Recent hikes

Ever since my lung scare back in February, I’ve been a bit slow to update the blog, but I’ve been busy with trying to regain a bit of my pre-surgery fitness. Here’s a recap of my most recent outdoor excursions:

Exactly 3 days after my test hike on Kashi-ga-mine, I ventured up to the Sea of Japan to scale Mt. Yura. The weather was spectacular and there wasn’t another soul around. Thankfully the lungs didn’t start flaring up or I would’ve been in trouble.

Mt. Yura

A week later, I was off to the tip of Lake Biwa to summit the peak of 7 heads (Nanazu-ga-take). Winter had returned, as a coating of fresh snow lay gently over the 600-meter tall mountain. Luckily the frigid temperatures and clean air kept the pollen levels low.

Mt. Nanazu

At the end of March, after revisiting the site of my winter mishap, I ventured back to northern Kyoto prefecture for another hike. This time around I opted for an ancient volcano by the name of Mt. Aoba. I was lucky enough to be joined by William Banff of the wonderful blog On Higher Ground. More brilliant weather and crisp winds that kept us from shedding the warmer layers.

Mt. Aoba

A week after that I was down at the southern tip of Wakayama Prefecture for a quick jaunt up the rocky perch of Dake-no-mori. This was a 4-hour trip one-way just to get to the trailhead, and it’s something that I will not do again as a day hike. Balmy spring-like weather and the lack of people made up for the long commute.

Mt. Dake-no-mori

While mid-April proved to be incredibly busy on the employment front, I did sneak away to Aichi Prefecture for a few days of hiking. This time my trusty sidekick Fumito joined in on the fun. First up was Chausu-yama, Aichi’s highest peak. The clouds moved in to block the view of the Minami Alps, but otherwise it was an enjoyable stroll among the beech trees.

Mt. Chausu

The following day, we both headed to Toyota city to climb one of Nagoya’s most popular mountains. Mt. Sanage did not disappoint, with wonderful fresh greenery and fluffy clouds floating all around.

Mt. Sanage

To round out the month of Apri, Tomomi and I ventured into northern Hyogo Prefecture to scale Sen-ga-mine, the 1000-meter peak. Perfect weather once again, and the holiday crowds were somewhat manageable.

Mt. Sen-ga-mine

The final hike to round out the busy spring was a mountain with the peculiar name of Mt. Kanakuso (Gold Shit mountain). This obscure peak supposedly has a mouth-watering view of the Japan Alps, but unfortunately the aeolian dust from China reduced visibility to relatively poor levels. This peak also happened to be my 60th Kansai Hyakumeizan. The remaining 40 peaks are a long jaunt from Osaka, making navigation without an automobile virtually impossible.

Mt. Kanakuso

As you can see, spring was an incredibly productive time to be in the hills. Now I just need to squeeze some more time in my schedule to do proper write-ups of each peak. Those will come in time, but this teaser post should keep the hounds at bay for the time being.

Mt. Jyatani Chapter 2 – Back to the Scene

Kanako couldn’t understand why I wanted to return to the very mountain that almost took my life, but Ted and I needed answers. This time we were equipped with two things that we didn’t possess the first time around: a good map and a GPS device.

We arrived back at Hata village around 10:30am on a quiet Friday in late March, hoping that most of the snow would be gone. We were joined this time by Ted’s wife Miki and another friend named Dominic, who had planned to summit the peak and tagged along for the first part of the traverse. The best course of action, we agreed, was to ascend via the Yokotani route that we had descended on our fateful night in January. From there, we’d head along the ridge, trying to fit together the missing pieces of the puzzle.

At the bus stop, Ted and I noticed something that was not there when we climbed in January: a wooden box for hikers to register their hiking plans. Pink pieces of paper were tied to the box with string. In addition, there was also a new, full-color laminated poster telling hikers the importance of registering their hike. Well, at least some good came out of our plight, but I really wonder how often the authorities check those boxes. I half-considered writing our intentions on here, along with a personal message to the cops that interrogated us, but I restrained myself.

The route, although unmarked in the village, was easy to find. It looked much different when not covered by 30cm of snow though. Once we crossed the forest road, Ted and I found the watershed that we somehow climbed down in the dark. The path ran pretty much parallel to the creek for the first part of the climb before leaving the gully and rising via some wavy switchbacks to the ridge. Ted and I pretty much pinpointed the place where we had finally found the real trail and could descend back to the village. The gully looked much steeper than I remember: mountains always look bigger when peering up from below than vice versa.

