at 7.2 km. The reason for the discrepancy may have been that this trail map was giving the distance if one followed the road, not the trail, all the way up the mountain. Why a trail map would do this I had no idea. This was a question for someone at the Something-Something Department.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Either way, back home someone-someone had a piano lesson sometime in the near future, and for that reason my time on Hachibuse was limited. My progress up this mountain, to a point 995 meters higher than that broken sign, had to be on the quicker side of moderate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This was my first cause for concern. After ten minutes of climbing a trail steeper than any ski slope I’d ever encountered I felt nothing resembling pain in my side. Ten more minutes of flat-ish walking and still I felt great. But that didn't mean I’d feel nothing in another hour. Or two. Or right about the moment I reached the top of what I now called The ‘Buse (which, perhaps appropriately, rhymes with obtuse).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Wherever the pain started, if it did, I’d have the entire rest of the walk to feel it get progressively worse. And my pace would get progressively slower. And my wife would get progressively stressed as the minute hand ticked toward piano o’clock.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I took another picture of the sun-dotted trail and kept walking.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Presently I came upon another steep incline, thirty meters of loose dirt and looser rocks and a hundred roots, ostensibly perilous enough to require a rope. Thick and dirty and lying limp as a dead snake, this rope was, I assumed, tied to something at the top of the slope.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then I remembered the sorry state of the sign at the trailhead.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQn0E-LH9j0lPIlrCdA0rKsOFrviG7hBRKMKNdn0XtyITvMK-QqmaUXL3saaQbFMeeTU0aR5iB12FfbsTXyr8boUZ3ioafLlqr2zt7wBPhiPizzEbRQy0Bu3r1tZxr50FPACV4g58qXbm0/s1600/IMG_3603.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQn0E-LH9j0lPIlrCdA0rKsOFrviG7hBRKMKNdn0XtyITvMK-QqmaUXL3saaQbFMeeTU0aR5iB12FfbsTXyr8boUZ3ioafLlqr2zt7wBPhiPizzEbRQy0Bu3r1tZxr50FPACV4g58qXbm0/s400/IMG_3603.JPG" width="266" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Watch out for trips and slips!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">(That's what I say to my boys all the time.)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I wouldn't normally consider using such a rope. Must be the guy in me. But today, slipping and </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">falling was a real concern, if only because the sudden movement, and my sudden reaction, could set my oblique on fire. To prevent this I could of course hold onto that rope. But grabbing and pulling with my right arm could also strain my side. Hanging on to that rope with my left hand wouldn't be much better if I suddenly found myself in the middle of my own personal landslide. I stepped gingerly upslope. I held onto that rope and shuffled a few meters back downhill, to see what I might be facing on the way down. In my side I felt nothing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And my concerns disappeared. For a while.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I felt great, surrounded by nothing but the forest, the sky and a million speckles of dancing sunlight. All I heard were the birds above, the cicadas all around, the crunch of my footsteps and my own steady breathing. Thoughts wandered in and out. Most involved beautiful things: Nature; the great gift of life; self-employment; and a wife who has zero interest in going clothes shopping.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The trail held that magical balance of rugged and unmistakable. In some places, rocks and roots dominated. In others, the path rolled smooth as a bobsled run. Out here, where the forest and the mountain seem to possess an energy that can seep through your boots and your skin and right into your soul, I get that familiar feeling. A feeling of love, and of bliss. A sense that heaven is not a place but an event, a confluence of circumstance and understanding that elevates one to a level of abstract existence that cannot be explained, only felt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Out here, I feel that heaven. And with it comes the urge to throw myself further and deeper into it, in the only way I know how: by running.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My right oblique didn't like that one bit. I told him I was sorry, I forgot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As the path climbed higher the trees began to thin. Flowers floated on a sea of low-lying leafy things that I’ve seen four thousand times and still can’t name. The view of the sky widened. The rounded peak of The Buse made its appearance up ahead. And through the burgeoning spaces between the trees I could see miles and miles of mountain ranges, miles and miles off to the west and south.