I met a spaceman; Southern Japan Alps II

My second day in the Southern Alps started with a climb back to Jizo-ga-take. This time I meant to actually get to its peak, or, really, as close as I could get to the peak. You can't reach the very top without a rope, but I got a bit of climbing practice in anyway, edging up the rocks that surround the main spires of the peak. This was again very pleasant, and I spent well over a half an hour sitting and taking pictures from Jizo's high vantage.

I climbed down. Today my objective was my objective for the entire trip--Kita-dake, a non-volcanic mountain that stands second tallest after Fuji, though a distant second at 500 meters less. I gritted my teeth thinking I'd have to go down for half the day before going up again: I think I've said before I hate descents more than ascents. But that is the way it worked out, and there was no avoiding it.

At first there was a slight ascent to Takamine, then I began a long descent, followed the entire time by a fool with a bell. Bear bells are very popular in Japan, even in areas with as much traffic as Shinjuku station. I have even gotten my own, but that is because I prefer hiking in the less popular areas; but I just don't see the need to use one when you see other humans every 5 minutes. Still, I wouldn't complain but the man had an amazing ability to stay just a perfect distance behind me that I couldn't lose him, and yet he only once passed me. His bell was distracting, and it followed me like Jason Vorhees for the 4 hours I was climbing down to Hirogawara, the beginning of the climb to Kita-dake.

But about an hour from the bottom I was distracted from the distracting bell. I caught up with a man who had started the day in front of me, moving at a fair pace, but had slowed down near ten o' clock. He was friendly, and we chatted a bit as we climbed down. We went at about the same pace, and though we didn't talk about much in particular, we'd say things like "be there soon" or "be careful here," etc. I normally avoid conversation in the mountains, but maybe the Jason bell had acclimated me to society again. At least I forgot about the bell.

When we reached the valley, we started talking a bit. He was a carpenter from Wakayama who built traditional-style buildings and furnaces. I thought that was interesting. He asked me what I thought of the Mayan 2012 apocalypse; I told him I didn't know much about it, though I was curious. Then he told me he had had a dream long ago of a plague of locusts and of people being pulled up into the sky; this made me a bit leery. But he had never read the Bible and, though I didn't ask, I'm guessing he'd never read the Left Behind series. His manner was self-deprecating and, unlike other people I've met who go into these odd sorts of conversations, he had no agenda that I could see; it sounded more like he was sharing his pastimes. So I continued talking to him.

Then he said, in a very charming way, (keep in mind this is in Japanese) "I think I might be a space man." I laughed; again, I would normally start winding up the conversation at this point, staring straight ahead and walking a bit faster. But he was not threatening in any way, so I continued to listen.

Just like the dream of locusts and of people being pulled into the sky, he had had a dream, he said, where he found himself looking down on the earth from above, thinking "I'd like to live there..." He then found himself being born. Because it was in Japanese, I'm not sure if he was saying this was a memory of a dream or a dream of a memory, but I think it was the latter. He asked me if I thought I was a spaceman, and I considered this for a second.

I am quite in love with the solar system, and with stars. I've always had a particular fascination with Jupiter and, more recently, his moon Europa. Jupiter is a fascinating object, so incomprehensible, and a lot like the mountains of the world, so far removed from the money-making survival and bureaucratic politics of daily life. But it is none the less real; maybe, to my spaceman friend and I, those things are more real than the pretend dramas of daily life.

I long wanted to travel to the other planets, and when I was a kid I loved poring over books that portrayed life and colonization of other worlds. But as I've gotten older, I have turned back to earth, and the compulsion to find other worlds is looking less and less like a creative act of imaginative expansion and more like a desperate way to leave behind our failures here. For the time being, the Earth seems enough to me, and I'd rather not be able to see bases on the moon, reminding me of our collective short-sightedness, when I look up at the night sky. (By the way, though the two ideas coincide, I am not making an environmental argument here).

So I said "Boku ha machigai naku chikyuujin desu." I am without a doubt an Earthman. When he said later that he felt more like a spaceman than a Japanese person, I said the same thing, I am not an American, I am without a doubt an Earthman. I think we both liked our symmetry.

My spaceman friend was not going to the top of Kita-dake; we were walking to the bus stop as this conversation was going on. He was planning to go to Senjo ga take, a mountain I thought I might reach the next day. We said perhaps we'd meet on Jupiter some day, and I left him and headed up the mountain.

On the way up I debated over and again what I should do the next day. I had planned, as I said before, to go in a spiral around to Kaikomagatake, but it was looking more and more like that would not happen, so I was considering just hiking around Kita-dake, taking it easy the next day.

In the end I settled on a campsite near the peak of Kita-dake; I reached it after 11 hours, and I didn't feel like climbing Kita-dake and then hiking another hour to the next campsite. At that point it was getting dark and clouds were overtaking the peak, so I decided I would climb to the top the next day and watch the sun rise. Depending on how I felt at that point I would decide what to do next.

The mountain hut/campsite was high up--3000 meters, or 9800 feet. It was rocky, but the ridge was fairly wide, and there were a large number of places to set up a tent. I wandered around for a bit, hoping perhaps I could avoid sleeping inches from others, and I saw an adventurous camper had set up in what seemed a bit of a legal grey-area for an acceptable camp-spot. It was far from the toilet, but I decided to set up in the same area, though I gave my adventurous friend a wide berth. I was relatively alone.

I was exhausted and it was very cold, so I planned to watch the falling sun, eat a bit of left-overs (ie, I didn't have the energy to cook), and then head to bed. I took some pictures of the sun until I couldn't stand the cold wind, ate, and studied the map for the next day. I was soon cocooned in my sleeping bag.

I woke up at 12 am. I don't know what woke me up, but I never did get back to sleep that day. I felt perfectly warm, and there was no light; I didn't feel hungry or thirsty. I was still exhausted, but could not sleep. I tried stretching, and reading, and I even ate a little something to see if that would help. But nothing did, and I sat in my tent until the sun came up.

The sunrise was spectacular. Though there was a bit of cloud cover and I couldn't see some of the smaller mountains, at my vantage point I was able to see through a clear space to Mount Fuji. I felt a bit like I was on Venus; I was certainly a long way from home. I took a few pictures, then lay in my tent again until the winds knocked the tent down.

In the end I decided to go home that day. Once I started hiking again I felt a bit more energetic, but I was truly exhausted after four days of inadequate sleep. After hiking 11 hours the day before, four hours' rest was just not enough, and I didn't want to deal with the occasional frustrations inherent in hiking in that condition. I climbed to the top of Kita-dake, then took a different route down than I had taken up the day before (that was a few hours' hike in itself), then got on the bus and the train home.


I wish I could have continued, as this is likely to be the last long vacation before the snows, but I do feel satisfied with my trip. Ho'o sanzan in itself was worth exploring, and Kita-dake is the tallest mountain I have yet climbed. If you want me this winter, I'll be jogging through the (much shorter) mountains of Okutama and Nikko!

Southern Japan Alps

This week is "Silver Week," or "Autumn Golden Week," a series of holidays with a name that refers to the more established "(Spring) Golden Week" in late April and early May. Like Memorial Day and Labor Day they signal the change of seasons, and it is common for Japanese people to travel to natural areas to take in scenery, hiking along with their bear bells and trekking poles, or taking the kids out to the local car campsite to hold a barbecue.

