Exhibition over

The Hyakumeizan exhibition is said and done, but for those of you who missed it, I’ve posted an on-line version here. Thanks to everyone who was able to attend and to everyone for their support.

Hokkaido Chapter 3 – Mt. Rishiri

As the ferry rolls into Otaru port, I double-check my hastily scribbled itinerary and make the ultimate decision: do I start with Rishiri and end with Poroshiri, or should I do the circuit in reverse? With rain forecast on the horizon, as well as an offer from a kind gentleman to give me a list halfway up the west coast of the island, the plan was set. Make it to Rishiri island by nightfall, whatever the cost!

The first driver dropped me off in the small town of Rumoi, where I jumped on a bus bound for Toyotomi. A grueling 3-1/2 hours later, I found myself standing on the main road to Wakkanai, thumb outstretched and praying I wouldn’t miss the last ferry. Soon enough, a kind couple whisked me all the way to the ferry terminal, where I snatched up a ticket. “Phew,” I sighed. “How in the world am I going to make it down to Shiretoko?”. One step at a time, I pondered, one step at a time.

The ferry rolled out of Wakkanai and into the choppy sea. Avoiding a potentially crippling bout of seasickness, I retreat to the back of the boat, chatting with a kind Canadian couple who’d flown over from Korea to do some hiking. We decided to camp together at the trailhead that night. 10 minutes into the ride, the phone rings. It’s Julian, who I’d hoped to meet up with on this trip. “I’m camping near Wakkanai,” he’d explained, as I’d come to the horrid realization that we’d just missed each other. He’d finished his circuit of Hokkaido with Hana the wonder dog, while I was just starting my final assault on the remaining Hyakumeizan of the north. Our long overdue meeting would have to wait.

We all settled into camp, as I tried to figure out how to put up my brand-new Exped tent before the sun went down. Stakes proved quite difficult to drive into volcanic soil, but luckily the wind was calm. I cook dinner, chatted with my new friends about life in Korea, and set the alarm for 3:30am! I had a long, steep climb awaiting me in the morning, and wanted to beat the crowds.

The morning came much too quickly for my liking, as I cooked up noodles in the pre-dawn mist. Trying to save time, I left all of my gear in the tent and opted for the lightweight approach, stuffing 2 liters of water and some small provisions in my bum bag. The initial climb was steady, with a comfortable number of switchbacks until reaching the 6th stagepoint. Then, like the liftoff of a supersonic jet, the trail turned steep, with plenty of brushpine to swim through. Even though it’d only taken 45 minutes to climb through 6 stages, I found myself fighting an elusive battle with the volcanic gods for well over an hour just to reach the 8th stagepoint. I could see how Captain Interesting could have such a taxing fight in winter!

Once reaching the plateau at restpoint #8, my destination came into view. The pyramidal peak of Rishiri towering directly in front of me, capped by a thick layer of white cloud. I trudged along the shoulder before dropping to the emergency hut at the saddle. “Only 500 more vertical meters to go”, realizing I’d celebrated much too early. 500 of the steepest, rockiest, most death-defying I’ve climbed in a while. One wrong step and I’d plunge into the unknown and would probably never be found.

Angels must surely patrol the mountains of Japan, and Rishiri was no exception. I’m convinced that the heavenly deities secretly descend at night, securing the support ropes in just the right places to afford a safe ascent. Grasp these ropes I did, quietly saying a thank you to those rope laying guardians. The cloud cleared on the final summit approach, revealing a jaw-dropping panorama in all directions.

Peak #91 was successfully summited, but I still had to get down without breaking an ankle. Slowly I retreated, passing countless others who’d gotten a later start. Before I knew it I was relaxing back at the 8th stagepoint, chatting with a friendly American. It turned out that he was also from Osaka, and we had mutual friends. He told me about the International Outdoor Club, suggesting I check it out upon returning to Kansai. After exchanging contact information, I flew back down to the campsite, packed up the gear, and headed to the hot spring. I had plenty of time to relax and enjoy tasty seafood before heading back to Wakkanai, where the question of the previous day came back to haunt me: “How in the world am I going to make it down to Shiretoko?

