The forecast wasn’t looking good. Rain and cloud marks on the horizon for the next several days, but some unseen force seemed to propel me onto that overnight train bound for Hakuba in early October. The assignment? A 3-day traverse up to Mt. Shirouma and along the ridge to Mt. Karamatsu before descending via Happo-One ski resort.

The peaks were engulfed in thick cloud as I boarded the bus for Sarukura, the starting point for one of the more popular routes up to the summit. The bus was only about a quarter-full, thanks no doubt to the foul weather and lateness of the season. After stretching my muscles and exhuming the winter coat inadvertently buried at the very bottom of my oversized pack, I headed up the trail just to the left of the large mountain hut. The path, much to my surprise, turned into a long, gravel forest road which carved its way past concrete waterfalls, dams, and other man-made atrocities. The rain was calm but steady, and I was thankful for buying the new pack the previous day. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally reached the end of the road and onto the trailhead proper. First stop: Hakuba-jiri hut.

The rest area inside the hut was warm and absolutely inviting as I drank warm cocoa and studied the maps. I knew that soon I’d be entering the Dai-sekkei, a enormous year-round snow field requiring crampons for safe passage. Anyone who lived in Japan in 2003 will remember the difficulty of finding winter hiking equipment, as I had to visit 3 different outdoor shops to find what I needed: a sturdy pair of 6-pointers that would become the single most important piece of equipment in my kit during the coming years. At the hut I couldn’t help noticing that every single rafter and floorboard were numbered and seemed to fit together like an intricate jigsaw puzzle. “We dismantle the hut every year to prevent avalanches from wiping it out,” confessed one of the hut employees upon my polite inquiry. “We’re to start dismantling as soon as the weather clears.”

I worked my way to the start of the snow field, anxious to try out the new crampons. The snow had formed an gargantuan melt-freeze layer several meters thick, and my new equipment sure made things easier. The Lonely Planet guys are nuts when they said crampons weren’t necessary. Obviously they’d never done the hike this late in the season.

Up and up through the eternal valley of snow I marched, impressed with the majestic interplay of the rocks, snow, autumn foliage and cloud cover. The rain eased enough to allow me to capture a few snaps of the misty scene surrounding me.

Eventually the path disappeared into thick cloud cover, but the scuff-marks in the snow were easy enough to make out. Hitting the upper reaches of the crumbling snow wall, I found the real path marked with yellow circles diligently painted on the slippery rocks. It was now well past noon, and scores of other hikers had made their way off the mighty peak. “There’s no view today,” remarked a dejected outdoorsman. “The wind’s really strong on the ridge,” added his flannel-clad partner. Unabashed, I pushed on relentlessly up the incredibly steep valley, finally reaching the junction for the ridge walk.

I turned right, immediately passing the deserted campground in favor of the warm confines of the largest hut I’d ever seen. Even though I’d brought my tent, there was no sense in ‘roughing it’ in gail-force winds with temperatures hovering around the freezing mark. I checked-in, changed, and hung my wet, dirty gear in the large drying room.

26. In a hut that sleeps over 1500 people, the 26 guests that were lucky enough to stay on the final night of season for Hakuba-sanso were in for a treat. The staff treated us like royalty and the laid-back atmosphere of the common room is probably a rarity in the summer hiking frenzy. “Ever played Shogi?”, asked a friendly guy in his late-20s. “No,” I sheepishly replied, “but I’ve played chess before.” The next 45-minutes were some of the finest I’ve spent in any mountain hut in Japan, as the two dozen other guests gathered around to watch an impromptu reenactment of the Fischer-Spassky duel. Needless to day, my opponent pummeled me in near-record time. The only reason the match lasted as long as it did was due to the explanation of the rules, which I must’ve broken more times than I followed them. Still, it was a cultural experience I’m unlikely to forget (or repeat) anytime soon.

Only a 10-minute stroll away, I psyched myself into going for a late afternoon scramble up to the official high point of Mt. Shirouma, but quickly abandoned the idea after sliding open the front door and discovering that the rain had turned into snow! This trip was just about to become much more interesting.

8 long years I’ve waited, searching for the perfect opportunity to get revenge on this soggy plateau. My last visit consisted of rubbing elbows with hundreds of other tourists in a torrential downpour before escaping into the serenity of Osugi gorge. On this unseasonably blustery Culture Day in early November, I decided to roll the dice.

Between bouts of sleep, Kanako and I had wondered about the crowds during the 90-minute train ride to Yamato-Kamiichi station. Would the cold keep away the ill-equipped or would it only encourage the masses to go for a Tuesday drive to the plateau? I’d conspicuously kept my fingers crossed during most of the journey: what if the rain of the previous night happened to fall as frozen flakes on the summit? Nah, not at 1800m so early in the season in Western Japan.

“Odai?”, asked the bus staff as soon as we alighted at the station. “Please register over there”, said the jovial man in a freshly pressed suit, pointing to the waiting room filled with half a dozen other bus passengers. “Hmmm,”, I pondered, why the sudden need to keep track of visitors on one of the easiest hikes in Japan?