I decided to attempt a longer trip than usual, as this will probably be the last chance I get this year for more than a few days off (I had 6 days), so I went for the Southern Alps. Of three groups of mountains in Japan known as "Alps," the Southern Alps are the least developed and have the least visitors, though by no means was it empty!

The Southern Alps also contain the tallest mountain in Japan after Fuji, known as Kita-dake (North Peak). Kita-dake was my objective, though I planned to take in a large number of peaks in the range.

The first mountain, though, that I wanted to visit was Ho'o Sanzan, the Three "Phoenix" Peaks, Yakushi-ga-take, Kannon-ga-take, and Jizo-ga-take. I had seen pictures of Jizo-ga-take and was really impressed by the unique rock formations; when I found out how close it was to Kita-dake I knew I had to go that way.

A trip to the north part of the Southern Alps usually means a stop in the city of Kofu, known for its lack of wind (I suppose because of its location, surrounded on all sides by tall mountains?), then an hour-long bus ride into the mountains. I got off at the Yashajin trail-head for the approach to the first of the Ho'o Sanzan, Yakushi-dake.

Yakushi, Kannon, and Jizo are Japanese names for important bodhisattva: Yakushi is the Buddhist "doctor," Jizo is, in Japan, most often the protector of children, and Kannon is a hermaphroditic savior--as Kuan Yin in China, she is almost always female, where in India and Southeast Asia he is usually male; in Japan he/she is portrayed both ways, perhaps due to successive importation from the two regions. These bodhisattva are very popular in Japan and everywhere that Mahayana Buddhism is followed, and, with Amida-bosatsu, their names are used for mountains throughout Japan. I once climbed Amida-dake in the nearby Yatsu-ga-take range, something I wrote about in an earlier post.

My legs ached a bit more than usual, and I was a bit tired. I was actually starting late: I had planned to start my trip on Saturday, but for some reason I couldn't sleep until 3 in the morning, and with my train leaving at 5:50, I decided it would be best to start the next day instead. I slept well enough Saturday night, but I'd had several restless nights that week and, as most will know, it takes more than one night to recover from an inadequate sleeping schedule.

Four buses left for Yasha and their final destination, Hirogawara; myself, another person from overseas, and a tiny but sinewy old man were stuffed among the bags of passengers with proper seats. I managed to sit down for the hour-long ride among stuffed packs, and fell asleep several times before being awakened by a rough bump, then falling asleep again.

But at last we were off; I paid the bus fare and headed into the mountains. I'll be honest, I don't remember much about that first ascent towards Yakushi; I think it was overshadowed by my memories of the fantastic views and sense of awe I felt later in the Ho'o range. I may also have been a bit asleep at the time...

It was a clear day, one of the clearest I have experienced in the Japanese mountains. The mountains I was climbing were fairly high, too, and as I reached their peaks the vegetation fell off, until, at the peaks, there was little more than scrub and very tiny trees. So there were many inspiring views along the way, of Shiramine Sanzan (Kita-dake's group) to the west, Kaikoma-ga-take to the north, and Yatsu-ga-take, the mountains of Okuchichibu, and Fuji to the east. It was intoxicating to be in such fabulous company, and I felt a joy and sense of ease the entire time I was winding through Ho'o Sanzan that I just do not normally experience.

My photos do not do it justice.



This set of mountains is not covered in the English "bible" of Japanese mountains, the Lonely Planet Hiking in Japan, but the three mountains can be covered in one or two days, and I really consider them the highlight of my hiking so far in Japan. Kita dake certainly has its high points (pun intended), but the rock formations of Yakushi, Kannon, and especially Jizo really make the hike unique, and their position between Kita-dake and Fuji make them a great place to view the two.

Yakushi was first. I didn't expect much: being the third tallest of the three, Yakushi might not get as much publicity. But really, it has some attractive formations, and I spent a good amount of time taking pictures. It also affords good views of the other two peaks in the range.



Kannon, the tallest of the three, is crowned with hundreds of spikes of granite, and it made me think of her common representation with hundreds, meant to be thousands, of hands. That may be the reason the mountain was so named.



The descent towards Jizo was difficult because the road seemed to be made from some form of silicate, and I often slipped. But when I could, I stopped and snapped pictures of Jizo-dake, by far my favorite of the three mountains. I didn't in fact climb Jizo that day, as it was getting late; my destination was about an hour down, at a mountain hut with associated campsite.


Hiking is a bit odd in Japan. You climb for hours, and very often you will run into fellow hikers, especially in well-known places like the Alps. Without fail, just as in the US, people will say something, at least nod, and there is a protocol for passing and being passed. But once you reach the mountain hut/campsite, you are once again in civilization, and groups of hikers do their best to ignore other hikers.

This is why.


Except in Oze and the most famous parts of the Alps (the Central Alps' Kamikochi being reportedly the worst), when you are actually hiking you usually get at least a few moments alone. But when it is time to camp, or you get to a peak, you are almost certain to be surrounded by gobs of people, eating lunch, drinking sake, sometimes even listening to the baseball game on the radio or talking on their cell phones (what is "#~!ing wrong with people!). So, just like back at home, you have to shut out the other people except in the most dire situations, and try to forget you are sleeping 3 feet away from someone snoring and farting next to you (it happened!).

This really only bothers me when I'm trying to sleep, and luckily even the chatty Osaka boys a few feet away were in bed by 8 that night, so I was able to sleep well enough. It is an experience, though. Still, it is far better than being turned away for lack of space.

After a ramen and freeze-dried tofu dinner and looking at my map and dreaming of hiking the entire area around Kita-dake, followed by a few pages of The Lord of the Rings in Japanese (another story), I went to bed.

Mountains to Marshland

My second day started early--I went to sleep at around 7 and woke up at 4 am, setting and rising with the sun, I guess.

I looked forward to a grueling day--13 hours by the map. I've gotten to the point where I usually beat the map on ascents (for example, I made it up Mt. Nantai in Nikko in three hours when the map says five!) but descents I take slower for some reason. And on a day longer than 10 hours I generally tire at the end and slow down, taking a lot of rests. So while I hoped to gain some time during the climbs, I expected it to take at least a full 12 hours for me to get to Oze.

Seeing the peaks and ridges of the surrounding mountains from the ascent up Mt. Nenakusa against a bank of clouds broken by the rising sun was one of the greatest pleasures of the trip. Looking at the old mountains, older than I can truly comprehend, I wonder at the tiny, inconsequential fears and gains that punctuate each day. The mountains don't care and, just for a moment looking at those silent ridges, neither do I.

After passing the peak of Mt. Nenakusa, the trail descends into a valley, the Kinu River valley. A road comes from the east to the Kinu Marsh Onsen (Kinu Marsh Hot Springs), a large structure also called a "mountain hut", though "resort" would be more appropriate. I'd hoped for a vending machine in my decadent hiker dreams, but no luck.

At this point my time was looking pretty durn good. I'd managed to make in an hour (if I remember correctly) what was estimated on the map to take two hours. Maybe I could make this whole thing in half the time, 7-8 hours! I knew there was no chance, but I was still hoping to get in before dark.

I forgot to mention that I ran into a couple of hikers on the way down from Nenakusa I had run into a couple of hikers, one of whom told me there had been a bear sighted the day before. He had the exasperating habit of some older Japanese people to speed up their talking when they realize you don't understand what they are saying. He, like my friend's grandmother in Hiroshima and my landlord, spoke indistinctly and in an old-person's dialect, which is hard enough to understand in itself. But unlike the younger people (I'm talking under 70), who like to slow down and, if necessary, more clearly enunciate certain words, they all seem to speed up and, by necessity, become even less clear. I can usually catch the gist, at least, when younger people speak, but all I could catch from his jumble was "bear", "three cubs", and "Konze" (the mountain from the day before). I tried to sound frightened, but he clearly understood I didn't clearly understand. He walked on, talking to himself, apparently, because he wasn't talking to me anymore.