Exhibition Update

The exhibition is now in its 2nd week and the response has been overwhelming.  Thanks to everyone who attended the opening party on Sunday, where there was standing room only.  If you’re coming from out of town and need a place to stay, then let me know and I might be able to help you out. I hope everyone can stop by before I take the photos down on the 30th.

Here are some photos I took last night (the opening party was too crowded to get any good shots, so I opted for a quiet Monday)

Mt. Kusatsushirane Chapter 2 – Halfway there

Looking out across the valley towards Mt. Asama, Fumito and I dig into our lunchboxes. We’d made good time summiting Mt. Azumaya, my 49th peak. It was the 4th of June, and the rainy season was just around the corner. “I wonder if I’ll be able to reach the magic #50 before it comes” I ponder, as we run through a list of peaks still left to conquer. Suddenly, both of us remembered our botched winter attempt on Mt. Kusatsushirane, realizing that it was within earshot from the peak we were standing on. Fumito offered a humble suggestion: “we could always climb it today on our way back to Nagano.” Hmmm…..

“Yeah, let’s do it,” I enthusiastically responded. Frantically, we packed up our half-eaten lunches and hurriedly descended down to Sugadaira farm, feasting on fresh ice cream as a reward for our rapid descent. Time check: 2:45pm. Fumito set the car navigation, as I checked the hiking maps. The race was on.

On the deserted approach to Manza hot spring, the car weaved back and forth through a thick layer of fog and mist. We were both starting to have second thoughts about our initial idea, and figured mother nature was punishing us for trying to bite off more than we could chew. Miraculously, just like a powerful jet airliner, we broke through the massive layer of cloud and soared above it all in the late afternoon sunshine. Perhaps our idea wasn’t so bad after all.

Hastily parking the car, we grabbed our gear and started our initial approach by jogging on the paved path. My supply of energy seemed endless: after all, I was about to reach the halfway point on my 100 mountain mission. Fumito, on the other hand, was just along for the ride, so it didn’t surprise me when he shelled out the money for the chair lift! We agreed to meet on the ridgeline in 10 minutes, as I started my quick trot through a remaining snow field.

I quickly caught up with my companion as we traversed one of the many ancient craters that house the remnants of the mighty volcano. We soon hit a trail junction, realizing that the high point lay directly opposite. The afternoon sun shone majestically, casting deep shadows on the adjacent ridge as we kept up our athletic pace. 5pm as we reached the official high point for Hyakumeizan baggers. The true summit stood a few hundred meters further north, through an area of deep undergrowth and toxic volcanic gases. Despite the ease of access and popularity of the route, we found ourselves completely alone on this spectacular Sunday afternoon. Who says getting a late start is such a bad idea?

We retraced our steps to the parking lot, rewarding ourselves with a quick stroll to the impressive Yugama crater lake, a definite must-see for anyone with a budding interest in volcanic phenomena. Mt. Kusatsushirane may have eluded us back in February, but revenge was definitely ours as I set my sights on the remaining 50.

Exhibition – behind the scenes

I now have the utmost respect for all budding artists, regardless of medium. Putting together an exhibition requires a hefty inverstment of time, energy, resources, and money. I have friends who exhibit their work on a regular basis and I can now see why they vanish from the social scene in the weeks before the installation of their work.

I reserved the cafe way back in October, immediately after finishing my Hyakumeizan climb, so it’s not that I haven’t had plenty of time to prepare. June was the earliest available time slot, and I didn’t want to commit to an exhibition until after completing all of the mountains. Imagine if it were two weeks before show time and I still had 5 more mountains to climb!