All of us reached the junction on the ridge somewhere around 11:15am. 90% of the snow was completely melted, sans the shaded folds of the gullies on the northern face. The next step was to march along the ridge, stopping to observe every concrete survey marker until we found the magic #74, where we hoped to find the remnants of our failed fire. We strolled along the ridge for about 10 minutes until things started to look familiar: blue bands of tape wrapped around the cedar trees, as well as a long flat expanse along the ridge where we searched aimlessly for the direction of the trail. Finally, we found the magic spot. Survey marker #75~! Oops – so we had been one number off, but what do you expect when you’re fighting for survival. Amongst the kindling were pieces of my shredded guidebook, a Snickers wrapper, and a handful of Ted’s discarded stormproof matches that had failed us that night. In hindsight, it was a good thing we couldn’t get that fire started, as we likely would have frozen to death perched up on this 700-meter peak without proper shelter.

As I surveyed the surroundings, I was shocked to find a metal signpost attached to a tree no more than 10 meters from where we called for help. It was a helicopter rescue point, giving a pinpointed location that the cops very likely would have had on file. Not that it would have changed the situation, however, since the cops weren’t planning on starting their search until the following morning. Still, if we had found that sign then we would have known for sure that we were on the correct ridge.

After marking the waypoint on my GPS (N35 18.269 E135 55.309), we all continued along the ridge, arriving at Bobofuda pass without finding that corroded signboard on the ridge. Now the mystery was starting to deepen. We had somehow climbed to a different ridge than the main one, but which ridge? The only way to remedy this was to retrace our steps back towards the summit until we found the last place we remember seeing the trail, which was a rotting signboard 500 horizontal meters from the pass. Ted, Miki, and I halted here for lunch, which Dominic continued pushing for the summit. We had driven separately, so there was no need to wait for his return. As we retraced our route towards Bobofuda, we found the place where we made the mistake. As you descend a small hill, the route becomes difficult to pick up, even without snow. The real path headed straight on, but we had actually veered towards the right and into Yokotani, in the opposite direction from Hata village. All this time I thought we had veered down the eastern slope of the mountain but we actually headed west. Peering through the trees, we spied a parallel ridge on the other side of Yokotani, which must have been where we climbed up to. Boy, we sure did end up a long way away from that village that day, thanks to those animal tracks and our foolish decision not to backtrack.

Once back at Bobofuda, we noticed that there was a trail running through Yokotani, but the signpost labeled it as 難路 (difficult route). We followed this path down into Yokotani and discovered that it appeared to cross the creek and head up to the neighboring ridge. Though we did not have time, both of us were confident that if we had followed this trail we would likely find that corroded signboard that caused us so much confusion!

So this is the likely scenario: we veered off the trail, entered Yokotani, climbed up to a ridge parallel to the main one, followed a trail that would have taken us off the mountain if we had stayed on the ridge (though we would have been over 20km from our car and in a completely different prefecture). Instead, we veered off the trail, using our compass to tell us which way was southwest. In essence, by leaving the ridge, we were actually heading in the right direction after all. We just had no idea there would be a steep gorge and another ridge between us and our car. By dropping off the ridge, we likely entered the same watershed (Yokotani) that we had left the first time. In all likelihood we were a lot further down the river and probably not too far from a paved road, which could have saved us. Then again, if you look at the contour map, you’ll see that the river is pretty much surrounded on both side by cliffs. After I fell into the ravine, we climbed back towards the ridge on the left bank of river, which happened to be the ridge just above the village. Mystery solved.

The only way to prove this would be to actually traverse that parallel ridge and also to have a look in the river itself to see if any of my missing gear is there. The best way to do this would be to start at the bottom of the valley where the paved road enters the tunnel to Hata village and to do sawanobori from there, with a helmet and ropes to help. Any volunteers?

After safely returning back to the car, we drove into Adogawa, passing by the very same police box where we had to fill out the paperwork, followed by the same convenience store where we had feasted that night. All in all it was a successful reconnaissance mission back to the scene of our fight for survival. I think Ted and I can now close a chapter in our hiking lives and return to exploring safer, more established routes as the warmer seasons approach.