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPHojvpANXz3DZ6OU2v5c82XocZNztU91chqRLIhPreI3Ojcfhq1NSzIYpPlioq2BUAP8mCwifN2NDJ_paENOpPGxrAww7km5T0pjlltDC4Pgj6xZ-Ixl0vIC0SRUsuI4ERalixHmmjb3s/s1600/IMG_3618.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPHojvpANXz3DZ6OU2v5c82XocZNztU91chqRLIhPreI3Ojcfhq1NSzIYpPlioq2BUAP8mCwifN2NDJ_paENOpPGxrAww7km5T0pjlltDC4Pgj6xZ-Ixl0vIC0SRUsuI4ERalixHmmjb3s/s320/IMG_3618.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">The path came to an unceremonious end at a switchback in the road. It turned back into the trees a few meters up, past a metal sign with a smiling rodent of some sort reminding me that fire is bad, for the mountain and for his home and for my criminal record.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The path played hit and run with the road for a while until it disappeared completely. Walking along a road isn’t my idea of the perfect hike, but this road, built into the side of the mountain up above tree line, offered an unmitigated view of what seemed like the majority of central Japan. The Northern Alps, from Norikura past the Hotaka Range and all the way to Hakuba; Ontake-san, the volcano that erupted three years ago, claiming fifty lives; Lake Suwa and the plains to her south; the venerable Kiso Valley; the eight peaks of Yatsu-ga-dake; they were all on display for me as I walked without worry of slipping on rocks or tripping over roots or otherwise stumbling into the operating room.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On Top of Things<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheAw9arsJ5OzSU9LPdyCBGRfY_HUdxvD7uN5WiZfxKHZAw1lnETPGkon4u3Czz30wkiU2JlqsOLpn64rMGWXK2PWKisXSypcPS4hUdm1g76Khg_xU6rexFcUUpBeG3XX-t9jW9ZENi-phX/s1600/IMG_3637.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheAw9arsJ5OzSU9LPdyCBGRfY_HUdxvD7uN5WiZfxKHZAw1lnETPGkon4u3Czz30wkiU2JlqsOLpn64rMGWXK2PWKisXSypcPS4hUdm1g76Khg_xU6rexFcUUpBeG3XX-t9jW9ZENi-phX/s320/IMG_3637.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">I never wear a watch. Mainly because I don't have one. So to keep track of the time I kept taking pictures so I could then check the time on the display screen. Each time I redid the math in my head the answer was the same: piano time was still way off. Up to the parking lot for lazy people and on to the top of The Buse, this last stretch looked like it was going to be a cakewalk. I could maintain an easy pace, eat my lunch, enjoy the view from the top and make it back to the car with plenty of time to spare. There was nothing I could see that could ruin the tenuous agreement I had with my quietly but distinctly unhappy tummy muscles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the tall grass, however, there was something I couldn't see that almost ruined my clean shorts – some kind of overgrown pigeon, squatting in its hiding place until I got close enough for it to scare the bejeezus out of me. That's when it exploded in a burst of leaves and feathers and flapped off like he was late for his piano lesson. Yeah, I jumped. You would too, from the sudden ruckus and the blurry sight of something that, before you realize what it is, could bite your head off for all you know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My oblique told me to calm the duck fown.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But neither overgrown pigeon nor anything else the mountain was throwing at me could slow me down. Even better, there was nothing to speed me up. I took another picture and checked the time. Quarter to one. Beautiful. The walk down would be leisurely and non-threatening.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I climbed the short tower to enjoy the view from 1,928 meters (1,931 including the tower). I took a 360-degree video of the world, my spontaneous narration largely (and thankfully) drowned out by the sound of the wind drifting over the microphone. Sitting on a rock I savored my lunch (if that’s what you can call a slice of sweet bread and some watered-down vegetable juice). I hiked over the top of the prostrating bowl to get a look to the east and Asama-yama, a mountain I climbed six years ago.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">No matter what I do, I get the feeling I haven’t gotten very far.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3uX1bVhRH8JeB-l5Tm1qxfZIzJSKoYkpJPU07RIaJp0oLRRgFxyDzibMNM_e6Oq-_w5-MkWi7D3ldEY2nXr1-lX0Q5Xd0S-yyJH7MrV_4LlvrL8FGFIfNuGGElb6R-9EjWYKX5C9fk-Nw/s1600/IMG_3642.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3uX1bVhRH8JeB-l5Tm1qxfZIzJSKoYkpJPU07RIaJp0oLRRgFxyDzibMNM_e6Oq-_w5-MkWi7D3ldEY2nXr1-lX0Q5Xd0S-yyJH7MrV_4LlvrL8FGFIfNuGGElb6R-9EjWYKX5C9fk-Nw/s640/IMG_3642.