The bus ride started out non-eventful, following the upper reaches of the Yoshino river through an area of public works devastation. Dams, concrete river embankments, suspension bridges to nowhere. The Nara Prefectural government has done their finest to ensure our taxpayer money is put to full use. The 90-minute journey became a lot more interesting, however, as we reached the turn-off for the long, windy road to summit. A police blockade was set up, turning back all vehicles without chains. Apparently the higher beings had heard my silent pleas and rewarded me with the first snowfall of the year.

Anyone who’s been to Odai-ga-hara can tell you that the access road carved into the ridge is enough to turn even the strongest stomach: hairpin turns, blind corners, and gnarly drops hundreds of meters into a vast canyon below. Yet, the police roadblock kept only but the most adventurous at bay. Arriving at the rest stop around 10km short of the terminus, the driver let us out while he put on the chains. Ever seen the autumn leaves coated with a dusting of fresh, crystalline powder?

We all boarded the bus again with a sense of excitement not witnessed for quite some time. Cameras glued to the windows, as every turn brought a view more spectacular than the last. Elderly couples in an unrehearsed chant of  ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ . Up into the clouds where the bus fell silent. Did we really know what we were getting ourselves into?

The parking lot was 90% empty as we bolted for the small rest shelter adjacent to the toilets. I lent my rain pants to Kanako who’d come a little unprepared, while I opted for the double fleece approach. It was well below freezing and the humidity in the air didn’t make things much better. Still, we only had a 100 vertical meter climb to the high point, generously spread out over 2km. I prayed my asthma would be kept at bay.

“I have a confession to make,” boasted the bright-eyed Kanako, “this is my first time to see fresh powder!” Of course. I’d nearly forgotten that my lovely wife had spent most of her life in Osaka Prefecture, away from the brutal winters of the land to the north. We’d been on a handful of snow hikes together, but nothing compared to the soft, fluffy snow lying all around us.

The route began its gentle incline towards the top of Mt. Hinode, as I slowed my pace. My breathing was somewhat normal but I felt weak due to lack of nutrients. I let a kind couple from the bus ahead of me as I confirmed the location of my inhaler, just in case. Reaching a trail junction, we turned right for the final push to the summit. The cloud hung tightly to the ridge line, robbing us of a view, but the mist only seemed to make the plateau that much more magical. Even the wooden staircases took on a much more scenic form.

Reaching the summit, I gasped at the horror that lie before me. Directly adjacent to the summit marker lie a monstrous 2-story wooden viewing platform. This certainly was not here during my initial visit nearly a decade before, so when, and more importantly, why was this hillside further desecrated? The parking lot and access road are both free of charge, so where could the money have come from? Perhaps Odai-ga-hara got the idea from Hachimantai, which also has an eyesore of a platform directly on the summit. It certainly left a bitter taste in my mouth.

After a short break on the summit, we retraced out steps back to the junction. Not wanting to risk bringing on an asthma attack, we abandoned the loop hike in favor of a short stroll back to the parking lot. Considering the conditions, lack of cell phone coverage, and scarcity of other hikers, we probably made the wise choice. The visitor’s center was warm and inviting, and I had some research to do for my hiking site anyway.

“No, the trail through Osugidani will certainly not be re-opened either this year or next year”, explained the kind receptionist. Apparently the swing bridges were washed out in the typhoon of 2004 and the Mie Prefectural government doesn’t seem to have it high on their priority list. “It’s a shame that the gorge is not in Nara,” I dejected, for there’d surely not only be new bridges by now, but perhaps an entire valley encased in concrete.

A warm noodle lunch was served at a neighboring restaurant, as the clouds began to break up. If only we had extra time to stay overnight, then perhaps we’d be rewarded with a view. Alas it was not to be. On the bus ride back down we dropped out of the clouds again and got the vistas we’d so greatly been hoping for. The bus driver was not kind to us, however, as we had to settle for photos from the windows again. If only we’d had our own means of transport, then we could stop whenever or wherever we wanted. Still, it takes a steady hand and lucky timing to capture photos such as this…..

or this…..

or even this, from the window of a moving bus.

On the train ride back to Osaka, I promised Kanako that I’d bring her back to Odai-ga-hara again in better weather. “Why would I ever want to come back?” she exclaimed. “I want to cherish this memory in my heart forever, and if I come back here I’d only be disappointed.” This is perhaps the most insightful thing I’d heard in a long time, and oh so true. Farewell Odai-ga-hara, for I too, want the images of our splendid adventure to remain unspoilt for the remainder of my life. Even if we revisited hundreds of times, we’d never be able to duplicate what we’d been so fortunate to witness.

Peaks in Japan are frequently named after the shapes they resemble. I’d started my trek by scaling a massive mountain in the shape of a conical straw hat (kasa) and now, entering the final leg of the long journey to Ogisawa, stand at the base of a peak that resembles the traditional headgear of court nobles (eboshi). The sun is just starting to peak its head over the horizon as I face the short, steep climb to the rocky summit.

Chains help with the challenging bits as I pull my way up the towering rock formations on Eboshi’s shapely figure. The view is spectacular, as I stare down into Takase lake in complete solitude. The crowds gathered at Eboshi hut the previous evening have all gone back to civilization, but I’m not complaining, for I’m standing at the start of a long ridge that links the Hakuba section of the Northern Alps with the jagged peaks of Kamikochi. I maneuver through an area dotted with scenic alpine lakes, imagining how the pioneers of alpinism must’ve felt blazing trails through such areas of pristine beauty.