Anyway, once I selected the photos, I had to think about size and framing. After that, I had to buy the frames and get the photos printed. All of this was done while simultaneously trying to work on promoting the event. Flyers were designed and printed, as well as dropped off at various shops around town.

Next comes the assembling of the frames, and finally, the installation. These last two steps are on my agenda this weekend. Unfortunately, the mountains will have to wait.

Mt. Oizuru Chapter 1 – breaking new ground

Shortly after conquering the Hyakumeizan, I was given the guidebooks for the 200 famous mountains. “Oh boy”, I sighed, “here we go again.” While I haven’t fully committed to undertaking this formidable challenge, I have accepted the mission of exploring a few that have sparked my interest. Thus, my recent foray deep into Ishikawa Prefecture, to scale a peak that Mr. Fukada himself never got the chance to summit: Mt. Oizuru.

Mt. Oizuru (笈ヶ岳) is quite possibly the only peak in Japan that can not be climbed year round. On the contrary, the only time the summit is approachable is when snow flanks its steep slopes, from December to early May. I set off from Osaka, making the necessary transfers until arriving at Tsurugi station on the soon-to-be-abolished Ishikawa line of the Hokuriku railroad. Walking out to route 157, I stuck my thumb out, hoping for the best.

A few minutes later, a Hummer comes screeching to a halt, and I jump in. A father and son headed into the mountains for camping, with plenty of gear in the back. I glance at the guidebook, which tells me that Chugu-Onsen Ski Resort is the best entry point. I wave goodbye to the kind driver and head into the hot spring to gather information. “I’m not sure where the trailhead is, but if you go to the wooden cabin across the street, he’ll be able to tell you,” retorted the elderly caretaker of the public bath. I march across the street into a beautiful cabin, and sat down with the owner. “This is the winter approach, which is now inaccessible. You’ve got to start from this point here”, gesturing to a point on the map a good 10km away, on the road I’d just hitched from. “Most people nowadays use this newer trail except in the dead of winter.” Great. The first thorn in my side.

I retreat back to the road and stick out the thumb again. This time, a husband and wife team in their late 70s came to my assistance, dropping me off at the prescribed location. Sure enough, I find a large parking lot and two prominent signposts: “Warning, Mt. Oizuru has no trail”. “Warning, there are a lot of accidents on Mt. Oizuru. Experienced climbers only.” I take a deep breath and hope for the best.

The first 1.5km or so is along an abandoned railway that was used to haul timber from the mountains. The path ends at the “wild monkey park”, an area where monkeys descend from the surrounding forests to feast on handouts. No sign of the elusive creatures on the particular excursion, though. Time check: 12:45pm. A 1300m elevation change staring me right in the face. A good 3 to 4 hours before reaching camp.

Steep. Treacherous. Intimidating. Only 5 minutes into my ascent and I can see why people lose their lives here every year. If it weren’t for the generous amount of rope tied to the trees, I’d have given up long ago. Still though, I run into quite a few people on their way down. “Are you heading up now?”, they inquire. “I hope you have a tent.” Indeed, Oizuru is one of the only peaks in Japan without a single mountain hut or official trail. The spur I’m one is only marked with red tape placed on the trees, as well as the footprints of my predecessors. In one particularly rocky section, my pack scrapes against a protruding boulder, dislodging one of my nalgene bottles and sending it bouncing to the valley far below. The second thorn in my side.

Down one liter of water, I climb to a safe area and try to secure my other bottle. If that one goes, then surely I’ll be needing the helicopter, as I am still 1000 vertical meters below the snow line, without a single water source in sight. Fortunately, the cool May breeze and my slow pace keeps the bodily fluids in check. Out of the valley I rise, wondering if I’ll ever make it to the ridge before nightfall. Better yet, I’m wondering when this spur will start to flatten out!