 

Ontake – A new friend

The snow-capped perfection of Ontake’s curvy volcanic form was too much to pass up. Standing on the summit of Mt. Ibuki last month, my eyes were immediately drawn to the sacred peak. The snow cover was gently waning, and I’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity to scale the mountain before the onset of the rainy season. So in early June, I geared up for the train ride through Kiso Valley to Kiso-Fukushima, where I connected to the bus the popular trailhead of Ta-no-hara.

Except for a few locals who got off along the way, the bus was completely deserted. The route wound its way through a massive ski resort, whose grass-filled runs lay dormant, waiting patiently for the snow to return for another season of abuse. Halfway up the switchback-obsessed route, the bus passed by a hill-climbing cyclist, who pushed through the incredible ascent with apparently simple ease. Either he exercises for the pure joy of it, or he must be training for a upcoming race.

The upper half of Ontake’s majestic form sat in a thick blanket of cloud. Snow fields stretched from the concealed heights of the peak like a smudged Mondrian painting. A half a dozen elderly folks milled around the parking lot, unfastening gaiters from their early morning ascent. I guess most people are off the peak by late morning, but I knew my speed and fitness would not be a problem. It was the clouds I was worried about.

After a quick prayer at the shrine, I passed through the flatlands and onto the steep slopes of the volcano, passing by an impressive collection of Buddhist statues standing firmly among the pumice boulders and deep red soil. These works of art were placed in regular intervals among the straightforward route, a testament to the importance of this peak for ascetic monks. On this particular overcast day, the mountain was mysteriously absent of the white-clad pilgrims, who usually fill the peak during the busy summer months. Perhaps it was because the sacred structures flanking the summit plateau were still sleeping in their deep snow drifts of a lingering winter.

Somewhere around halfway up the long slog towards the 3000 meter mark, I heard footsteps quickly approaching from behind. As I turned around, I made eye contact with an energetic climber dressed in bicycle gear. It was the same cyclist I had seen on the bus ride up. Not only was he riding the hill to the trail start, but he was running up the mountain as well. Soon after passing me, we hit the first of many long snow fields, and it was here that the rain commenced. The athlete halted his footsteps and retreated, blurting out a quick “zannen” before vanishing back down towards the parking lot. My guess is that this climb is a weekly occurrence for him,and he wanted to hit the pavement again before the roads became too slippery. The rain didn’t stop me from advancing, however, as I forged a path up the gargantuan valley of snow until it disappeared into the mist.

The rain only lasted about 10 minutes, letting up as quickly as it had come. I’m sure that cyclist was cursing his hasty decision, and I was half-expecting him to resume his hike, but I never saw him again. Once into deep cloud, the dirty white of the crusty snow meshed with the ghostly white of the clouds, and if it weren’t for the deep groove of footprints I never would have found my way to the ridge. Once at the summit of Otaki, the snow gave way to volcanic steam vents, which wore thick layer of sulfuric cologne. The shrine here was still buried up to the roof eves, but the final push to the summit lie on the wind-swept ridge, so navigation was a breeze except for the wafting aroma of rotten eggs attacking from all directions. The top of Ontake was home to yet more structures, which provide accommodation for arriving visitors, but only during the main climbing season. The doors were still boarded up, and the top lay deserted sans a few other hikers who had made the brave ascent in the dismal conditions. One such visitor stood out among the other elderly walkers: a young Japanese man out hiking along. Out of the two dozen Hyakumeizan I’d done so far, this was the first time (other than Mt. Fuji of course) to run into someone my age, so we immediately struck up a conversation.

He introduced himself as Fumito, a 24-year old originally from Kagawa Prefecture who had relocated to Shiojiri to work for Chubu Electric. I inquired about his choice of climbing routes, and it turned out he had started an hour earlier than me from the same approach: I very likely walked right past his car when disembarking the bus. Since I had no way of getting back to the station, I politely asked if he could honor my request. Gladly, he accepted, and both of us decided to descend together back down the same trail we had come up. My original intention was to traverse over to two small volcanic lakes lying just below the summit before making the long trek down to Nigorigo hot spring. There were two things inherently wrong with this idea: for one, I physically had no idea which direction the two lakes rested, since visibility in the thick fog was reduced to only a couple of meters. Second, the entire route on the northern face of the volcano was completely buried, with few hikers ever using that approach even in the summer season. I would surely get lost on the way down and even if I didn’t, I would have to negotiate some sort of ride out of the hot spring town.

