Mt Kanpū – Kansai’s Snow Country

The JR Kosei line shuttles Kyoto residents to and from Tsuruga city, providing a much-needed link between the Kansai and Hokuriku regions. The rail line hugs the western shores of Lake Biwa and service is often delayed in the winter due to high winds and horizontal snow conditions as the Siberian weather patterns push down from the north. A high-pressure weather pattern finally settles in, bringing stable conditions and an opportunity for a winter rematch with the Makino mountains of northwestern Kansai. Minami and I board at Kyoto station and sit on the left side in order to inspect snow conditions for our imminent climb. You can literally follow the snow line north as our carriage slithers past a bare Hieizan and under the snow-tinged ridge of the Hira mountains. Once past Omi-Takashima station, snow starts appearing on the flatlands, and once we alight at Makino station the surrounding ridges are cloaked in cape of thick white. Excitement builds with a tinge of trepidation – is there a path up that crystal fortress?

We strap on our snow gear and crunch through the frozen snowpack at the base of the mountain, following the footprints left by climbers flocking here during yesterday’s holiday. We have purposely chosen a weekday in order to avoid a bottleneck as well as to limit our chances of being buried by loosened snow of parties climbing above us. The slopes of the abandoned ski field we follow sit idle and neglected, a reminder of the fallout of the collapse of the skiing boom of the 1980s. We settle into our own pace, as I make steady progress in my snowshoes while Minami struggles with her spartan choice of 6-point crampons, which make the going tough as the snow starts to melt.

An early morning veil of cloud begins to break up, revealing patches of blue that the weather forecast had predicted. The route goes straight up the ski slopes before branching south to reach a broad spur and the start of a narrow traverse to reach the far end of the mountain slope. We take our time here, doing our best to avoid the leg-breaking drops to our left while literally hugging the snow on the uphill side. Conditions will certainly be worse in the afternoon, so I make mental notes of the terrain and store them inside my brain for safe keeping. We reach the junction on the far side and take a break so Minami can strap on her wakan. I strip down to just a short-sleeved shirt and the temperatures begin to rise well above freezing. Conditions feel decidedly late March despite this early February morning.

3.5 kilometers separate us from the summit ridge line, and it becomes immediately apparent that this will be anything but a gentle stroll in the mountains. The path meanders on a series of switchbacks, littered with the trace of yesterday’s climbers who have forgone the switchbacks on their hasty descents back to civilization. We stick mostly to the established switchbacks, except for the impromptu detours around snapped branches and toppled trees littering the track. We reach the crest of the first spur, an unnamed peak at an elevation of 562 meters flanked by an immense beech tree. A clearing on the southeastern edge of the plateau affords a view down towards Makino town and the famed avenue of metasequoia trees. We fashion a viewing bench by clearing away tufts of snow and settle down to a break of chocolate and take in the mesmerizing views.

The respite gives us an extra pep in our snowy steps as we reach a saddle and are faced with a long, demoralizing climb as we realize just how far we have to go – the ridge above still looks tiny and inaccessible from our vantage point. We push on through an immense forest of native beech trees creating a spidery network of shadows as the sun finally breaks through the clouds. With the rise in temperatures, the snow turns wet and heavy, weighing our feet down as we push through the soggy mess. A skier carefully works his way down from the slope directly ahead, cursing the conditions as he slides slowly though the weighty snowpack. There’s nothing to do except to lower our heads and push on.

An hour further on, and the tree cover finally begins to spread, revealing a spectacular glimpse of Hakusan and her majestic figure smothered in wintry white. This helps lifts the spirits, as well as our pace, as the first nippy breezes pushing in from the Sea of Japan strike our sweaty figures. I put on a long-sleeved shirt and push on through the improving snow conditions that the higher altitude brings. Soon we are faced with a steep climb on a bald knuckle of land that flattens out completely on the crest of the hill – the summit is reached!

Kanpū (寒風), which translates as ‘winter wind’, lives up to its name as we dig a bunker to protect us from the frigid gales duriung our well-deserved lunch break. The wind is at our backs as we gaze out over Hakusan and the rest of the peak scattered throughout the Hokuriku region. Far to the left or Hakusan, barely visible on the horizon, lies a wall of white peaks that can be no other than the Ushiro-Tateyama section of the Northern Alps. Who thought that such spectacles await those who put in the effort in the clear air of winter to reach such hidden heights of Kansai, which feel absolutely alpine despite their modest height of 853 meters.