3:15pm. I finally pass the worst of the steep bits, and start the up and down traverse over to the main ridge line. Patches of snow lie out and about, but the crampons stay in their resting place for the time being. Passing by a few more hikers, I get the sense that very few foreigners had ever set foot on this peak. “How did you find out about this mountain?”, inquired one curious hiker. After explaining about my recent conquering of the Hyakumeizan, he got the picture: “I finished them myself 2 years ago. I’m after the 200 now.” That’s when it dawned on me. Probably every single person on this mountain had already finished climbing the famous 100, and were now out to prove something more – to join an elite group of mountaineers who’d conquered the Japan’s 300 famous mountains. Did I really want to follow in their footsteps? After all, climbing the Hyakumeizan is enough to keep most people content for life.

Rotting snow. Not the best conditions in which to sleep, but what else could I do? I roll into camp around 4:30pm. By camp, I mean the only flat area in which pitching a tent is feasible. Remember on this peak there is nothing. No trails, no signposts. Just a peak. One other tent in sight, so I pitch nearby. Safety in numbers in case the lingering snow decides to release itself from the steep ridge towering above. I settle into camp, melting snow for the following day and dreaming of the steep climb that lie before me. What other thorns will be thrust into my side?

Mt. Kashimayari – Beating the rain pt. 2

Exactly 2 weeks to the day after my thrilling climb of Mt. Amakazari, I sit in a tent at the beginning of a gated forest road, plotting my next move. Fumito and I are about to embark on another gargantuan hike of a mighty mountain, during the rainy season! Could I continue my lucky streak in the battle against the rain?

4:00am. With the skies still dark and the wind calm, breakfast is cooked and served. We’ve got a long way to go on one of the toughest day hikes in the Kita Alps, so an early start was critical. After breaking down camp, I took a short stroll across the river to try to catch a glimpse of the ridge line, in hopes of assessing snow conditions. Crampons were foregone in favor of ice axes. The weight we’d save would be replaced by nutrients. The red glow of the sun on the high peaks was promising, as was the lack of cloud cover. Barometer readings were also in our favor, so we set out on the long, deserted forest road in high spirits.

At the end of the road, we headed into the hills, along the Akaiwa spur for a 1200m+ altitude gain. Step by step we rose high above the valley, shedding layers of clothing with each advancing trot. It was hot, and oh so clear. “What happened to the rainy season?”, I asked Fumito, hoping that my question wouldn’t set mother nature off on a temper tantrum.

About 90 minutes into our climb, nature threw up its first road block: a huge ice fall blocking the path in front of us. Beyond that, there was a steep snow field that was impassable without crampons. By sheer luck, someone had hacked out a ridiculously steep alternative route, bypassing our obstacle. Grabbing whatever lay in our path, we forced our way up and around the barrier. Fumito took the lead, while I followed a short distance behind. All of a sudden, my companion lost his balance and grip, sliding above me to my left. Acting on my reflexes, I reached out and grabbed his backpack, but the bag slipped right through my hand, cutting two fingers in the process.

Just as my worst nightmare was beginning to see the light of day, I witnessed the most impressive feat of my entire existence on this earth. Tumbling barely 5 meters, Fumito somehow managed to break his fall in the canopy of a small beech tree, thus averting a major disaster. The entire event unfolded in the blink of an eye, as the luckiest man in Japan climbed back up while I tended to my wounds. “I’ll take the lead from here,” I quipped.

Once out of the danger zone, we found the normal path and took a break to reflect on what transpired. Fumito was completely unharmed, and I’d lost some skin on my fingers, but the bleeding had stopped so we ventured on. We arrived at Takachihodai, where our first glimpse of Kashimayari came into view directly in front of us. If we could somehow build a rope bridge over the huge valley between us and the peak, then we could cut a few hours off the slog. Unfortunately, we’d have to continue climbing parallel to the peak until reaching the ridgeline, where we’d be able to head over to the summit.

The path became much rockier after leaving the flat area, but fortunately most of the snow was gone. Just before popping out on the ridge though, we had to traverse through a large, unstable snow field. I was petrified of breaking through the snow and tumbling down to my death, so Fumito once again took the lead. This time, he kept his footing and I managed to avoid the holes, but we wondered how we’d be able to traverse it on the descent.