Fumito and I talked the entire way down, finally popping out of the clouds into unexpected sunshine. I told him of my quest to climb the Hyakumeizan, which he enthusiastically endorsed.  On the drive back to town, the skies opened up, dumping heavy rain that forced us to the shoulder of the road. Both of us praised our excellent timing, and I knew right then that I had made the wise decision not to do the traverse alone. Fumito dropped me off at Fukushima station, where we promised to go hiking again sometime soon.

Myoko-Hiuchi Traverse – Day 2

The next morning, after a bit of a sleep-in (7am wake-up instead of the usual Japanese start of 4am), we packed our gear and contemplated our next move. The rain had moved in with a vengeance, and any thought of scaling Mt. Hiuchi in this natural shower seemed crazy, but here I was faced with a mountain so close that it would be a huge setback not to reach the summit on this outing. We reached a compromise: I’d head out alone, bringing only a water bottle and a bag of peanuts. Kanako would wait in the warm, dry hut for my return, at which time both of us would head down to the trailhead at Sasa-ga-mine. “See you in 1 hour”, I affirmed with a look of disbelief from the other hikers and hut staff. “There’s no way he’ll be back in an hour”, retorted the hut owner, proclaiming that Kanako wouldn’t see her husband until at least early afternoon. The map times alloted 2-1/2 hours just to reach the summit of Hiuchi from here, and that’s without the return time. A challenge was on and I was more than ready for it.

With a dash I set off into the downpour, wearing only my rain suit. I pushed up and over Mt. Chausu and down to the junction at Kouya-ike in only 15 minutes. From there, the marshlands in front of the hut resembled one giant lake, partially covered with yet another thick patch of slippery snow. Relentless I was in my pursuit, flying past the buried wooden walkways of the Tengu’s garden before reaching the ridge for the final push towards Hiuchi. The clouds had lifted a little, revealing the peak in all its verdant green beauty. Breathtaking though it was, I didn’t loiter around too long, marching up the final set of wooden steps to the high point. Time check: 40 minutes from Kurosawa hut. Not bad for a guy with a leaky heart valve.

The snowfields catalyzed my ascent, and I would have easily made it back within the hour if not for a brief stop at Kouya-ike hut. “Excuse me”, I asked the staff, “do you know the bus schedule from Sasa-ga-mine to the station?” The reply bounced back as if returned by a professional table tennis player: “There is no bus”, explained the hut manager Masa, “but I’m heading down later today and can give you a ride.” With this extremely good piece of news, I once again set off for Kurosawa, arriving exactly 1 hour and 15 minutes after leaving Kanako behind.

“You made it to the summit?”, quizzed the hut staff, still spellbound by my Jamaican speed runner pace. Rest breaks are pretty pointless when you’ve got no view and you’re soaked to the bone. I was ashamed to admit that I was pretty spent after that insane burst of energy. We ordered some hot noodles as reward for knocking off Hiuchi. I alternated mouthfuls of buckwheat with morsels of trail mix and chocolate, trying to up my calorie intake to compensate for the increased exertion. We finally hit the trail together just before noon, keeping a brisk pace in case the hut owner should beat us to the bottom. We didn’t want to inconvenience anyone by making them wait unnecessarily for us, so we skipped steadily ahead until reaching Fujimi-daira, where the trail from Kouya-hut met the main trail from Kurosawa. We rested leisurely here among the cover of the forest canopy, knowing that even if the hut staff caught us we could walk together in relative ease.

Reaching the parking lot around 3pm, we searched for any signs of our saviors, but no one was in sight. We waited in the small shelter marking the entrance to the trail, hoping that we hadn’t somehow missed them. About half an hour later, the group of 4 from the hut strolled in, and we were whisked to Myoko Kougen station to catch our train. As a way of thanking the kind hut staff, we offered to treat him and his girlfriend to a later afternoon snack, so we headed to a noodle shop and listened to some pretty insane stories from our driver. “You see this scar?’, buzzed Masa, pointing to a gash just below his lower lip, “I fell off a cornice while skiing and my upper teeth went right through my lip.” This was a man that truly lived on the edge, and enjoyed every minute of his life.

