Ten miles off the desolate northwestern shores of Hokkaido, Japan’s
far-flung playground of the gods, Mount Rishiri breaches the water like a beast
both heavy and buoyant. Clothed in the kind of mystery only distance can
create, Rishiri-zan, and the namesake island on which she rests, offer only
vague hints of the scars that remain after the brutal winters of eons and the
mountain’s volcanic past.
Having come all this way, standing now a thousand
kilometers and a world away from Tokyo, one feels compelled to venture just a
little bit further, out across the water, to discover those secrets behind the
haze lest the journey feel forever incomplete.
That's how I felt, there at the edge of the water.
I would not have come even this far if it weren’t for Ken,
the very active owner of a cycling tour company. I’d emailed him a couple of
years prior, to ask if he could use another guide here and there. As our ferry
neared Rishiri’s port of Oshidomari I shaded my eyes and took in the
detail-rich view, laughing quietly at my stupid, extraordinary luck.