After reaching the summit of Minami-sawa, I drop back into the tree line, my first taste of foliage since I left Shin-hotaka 3 days ago. The forest conceals the large drops in altitude, as the path becomes a series of clambering up numerous false summits before reaching the twin peaks of Mt. Funakubo. This little known mountain affords a picturesque bird’s eye view all the way across Takase valley to the summit of Mt. Tsubakuro and Mt. Yari, and again, there’s not a soul in sight. As I fill up on nutrients and pore over the map, I spy a short-cut to Mt. Harinoki. Turn left and the next junction, cut through Harinoki valley, and climb the spur to the left. The map says it’ll save 2 hours of climbing, so I weigh the options. Option 1 – stay on the knarly ridge over to Mt. Renge, or 2) try the shorter approach. I flip a coin. Tails! Looks like I’m about to pay the river a visit.

Turning left at the junction, I leave the ridge (and the alpine views) and fly down towards the river. Upon reaching the valley, I notice the paint marks on the rocks and follow the water. The path meanders up, around, and through the rapids, until I lose it completely. Still I push on, knowing that the path will branch off up towards Harinoki any minute now. “Just stay on the north bank”, I chant while bushwhacking through the brush.

An hour later, after stumbling upon some abandoned hiking gear, I realize my costly mistake. Instead of heading upstream to the continuation of the path, I somehow ended up downstream. Faced with an extra 2 hours of climbing and the very real possibility of not making it up before dark, I accept defeat and continue trudging downstream. A sense of panic starts to overtake me as I arrive at the shores of Lake Kurobe: how in the world am I going to make it across?

My map showed a path hugging the shore to my left, but not the faintest trace remained. Unfazed, I blaze a new trail on the rocks near the edge of the water. This soon proves fruitless, as the loose rocks gave way and I found myself in chest deep water. Arms flailing, I change tack and try the doggy paddle technique. By now I’m complete soaked from head to toe with a backpack that is listing. I hug the rocks, inching my way around the unstable bits. I look up and find, to my complete astonishment, a set of steps built out of rebar embedded in a concrete wall. I reach up, pulling my bloated figure out of the chilly waters, and climb to the top. The path! I’ve found the path!

The sense of panic eases when I reach the boat landing. According to the schedule posted on the corroded signpost, a ferry will be by in 90 minutes to take me somewhere. I strip naked, laying the sodded gear on rocks to dry as I forage through my pack for something dry to wear. Luckily, the top half stayed dry and I put on a warm fleece. I checked the cell phone which was a victim of the submersion. Completely dead. I’d lost all my data, but at least I had my life. The boat came at the appointed time, dropping me off just below Dake hut. I checked in and immediately took a nap.

The hut was extremely nice, and I shared it with 2 other fisherman who’d traversed through the same river searching for iwana, a tasty fish indigenous to the clear waters of the Kurobe river. Fortunately they’d succeeded in catching a few, and we all feasted on sashimi and swapped stories. The next morning I followed the long trail as it snaked along Kurobe lake to the dam. I boarded a bus and arrived at my destination Ogisawa. Although not exactly as planned, I’d made it across 60% of the Japan Alps, crossing 3 prefectures and covering around 50km in only 4 days. Not bad for a guy with a faulty ticker.

The most direct route from Matsumoto to Osaka is not up and over a 3000m high volcano. Regardless, I somehow convinced myself that climbing Mt. Norikura is indeed on my home and I’d be foolish enough not to drop by and say hello. This justification had nothing whatsoever to do with the previous day’s soggy ascent of Mt. Yake. Nor did it have any connection to the picture perfect weather that presented itself on a wonderful autumn in early October.

I checked out of the hotel early and boarded the train to Shin-shimashima, where a bus was waiting to whisk me to Norikura-kogen. From there, I queued up for the long, windy shuttle bus to Tatami-daira, the site of a recent bear attack. The overdeveloped plateau, situated at 2700m above sea level, cuts a good 1000 vertical meters off of what used to be a challenging climb. The massive parking lot is a testament to the extraordinary crowds that swarm the peak during the summer months, but on this calm, cool Monday morning there was hardly a soul in sight.

I flew up towards the summit of Mt, Fujimi, only to be slowed by an endless array of wooden steps built into the exposed hillside. “Perhaps I should’ve done a few laps around the parking lot before setting off,” I admitted, realizing I was an early victim to the thin air. Panting like a out-of-shape St. Bernard on a hot, muggy day, I tiptoed up to the top of the peak, where, on a clear day, the conical shape of Mt. Fuji stands out on the horizon. Clarity wasn’t a problem on this particular morning. Even though I could see every other peak within a 200km radius, Mt. Fuji and the peaks of the Minami Alps were playing a game of hide-and-seek among the convective clouds.

