The Hoshida 60 Chapter 7 – Abandoned

I’m back at the dam after a filling lunch of curry. So far I’ve trudged up eggplant valley, taken the steep spur to Ichigaikaburi-no-se, and followed the gentler ridge to Mt Hidaka. There’s still one final route to explore, the much-feared Botte valley, a narrow gorge connecting the reservoir and a saddle between Mt Hidaka and Mt Hoshida, my first target of the day. I take the track around the western edge of the lake, the same one I followed towards Hayakari in Chapter 3, but instead of leaving the gorge east for Ichigaikaburi, I follow the river upstream along a poorly marked and heavily overgrown route that very few hikers attempt.

The first obstacle in my way is a series of toppled trees clogging the valley. I scurry over these timbers and tramp through a thick grove of ferns past an abandoned dwelling that must have taken a monumental effort to construct in such a secluded location. Continuing upstream, I cross landslide debris along a dodgy trail with no handholds as the route rises above the stream towards a waterfall. I need to climb up and over the falls on the right side of the riverbank, but the footing is incredibly poor and I reach a point where I will need to commit my full attention on one single footstep that could mark the division between a successful ascent and a nasty tumble resulting in broken bones or worse. The ground is damp and slippery, and I freeze in place, pondering the potential outcome of a bad decision. My shoes are worn nearly to the tread and have served me well up until now, but with a 5-year-old daughter at home and the responsibilities that fatherhood brings, I just can’t seem to take that next step, so I do what any sensible human would do in such circumstances – I retreat.

Giving up on Botte valley does not mean mission over, however, as a more standard route to Mt Hoshida now awaits along the gentle ridge to Hidaka. Rather than retrace my steps back to the reservoir, I return to the abandoned house and trust my instincts: if someone built a house here, there’s got to be an access point from above. So I climb and climb, grabbing onto anything in my path along an incredibly steep and narrow spur. The contour lines on my GPS do suggest a way through, so I trust them and fully commit to the climb ahead of me. I eventually regain the ridge at an unnamed peak blanketed with an unkept mane of bamboo grass. Swashbuckling my way through the dense undergrowth, I eventually pop out into familiar territory at a saddle below the start of the climb to Mt Hosokuri (see Chapter 5).

On the far side of the knob, I once again arrive at the junction below Mt Nakao. Instead of sticking to the ridge along the ‘easy course’ to the summit, I veer left on the makimichi below the ridge and reach a junction just below the ‘steep route’ to the top. Since I have already been up Nakao, I veer away and instead head left for a rather abrupt and surprising descent down to Botte valley. I reach the edge of the narrow stream – this is where I would have ended up had I stayed my original course. The valley floor, due to the moisture trapped by the sides of the steep walls, is a lush green, carpeted by a healthy grove of ferns and plenty of bamboo grass. The vines dangling from the evergreen trees overhead bring to mind the jungles of Okinawa.

I cross the stream and am led via a DIY signpost, a creative display scrawled on yellow tape wrapped around a disused PET bottle and subsequently impaled on a lime-green gardening stake. Thank goodness the feudal era is over, or the bottle would likely have been replaced by the head of the warrior of a rival clan. My route leaves the valley floor as quickly as it enters, up the angled confines of Mt Hoshida’s root-infested western face. Pockmarked by toppled trees in places, the trail leads me around the tangled mess and along a series of chest-high boulders which offer vistas across the valley towards Takatsuki city.

How fitting it is to arrive on the summit of the namesake 51 Mt Hoshida (星田山) that helps define the entire mountain range. Interesting enough, on ancient maps of the region this mountaintop also goes by the name of Uma-ga-mine, which also happens to be the name of my 50th summit. I can see why modern mountaineers prefer the newer Hoshida moniker in order to avoid confusion. I forgo a break for the time being as the adjacent 52 Mt Seikai (星海山) beckons – it being just a short climb across a narrow saddle to the northwest. The up-and-back takes less than 5 minutes and I soon return to Mt Hoshida for a late afternoon snack. As I dig into my stash of snacks, who do I see approach but good ole Seino-san. “Again”, he shouts, offering a friendly smile and words of encouragement as I show him the dwindling list of mountains left to climb. “You’re almost there”, the vest-donning elderly hiker quips, before disappearing down the steep descent towards Botte valley. I watch as Mr Seino fades out of sight, wondering if I will get another chance to encounter his 76-year-old presence before he either gets too old to climb or I get too bored of these sandy knobs.