After passing the hot springs I was back on ascent, headed this time up to Kinu Marsh. There was a surprisingly pretty waterfall I visited quickly, filling up my water bottle. It took a good while to make up to the Kinu Marshland, maybe an hour. This area is a good prelude to Oze itself, with a nice, compact version easily accessible. Oze takes a bit more finagling to get to, though it is probably 50 times bigger.

At this point, my time gains were getting smaller (I was about 5 hours into it, I think). The area around the mountain hut I stayed in stays snowbound into June (there was a second door, higher than the main one, set into the building for just such occasions), and I think it is likely the maps times were adjusted for that. After a two hour gain at the beginning, I mostly got 15 minutes here and 20 there: faster, but in the end I still was trekking for over eleven hours.

I'll shorten the story a bit, noting two things before I get to Oze. First, I recommend climbing Mt. Kinunuma, though it's off the main trail: the map says a total of 40 minutes, but after taking off my backpack and leaving it at the junction, I made the trip in no more than 15 minutes (felt like I could fly without that 65 liter bag on my shoulders!). Note that the junction is not marked with a sign but with rings of tape around trees, the same tape used to mark the trail, so it can be a bit confusing. Still, if you are looking for it, it's hard to miss--there are about 20 rings around several trees.

Second, getting to the "mizuba" or spot to refill bottles with fresh water (a common and welcome addition to Japanese trails) near Akayasu Mountain is difficult and a bit dangerous. It is down a steep climb that is not clearly marked (I found a rope to help on the way back up).

Other than that the hike to Oze is a meditative, slowly downward descent over a soft ridge. From the mountain hut it took me a little over eleven hours, and though I was exhausted by the time I got there, I was happy I did it.

The eastern most campsite, where I stayed, is unique in that the sites are on wooden platforms. The campsite is actually the first man-made structure on the trail once you reach Oze, so I walked through, wondering how I would pitch my non-freestanding tent there. It took a while to get to the reception desk, in a large building called the Oze Huette (from German for "hut") and asked for the site furthest from the other campers (yay!). There were only a few campers, so I was off by myself though, had there been more campers I might have been surrounded by others. For reference, sites 8 and 20 are separate from other sites: you'll be able to hear other campers, maybe, but won't be able to see them!

The man at the desk told me I could pound stakes into the wood; I was too tired to tell him he was crazy. In fact, I was able to wedge my triangular stakes into the gaps between the planks, and it worked out just fine. I was tired so I decided to make ramen with some tofu hamburger, which didn't work out so well, but I didn't really mind; my body just wanted something to help repair the damage I'd done to muscles and knees during the day.

It was a clear night, and when I woke up in the night to go to the bathroom (very far from the campsite that I chose!) I came back and sat with my head sticking out of my tent for about a half an hour, just looking up.

I woke the next day ready for another trek. It amazes me how my body can repair most of the punishment I mete out in just 8 hours, very often adding a bit of muscle to help make it easier next time. I'll admit, though, that I was still worn out, and I decided not to climb a mountain that overlooks the Oze wetlands: my objective for the day was to make it to the bus stop and head home. Though that meant a good 5 hour walk, it was mostly flat.


I woke before the dawn, but that was hidden by the mountains anyway; I did take in the view of the misty marshlands before the sun rose, though. It was relaxing and peaceful, a respite after two days of constant travel. I filled up water bottles and was ready to go about 6 am.

Almost all of Oze is protected from the millions of visitors that come each year by the same planks I slept on. This setup also makes it possible for wheelchairs to enter the park, one of the few natural areas that is so accessible. That's not to say, though, that the trail isn't strenuous in areas, and in my condition I was huffing and puffing fairly quickly.


Oze is big, big, big. Not as big as Yellowstone, but big for Japan. The time I was there the expanse was almost entirely green, with few of the flowers Oze and all meadows are famous for. There were two flowers blooming at the time: a yellow and a purple (sorry, not very knowledgeable about flowers), and the water lilies in the many pools decorating the area were just beginning to send up their flowers, though none had yet bloomed.



It's very easy to get around Oze, so it attracts many people. It was a Monday morning, and yet by the time I was getting close to the bus stop, huge crowds of families and seniors hiking groups were already streaming along the path in the opposite direction. I was saying "Konnichi wa" with every breath at one point. I was glad I had stayed in the park and had seen the park before it welcomed amusement-park level crowds; I hope I am never there on a weekend with flowers in bloom.


In the end, Oze was pleasant, but I think I enjoyed most the area around the mountain hut and at the top of Mt. Nenakusa. I will be visiting there again soon. In fact, writing this post has really made me want to head out camping again; maybe next weekend!

Hike route 284300 - powered by Wandermap

A Good Walk

A couple of weekends ago I went for a walk to take me from the ancient resort highlands area of Nikko around Lake Chuzenji to Oze, a wetlands area popular with the gray set with its easily accessible meadow views and wide expanses of spring and summer flowers.

I've been to Nikko several times; this was my third time camping there. I usually ride my bike up the steep switchbacks of Iroha hill to get from Nikko city, home of the World Heritage Site Toshogu mausoleum, to Lake Chuzenji and Oku (or "far") Nikko. This time I was planning to hike out of Nikko and would not be returning, so I left the bike at home and took a bus from the Nikko city train station. I had to work that morning and had gotten a late start, so I just took the bus to the Shobugahama lakeside campsite and set up.

I've camped at Shobugahama several times, and it is a great place--you can camp right next to the water. The other times I've been there were weekdays and so it was less crowded, but this was a Friday night and I hadn't realized what I was getting into. The Japanese campsites I have been to are not the secluded affairs I am used to, offering clearly defined, individual campsites separated by shrubs or trees, but free-for-alls where you can plop down your tent inches away from neighbors. More often than not I have been there at off-peak times and was able to set up well away from any other campers, but this night was different. I wandered through a dense tent city for about 15 minutes before accepting that I would be right next to a family shooting off fireworks well into the night; and I was already tired. But there was a good side to this--I might have been out of luck without a reservation at an American campsite, but here, uncomfortable as it might have been, at least I was able to find somewhere to spend the night (and in the end it wasn't all that bad).

The next day I woke up at 5 am to eat and get packed up before taking another bus, this time from the side of Lake Chuzenji deeper into Oku Nikko. I had hiked up toward Mt. Shirane, the largest in the area, before, though I couldn't see much of it at the time because of buffeting winds and heavy rain and fog. This day it was clear as could be and I planned to only spend 5 hours hiking to reach my destination for the day, so I might have tried Shirane in the sunlight, but I was really tired from a wakeful night before I came and my night in the campsite with my ear near to neighbors chatting into the night. I thought I'd take it easy.

I took the more northern of the two trails leading from Yumoto (a destination in itself) toward Mt. Goshiki. Last time I returned from Shirane taking this same path down, and when it wasn't flowing with a small stream from the rain that "made interesting" the last 4-5 hours of that trip, it was muddy and treacherous. I must have fallen ten times. This time the worst precipitation was early morning dew on the grasses (bamboo?) hanging over the path. It was steep and the path was a bit hard to follow at times, but I made it. I decided to skip Mt. Goshiki with its view of Mt. Shirane and the many colored lakes at its foot (goshiki, by the way, means "five colors," for the five tiny lakes of varying colors in a valley below), I went north to Mt. Konze, leaving the familiar behind.