Mt. Norikura, like its more sacred neighbor Ontake to the south, is a volcanic plateau darted with
scenic volcanic lakes. In fact, most of the visitors stay on the asphalt trails well below the semicircular peaks above. I had Mt. Fujimi completely to myself, but ran into a few groups as the trail met up with the concrete again. I didn’t mind, though, as the outstanding weather more than made up for the unwelcome companionship.

Scooting along on a concrete path, past a large, well-equipped mountain hut, I finally caught a glimpse of the summit of Ken-ga-mine, the high point of Mt. Norikura. With my body finally acclimatized, I flew past crowds out crawling pensioners until reaching the large shrine on the peak. Panoramic views in all directions more than made up for the misty drudgery of the day before. Mt. Yake stuck its steaming tongue out as if to tease me for climbing in such bombastic conditions. “Revenge will be mine”, I vowed.

After the necessary summit proofs, I retraced my steps back to the parking lot and caught a bus towards Takayama and then a train back to Osaka. Mt. Norikura definitely thanked me for dropping by on the way home, and wished me luck on my upcoming attempt of Mt. Arashima, mountain #39.

As the shinkansen whisked its way towards Koriyama station, I pored over the maps and reflected on the mayhem of Nikko. Why couldn’t I just accept the fact that I’d knocked off 2 gargantuan peaks over the last 2 days, and head back to Osaka in peace? Logic and determination aren’t the best of friends when a man is on a climbing mission.

The last train rolled into Inawashiro station shortly before midnight, and I quickly scouted out a dark and quiet area just north of the station to roll out the sleeping bag. I was tempting fate by not putting up the tent, but fortunately the weather deities continued to be kind to me. I awoke before dawn with an unobstructed view of my target peak. I pulled out my camera to capture the scenery, realizing to my grave horror that I had only 4 exposures left and no extra film. 1 photo would have to be saved for the summit sign, so that left just 3 photos for an amazing mountain with foliage at its peak on a clear, cloudless day.

I meandered through deserted streets until finding the path at the bottom of one of the ski lifts and started the steep climb. I’d like to have a talk with the cruel soul who decided to lay a trail up the black-diamond run without a single switchback, but I guess it saved a bit of mileage in the end. Gaining elevation quicker than Boeing 757, I reached the summit of Mt. Akahani around 7:30am, where the towering figure of Bandai’s volcanic summit came clearly into view. Click. 2 more left on the roll and lots of incredible scenery ahead.

The path descended into a vast area of marshlands, with pockets of active thermal vents hidden in the dense undergrowth. This col is actually the remains of an ancient caldera, and the high point of Mt. Bandai is just one of several peaks towering on its rim. Warning signs had me sticking snugly to the trail, as had tales of less fortunate victims succumbing to the deadly gases. Click went the shutter at the low point of the flatlands, as I stowed the camera deep into my pack, lest I should give in to a sudden impulse. “The last of the film will be used on the summit”, I declared.

Once out of the col, the course turned south, following the flank of the main ridge to the summit. Paint marks on the rocks were a reminder of the foul weather found throughout most of the year, but on this particular day you could clearly see where you were going. A short while later I reached a large trail junction connecting the peak with the more popular route from the north. A small hut selling refreshments sat in the pint-sized clearing, but alas they weren’t stocking film. The crowds also increased somewhat on the final push to the high point. Lake Inawashiro, my starting point earlier in the day, sat calmly below, while Mt. Azuma and Mt. Iide, ny only 2 unclimbed peaks in Tohoku, watching on with eager eyes. Snap, snap. The sad sound of my camera rewinding the depleted roll. Despite having taken the least number of shots out of any of the 100 mountains (except perhaps for Mt. Ishizuchi, where I couldn’t even take my camera out in the torrential downpour), I still have a strong memory etched into my brain, for I can close my eyes and retrace the exact route, 3 years after the fact. The power of a long but unforgettable weekend.

“Itatata”. Somehow the words flowed out much easier in Japanese in the early morning darkness of my first full day in the alpine back country. Stiff as a board from the record-breaking mileage of the previous 19 hours, I slowly rose from my cozy futon on the 2nd floor of Sugoroku hut and made my way ever more slowly towards the cooking space on the ground floor. “I~ta~i“. The pain was the unmistakable result of damaged z-band filaments in the femoral region, more commonly referred to as incredibly sore thighs. The ‘hair of the dog’ approach seemed the most feasible option, so after a quick breakfast, I packed up and started burning more muscle.

The frost clung gingerly to the alpine flora as a gentle easterly breeze brought forth the good tidings of a stable high pressure system. The stars quickly gave way to the horizontal glow directly behind, revealing two options for my first ascent. I could either continue on the ridge for the short steep climb to the summit of Mt. Sugoroku, or take the easier right fork towards Mt. Mitsumata-renge. The stiffness and soreness in my lower extremities subconsciously nudged my body onto the right fork as if in a peyote-induced trance.

The faint path grew clearer with each advancing step, thanks in large part to the phenomenally clear autumn air that brought an unusually bright glow. The trail trudged down through an immense col before cutting a line towards the saddle below Mt. Washiba’s round, husky top. It took the better part of an hour on a relatively easy route to reach the main ridge line again, during which time I missed most of what was certainly an incredible light show going on in the peaks hidden behind Mitsumata-renge’s bulky flank. “Next time I’m definitely sticking to the ridge line,” I promised.