We hit the main ridge line, where Tateyama and Tsurugi were patiently waiting. Mt. Fuji even popped her head out on the horizon and the sky looked as if satsuki-bare had never left. We marched on to the mountain hut and filled up on water. Then came a gargantuan climb through an enormous snowfield to the summit of Mt. Nunobiki. Exhausted we were, but we plodded on, reaching the top of the southern peak just before noon. Mt. Kashimayari, just like Mt. Shiomi in the Minami Alps, has a twin peak a short distance away. After eating lunch, we dropped to the saddle and climbed the twin, staring down into the vertical crags on the Hachimine-kiretto. There’d be no traversing over to Mt. Goryu this time around, even though it was still on my ‘to climb’ list.

We ran into a handful of people on the summit, but all of them had come from Ogisawa – a much longer but easier approach. After celebrating our successful ascent, we retraced out steps back to the junction, thinking about the tricky snow traverse that lie ahead. This time around I took the lead, and was extremely surprised to find that some kind soul had built steps into the snow pack, making for an easy and comfortable crossing. My guess is that the hut staff must’ve come over here with their snow shovels, or perhaps another hiker had come up behind us. Whoever it was, I can’t thank them enough.

Descending took no time at all, and the high pressure system stuck around for the duration of our hike. Walking back on the deserted forest road, Fumito and I chatted about our previous adventures and wondered if we’d be able to get together again this year for more hikes. I hung up the hat after this one, deciding not to tempt fate again until after the rainy season, where mountain #83 was quietly awaiting.

Making the cut

Putting together a photo exhibition is a lot more labor intensive than one might imagine. In addition to thinking about the framing, positioning, and overall layout, one must undergo the painful of process of narrowing down and selecting an elite squadron of breathtaking photographs worthy of public exposure. The initial field of 3000 was reduced to a mere 75, which was further cut to 10. Not all 10 will be shown, and the final selection will take place on the morning I have to drop off the negatives at the photo studio. Here are a few of the semifinalists that didn’t make the final cut:

Coming soon….

I’ll post more information as the date gets closer, but those of you in Osaka mark your calendars for the month of June

Mt. Amakazari – Beating the rain

In two weeks time, the rainy season would be here……or would it? Hiking in June is always a bit of a gamble, so when fair weather presents itself, I usually stop whatever I’m doing and head to the hills. So goes my attempt at mountain #81 – a peak whose Chinese characters translate as ‘covered in rain,’

The train rolled into Minami-otari station shortly after 11pm. The station was deserted as I fiddled through my pack for the phone number of the taxi company. Fortunately, someone answered the phone and sent a taxi my way, saving me the long, monotonous stroll up to Otari-onsen. “The road’s closed beyond this point – you’ll have to walk from here”, remarked the driver upon dropping me off at a large barrier put across the road. I walked in silence for over an hour on the desolate forest road, hoping no creatures would come out in the night to size me up. Arriving at the trailhead around 1am, I scoped out a place to sleep
for the night. As luck would have it, there was an unlocked rest house with a wooden table and a clean concrete floor at the end of the parking lot. I settled in for a cozy nap.

My alarm rang much too quickly for my liking, but my eyes perked up while peeping outside for a look at the weather. Although it was still too early to tell, the calmness of the air suggested that the weather gods would be kind to me. Breakfast was leisurely devoured while poring over the map: an 800m elevation change over around 5km of hiking. Much easier than my epic ascent of Mt. Takazuma a few weeks earlier. The sound of voices broke my silent planning, as I looked up to find several minivans disgorging day hikers. “What?”, I screamed. Where they came from I had no idea, but I wasn’t about to share the trail with an enormous group of retirees, so I stuffed the map and breakfast into my sack and quickly escaped into uncharted territory.