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The only other person up there on the p-bowl greeted me in typical Japanese fashion. To the north, over the valley to the high plains of Utsukushi-ga-hara, I looked for the place I had lunch with my daughter just one week before. I stopped at the hut next to the parking lot for lazy people, to listen to the man who was up there when Ontake-san erupted in white smoke and black ash three years ago.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And I began the walk back down the road, to the path and the trees and the slopes and the ropes and my car, by now broiling in the sun.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I hadn’t seen a single soul the entire climb up The Buse – not on the trail anyway. Once I reached the road I saw a few cars go by, in one direction or the other. And there was a group of five or six men in the parking lot for lazy people, talking and laughing and wearing some serious trekking gear. This too was typically Japanese. Meanwhile I was pulling on the Puma warm-up jacket I’d recently bought at a second hand shop.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNfEeGoptu2GXuSaJE7V4HhyphenhyphenLqJ7PhjaFt0LYAAtoNqCNrVF1Xo-fdFZcHjP13y5NlSCutptV591QB265EEC-Pq3C1lEkYMDp6mVdiTnLevDTT3oEnfyXYr5o2si7lWmA_qaSgOasos05_/s1600/IMG_3678.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNfEeGoptu2GXuSaJE7V4HhyphenhyphenLqJ7PhjaFt0LYAAtoNqCNrVF1Xo-fdFZcHjP13y5NlSCutptV591QB265EEC-Pq3C1lEkYMDp6mVdiTnLevDTT3oEnfyXYr5o2si7lWmA_qaSgOasos05_/s640/IMG_3678.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is the top? Seriously?</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The way down came with scant few people as well; two old men sitting on small sheets of plastic in the grass by the side of the road, facing the wide southwestern view. They held thermoses between their knees and binoculars to their eyes and mumbled intermittently to each other. Back on the trail a man and a woman stepped to the side to let me by. They looked too young to be retired. What were they doing here on a Monday, hiking and not working? This was decidedly un-Japanese.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And that was it for my human encounters. Soon the path ran away from the road for good and I was back in the dense mountain woods. Once again it was just me and Mother Nature. The trail, the forest, the pale blue patches of sky in my eyes; the birds, the cicadas, my footsteps and my breath drifting through my ears; the absence of pain in my side as I slowly, steadily descended; the day, it seemed, was working out perfectly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Which might have been exactly what was going through that bear’s head right up until the moment he saw me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn’t see him, not at first. If he hadn’t moved I would have passed right by him, me and my oblique both blissfully unaware. After that pigeon episode you might rightfully guess that Little Smokey scared the crap out of me when he exploded out of nowhere and began running away through the trees. Still, I was intrigued. Fascinated. I took a couple of steps and ducked under a branch to try to get a better look at him. Yes, or her. He or she appeared less than full-grown. Who knows if the thing had ever seen a human before. If it had, he or she was evidently unaware that he could easily bite my head off.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t think running away from a bear is the key to not getting your head bitten off. But I’d still prefer to have the option. And today, I didn't. Okay sure, I did, but with my oblique it wasn't going to work out too well. Even as Ursa Minor disappeared into the forest I couldn't be sure Ursa Major wasn’t close by. As the minutes passed and I began testing the limits of the pain in my side, I wondered whether bears could communicate things like “Hey Mom, can you come this way and take a look and tell me if I could bite this thing’s head off?”</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Difference Between Tough and Stupid<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZ13h4a6hjXHXxpNnPHoNibv69Df883hyphenhyphen5S6kKMVLhZj2_VmU5bzJ78sYmatFfQ6Un88idqMO9vFkoa-CMZCrJbY5i5lby-HwFIt8wAOUbjEZBTefCguMeJkNilFz_Fu3l1S-0EiykPK2/s1600/IMG_3721.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZ13h4a6hjXHXxpNnPHoNibv69Df883hyphenhyphen5S6kKMVLhZj2_VmU5bzJ78sYmatFfQ6Un88idqMO9vFkoa-CMZCrJbY5i5lby-HwFIt8wAOUbjEZBTefCguMeJkNilFz_Fu3l1S-0EiykPK2/s400/IMG_3721.JPG" width="265" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't see anything, do you?</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve cycled over the Continental Divide with a separated shoulder. I’ve driven twenty-five hours non-stop on more than one occasion. I’ve gone food shopping with a freshly-broken collarbone – on my bike, buying then carrying twenty-five pounds of groceries home on my back. I’ve cycled a hundred miles under the summer sun without a single sip of water (and almost died but that’s beside the point).