I reached the hut and campsite on the saddle, filling up on water and provisions before starting the switchbacks up to the summit. Mt. Yari’s sharp spear was clearly visible in the distance, and I soon found myself staring down into a crater lake that looked mysteriously volcanic in nature. A little research done after the fact confirmed my suspicions and I definitely witnessed a rarity among the peaks of the Kita Alps: actually getting a glimpse of that elusive lake!

The summit itself was completely deserted in the mid-morning sunshine due to the massive throngs of people who scaled the peak in time for the sunrise. Sometimes it pays to get a ‘late’ start.

I pushed on, reaching the tiny hut below the peak of Mt. Suisho around 90 minutes after leaving the summit of Washiba. These two peaks are relatively close together and offer the rare opportunity to easily scale two of the Hyakumeizan in one day. I dropped my pack off at the hut and raced towards my second peak of the day, only to be met by a totally unexpected series of chains and ladders. It was such a drastic contrast from what I’d faced up until that point, but you can’t expect every peak in the Japan Alps to be a mid-afternoon stroll, can you? Summit photos without the presence of a single cloud – a definite anomaly in the fog-prone highlands.

I retraced my steps back to the hut, where the hut owner handed me a complementary apple. “Won’t be needing these tonight, as I’m closing up shop for the winter,” explained the grey-haired caretaker. I’d completely forgotten it was late September and I was beginning to wonder if Eboshi hut, my goal for the day, would be accepting guests.”Only one way to find out,” I said, and quickly commenced the long slog.

I turned east, entering a north-south ridge running parallel to the main Kamikochi-Tateyama trekking route. Also known as ‘Ura-ginza’, the trail I was now on would take me all the way to the Sea of Japan if I felt so inclined. I have dreams of a Kamikochi to Hakuba trek in the future if my health ever improves significantly enough to warrant it. The first major peak to scale, Mt. Noguchi-goro, is actually the same height as Mt. Washiba and the intimidating path to the top took me well past lunchtime to knock off. It wasn’t that the trail was all that difficult, but more of a matter of giving my gelatinous legs a much-needed pep talk. I collapsed on the sandy summit, breaking out supplies for a long-overdue lunch break. Staring across the vast valley towards Mt. Suisho, I now found out why this peak is also goes by the name of Mt. Kuro, or ‘black peak.’

A full stomach and a half hour of rest do wonders for a battered body, and I rose with renewed vigor. A short decent landed me at Noguchi-goro hut, which was also finishing up a short summer season. “You’re in luck, Eboshi hut is still open for business”, explained the husband-and-wife team. “Help yourself to as much water as you’d like.” It was basically a downhill walk from here to Eboshi, which took around 2 hours. Or so I’m told, for I honestly have no recollection of the path, scenery, or terrain. I’d started the morning in a sleepy trance but was ending it in a drunken stupor, choking on lactic acid and fueled by the prospect of a warm place to sleep.

MIraculously, I rolled into camp in one piece and had survived yet another absurdly lengthy day on the slopes without making any costly mistakes. That was all about to change, however, on Day 3 of what was quickly becoming the ‘mother of all treks’.

I checked-out of the decrepit hotel in the dingy town of Tokachi-shimizu early on a cool and calm Saturday morning. The dreary drizzle of the previous night gave way to stunningly blue skies, the perfect climbing conditions for knocking off my final peak in Hokkaido.

I walked out to route 274, stuck out my thumb, and moments later stood at the turnoff of route 237, hoping for the best. About an hour later I found what I was looking for – a ride to the trailhead from a kind gentleman out for a weekend cruise. He wouldn’t accept my repeated offers of petrol money even though he’d drove at least 100km out of his way to help me. The generosity of people in this country continues to floor me.

The first 4km of the trek was along a gravel forest road following a clear, swift flowing river of emerald hues, while the remaining 4km to the mountain hut zig-zagged in, on, and around that very same water source. This is what makes Mt. Poroshiri one of the toughest of the Hyakumeizan. Most people are concerned about the bears in Hokkiado, but the biggest cause for worry here, however, is drowning. One person lost his life the previous month in a swift flowing current after a heavy rain storm,while another climbing party had to be helicoptered to safety a few years ago after being trapped in the mountain hut for over a week. This is definitely not a mountain to be taken lightly.

As I reached the first of several dozen river crossings, I couldn’t help notice the wide variety of footwear that other hikers were sporting. Wetsuit booties and ’shower climbing’ shoes seemed to be the equipment of choice. One hiker went for the hybrid approach,

while I opted for the comfort of my sandals. There’s no use buying an expensive pair of protective footwear if you’re only going to use them once. I started to regret my choice on the 3rd or 4th crossing, as my feet would go numb with each ford, and I’d have to stop to let them thaw out at regular intervals.

Luckily, the water level was normal, but I can see how treacherous it would be after a significant downpour. Weaving in and out of the crystalline waters like a freshly woven carpet, I arrived at the mountain hut along the river’s edge shortly after 2pm. I dropped my gear and found a snug area near the top of the stairs on the 2nd floor of the rustic structure.