After my winter accident, I never thought I could once again feel comfortable in the snow-capped mountains, but sitting here in my bald perch, I can once again see the appeal and attraction of the winter season. The key is with both the choice of the mountain and the timing. Oh – and a little navigational help goes a long way. Still, I feel completely content with just one snowy ascent a year, and what a gem of a hike await those who venture into the Makino mountains to feel the untamed beauty of northern Kansai. It is these thoughts that fill my head as Minami and I once again retreat back to the stillness of the beech forests, leaving behind the expansive vistas of Lake Biwa spreading out before us.

Snow conditions are even sloppier on the descent, but our footfalls are careful and calculated, as they should be on any mountain pursuit really. The climb down through the smooth snow takes just a fraction of the time, spurred on as we are by the promise of a hot bath at the trailhead. During this pandemic, I always try to avoid crowded places, and on this particular Friday afternoon we are rewarded for our effort by having the hot spring pretty much to ourselves. I head straight to the outdoor bath, letting the soothing waters penetrate my throbbing calf muscles while studying the ridge line we had just left an hour earlier. I will definitely be back, hopefully before the summer rains, when I can hopefully get another glimpse of Hakusan in her brilliant kimono of white.

 

 

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The Hoshida 60 Chapter 3 – The Offering

Precisely a week after my last exploration of the Hoshida hills, I find myself back at the pond at the foot of eggplant valley. The early morning rain clouds have now begun to break up and a rise in the barometer brings hopes of pleasant weather conditions as the late afternoon sun finally begins to show its face. This time, I head toward the opposite shore to my right, following the contours of the pond counter-clockwise in the direction of a rotund peak dominating the horizon just opposite my position.

The last of the autumn leaves cling tightly to the oak trees surrounding the lake, unwilling to accept the change of seasons while strong gales push in from the north in those all-too-familiar midwinter weather patterns. The dampness of the valley provides the perfect growing environment for wild mushrooms adorning the maze of fallen trees flanking both shoulders of the narrow track. A washed out section of hillside reveals a faint trail dropping steeply towards the lake shore to the east. After double-checking with the GPS, I scuttle down this rainwater channel and reach the delta of a small stream feeding into the reservoir. The track ends here abruptly, with no indications of where to go except for a small gap in the eroded riverbed just opposite. I grasp onto tree roots and propel myself up into a flattened thicket of tangled kuzu vines and briars, which dig into my undergarments and bring my progress to a halt. I drop to my knees, slide off the rucksack and pull out the pocket knife in order to clear a path.

I rely mostly on my instincts, having been in this situation one too many times in my quests to climb mountains that time has forgotten. Putting yourself into the shoes of a wild animal is often the best strategy, so I follow a game trail up the western face of the peak, using the base of trees as footholds and the trunks themselves as propelling mechanisms to force my way up the spur just in front of me. I skirt left under the edge of a rock formation and spy a clear line of sight to my target, and after a few improvised dance moves, slither up on top of the narrow sliver of land that doubles as the spur. Right on cue, a pink tape mark is wrapped around the trunk of a young tree as I finally exhale a sigh of relief for having stumbled upon the proper track.

It takes just minutes to reach the narrow summit of ⑯ Mt Hayakari (早刈山). I pause here to catch my breath and rehydrate, and half consider continuing on the spur that leads north away from the summit. Instead, I follow the path back to the lakeshore, and I am too intrigued by where I went wrong at the start of the ascent. The trail spits me out on the shoreline, where I literally have to creep along with four points of contact and hope that none of the stones give way and send me sliding into the chilly waters below.

Fortunately, luck is on my side and I retrace my steps back to the main trail without any major incidents and continue climbing away from the reservoir waters. The track meets back up with the river further upstream, in a broad wash bordered by a thick grove of bamboo flanking the right bank of the river. Here a junction with a hand-painted sign indicates the start of a spur leading up to the ridge, a no-nonsense excuse for a path that wastes no time in defying both gravity and logic. These trailblazers sure do have a wicked sense of humor, as the route seems to ignore the contours like a cruel inside joke. The footing is poor on the gritty sandstone, so I find myself blazing my own trail just off the ridge where the tree roots make for better purchase. A half-hour’s climbing investment pays off, depositing me directly on the summit of Mt Ichigaikaburi-no-se (一蓋被ノ嶺) from Chapter 2 of the saga. The air is much clearer than last week, revealing linger snow squalls pushing their way eastward from the mountains of western Kyoto.

Now I am back in familiar territory as I drop down to the depilated bridge spanning eggplant valley and follow the steep track past the turnoff for Mt Jigokudani, but this time I ignore this junction and continue on the undulating ridge towards an electrical pylon affixed to the eastern face of a prominent knob. I race upwards in the golden light of late afternoon and reach the summit of ⑰ Mt Kitasanshi (北山師岳), one of the Hoshida Sanzan, or three peaks of Hoshida. Snack time is certainly in order, so I sprawl out in the sun and enjoy a pack of Calorie Mate and the remainder of my sports drink. 