Mt. Konze seems to be popular and I ran into several hikers, especially on the far side. There is a fair view near (at?) the peak, but I didn't stay long; I thought the peak was higher up and kept going! But soon the trail headed down again, and I guessed at the reason for Konze's popularity after taking a look at my map: there is a pass where you can park your car and hike up to the peak in about an hour and a half. If I were to do such a thing, though, I would take the slightly longer trail to the next mountain I climbed: Yusengatake. The view from Yusengatake was much more enjoyable, I thought, and it was something like 270 degrees compared to Konze's 180.

When I was heading for Yusengatake I heard a loud yell. I couldn't make out the words, though it sounded like it ended with "...ma". I found out the next day it was likely he had been yelling about bears or "kuma": apparently a bear was spotted with her cubs in the area. The voice didn't really appear frightened at the time, and I had no idea where it was coming from, so I waited, then moved on and hoped for the best.

I ended the day early in a fantastic "emergency hut" in between Yusengatake and Nenakusayama. As I said, I was exhausted, so even though it was only 12:30 I decided to call it a day.

I should explain here what an emergency hut is. Camping in the mountains is usually discouraged in Japan, so most hikers stay in 小屋, "koya" or mountain huts when they take longer treks. There are mountain huts on ranges all over Japan, many of them staffed and some offering fairly ritzy accommodations (for the mountains). I'd much rather camp, but the next best option is the 避難小屋, the emergency hut, unserviced but providing lodging in case of inclement weather or other emergencies. Often they are nothing more than a shed and really deserve the name hut: the hut I found in the Yatsugatake range years ago, for example, had nearly fallen down, and it was impossible to get inside (luckily there was space to pitch a tent nearby and I hadn't planned to stay in the hut anyway).

The map promised camping space at the hut near Yusengatake as well, but as soon as I saw the hut itself I had a feeling I'd be staying inside. This hut was like a lodge meant for wealthy skiers, minus the fireplace: it was newly built and the pleasant scent of pine flooded the inside, where there were two levels of wood flooring sturdily constructed. And besides, the land apparently meant to be used for camping was covered with pine saplings; obviously not much used.


The only thing this wonderful hut was missing was a toilet. But it had a couple of shovels, and so I hoped I wasn't taking too much of a leap using them for... my convenience. I wandered off the trail into the forest a bit, suddenly noticing how pampered we hikers are by the fruit of the labors of trailblazers: I looked around me and thought it wouldn't take much to get lost, even so close to the hut and trail. In any case, my body urged me to take care of things, and so I dug a hole, filled it, then covered it up again. I returned to the hut feeling lighter after my first experience doing what a bear does in the woods.

After that I took a nap, then woke and fought flies while I made dinner. Instead of buying dehydrated, processed meals with barely any nutrition, I've been carrying bags with the ingredients for favorite dishes and making meals from scratch in the woods. I bring ramen, too, just in case I'm too tired to bother, but I've done fairly well making mabodofu with freeze-dried tofu and mushrooms with quinoa (which cooks faster than rice). This time, though, I managed to knock the mushrooms and ginger I cut onto the ground at my feet, and so ended up missing out on a few of the finer touches. I stole some ginger from the next day's meal, so I was only missing mushrooms, and so was able to make something presentable. I went to sleep early, hoping I would have enough energy for what the next day, which looked to be a thirteen hour day.

I think I'll pause here...

Oku Nikko Loop

It's now the tail-end of fall, and I had hoped that this year I might do something special for the season of the changing leaves. I've been to Nikko before, but never during that period; from what I'd seen in pictures it seemed quite spectacular there.

I'd been to Nikko a couple of times, as I've written elsewhere. I spent a lot of time hiking there, but this time I wanted to bike around to get a better view of the whole area. I was able to find a great route on a mapping site, and set out.


I managed to get a great deal of sleep the night before--often, because of the early hour I need to rise in order to have time to do everything I want to do, I only get a few hours sleep. This time I was well rested, and it showed--when I got to the top of irohazaka, a daunting hill of switchbacks, I thought "that's it? It used to be a lot harder!" It was a great feeling, and I laughed and sang through a tunnel to Lake Chuzenji.

When I reached the little town that lines the northern edge of the lake, I overheard a woman say "looks like the changing of the leaves is over." Indeed, Mt. Nantai was bare. I was a little disappointed, but I had expected this, and was really more interested in the ride around the park.


I continued riding on to Senjogahara, a meadowland I mentioned in my previous post on Nikko. All that was to be seen this time were the beautiful white birches and, of course, the sense of wide open space not easily found in Tokyo. I ate lunch--a Koyadofu mabodofu, great with rice for bike trips.


Next, I headed to realms new to me: to that point I'd stuck near Chuzenji, but the path I'd found led off the beaten track into the mountains north of Mt. Nantai.


This new track, though, led to a series of switchbacks nearly as steep as irohazaka. I went up as fast as I could, though I was beginning to tire, but they were soon over. My effort was worth it: I found some really fantastic areas that I hope to explore further on foot some other time. There was a tiny valley that, from my vantage point up above, looked like a place made by magic (I didn't take a picture because I didn't want to ruin my memory of it), and a group of mountains still boasting a few trees with colored leaves, one of the mountains touched by an early-winter's frost (I did take a picture of this one). It was one of those places that but for the freezing weather you might want to stay forever, just taking it in.


I rode from there down into the valley around a lake called Lake Kawamata. This was less impressive, and the road seemed to go on forever--even looking back I cannot understand why it took so long to go around the lake. Next I met my third irohazaka-level series of switchbacks, and by this time I was ready to call it quits. It was getting dark and it was near or below freezing; my legs were out of the juice that had powered them on the way up the real irohazaka. But I made it to the top, or what I thought was the top; after that, it hit a ranch area that I thought would be flat before a descent into Nikko city, but in fact it steadily rose, at steep grades nearly as difficult as any of the other hills on the trip, and longer. Frozen and discouraged, I went up these hills at 9 kilometers an hour, not a whole lot faster than walking, telling myself how happy I would be, and proud of myself, once I got home. And then I looked up and realized that in compensation for my hard work, I had a good view of the stars, which I hadn't seen since since my trip to Nagano last year.

I finally made it to the top and began a chilly and surprisingly long descent to Nikko city. I made it just in time for the train home.

I want to do this ride again as it gets colder, watching the snow creep down the sides of the mountains. It is much clearer in colder weather, and I may even camp later in the year so that I can see the sunrise over white-clad mountains.

Update: Second Jobs Can Be Hazardous to Your Health!

I just a got a second job last week. Out of the blue, I found a job asking for proofreading/checking help, so I responded, and that day I was called in for an interview. It was at a legal office ten minutes from my current work, 6-8 hours a week, so I thought, what the heck. The interview went very well, and they seemed to be impressed by my Japanese. More than that, I felt a certain amount of trust from them, for no reason I can explain.

There was one dark cloud, though. I mentioned, for some reason, that I rode my bicycle to work at the other job, and we talked about that for a bit. But at the end of the interview, the main lawyer asked me "If we ask you to do so, will you not ride your bike when you come to this office?" At that moment I regretted telling them so blithely about my bicycle riding. I hesitated, but said I wouldn't ride to work.