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">None of this makes me special. It may make me stupid. But the point is, if it’s up to me, I can handle quite a bit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">If there’s a bear involved, however, the game changes. And not in my favor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The rest of the way down that mountain I made all sorts of animal noises, in case there were any that would scare off a bear. I sang out loud. (My singing can scare off a zombie.) I carried big rocks in my hands. And I kept praying the parking lot for stupid people would finally appear through the trees.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My wife was visibly relieved I’d made it back before piano time. I didn't tell her about the bear.</span></div>
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<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>2109</o:Words> <o:Characters>12026</o:Characters> <o:Company>Kraft</o:Company> <o:Lines>100</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>24</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>14768</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings></xml><![endif]--><span style="font-family: inherit;">If I did she might try to keep me home the next time I got hurt.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-40314444421526833342015-04-21T07:24:00.000-07:002019-03-27T16:50:07.145-07:00The Rush of a Run Through the Woods<h2>Chasing Down Time</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1D-xy2rreGyj9obDpYxWq6_IJDT1G1hoYUEHLt5huCSpKTCj2tZBw0CVk0sArXt6fCtfjKS4FIBgjgzHW2ltQnREwRasqD9sa1fay-t22ubaTMY9xLryuz1Ey2DQdHmpBAaO2uSHXGS1/s1600/20141103_140057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1D-xy2rreGyj9obDpYxWq6_IJDT1G1hoYUEHLt5huCSpKTCj2tZBw0CVk0sArXt6fCtfjKS4FIBgjgzHW2ltQnREwRasqD9sa1fay-t22ubaTMY9xLryuz1Ey2DQdHmpBAaO2uSHXGS1/s1600/20141103_140057.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">The first thing I realized, chugging up through the woods, was that I miss this feeling. I miss the exertion, the adrenalin. The rush that only comes when the physical meets the emotional in a drawn-out moment that we wish could last forever. When gasping breath and pounding heart are forced to share one’s attention with the love of something as simple and elemental as the forested side of a mountain.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">It seems frivolous from a distance, this urge to go run up a trail. And from a distance the feeling is easy to forget. Life gets in the way, in the form of kids and play, of work and self-ascribed responsibilities, and over time the pursuits that give us pleasure get pushed to the side.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">We realize it. We mean to lace up those old sneakers and go recapture that feeling. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ll get out this weekend. Or the week after that. When things slow down enough to justify the frivolity of a run up a mountain.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">Steadily, the months pass. Then so do the years, if we let them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">And I saw that I was letting them, even as I said I would not.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><a name='more'></a><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">Today I went out and put a stop to the passing. Not the passing of time, but the passing of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>time. The passing of the chances we all have to draw out those feelings.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">I realized a few other things today too, out there where I heard only the songs of unseen birds, the playful hiss of a river tumbling over itself and the labor of two lungs trying to keep up with this forty-something running in denial of his age.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">I realized that sometimes two very different paths will lead you to the same place.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">I realized that, though some may tell you to keep your eyes on the prize you are after, there are times when the best thing to do is stop and look around. Sometimes the best way to go is sideways.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">And I realized – or perhaps I knew but forgot – that no matter what the trail up ahead looks like, it’s bound to change soon enough. The path twists and rises and dips and rises again. One moment you’re flying over rocks and roots, and the next you are slipping through the mud you couldn’t see. Just when you think you’ve run out of breath the terrain changes and you feel you can keep on going. Although eventually, every trail run ends.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">And I realized that it’s okay if I don’t make it to the top of the mountain today. Because I’ve already gotten what I came here for. That rush, that clash of feeling and emotion. It’s back. And so am I.