Slowly but steadily streams of climbers filed into base camp, with a few pitching tents wherever space allowed. Here it was on a weekend during peak summer hiking season, and I knew that the hut would be filled to the rafters with noisy pensioners. I wasn’t disappointed.

The next morning I was forced awake by the throngs of inconsiderate beasts who were intent on making as much noise as possible in the pre-dawn glow. “Don’t Japanese people know how to whisper?” , I wondered. I’ve been witness to this insane cacophony countless times before and I knew exactly what to do: head for the hills!

800 vertical meters of altitude was knocked off in near record time, as the last week of scaling massive peaks finally paid off. I broke above the tree line just as the morning sun was casting deep shadows in the col below. I’d caught up with the first big climbing group of the day, as I crawled at the back of a queue at least 50 people deep. I let out a loud “konnichiwa” and they miraculously let me through.

I didn’t expect alpine territory at 1800 meters above sea level, but it’s exactly what I got, with incredible views thrown in for good measure. Visibility was close to 200km in all directions, but the most striking feature of the Hidaka mountain range is the lack of human encroachment. In fact, the view was completely devoid of electrical towers, roads, villages, or tree plantations as far as the eye can see. It could very well be Japan’s final frontier, and it’s a place that will live in my heart forever.

On the final summit push, I ran into a trio of young university students with over-sized packs. “We’re the kitchen for the large tour group,” answered the leader when interrogated about their early morning intentions. “We’ve got to cook breakfast for our clients and have it ready by the time they summit.” We hiked the final 200 meters of so together, being the first party to reach the summit on that stellar Sunday morning. The culmination of years of hard work, the major peaks of Hokkaido were truly conquered in only the most perfect of weather conditions. Tears welled up in the corner of my eye, as I could now count the remaining Hyakumeizan on one hand.

I had another reason for joy as well. The tour group kitchen staff offered to give me a ride back to Sapporo if I chose to leave the mountain today. I could either head down today and be guaranteed a ride back to civilization or risk staying another night in the hut and pressing my luck for a Monday afternoon return. I decided to mull it over while completing the circuit over Mt. Tottabetsu.

The path left the summit and descended steeply towards Nanatsu-numa col. The lakes that give the area its namesake were bone-dry, evidence of either an unusually warm summer or perhaps a lack of winter snowfall. This area is a haven for Japanese grizzlies, so I sang to myself lest i should surprise any of the nocturnal creatures. The majority of hikers don’t bother with the loop, opting for the comfort of heading back the way they came, thereby contributing to trail erosion. I didn’t meet a single soul during my 3-hour detour, but that was perfectly fine by me.

The branch trail back down to the valley was the most overgrown excuse for a path I’ve seen yet. Swimming through head-high bamboo grass and losing the track countless times, I somehow stumbled down to the source of the river that takes so many lives every year. I took off my boots, opting for the barefoot approach back to the hut.

Once I was reunited with my belongings, I ate a quick lunch before deciding to take up the offer of a free ride back to Sapporo. I had a ferry to catch the next day and didn’t want to risk being stranded should an unexpected rain squall cut off the escape path. I loaded up the gear and braced myself for the 8km slog.

By the time I arrived back at the forest road, my left foot had developed a sizable blister, but I pushed on as if in a drunken stupor. This was turning into quite an epic day, but at least I had no more peaks to worry about for the next few weeks. Eventually the cooks came back to the parking lot and off we rode into the sunset.

As a brutally wet August comes to a close, I venture off into the hinterlands to knock off 2 of my remaining 5 peaks. It won’t be easy though, with torrential rain on the horizon and nearly 3000 meters of vertical elevation gain awaiting. Successfully scale these peaks and all that lay between myself and the completion of the Hyakumeizan are three backbreaking ascents in the Japan Alps. It’s going to be a tough autumn.

The taxi ride from Urasa to the trailhead was short but enjoyable, thanks in part to the cheerful commentary from my helpful taxi driver. “Look over the the right and you’ll see the remains of the forest road, washed out just two weeks prior,” boasted the middle aged gentlemen. Let’s hope history doesn’t repeat itself on this journey, I prayed.

The water source at the deserted campground had a notice that H2O should be boiled before drinking, but in order to save time I opted for my water filter. “3 liters should be enough,” I surmised, as the thick air hung heavy all around. I took off down the gravel forest road and immediately broke into a sweat. It was as if the rainy season had never departed, and I was beginning to wonder how a 1700m vertical climb would feel in such sticky conditions.

After a 4km stroll on the desolate, pockmarked road, I arrived at the trail head. A small, wooden sign confirmed my initial suspicions about the distance. I stretched the legs, said a quick mantra, and started the long, relentless ascent.

The higher I climbed, the steeper the path seemed to become. I was heading up the mountain via the traditional pilgrimage route that connects all 3 peaks of the ‘Echigo Sanzan’. Most people completing the circuit start across the valley at Mt. Hakkai, traverse the knife-edge ridge connecting it to Naka-dake (the ‘middle’ peak), and then follow the ridge to Komagatake, descending via my current path.