At first, I was a bit down because I thought maybe that would make me a less viable candidate. But when I got home, I found an email from them offering me the job. So now I'm making enough money to live on, though I'll probably find some other work to help me save money or "enjoy the finer things".

And it's a great job. It pays even better than the other job, and experience in legal work will definitely lead to things in the future. Plus, I like the guys. But the requirement that I not ride my bike to work really chafes. After a month of riding 30 km, four days a week, it's something I've grown used to. I feel freer, I get to watch life as I pass by, and, best of all, I am getting some exercise. I've lost a few pounds and my legs are really getting muscular. And I'm just getting started.

I usually take off one day a week, though, to let my body recover, and so I've been on the train a few times. I used to enjoy the train, just from some weird fixation on the things. But I feel so drained after a train ride, where I usually feel calm and relaxed after a bike ride.

But I understand his position: apparently, companies can be held liable for their employees' accidents. So it's a difficult situation for both of us.

That's one reason for the (unwarranted) alarming title. Another reason is that there are some lawyers who smoke in the office. Bleah. But it's only for three hours, a couple of times a week.

A New Job; or Golden Week Sucks

I started a new job today at a (very) large soy sauce interest. I'm working as a proofreader/researcher (thus, my official title is perhaps proofreaderslashresearcher) a few hours on weekdays. It's really an exciting opportunity, and I finally feel, in a little way, that I'm doing what I want to be doing. It's a Japanese company and all of my coworkers are Japanese speakers, so it should be a good chance to get some practice with the language, as well as hone my abilities as an editor. Even better, the company makes an effort to be environmentally and health conscious, and they have an organic version of their sauce in addition to a line of vitamin supplements.

It was a bit of a long process getting to this point, and a couple of times, through miscommunication with the Japanese-speaking staff at the recruiting company--as a well as a personal tendency to expect the worst--I thought I had been shot down. But, in fact, I got the job: they must have been impressed by my interest in cooking, or maybe I was the only person actually willing to work for three hours in the middle of the day.

Because that really presents a problem. It's difficult enough to get a job here, and good part-time jobs are rarer still; it will be hard to find something that fits around a 2-5 schedule. The only thing I've come up with so far is teaching English, and while a job as a kid's teacher would get me doing something active and away from the computer a few hours a day, I just ran screaming from that party, didn't I? But I rationalize taking this job thinking this is a good opportunity to break into proofreading/editing/translating (sorry for all the strokes today), and even more than that it is an interesting subject. There are two things that I am especially interested in these days: bicycling and cooking. To have one of those subjects be a part of my job is nothing less than fantastic. I've had many jobs, but while the job may have been interesting, I'm not sure a single one of them was focused on a subject I was interested in. The hourly wage is good, so even at the few hours I'm working, I'm making a fair amount, but I will have to get another job soon. In the mean time I'll just have to cut down on the prime rib lunches I've grown accustomed to. Seriously, though, I plan on saving money on train fare by riding my bike to work everyday, which will be a great excuse to get in shape.

Today started with a meeting with the recruiters who set this up, an English woman and a Japanese man, who have helped me through the process for the past month or so. They went over some administrative stuff, and I learned an unfortunate fact that further strains my budget, but shouldn't have been a surprise: as an hourly worker, I am only paid for days I work, so I will not get paid through the rest of Golden Week. Golden Week is a collection of holidays at the end of April that are often used along with personal holidays to take off a whole week, and it seems like the whole country travels during this time. I used to get paid for this time off at my old job, but I will not this month, so not only can I not travel because there are just too many other people traveling, but also I won't get paid for the time off (I'd rather work at the moment). One less stay at the Tokyo Prince hotel, shucks.

After the meeting, they took me over to the company's office. I noticed a sign that said Fridays are "casual days", and despite the fact that the three young women at the reception desk wore their usual uniforms as they bowed in unison to us, my boss certainly was in a casual outfit when he arrived to take me to our office. It was a welcome change to see him in a fairly relaxed shirt and light-colored pants. I am not against wearing ties and suits, but I prefer casual wear myself, mainly because I hate dealing with dry-clean only clothes.

We took our leave of the recruiters, then headed upstairs, where he showed me to my locker, then proceeded to introduce me to the international department. The office is set up in a "traditional" Japanese style, meaning there are no cubicles or walls (except of course the walls between us and the outside), and everyone works in the same room. During the course of introductions, the department manager called everyone's attention to me, introduced me, and asked me to say a few words. I unexpectedly had 50 or more pairs of eyes on me, so I made it short and in English; now I wonder if I should have said a bit more. But it was all very cordial, and I think perhaps it was better to leave it at that than to grasp for words. After that I was shown around to some of the other important people, then led back to my desk.

My boss then explained some of the tasks I would be doing. He handed me some brochures to look over. One of these I was to check for any awkward expressions, and that is what I spent most of the next two hours doing. It was enjoyable work, and I feel pretty confident about my decisions, but I know I am no expert in editing. But I was able to score a point when I just happened to check (more out of personal interest than for business purposes) the name of a Dutch city; they had misspelled it twice in the brochure. When I saw that I felt like a kid that had been given some candy: it was so clearly wrong to someone who knows such things, but would be passed over by someone who didn't know anything about the Netherlands or hadn't taken the time to look it up.

I finished the brochure, then went through my changes with the supervisor, then prepared to go. I felt a little awkward on the way out, as I know it is normal for Japanese office workers to leave only after their boss has left, and they will often be working late into the night. I was leaving at five, almost on the dot. I wasn't sure of the etiquette, so I just slunk out after saying goodbye to the boss.

Now, after a month-long weekend and one day of work, I have another four-day weekend ahead of me! Not such a bad thing, just wish I was getting paid for it like I used to!

The Seasons; or Farewell Eikaiwa

It's cherry blossom season again in Japan, perhaps the most celebrated season of the year. In the US, of course, everyone loves the beginning of warmer days and it's easy to list songs that talk about love blooming with the first flowers, but I remember such sentimental thoughts being in the background of life; here it is very much in the forefront.

The pink and white blossoms are a signal for more than spring in the natural world; they also mark the beginning of stages in Japanese life. The school year ends in March and begins again in April, so very soon new elementary school students will shoulder their huge book bags and leave their moms for their first day of school, while new junior high school students will shed their cute sixth grade personae and begin being too cool for school and too tired for anything else. The same process happens with new high school students, and the old high school students begin their wild years at university. And new graduates begin their new jobs, while their seniors are transferred to other departments or cities.


The easiest way to tell the season here in the city is to look at the subway advertisements--about a week before the equinox this year, ads were changed literally overnight as they are every three months or so. The ads focus on a few major features of each season, and are usually color-coded. In winter it is hot springs and white; spring is cherry blossoms and pink; summer, if I remember correctly, is hiking in the mountains and green; and fall is the changing leaves, of course red. The seasonal changes are most appropriate for companies offering products that are dependent on natural variations, such as the travel industry, swimming pools, organic grocery stores, and so on, but everyone, from car makers to cell phone makers to English schools, takes part in the advertising trends.

Spring, as I said, is perhaps the most important. Children go to school, people start new jobs, and people move. It is an exciting time, and it is a stressful time. It is the end of the fiscal year for many Japanese companies, and workers often do even longer hours than usual. Unfortunately, it is also a time for desperation: suicides, especially the spectacular train suicides that shut down entire train lines, seem to increase during this time.