Overall, despite the foul weather and treacherous conditions, the mission was a resounding success. I was now up to 52 mountains under my belt, but had a long summer and autumn ahead of me if I wanted to reach the magic number 70 before the end of the year.

Myoko-Hiuchi Traverse – Day 1

The rainy season lingered on, like the scent of a prematurely extinguished match. Marine Day drew near, and with no apparent end in sight, Kanako and I had our eyes set on two peaks in southern Niigata Prefecture. After an overnight bus to Nagano city, followed by a slow local train on the JR Shin’etsu line, we hailed a taxi at Sekiyama station through the pouring rain to the hilly hot spring town of Tsubame onsen.

The streets of the town lay mostly deserted, the tourists confined to the dry comforts of their hotel rooms. At the start of the track sat two open-air baths, partially concealed by a row of landscaped bushes and a tattered bamboo fence. Seeing how we were just beginning our hike, it would have been futile to stop now for a bath, so we pushed on through the steady rain falling on the shuttered ski runs. Shortly into our stroll a group of 3 hikers descended, led by a lanky, bearded fellow wielding an ice axe over his left shoulder. His footwear consisted of woven straw sandals (waraji) with a dull pair of 4-point crampons tucked underneath. Long, red shorts covered three-quarters of his slender legs, while a simple white v-neck shirt kept his nipples hidden from view. Topping off the outfit was a traditional woven bamboo hat (kasa), which looked as if it had be surgically attached to his perfectly lined cranium. He had the aura of someone famous, but I could do nothing other than stare out in utter fascination and belt out a quick konnichiwa before his party raced off to the hot spring baths.

The path we were on followed a torrent of a stream, skirting the edge of an occasional snowfield to reach the cause of the brisk flows: a towering waterfall that roared with such ferociousness as to send uninvited shivers down my spine. To our discomfort, the trail climbed directly parallel to the falls, steepening at ever-increasing angles. The snow made the footwork tricky, but the chains bolted to the rocks gave added support. Once past the top of the falls, the river, though flowing faster than most commercial airlines, narrowed to a meter-and-a-half across. The bridges that would make passage safe were long since washed away. Kanako and I searched for an alternative path that did not require crossing the waters, but the only way up to Mt. Myoko lie in a ravine on the left bank of the river.

I jumped across first, dropped my heavy pack, and scooted to the edge of the bank. Kanako was pretty scared and none-too-confident, but once I extended my trekking pole to her, handle first, and instructed her to jump as if fleeing a gigantic swarm of caterpillars (her greatest fear, even more than snakes, spiders, and bears combined), did she lift off her feet, grab onto the pole, and fling herself to where I was standing. Grabbing her arm, I pulled her up safely away from the river bank and onto more stable ground. If she fell here there would have been no way to stop her from plunging over the falls to an almost certain death. Despite being drenched with both sweat and rain, both of us treated ourselves to a much-deserved break to help calm the nerves and slow the adrenaline.

The route followed the bank of the river before hooking left, up a narrow valley towards the ridgeline below Myoko’s conical summit. Steady progress was made as the rain finally started to let up. At the ridge sat a junction, with a trail leading down to the ski lifts of Ike-no-taira resort. Turning right, the trail immediately steepened, passing through an area of tricky chainwork bolted to the slippery rocks. Thankfully we would not have to descend this area on the way back, since our goal was to traverse further north towards the meadowlands of Mt. Hiuchi. Thick cloud blotted out all visibility when the summit of Mt. Myoko was attained, shortly after 2pm. Silence and serenity were a much welcomed sight to an otherwise very popular mountain. Most groups had either already made their way off the peak or to their awaiting hut accommodation by now. After a quick snack, we geared up once again and continued on our lonesome journey.

Just past the top, the trail disappeared in a massive forest of white. The northern flank of Myoko still had a tight grip on winter despite being mid-July. Without crampons, the route became slippery and somewhat treacherous, as we stuck closely to the trees to help aid in the balance. Gradually the gradient began to wither, as we reached an open area with a field of snow 50 meters wide that ran several football pitches in length. No tape marks or signposts became apparent, but I used my instincts to tell me which way to navigate. Turning left, we kick-stepped a path roughly parallel to where we descended, but the angle refused to ease. The snowfield continued, as if laid down on a marathon route to nowhere. Something just didn’t feel right.