On this majestic Friday morning, I met only one other soul, a middle-aged woman who was on her way down from completing the 3-peak circuit. “The views are outstanding from the top”, boasted the pilgrim. I’d fallen into a bit of a trance climbing up the steep spur and had forgotten to look up. Sure enough, the sky was clearing, and Mt. Hakkai rose serenely due south of my position. “Looks like I can put away the raincoat.”

Indeed the higher I climbed, the more beautiful the weather became, until I popped out on a unnamed peak filled with bamboo grass. Luckily someone was kind enough to cut back the overgrown flora, making navigation a cinch. I collapsed in a heap of sweat and took in the views. Although the sun was shining brightly in the brilliant blue sky, my nemesis otherwise known as fog was rising quickly out of the west. I knew I’d soon be swallowed by the thickening inferno, but was content with at least getting a view up this far.

I pushed on another 20 minutes until reaching the main ridge. I turned left, following the contours to the summit of Komagatake, my 96th peak. I sat in the thick mist, barely able to move after such an exhilarating ascent. No views to speak of, but there was still one more chance the following morning.

The path down to the emergency hut was short but steep, and I quickly dropped off my stuff and checked-in. The first thing I noticed was the abnormally heavy weight of my hiking slacks. I’d completely forgotten to take out my wallet before starting the climb and it became a wrinkled, sweat-filled reservior. I changed into some dry clothes and draped everything on the benches outside to dry. I laid out all of my money separately, placing stones neatly on top of each. The caretaker just laughed and gladly waited before accepting the modest accomodation fee.

Clouds swirled all around, providing some unexpectedly picturesque scenery in the late afternoon wind. A storm was definitely brewing, but when or how long it would last would be unknown. The caretaker kept a close watch behind his binoculars, searching for other approaching hikers. Fortunately no one else showed up, so I was given free reign of the entire place.

That night nature put on one spectacular light show, as I raced up and down the stairs in order to catch a glimpse of the electrical storm. The hut kept me well-insulated from the elements as the rain fell down in great sheets. Imagine if I were stuck in a tent on the exposed summit. Sometimes emergency huts can be a mixed blessing in disguise, even if they leave an unsightly blight on the landscape.

I slept soundly as the hard rain continued until the morning. Breakfast was leisurely consumed as I casually plotted out my plan for the day, which involved a steep descent into narrow valley that offered a warm bath as bait. The thoughts of the silky waters drove me to my feet, and the unexpected letup of the rain was as added bonus. I grabbed the caretaker and we headed back up to the summit together.

Never give up on a mountain just because the weather is cloudy. It just may surprise you.

The sight of a thousand peaks floating above the drenched valleys is indescribably mystical. I flew down the mountain in an elevated mood. The skies remained dark but dry all the way down to the base of the peak, as I once again blessed the low pressure system on her impeccable timing.

One more peak to go on this epic weekend. Would my lucky streak continue or would I finally receive my long overdue punishment? Only Hira-ga-take would be able to answer that.

I roll out of my cozy sleeping bag a little before 6am on a cool September morning. Sandwiched between a row of coin lockers and a protective railing on a traffic island in the middle of Takayama bus terminal, I escape detection while rolling up my evidence. Tucking into the station to illegally recharge my cell phone in the restroom, I impatiently wait for that magic bus that’ll whisk me to Shin-hotaka hot spring, the starting point for my long journey across the Japan Alps. My plan was complex – knock off Mt. Kasa, Mt. Washiba and Mt. Suisho before heading north along the ridge towards Mt. Eboshi, scaling Mt. Harinoki before descending to Ogisawa. 3 nights on the mountain if everything went according to plan.

Shin-hotaka was nearly deserted as I started up the long forest road shortly before 9am. I opted to go as light as possible, carrying only a sleeping bag, provisions, and water, all crammed into a 30 liter pack. The turnoff towards Mt. Kasa came a lot quicker than anticipated, and I said a quick prayer to the weather gods before beginning my ascent.

Even though it was mid-September, the heat of summer still stubbornly hung around, and I soon found myself drenched in sweat. Undisturbed, I continued my lightning-quick pace and rose higher and higher above the valley floor. The Hotaka range rose gracefully behind me on a day surprisingly devoid of cloud cover. I pushed on as long as I could, opting to take a break only when reaching the ridge line. This tactic soon proved fruitless, as it was a brutal and relentless climb that offered absolutely no end in sight. Exhausted, I dropped my gear, pulled out my energy gel and some chocolate, hoping to find my second wind before my legs completely gave way. Miraculously, I pushed on, popping out on Shakushi-daira shortly after 11am. Most people take between 4 and 5 hours to reach this point, but I was on my 24th peak this year and feeling quite fit. However, I still had another hour or so just to reach the ridge and I’d just entered alpine territory above 2500m, where altitude sickness could very likely set in.

I slowed my pace a bit and increased my fluid intake. The summit of Mt. Kasa rose majestically to my left – my target for this afternoon. I checked the time when reaching the main ridge: 12:45pm. I knew I would have to come back to this point in order to traverse over towards Mt. Washiba, but when? Should I stay at the hut just below Mt. Kasa or try the impossible and actually go to Sugoroku after summiting the aforementioned peak? Decisions, decisions.