Life in Japan is generally stressful and especially so here in the capitol. The antidote, in every season but especially in spring, is alcohol. Cherry-blossom viewing, called hanami, is a ritualization of the consumption of alcohol. A junior member of a company sets out early, claims a spot under the best cherry tree he can find, then is later joined by his coworkers.

They gather and drink, and eat, and drink, proverbially ignoring the gently falling petals in favor of the food and alcohol. It continues until every face is pink as the cherry blossoms, and you can usually find mobs of salarymen vomiting or sleeping outside of train stations. Instead of pictures of vomiting salarymen, though, I'll give you more of Ueno park in nearly full bloom and the sea of humanity that flows beneath them.



With the coming of the new school year came the end of my stint as an instructor: in order to try to get on with my life, I decided not to renew my contract at the English conversation school (abbreviated in Japanese as eikaiwa). It's hard to believe it's been almost two years; on the one hand it has seemed a limbo or purgatory that dragged on forever, and yet, looking back, it doesn't seem like such a long time. I have no regrets about leaving: being a basically asocial person, leading six or seven conversations a day took its toll; two years of practice did very little to alleviate the tight ball in my stomach I carried with me every day to work. But I met some really great people, teachers, native staff, and students, and though it's hard to say I wouldn't rather have gotten a more suitable job from the outset, I have learned a lot from the experience.

One big surprise is that I actually like children. I was absolutely terrified of the prospect of teaching children when I first came here, but in the end it was the children's classes I enjoyed most. I found that I could handle it and, in fact, I enjoyed getting crazy with them once in a while. I even sang songs, and I enjoyed it, sometimes more than they did! You never know...

But now I'm hoping to move on to the next stage, where I use Japanese and, hopefully, my English writing skills. I've never been known for my conversation skills, but I might be able to do something with writing, and I'm looking forward to putting that to the test. And Japanese, ah, to use Japanese! Living in Japan and not speaking Japanese brings to mind the lines from the Coleridge's Rime: Water, water, everywhere/ nor any drop to drink. Recently I've been going to interviews conducted entirely in Japanese, and I feel that after two years of swimming in the salty ocean I've found a well of fresh water.

Postscript: My mom and I went for a nice trip to Hakone and Kyoto earlier this year. My mom's enjoyment of Japan reinforced my own feelings about the country, and it was a spectacular trip for us both. I'm going to let my mom tell the story, so please take a look at her blog.

"Thanksgiving"

What is it about cold weather? For some reason my pleasure in life rises the lower the temperature. There's something about knowing the outside world is near freezing while you are inside next to the heater or with legs under your kotatsu (as mine are now). When I'm outside, I'm happy for the brisk air, but also I'm looking forward to getting home and having some hot soup and getting under the kotatsu.

Along with a general enjoyment of the winter months, I am excited about the opportunities cold weather provides for cooking: I like new things, and the tubers and squashes available now are fun to play around with. And mushrooms! Japan is the place to be for mushrooms. Frying and long stews are more acceptable during cold weather, too, when heat from your cooking food heats the house as well as the nimono (vegetables stewed until the stock is gone, sealing in the flavor) on the stove. This combination, as well as a decline in the interest in being outside that moves me in the summer months, makes winter months a great time to stay inside and cook.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving in the US, and today is Thanksgiving to Workers day (in other words, Labor Day) in Japan. I didn't have yesterday off, so I'm doing my Thanksgiving meal today. My plan is to really do it up, making vegan lentil loaf (like meatloaf), maybe some gravy, and the big finale, kabocha (Japanese pumpkin) pie. Unfortunately I didn't plan well enough to have folks to share it with this year, maybe next year; I'll just have leftovers for a while. In any case, I'll post my recipes and results at my food site, Tokyo Organic.

Nagano, Final Chapter

Two months later, I'm finally going to finish up.

Really, the best part of the trip began after my last entry ended: when I went back to the campsite I first saw after climbing to Kiri ga mine, I found a welcoming, party-like atmosphere. The main area of the extensive campgrounds was a large, communal space common in Japan: instead of being separate spaces surrounded by brush or trees, there is a large, open area where anyone can plop down a tent. You could, conceivably, be next door neighbors with another camper, and while the idea was repulsive when I first passed the grounds, this time around it didn't seem as terrible an idea. Children were running around, families were cooking lunch together, and though it wouldn't appeal to outdoorsmen or -women wanting to rough it, it was pleasant enough. Not to say I was ready for planting my tent next to a family with several crazy kids eager to say "Haroo" again and again to the scruffy-looking gaijin, and I was luckily able to secure a site a bit separated from the main fairgrounds. But I eagerly accepted when a Japanese man with good English pronunciation invited me over for some beers, food and conversation with his Japanese friends. If the trip taught me anything, it is that I really am a social person, hindered by anxiety around others and a consequent crankiness, but a social person nonetheless.

I took an inordinate amount of pleasure in having water to wash my clothes and myself a bit. I borrowed a hammer from my new friend next door and solidly pitched my tent. With my garish bicycling clothes hanging from lines attached to the trees next to my tent site I felt like I had a semblance of home. Taking the borrowed hammer back, I headed over to join my new friend's party.

He had introduced himself as Hide; I found out later this was for Masahide, and the difference caused a bit of confusion. For continuity's sake I'll call him Masahide (that's mahsahheeday, for those keeping score). He and his friends had assembled from all over the country to enjoy their summer vacation in the cool Kiri ga mine highlands. Masahide himself was from the Nihonbashi district of Tokyo, which meant he was an "old-school" Tokyo resident; now, though, he lived in Matsumoto, in the foothills of the Japanese Alps. He is, actually, the sort of rugged mountaineering type that would normally steer clear of a place like Kiri ga mine: he told me stories of camping in Kamikochi in the middle of winter and climbing the "alternate" paths near where I stayed the first few nights in Yatsugatake, places where you have to have mountaineering equipment. He had considerable experience, and I gleaned a little of this knowledge in Kiri ga mine and, later, when I stayed with him and his family in Matsumoto.

Masahide and his friends had a comfortable setup composed almost entirely of Mont Bell (a Japanese camping equipment company) products: Masahide had once worked for Mont Bell and apparently had a great deal of faith in them. We sat under a green tarp while they cooked up rice, tempura, and curry. We ate and drank well into the rest of that afternoon, and the fare was quite a bit better than the rice gruel and packs of tough freeze-dried rice I had been eating.

On one of my many trips to the bathroom, I ran into a group of campers who had set up near the bathroom due to lack of other options. One, I could see in the failed light, was not Japanese, but he spoke a strange language to the other campers, all apparently Japanese. I thought perhaps they were speaking Brazilian Portuguese: there are many Brazilians in Japan. Warmed up after a few Japanese beers, I felt brave enough to attempt speaking to them: he was in fact an English speaker (from Australia?), and I found out later he was speaking Mandarin Chinese. Have to work on my differentiation of languages. I invited them up to take a look at my friend's telescope, and though they never came, it did begin another friendship.