The trail quickly dropped into a vast marshland, with endless rows of mizubasho in full bloom. Here I was, completely alone, traversing through an area of pristine beauty that gives Oze a run for its money. Seriously, if you’re turned off by the crowds in Oze, I highly recommend coming here during on any morning in early June. This was definitely bear territory, as I lauded my decision to rest at the trailhead instead of attempting a night assault. The marshlands eventually gave way to a spectacular virgin forest of fir and beech trees, with a floor still buried under a deep layer of snow. Amakazari becomes a human traffic jam in the autumn, as hikers shove elbows for a glance at the vibrant foliage, but on this sunny Sunday in early June it was mine, all mine.

Even though I had the entire mountain to myself, I kept a steady pace, constantly reminding myself that I had a very large group ascending somewhere behind me. Arriving at Arasugesawa, I caught a glimpse of the rocky summit rising high above me, to my left. All I had to do was descend down into the gully, up the other side, and climb up the massive shoulder to the ridge.

Traversing through the gully proved more challenging than expected, as each step loosened the snow enough to send trees popping out of the snow beneath me. The first tree that popped up nearly gave me a black eye, so I did my best not to set off any more ‘land mines’. I wasn’t exactly sure where the trail went, but I was pretty sure it didn’t climb directly up the cirque. Sure enough, the trail continued straight on and I was climbing up towards the summit on a snow-free ridge after a steep, nasty slog. I passed by a pair of trail junctions but still didn’t run into anyone else. It looked like I’d be the first one to summit that day.

Once on top, I said a quick hello to Mt. Asahi rising up in the distance across the valley. Mt Shirouma was slyly hiding under a gentle blanket of cloud, while Mt. Hiuchi looked on with envy. I could finally rest on the small summit and finish the breakfast I had started a few hours prior. I spent well over an hour soaking up the rays and observing nature’s gifts, while trying to make a crucial decision. Should I retrace my steps all the way back to Otari-onsen, or should I dive off down the north face of the mountain to Amakazari-onsen? Either way, I had a hot bath awaiting me.

As I retreated from the summit towards the trail junction that would decide my fate, a figure appeared in the distance. A solo hiker in his early 50s, on his way to the peak I’d just escaped from. “Which way did you come from?”, I inquired, with fingers crossed for a favorable answer. “Amakazari-onsen”, replied the man. Here was my chance, as I gathered information about trail conditions, the hot spring, and……access. “No, I don’t think there’s a bus, but I can give you a ride to Toyama station if you can wait for me to summit”, as I internally rejoiced for lucking out yet again.

I lazed about, observing the wildflowers and dreaming of the hot spring waters. My savior returned, and off we ventured to the junction. The no nonsense trail dropped straight down off the back side of the peak, through what can only be described as a ‘massive’ snowfield. I’m sure there are switchbacks during the summer hiking season, but before the rainy season it became a tricky game of kick-stepping, sliding and in some cases tumbling down the quickly rotting snow. A few hundred meters into our descent, we ran into an elderly gentleman with sweat pouring down his face. With his head wrapped in a bandanna and his body draped in flannel, he gave off a vibe of someone who’s known in the Nagano circuit. Sure enough, shortly after saying farewell to the energetic elder statesman, my hiking companion gave an explanation: “That man we just met is a very famous mountaineer. In fact, he was the one who built the trail from the Sea of Japan to Mt. Shirouma in the Kita Alps.” If only I could have remembered his name!

We spent over an hour descending through the snow until picking up the trail about 3/4 of the way down the ridge. A short time later, we were soaking in the therapeutic waters, with its mixed outdoor bath located in front of the hut about 50 meters from the indoor baths. We totally caught a few clothed visitors off guard by trampling through the courtyard with only a short towel around our waists! Mt. Amakazari treated me very well, but I soon knew the summer rains would come to wash the snows away. Could I knock off another peak before it happened? The challenge was on!