Even though I only had 200 vertical meters to scale, it still took an eternity to reach the summit. I collapsed on the peak, wiping the sweat from my brow and wondering exactly when the fog would roll in. I finished most of my remaining provisions and foolishly pushed on towards Sugoroku. As soon as retreating back to the junction, the clouds rose up from the valley below. It was probably just as well, since it would keep me from seeing just how far I had to go. I descended into a steep col and climbed back up the other side. Darkness was setting in as I stumbled into the campsite just behind the hut.

Whew, a long first day that would make my work a little easier on Day 2. Fingers crossed for more wonderful akibare weather.

The car dropped me off in front of Hirosaki station just before 3pm. I quickly checked the bus schedule: 3:05pm departure for Dake-onsen. Not in time for the last shuttle bus to the 8th stage, but it would have to do. At the hot spring, I walked up the road with my thumb outstretched. 20 minutes later a kind woman stopped and gave me a lift to the toll gate. I pressed on, speaking with the attendant about the frequency of vehicles. She provided me an answer that almost gave me a coronary: “the toll road closes in 5 minutes, so I doubt anyone will be coming this way.”

As I stood there in shock, wondering how long it would take me to walk up a meandering toll road, I heard a small rumble from behind. I turned my head, rubbed my eyes twice and pinched myself to see if I were dreaming, for here came a red Toyota Corolla up to the toll booth. I quickly went to work, offering to split the fare with the driver in exchange for a ride. I was back in business!

The 8th station was nearly deserted as I put on my pack for the 20 minute hike to the 9th stagepoint. The sky was a bit overcast, with menacing clouds swirling just below. My map had an emergency hut marked at the trail junction to the traditional approach and I went to investigate. Small and cozy, the concrete bunker provided a dry roof overhead but not much else. Regardless, I dropped off my pack and headed up the ridiculously steep trail to the summit.

I’d made my goal of reaching the top of my second peak in one day, but the adventure was far from over. I found to my great surprise that there was an emergency hut directly on the summit that was unmarked on my map. It was in much better condition than the one I’d left my pack in, and it was completely deserted. The weather looked like it might hold out, and the panoramic views left me with only one decision: go back down and get the pack!

I retraced my steps and decided to leave the tent and other non-essentials in the first hut in order to lighten my load. Stove, check. Sleeping bag, roger. Water. WATER! In all my haste in racing to the summit I’d forgotten to fill up at the parking lot! Auugghhh! Not to fear, as a water source was clearly marked on the trail directly in front of me. But how far to the water source? Could I make it back before dark? These questions raced through my head as I scrambled down the dry gully.

150 vertical meters later I’d found what I was looking for, and filled up 3 liters of refreshing liquid. Sweat was pouring off of my forehead, as I still had to climb back up to the first hut, retrieve my belongings, and scramble back up to the top in time to watch the sunset.

My legs were quickly becoming gelatinous on the final summit push. All of that brisk walking around Hakkoda and my hasty decisions on Iwaki were starting to take their toll. My pace slowed to a crawl, and the last few steps seemed to take an eternity. Still, I’d done it. The timing was impeccable, as the sun broke through the clouds as soon as I’d set down my gear. The light show began. I cooked up some pasta as the sun began to sink.

Lower

and lower

and lower, until it sat on the edge of the Pacific. The tip of Hokkaido was clearly visible in the distance, as were the endless rows of pristine mountain ranges. Between myself and the setting sun lie the Shirakami mountains, some of the most unspoilt wilderness in this vast land. Mt. Iwate rose way off towards the south, and the first lights of Hirosaki and Aomori cities twinkled far, far below. Here I was, completely alone. “Hitori-jime!”, I shouted, which can be translated as “mine, all mine.”

I sat on the steps of the summit shrine, filling my belly with nutrients and observing the onset of darkness. The night was as calm as any I can remember. It’s hard to believe I was so close to civilization, yet so far removed as if on another planet. I gazed out towards Aomori city just in time to see the colorful light show. Scarlet flashes of light raced towards the sky, exploding in intricate circular arrays. The Nebuta fireworks festival was in full swing, and here I was with a bird’s eye view from 1600 meters above the valley floor. It doesn’t get much better than this.

I awoke well before dawn and stumbled back out towards the shrine steps. The cities of Aomori and Hirosaki still shimmered in the warm summer air as the horizon began to awaken. As long as I live I will never grow tired of watching the sunrise and sunsets, and I can think of no greater joy than witnessing the phenomena from the summit of a wonderful mountain.

Saying farewell to the rocky summit was one of the most difficult things I’ve done in a while, but I wanted to leave with an unspoilt image in my mind. In just a few hours, the peak would be crawling with hoards of daytrippers who’d opted to take the chair lift up. I wanted to avoid all of the mayhem, so I slipped quietly down the gully towards Iwaki shrine, past rotting snowfields and glorious mountain flora. The path was steep, slippery, and exposed, giving me an unexpected workout with the weight of my full pack. Once in the forest things became much easier, until finally arriving at the trailhead of the most traditional route up the peak.

With the peaks of Aomori Prefecture behind me, I set my sights on the volcanic peaks of Iwate prefecture. Next stop: Hachimantai.