The telescope was a humongous and expensive monster that one of Masahide's friends had brought for friends' enjoyment during the Pleiades meteor shower. Of course telescope is fairly useless during a meteor shower, but it was an excuse for him to get his friends to look at the sky. The barrel of the scope was precisely controlled by a motor. He started to show off various planetary bodies and clouds once it had gotten dark. However, the images were black and white and absolutely miniscule, and I found it difficult to expand them in my imagination to stars and planets. My first sight of Jupiter through a telescope was interesting, but views of other, unknown galaxies often felt like I was looking at a stereogram: my focus constantly shifted and yet I couldn't see the magical image that I knew must be hidden in the picture. In fact, at one point I did find the magical image, some body I can't remember. It was not so much that the image was so fantastic, more my mind finally recognizing that what I was looking at was incomprehensibly, sickeningly far away. The bit of awe passed quickly. More fantastic were a few surprisingly large meteorites I happened to catch with my naked eye; we spent much of the early night searching the skies until one person said "There's one!". Everyone would look where the speaker was looking, but of course the meteorite had disappeared by then. Then the famous fog of Kiri ga mine ("Kiri" means fog) settled in, and we were unable to see what was supposed to be the peak of the meteor showers. I went to sleep soon after, exhausted by days of strenuous travel followed by rich food and beer. My friends left early the next morning, though I had gotten Masahide's information before I went to sleep.

The next day I traveled to a nearby wetland meadow. Unfortunately, as usual I was unable to catch the beauty of the landscape: I've become quite incompetent with photography. Use your imagination! It was a pleasantly relaxed hike with few fellow hikers, over in a couple of hours. I was quite happy with returning early for a bowl of ramen, maybe an early night.

When I returned, though, the group that was near the bathroom had moved into my friends' old spot, and they, too, invited me over for food and beers. Couldn't they leave a poor traveler alone? I planned to leave the next morning, and wanted an early start. But of course I was curious about them and wanted more conversation.

Matthew (called by his friends "Ma-Shu" or something along those lines) had met the other campers in China, where they all lived for several years in a tiny town. They all seemed to speak fluent Mandarin, and since neither Matthew's English nor the Japaneses' English was as fluent, they often switched. Luckily I speak both Japanese and English, so I was able to catch most of the conversation not in Chinese. It was an interesting mix of culture. And their stories about China were fascinating (though at this late date I can't remember much of them!).

Matthew and his girlfriend live in Shizuoka, where Matthew works for a... competitor. He seems to be pretty well set up there, and they seem quite happy. He occasionally makes it up to Tokyo; hopefully they'll get in touch next time.

After a few too many happoshu's (a concoction that somehow cuts out the carbohydrates of a beer without completely destroying the flavor; I think they must use arsenic or something--kidding of course) I went to sleep, still naively hoping to get an early start the next day. I did actually get up early, but this was not a good thing: sleepy and hung over, I was cranky, and, in the end, the lack of sleep really ruined the rest of my trip. I had a terrible time packing my bag and getting it on the bike. After a few shouts and pleading I finally got the bag back on and headed off around 10 am (I had gotten up around 7) I said goodbye to Ma-Shu and his friends, and then moved on to try my luck again. I was headed for Utsukushigahara, another highland area with a promising name (Utsukushii means beautiful). It felt fantastic to be back on my bike after a couple days' rest, and the first part of the trip was very pleasant. I worked myself hard getting up a few hills, then it was all downhill for perhaps twenty kilometers. It felt great. I noticed several bicyclists coming my way, and soon found out that they were part of a "Tour de Shinshu", a tour of the Nagano area I was riding through. It made me feel proud to be riding up and down hills that were being used to test these athletes' endurance. I was obviously quite out of shape in comparison, but I was pushing myself.

Too hard. When I was hanging out with Ma-shu, I mentioned that I had ridden up the hill from Suwa, and one of his friends said "That's why he has such fat legs"--meaning it as a compliment. I said I was just fat, and we laughed, but I noticed my lower calves were quite a bit larger than I remembered. I knew there was no way I had built up muscle that quickly; I felt them, and they felt hard. It worried me, but I let it go.

But on those hills to Utsukushigahara, my energy soon flagged, and it was clear something was wrong. I could hardly keep my eyes open, and it began to take every ounce of my energy just to keep the pedals moving, even on flat ground. I found a wonderful camp ground--free and with camp sites separated from each other on terraces on a hill and ventured off to find a place to eat, hoping a good meal would cure me of this strange illness. I felt a tiny bit better after eating, but on the way back, a hilly climb that I mostly took on foot, I once again flagged, and I went to bed as quickly as I could.

Then the strangest thing happened: what sounded like electronic notes, perhaps from some trance album, burst through the air. I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on. The sounds were mostly regular, constantly changing pitch but at a regular beat. Occasionally, though, they would stop. Anyone who has experienced such an almost regular beat while they are trying to sleep knows it is a fairly extreme sort of torture: just when you are about to fall asleep to the regular sound, the regularity disappears and wakes you up again. It went on literally for hours, and I really thought I was going to go crazy. But it finally stopped, or I fell asleep. I still have no idea what caused the noises.

Looking back now, I'm having trouble discovering what order I did what. In any case, I spent two nights in the campsite described above, beneath Utsukushigahara. During that time, I hiked up to Utsukushigahara--a large pasture area used for cows and thus extremely interesting to city-dwelling Japanese and dull to a boy from Kansas--then went to Matsumoto and back--a grueling but necessary ride to get sunscreen, as my arm was bleeding from exposure to sunlight. Though it was cool in the highlands, Matsumoto was near its peak temperature for the year, and I went through two bottles of water on my way back. When I finally reached my campsite again, I had to beg for water from fellow campers (they were extremely nice to me, giving me more than I should have taken) because there was no clean water available in the highlands. It really makes sense in hindsight that I felt so terrible at this point.

And I did feel terrible. In fact, I think that the "fat" legs Ma-Shu's friend noticed in Kiri-ga-mine had more to do with dehydration and sunburns than my musculature. I gave up. It had been a week in what I had planned would be a two week trip, but it was over. I went back to Matsumoto, entertaining the idea that I might search for a campsite a bit north and perhaps slowly head toward Hakuba, a mountain area about a day's ride north that Masahide had recommended. But I couldn't push myself up hills anymore, and even though it was only about ten kilometers to the campsite after I reached Matsumoto, I decided that if I couldn't get a hold of Masahide that day, I'd head back to Tokyo that afternoon.


While I waited for an answering email from Masahide, I rode around Matsumoto and took a look at Matsumoto castle. It is a starkly military castle without any of the refined beauty of other castles: white walls with large, simple ceiling beams. The only part that showed any sign of artistic sensibility more common in the peaceful days of the Tokugawa period is the moon viewing room, open on all sides for enjoyment of the moon. Its starkness, though, is part of its appeal. Still, its focus is on the muskets and rifles used at the castle, and though they did have a unique style, I just am not very interested in guns.

I knew Masahide would just be returning from visiting relatives for the Obon season, but I also was cranky from so many days of being dehydrated and pushing myself too hard, and I felt like I couldn't stand anymore difficulties finding campsites. He did get back to me, and thankfully I was able to stay with him and his family that night. I felt I would be an imposition, but he and his family showed no signs of the weariness I would expect from several days with the relatives, and they really treated me well. We talked into the night about hiking, English, and our responsibility to our (or his) children's generation.


The next day he and his family took me to Kamikochi, where I had planned to cycle. It was so effortless in a car, but I would have turned back if I had been on a bike. The only way I know of leads through narrow tunnels that just are not safe for bikers. There must be another way, but it would surely have taken several more days. We spent a couple of hours, first eating soba noodles and then lying and relaxing under the sun. He rushed me back to the train station just in time to meet the Tokyo-bound express.

I was the happiest I've been in a while to be home. I took real pleasure in Nishi arai and the area that I haven't since the very earliest days that I lived here. I enjoyed the trip, and I don't think it was a real unhappiness about the trip that caused me to be so pleased to be home; I guess I kind of missed the place and felt a bit as if I'd returned home.