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">I’ll make it to the top of that mountain, I know. Tomorrow, maybe. Next week, or the week after that. And I’ll find, I’m sure, some satisfaction in knowing that what once came quickly but was suddenly elusive I chased down to make mine once more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">And that drawn-out moment will come once again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">But no matter how far I’ve gone, no matter how high I’ve climbed, that moment that comes will also end.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: MS Pゴシック;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Century;">And there will be nothing left to do but go home and do laundry.</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-19823746801914556012015-04-13T21:00:00.000-07:002019-03-27T16:50:07.514-07:00俳句(Haiku)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF36bADRl0a5m7bVFW5EeUflNPbjv_XSu_gHfHxsgtNBZinp9W_-pmapZvELQJJi_l0CEAEjFQ0kuUCOubO6h9qwZ0SwfoafHKIwxhlCKLAEObBh-vmosyzM5WaKDAwu1CieW3w_qmI7I1/s1600/haikushoes2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF36bADRl0a5m7bVFW5EeUflNPbjv_XSu_gHfHxsgtNBZinp9W_-pmapZvELQJJi_l0CEAEjFQ0kuUCOubO6h9qwZ0SwfoafHKIwxhlCKLAEObBh-vmosyzM5WaKDAwu1CieW3w_qmI7I1/s1600/haikushoes2.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div><h2>Jogging in the rain</h2><h2>Cherry blossom petals fall</h2><h2>And I slip on them.</h2><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em>(Based on a true story.)</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9205531827902180574.post-70291354583898822402010-12-13T06:37:00.001-08:002020-09-15T23:18:48.416-07:00Carrying a TuneLast week, among the many mentions of and references to John Lennon on the 30th anniversary of his death, I spotted an interesting thread on facebook. Okay, using 'interesting' and 'facebook' in the same sentence shows a lack of qualitative judiciousness, so let me say instead that it was simply amusing. Of course, the thread became instantaneously more amusing once I jumped in. (I believe, by believing this, that this puts me in the self-aggrandizing facebooking majority.)<br />
<br />So in this thread on or around John Lennon's tragic anniversary someone mentioned the song <strong>'You Won't See Me,'</strong> which was written by Paul. I don't recall the reason or significance of the song with regards to the original conversation, I only remember how the mention of the song was meaningful to me. (This because I am in the self-absorbed facebooking majority.)<br />
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My brain, like God and Google, works in mysterious ways. The connections that form up there in my spongy gray matter fall well within the cross-over realm of miracles and algorithms – or, in non-believer math hater terms, coincidental, self-deluding hooey. Usually these associations arise in the context of riding my bicycle, when my mind is clear of needy kids and writer's block and basic traffic safety rules. And, usually, it involves a song I haven't heard in years.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Biking through the Mekong Delta in southern Vietnam, fresh off a spectacular wipeout involving a preoccupation with my rear tire and an old man with a great mustache and astonishing powers of spontaneous materialization, I was beginning to worry about my aluminum frame steed's well-being. Back on Koh Chang Island in Thailand I found out that my derailleur was sorely misaligned. Trying to shift onto my Frisbee (the largest chain ring on the front half of the chain drive) my chain refused to catch on any of those forty-eight teeth and wedged itself quite impressively down in between said Frisbee and the middle chain ring. Thirty minutes and a dozen bloody knuckles later I finally pried him free. Less than an hour later I'd forgotten it all – Koh Chang is quite nice – and ended up leaving more blood and shreds of skin in the sand on the side of the road. Small miracle and a fortunate turn of physics that I didn't then snap my newly-gouged chain pushing my loaded tandem up over mountain roads that make Lombard Street in San Francisco look like a wheelchair ramp. I had a chain tool, so mechanically I was ready; thing was, I had no idea how to use it. Nor did I have the slightest idea how to correctly replace a broken spoke (or ten) if I happened to get another close-up of an old man appearing out of the thin and dusty air. By the time I busted the cable on my drum brake in the Vietnamese highlands I was already hearing the first notes of a melody that would remain with me for the next two months.<br />