The encounter of a familiar face gives me a second wind as I head due south for the final quartet of peaks in the Hoshida massif. The sun-baked ridge runs parallel to the fairway of the 5th hole of the golf course. The leafless canopy allows me to catch glimpses of the tree-cloaked Dōato-mine on the other side of the fairway. It is fairly tempting to drop off the ridge, scale the fence, and race up the slopes in search of the lost past if not for the lawnmower currently grooming the grassy meadows of the fairway. I get the feeling that the golf course employees would not take too kindly to tresspassers so any attempts at an ascent would have to be discreet at the very least.

This final section of ridge is absolutely stunning as the sun creates long, golden shadows on the gentle traverse to the summit of 53 Mt Saratani (皿谷山). A fork in the spur here leads southwest on an unmarked track to Mt Higashi-Botte but I keep to the main ridge southeast in hopes of looping back via another unmarked route on my map. I hop over a toppled tree and duck under another, following the natural contours of the spur and barely notice the signpost hand-painted on a cherry tree on 54 Mt Ike-no-uchi (池之内山), the second highest knob in the Hoshida range. 

A narrow sliver of trail between thick strands of bamboo is all that separates me from 55 Mt Minami Ike-no-uchi (南池之内山). On the summit I notice a fork in the route. A hand-crafted sign warns hikers that a left here leads to a dead-end at the golf course and instead instructs hikers to keep to the ridge, which I do through a healthy forest of hardwoods glimmering in the afternoon light. The end of the spur is reached and with nowhere to go but down, my route spits me out in a narrow valley blanketed in bamboo. I break through a section of undergrowth to reach a very old and dilapidated forest road that probably last saw vehicular traffic during the Reagan administration. I turn right on what is left of the road, stepping through toppled bamboo that cracks loudly under my feet and reach a abandoned green bus slowly being reclaimed by the elements. I am reminded of the Chris McCandless story and half-expect to find the corpse of a hermit inside the ramshackle vehicle but I am too afraid to peer inside.

The overgrown road leads past two small ponds until reaching a clearing just below the summit plateau of 56 Mt Higashi-Botte (東拂底山). As luck would have it, someone has affixed rubber tubing to the tree roots lining a short but steep climb to the final summit ridge, so I hoist myself up and reach the top for my best views of the afternoon. Rather than retrace my steps back to Mt Hoshida, I drop down the southwestern face along a faint track of pebbly scree and reach a broad ridge of thick golden grasses blowing gently in the cool late-winter breeze. I somehow forge a way through and arrive at the place where I turned back after summiting Mt Botte (see Chapter 5). I race up to the summit of Mt Botte and continue on over Kunimi-mine and Mt Nishitani and follow a well-used track all the way out of the hills and into an affluent collection of homes in the Hoshida Nishi neighborhood.

I follow the road downhill for a bit but keep an eye on the GPS for an unmarked turnoff. At first I miss the track and have to retrace my steps until finally spying a narrow track on the far side of a small grassy plaza. The route immediately dives into a thick bamboo grove ablaze in that golden hour glow which spits me out into the grounds of Uchiage shrine, but it is not the fox god that I seek. An additional track branches off in front of the shrine and climbs through a gorgeous oak grove and I find what I am looking for: Ishihōden burial mound.

Built in the late Kofun era, the stone tomb is the only one of its kind in the northern part of what was known as the Kawachi province. Excavations near the tomb revealed pottery fragments dating from the mid-7th century, but little else is known about the burial mound, including who was once buried inside. It is generally agreed that someone of great importance and stature was interred here due to the painstaking efforts of design and construction of the tomb, whose entrance faces west toward Osaka city.