The trip was an education. Certainly I won't attempt such a tour again until I'm in better shape, though I think I could manage a trip that included a few less hills.

Pythagoras's Switch

I sometimes wonder why I'm here in Japan. I love it here, there's a great deal to say for the country, but my original purpose, learning more about the language and culture, seems to have fallen by the wayside. But then I see things like this and I realize there is a good reason I am here.

I remember seeing this video at a DVD store, and once I started watching I had a very difficult time looking away. I've always loved Rube Goldberg's old cartoons, and I find these creations absolutely fascinating. Language note--at the end of every setup, they say "Pytagora Suichi," or Pythagoras's Switch, I guess referring to the ancient mathematician. The little sign that always ends the routines has that written in Japanese.

More information is here.

Nagano, Part III

[Started August 12]

It's been a rough couple of days. Honestly, if I'd gotten more sleep or given myself a day to rest, I might have taken things a bit more lightly, but as things were, I think I'm not much cut out for this sort of travel.

The climb to the top of Kiri ga Mine [the hill I mentioned climbing in my last article about Nagano] was grueling, and I cried a bit when I finally reached the top. Dehydrated and exhausted, I never wanted to see another slope, but since it was fairly early and I'd only gone about 20 km horizontally, I passed the first campsite and went on to look for a more primitive site about 5 km on.

This meant climbing more hills. Normally they wouldn't be that bad, but I was utterly worn out. I stopped at the tourist-trap shopping mall and got water and tea, then kept going. I walked up the hills, then rode down, then walked up. I missed the turn the first time, then realized I wasn't to turn off the highway, but needed to actually go under the highway to meet up with a hiking route marked on my map. I jumped off the road and waded through shoulder-high grasses for a while until they cleared and opened up to reveal a visitor center. I filled my water bottle then moved on. The campsite was at the end of a long, very long gravel path. There were three buildings behind a wire fence, and I saw no one. Fearing the worst and yet still hoping, I searched for any sign of a caretaker; finally I saw a sign reading, in Japanese, "This campsite is closed at this time. Please use another campsite."

I broke down here, just completely overwhelmed by what happened that day. It really wasn't far to the previous campsite, maybe another 30 minutes or so. But I couldn't stand it anymore. I considered staying in the large, open field across from the three buildings that had obviously been used for camping before, but I'm a bit timid to do something like that without provocation. So, uncertain what to do and not really interested in doing anything, I sat there, trying to look pleasant when hikers coming from a nearby meadow path passed by.

Then a savior of sorts came along on his 250cc Yamaha Virago. Actually, "catalyst" is a better word, I guess. He didn't register me at first, but when he got off his bike and looked at the sign on the entrance to the open-field campsite and said "What, it looks like it's closed," I thought he was talking to me. In fact, though, he was talking to himself.

I talk to myself, but I'm usually fairly discreet about it and never knowingly do it in front of other people. I'm not of the "first sign of madness" mindset, as I've done it for 32 even years and have yet to go (completely) insane. It seems a bit more socially acceptable here than in the US, and I have several Japanese co-workers who talk to themselves publicly, especially when busy (which is nearly all the time). I recently read somewhere (I'm afraid my source is somewhere in the ether) that people who talk to themselves are more likely to be able to think through things more thoroughly (I'll let the alliteration stand), though again I am proof against that. In any case, I think it is more a sign of loneliness, or aloneness, than of madness.

Still, it is a bit unsettling to see, I know, and my biker friend was having a much more involved conversation than I am accustomed to, and at a louder than conversational volume. Finally he noticed me, and we complained to each other about the closing of the site. He said he'd been there many times, and that he really liked the place. Then, after a bit of public consultation with himself, he decided to stay anyway.

He was obviously a drinker, with rotting teeth that came to points and a generally dirty appearance (though of course I wasn't exactly spotless after three days without a shower), but he was also obviously a kind and friendly person who had a bit of trouble relating to "normal" people. Very often the two go together.

As I said, he was a catalyst, and I decided, after some quiet and private thought, to follow him. We agreed that threatening clouds encircling the heads of Yatsugatake were a good excuse in case police came out. We avoided much conversation as we pitched tents and prepared our separate dinners. When dinner was ready, though, he invited me over for conversation and some extra food--he guessed rightly that I wasn't able to carry much of a variety of foods on my bike. I declined until he offered some cooked ham--protein sounded pretty good at that point, and it was something I had very little of.

Our conversation was almost entirely in Japanese--occasionally he groped for an English word to explain a Japanese word I didn't understand. Because of this I'm not completely sure of the accuracy of my interpretation. But we talked a bit about camping and the growing number of roads in Nagano after the Olympics, and how difficult it is to get away from city lights in Japan. Even where we were, 1400 meters about sea level, away from even the small population of visitors to the mountains, mostly concentrated in a small area, even there the lights of Suwa city below lit up the western horizon. It was difficult to see the Milky Way, such a brilliant feature on dark nights on Mt. Shasta or in the boonies in Kansas.

We talked about languages, then his hobby, listening to shortwave radio for broadcasts from North Korea by any Japanese abductees. As I said, sometimes I didn't fully understand the conversation, and here is where it became most difficult to follow. From what I understood, abductees have made shortwave logs of their daily lives, and there are volunteers who listen at certain times of the day for these logs and register the results to some website.

He later brought out his liquor, saying one of the reasons he came to the camp was to drink. Can't say that I blame him, but alcohol is terrible for any physical activity and I haven't been much interested in it since the beginning of my trip. I tried a shot, though, and it was good--it had a spicy flavor, as if made from jalapenos, a new flavor in liquor for me.

Suddenly a deer barked nearby, and my companion told me deer had increased in the area. He said he'd been there in fall when the bucks' antlers begin to itch, and at one point had been woken up by the startling sound of antlers being scratched against a fence near his head. He then started talking about an insect, or animal--what it was I didn't understand at first. But as he continued, talking about deer's hooves and eggs dropped on the ground, I figured out he was talking about ticks and Lyme disease. He suggested that it might have been fear of Lyme disease that had closed the campgrounds. I had first seen a tick earlier in Yatsugatake, then another in this field as I was putting my bike away. Sitting in my shorts and flip-flops, I suddenly became very nervous and checked everywhere for the stupid things. I didn't find any, but the thought disturbed me until I left the next day.

I slept poorly. I blame the liquor, though I didn't drink much. I set up for breakfast. Hikers passed by, and I noticed one in particular who seemed to be well equipped, a veteran hiker. He sat on a rock nearby but behind me, and I forgot about him: I had more important matters to consider. My camp espresso machine, exactly like one I used on my trip from California to Kansas a couple of years ago, had broken, and after the frustrating day before I had a short fuse and threw a fit as well as the espresso maker. I'm sure I looked like a buffoon to the park ranger, the man who was sitting on the rock behind me. He came over after I'd settled down to trying to light my stove. He asked a few questions, was fairly friendly, but I sensed he was holding something back. He asked me a couple of times how long I planned to be in the area, then we sat in silence for a while. He wished me luck and walked off. Just before I left, my friend from the night before woke up and poked his head out to say goodbye.

I was uneasy about the whole deal, ticks, and trespassing, and all, but when I came by around noon a couple of days later, there was a camper who had actually taken down the fence and parked their car in the camp site, and they seemed to have had no problems.

[End of my short journal]

That was longer than I expected, so I'm afraid there will be a part four. The next one will have pictures!