“Kanako, wait”, I commanded. I dropped my back and raced back down to where we had last seen the trail. There, on the other side of the snowfield, lay a red tape mark, partially buried in the thick ice. Racing back up to my companion, I broke the news to her while both of us carefully and systematically reworked our steps onto the correct path. From here, the snowfields continued to grow. I was really starting to wonder if summer would ever come to the hills of Niigata this year. Some of the traverses really required an axe, but trekking poles gave just enough of a brace, as long as the foot steps were carefully placed. Slipping here would mean a long slide down to a secluded marshland, which would add at least an extra hour of time to climb back out of. Darkness started to overtake us as we finally made it past the hairiest sections and into the flat plains of Kurosawa.

Kurosawa is an octagonal hut that resembles an abandoned NASA spacecraft. When we entered the hut, shortly before 7pm, the entire place was dark. Even the hut staff had started preparing for bed. When we climbed the stairs to the second floor sleeping area, we couldn’t believe our eyes: every inch of floor space had been occupied by retired pensioners. The hut officially sleeps 60, but I’m pretty sure there were more people that that squeezed in there. We did manage to find a tiny space for the both of us near the entrance, which meant we’d hear every single person as they embarked on their midnight toilet breaks and 3am wakeup calls to start their hikes. At least we had a dry place to sleep.

Donning our headlamps, we headed outside to cook up some noodles and warm tea. The damp weather and mist-filled clouds had done their best send temperatures to late-autumn levels. Even though we had brought camping gear, staying at the hut proved to be the better option. With satisfied bellies and properly circulating blood, Kanako and I retreated to bed, for we had another peak to bag the following day, followed by a long descent back to the valley.

Mt. Kashi-ga-mine – Back in the Saddle

I’ve always been confused by the idiomatic expression back in the saddle. Shouldn’t it be back on the saddle? After all, we use the expression get back on the horse, not get back in the horse. Regardless of the proper prepositional nomenclature, I decided that 17 days after being discharged from the hospital was a sufficient time to allow my body to heal. Kanako wasn’t so enthusiastic. “Don’t go to the mountains so soon,” she demanded,   “and don’t go by yourself”. We reached an agreement, allowing me to go to an easy mountain with a lot of people around in case I ran into trouble. Luckily we were using my definitions of “easy” and “crowded”.

I boarded a late morning train on the Hankyu line bound for Nishinomiya-kitaguchi, where I changed to the Takarazuka line. I take this route weekly for my work when the semester is in full swing, but today’s target lay a few stations to the north, at a place called Sakasegawa, the river of the back-flowing rapids. After changing to a local bus and creeping along a busy roadway lined with subsidized housing and golf courses, I alighted in front of the local high school, prepared my gear, and set off towards the hills. I came armed with something that I did not have on that fateful hike in January: a GPS device. I was taking no chances on this outing, carrying not only the electronic navigation system, but also a guidebook and a detailed Shobunsha map of the entire area. There would be no wrong turns this time around.

The narrow road to the trailhead was sandwiched between a broad park and river bank on the right, and dense brush and untouched forest on the left, with a collection of old, dying trees. Perched near the top of one of these trees was a kogera, the Japanese version of the pygmy woodpecker. Though I have heard the elusive birds a number of times, this was my first face-to-face encounter.

After walking on the road for a few minutes, a worn out signpost revealed a small clearing on my left. The route immediately dove into a forest of pine and brush, reminding me of some of the drier peaks in California’s coastal mountain range. Rubber stairs were fastened to the crumbling hillside, which aided in the steep climb. Sweat immediately poured down my glasses and into my mask: I needed to keep my facial protection to keep the cedar pollen at bay. My last allergy test revealed that my allergies had reached dangerously sensitive levels.

The gradient eventually leveled off when I hit the rolling ridge: the peaks weren’t massive but the contours and grade more than made up for it. Several trails darted off the ridge in a near vertical descent, in what the Japanese call a kiretto. The origins of this word are unclear, but one thing seems certain: even though it is written in katakana, it is not a loanword. The word comes from the Chinese characters depicting an open door (切戸). Generally, a kiretto is a v-shaped gap in a ridge, where the climber descends steeply to a saddle before climbing up again, much in the way that a door has a v-shape when left partially open. Due to my promise to Kanako to be safe, I opted for the easier route off the peak.