The familiar sound of a bear bell soon comes within ear shot, and who do I see but the same gentlemen from the previous weekend. “It’s you again,” he exclaims, showing his pleasure at having encountered another crazy hiker for the second consecutive Saturday. We chat as if old friends as he reveals a bit more about himself. “I’m Seino-san”, explains my kindred spirit, “76 years old.” After picking my chin off the ground, I coax intel from him about the spur leading south off the peak. “The route off of Naka-no-yama is hard to find – stay west”, quips Mr. Seino, with an air of confidence that can only come from knowing these mountains like the back of his hand.

I head south, literally climbing over a mess of construction material left by Kansai Electric, who are engaged in some major upgrades to the adjacent electrical pylon. The scaffolding straddles the entire ridge, leaving me no choice other than to clamber on top of it to reach the other side, where the trail tucks back into a thick deciduous forest receiving the softened light of the dying day.  I pass by a marked junction but stick to the undulating contours of the narrow spur, taking my time in committing carefully-positioned footfalls along the slick scree of the sunlit face. After two false summits, I arrive on top of ⑱ Mt Kita-Ibarao (北茨尾山), spellbound by the golden hues illuminating the tree-smothered high point.

Leaf litter from the freshly shed foliage covers the ridge, providing an extra buffer against the scree and making the going a bit easier. An unmarked path shoots off down a hidden gully at the next saddle, marked in red tape by a keen explorer forging a new route up these hidden hills. I stick to the camel-hump ridge over a series of knobs until spotting the signpost adorning the summit of ⑲ Mt Yoshimoto (吉本山). I wish I could know the backstory to these signposts, as they are surely the work of dedicated hikers who surely take pride in their work.

The track drops abruptly off the southern face of Yoshimoto, forcing me to squat and delicately lower myself to an eroded gap in the spur. These gaps are known as kiretto in Japanese, and I have yet to meet a gap that has been easy to traverse. They usually involved an improvised nosedive to the bottom of the gap, followed by a sloppy scramble to retake the ridge and this one is no exception. I take a sip of water at the low point and push on, arriving at a rock formation that appears to have been sliced in thirds by an enormous butcher knife.

Just beyond, the track flattens and skirts by two different summit signposts for ⑳ Mt Naka-no-yama (中ノ山), placed on two adjacent knobs separated by a labyrinth of toppled trees. Just as Seino-san had explained, the track seems to end completely, and the eastern slope tempts me to enter until I recall his warning of staying west. I turn left, where the narrow spur continues for a short while before disappearing down a slippery slope of sandy scree. Evidence of foot traffic abound, but whether they were forged by inebriated trekkers or suicidal deer I will never know. I hold on for dear life to whatever I can grasp, thorny or otherwise and eventually drop down to a river bank caked in head-high bamboo grass.

Despite the late hour, I slip on the sunglasses in order to protect my delicate cornea – yes, I have had my fair share of bushwhacking – and soon reach the water’s edge, where I hop across, climb a slope, and scale a guardrail on the side of the road in a residential neighborhood. I am just upstream from the acclaimed firefly viewing platform and am now back in familiar territory, but my work is far from done, as I have one more foolish plan in mind.

Just up the street, one freestanding knob sits just opposite the entrance to the Ishibashi track I explored in Chapter 1. I pick up the pace and reach the western face of the peak, only to find it lathered in a near-vertical wall of concrete. It immediately becomes clear that I will most certainly not be climbing it from this angle, so I follow the road around to the eastern side, where a house is currently under construction. The carpenters are packing up for the day as I skirt past their construction site, squeezing out a sumimasen as I disappear into the dark cover of bamboo. When this house is complete and the new owners move in, access to this mountain may be all but forbidden, unless you bring rope and tempt fate on the western face of concrete.

A somewhat distinct track leads me upwards to a Do Not Enter sign positioned just below the high point of ㉑ Mt Enzan (奄山) , which I soon reach. I look down directly onto that concrete wall on the western face and witness the last rays of the setting sun sink down behind the Rokkō mountains far off on the horizon. Instead of retracing my steps, I attempt to drop down the northern face to no-mans land when I spy a piece of pink tape urging me to stick to the ridge away from the summit. I follow in pursuit and soon reach the summit of a twin-peak adorned with the topless stupa marking a neglected gravesite. I kneel down and lead forward, offering three drops of sweat, as it’s all I’ve got left to offer.

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