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Quick, name a song by the SOS Band. Here, I'll give you a hint: <em>'Just be good to me, in the morning. Just be good to me, in the afternoon...'</em> The song came out in 1983 and I might not have heard it since, but there it was in my head, the chorus going round and around and around. <em>'I'll be good to you, you'll be good to me, we will be together, be together...'</em> The cool part is, all the begging and pleading worked. My bike carried me through the rest of Indochina with only a flat tire in Vientienne and a sticky brake cable, the plastic casing having partially melted somewhere among the sado-masochistic road system in northern Thailand.<br />
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On a scorching afternoon in Cambodia, on the same trip, I was pushing down an endless dirt road searching for a place I could get some water – preferably the bottled, non-malarial variety. I didn't want a coke; I didn't want to stop for a coke-sized water that I would completely sweat out just getting my loaded tandem moving on down the road again. I wanted the until-then ubiquitous liter size. And, evidently, my brain thought singing about it would help me deal. This time, not only did I get a song, I got two verses worth of original lyrics to go with my burgeoning dehydration.<br />
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The next time you have Bonnie Tyler's <strong>'Holding Out For A Hero'</strong> stuck in your head, try these alternate lyrics:<br />
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<em>I need a liter!</em><br />
<em>I'm holding out for a liter till my throat runs dry.</em><br />
<em>It's got to be fresh and it's got to be cool</em><br />
<em>And it's got to attach to my bike.</em><br />
<em>I need a lee-TER!!</em><br />
<em>I'm holding out for a liter if the price is right.</em><br />
<em>I'll give you the cash put your fingers up fast</em><br />
<em>But it better not have parasites...</em><br />
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Okay, I'll concede it's not as poetic as the original but this was not something I worked on. You (I) can't come up with stuff like this with a parched throat, angry legs and a sore butt surrounded by nothing but the Cambodian countryside. Hooey on the surface maybe, but miraculous somehow underneath.<br />
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Every time I bike through a fishing village in Japan, or anywhere else for that matter, one particular Japanese song gently, merrily explodes in my head. Translation: 'Fish, fish, fish, when you eat fish, head head head, head gets smarter.' I usually head for the mountains when I get on my bike now.<br />
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In Nagano Prefecture there's a scenic mountain road called the Venus Line. Guess what song I had in my head for all 32 kilometers of it? Heading out of Malacca, Malaysia I passed a street vendor selling bread and rolls and such, which got me hooked on 'Do You Know The Muffin Man?' That was a fun four hours.<br />
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Despite my general innocent disregard for safety I rarely forget to bring my headlamp with me when I am heading out on the bike at night. I do, however, sometimes forget to recharge the batteries. And there are days when I leave with plenty of daylight left but still end up not making it home until after dark. Of course, having a (working) headlamp helps me see all the cracks and potholes and curbs in the road before I hit them, but for the most part a light is much more important in its function of letting other people know I am about to slam into their fender. (The same goes for the headlights on your car; if you don't believe me try it sometime.) Thus when my headlamp is less than fully operable (or fully present) I have to keep in mind that while I can see that car pulling out of that side street five yards up ahead, that person can't see me. And my brain, ever on the lookout for opportunities to drown me in songs I would otherwise never hear, in or out of my head, starts in with that Beatles song again. But only the one line, repeated over and over and over and over because it is the only line I know. Of course, it is the only line I need. If my wife suddenly starts ignoring me then maybe the rest of the song will come to me. Though more likely the words to <strong>'I'm Free'</strong> by the Rolling Stones would fill my head. 'Yes I'm free, to do what I want, any old time...'<br />
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Winding up yet another blog post reminds me of one other example of a song in my brain melding seamlessly with circumstance. This one too involves a Beatles song – specifically, the only line in <strong>'Eleanor Rigby'</strong> written by Ringo.<br />
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<em>'Father McKenzie, writing the words to a sermon that no one will hear...'</em><br />
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Because I suspect I am alone in the Kevin Kato-absorbed facebooking minority.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0