It felt refreshing to be among the greenery of the forest, moving along deserted ridges with amazing views of the dust and smog of Osaka city, a place that I continue to call home despite my plethora of health problems. Eventually I would like to relocate some somewhere “cleaner”, but when you’re severely allergic to dust mites on top of most pollen, there aren’t many options.

The first test hike was a resounding success. Other than the challenges that come with hiking in a full mask, the lungs held up. As long as I choose days with low pollen counts, I should be ready for a fun-filled (and safe) spring.

Hou-Kai-Sen Traverse – Finale

The rain came down in rhythmic sheets for most of the night, pushed on by the autumn gusts whipping through Ina valley on their way to Kofu city and the outer reaches of the Kanto plain. I rustled back and forth in the warm futon, trying to drown out the drum-like drone of the pellets bouncing off the hut roof. Fatigue eventually took over, and the next thing I remember was the sound of  shifting nylon, as groups of eager hikers donned their matching rain suits before heading out into the murk.

I got a more leisurely start, cooking up a light meal of warm noodles near the hut entrance, where I had a good look at the nasty conditions. Despite the uninviting weweather, I knew a mountain with my name on it lay hidden above the dreary mist. Sure I could have turned my back and called it a day, but it’s an awful long way from Osaka to Kitazawa pass.

After putting on my fire-engine red full body rain suit, I stepped out on the trail towards Mt. Senjo, a thousand vertical meters above me. The rain continued steadily but fortunately the wind remained relatively calm. The lofty alpine fields of the Japan Alps are a magnet for cloud cover, as any full-bodied mountaineer can attest. I accepted my fate with relative serenity, knowing that the views from Mt. Houou made the trip a resounding success. Today, however, I experienced a bizarre phenomenon that has yet to be repeated: though the rain made the journey from the stratosphere, the accompanying cloud did not. Once above the tree line, visibility were comparable to a cloudless, sunny day. The spiny crags of Mt. Nokogiri ran westward from the rocky spires of Kai-koma, as Yatsu-ga-take looked on from across the deep valley.

Once I hit Mt. Ko-Senjo, I got my first glimpse of the massive col that surrounds the summit plateau. Kita-dake was visible to my immediate left, all but the tip of the summit below the cloud line. Beyond, even Mt. Fuji remained clear up until the 8th stagepoint, appearing on the horizon as a perfect volcanic trapezoid. I savored the views, knowing the clouds could roll in at any moment to spoil the fun.

The final push to the top was along the outer edge of the col. The rain was reduced to a fine mist, so I unzipped the jacket to help air out my sweat-laden armpits. Step by slippery step I marched, reaching the highest point just after midday. The views to the north, hidden by the linear line of Senjo’s flowing ridge, were finally released from their tight grip, as I had breached the 3000 meter mark for the first time on the trip. To my utter disbelief, not only did the Minami Alps remain free from fog, but every peak in the Minami Alps stood clear.  In addition, Kiso-koma in the Chuo Alps soared up above the Ina valley, while Ontake and Norikura sat on the edge of the dark wall of cloud. The rest of the Kita Alps was swallowed by the low-pressure leviathan. I was glad to have made the decision to stay south this trip, as I still had plenty of peaks to climb that lay victim to this evil storm system.

As I rested on the saturated rock outcroppings, a trio of young climbers reached the summit. They were part of a university mountaineering club in Nagoya. I asked them if they had been to the Aichi Expo, since it was currently in full swing. On cue, they pulled two stuffed toys from their packs: Kiccoro and Morizo, the two mascots from the World Exposition! What a better way to add variety to the usually summit shot, I thought, handing my camera over to the more competent of the photographers.

The chance encounter, along with the stellar views and the retreating storm system, kept my spirits soaring, and I flew back to Kitazawa in a fraction of the time it took me to ascend. Once at the pass, I boarded a shuttle bus bound for Hirogawara, followed by a bus back to Kofu and a long train ride back to Osaka. The Minami Alps were almost completely conquered: I only had the southernmost peaks of Tekari and Hijiri remaining. As fate would have it, they ended up being peaks #99 and #100, which probably says something about my affinity for this area of Japan.

There is a bit of a lesson to be learned from this soggy climb: even if the forecast calls for rain, don’t be fooled into thinking that nimbostratus clouds will blot out the view. With a little perseverance, you just might surprise yourself.