After a quick look around, I retreat back to the grassy plaza and continue walking down the paved road until reaching a bridge spanning a deep gully. On the far side of the bridge is a modern apartment complex built snug against a curvy hillock smothered in bamboo. A signpost adjacent to the apartment building indicates that it is private property and that entrance is prohibited to those not residing in the structure, so I wait for a gap in the traffic and take off in a sprint past the sign and adjacent building and scale a set of log stairs built into the hillside. Once inside the bamboo grove, I follow a green barbed-wire chain-link fence to find the signpost for the 110m-high 57 Mt Onna (女山) or female peak. Why someone would barricade their overgrown forest of bamboo is beyond me, but some landowners have a propensity to be incredibly possessive. In order to avoid being discovered, I drop down the northern side of the peak and slip out into a quiet neighborhood of homes whose residents are likely engaged in their evening meal rituals. 

The sun has now hit the horizon, but my next peak lies on this same road just to the north, so I walk back to the main road and past the Fresco supermarket towards another grove of bamboo. My next peak is also on private land and my initial planned approach is from a vacant lot from the east, but wouldn’t you know it – a man it out there with his digger excavating the land for no apparent reason. Maybe he heard I was coming and just decided to thwart my progress instead. This forces me to walk around to the western face to reach an access point through a farmer’s field. Again I wait for a break in the traffic and then sprint up through the network of fallow land and duck into the bamboo grove and climb to the top of a steep hill to find a signpost for 58 Mt Katano (交野山), which is just 83 meters above sea level. Despite the absurdly low altitude, there is actually a triangulation point here and a signpost indicating that the knob is also known as Ōtani.

I run back through the fields under the guise of dusk, escaping the wrath of the locals and continue onwards to the next peak, once again to the north. The main route is from the south, but since I am on the opposite side, I try my luck approaching via the cemetery invading its lower slopes. As I walk up the approach road, I see the caretaker placing cones across the road, together with a signpost indicating that the graveyard is open from 8am to 5pm daily. I gaze at my watch: 5:10pm. Turning around once again, I pull out the GPS in order to navigate through the maze of houses and reservoirs separating myself from the southern face of 59 Mt Takaoka (高岡山). Numerous wrong turns lead to more lost minutes, and by the time I do reach the trailhead I need the assistance of my headlamp. I race up the steep hill, past a small shrine and into a clearing above the cemetery and take in the last of the sunset oranges on the horizon.

I drop back down to the Hoshida neighborhood and negotiate the various turns that will lead me to my final destination, which is marked by a long, steep, stone stairway through a park. I ascend to the top to reach a road and playground, and just to my left I discover a shrine gate sitting in front of a large stone stupa flanked on either end by two rusty metal lanterns. Affixed by wire to a tree next to the gate, I find the signpost for 69m-high 60 Mt Shingu (新宮山), the lowest of the Hoshida 60 and my official end of the road. In the Muromachi period, there were two sanctuaries built upon this hilltop: a Buddhist temple called Aizenritsuin and a Shintō space by the name of Shinguyama Hachimangu. Both fell victim to the separation of Buddhism and Shintō at the beginning of the Meiji era and now all that is left is this stupa which gives visitors a tiny taste of what used to be. 

With the Hoshida 60 (map here) now complete, I return home but still can’t shake the ghosts of Komatsuji temple from my mind. A proper investigation is necessary in order to provide proper closure to the saga. Stay tuned.

Read Full Post »

The Hoshida 60 Chapter 6 – The Discovery

The climbing order of the first half of the Hoshida 60 was completely random, based solely on my desire to explore a new access point with each trip, but now comes the tougher task of filling in the holes and repeating some of the same approach paths. This time, I return to the scene of the crime, walking up Myokenzaka and following once again the undulating ridge over Ishibashi, Nukutani, Sōen and Minami-Sōen (see Chapter 1) to the junction just below Mt Umaki-mine. The ridge is just as I remember it except for the improved visibility due to the loss of autumn foliage. Through gaps in the bare canopy I look out over a sleepy Kyoto city off on the horizon, a quiet stillness to the mid-morning air as the sun forces it way through the winter cumulus clouds gathered above to observe my movement through the mountains.

A gentle rise ushers me up to ㊴ Mt Benzaiten (弁財天山), a tree-smothered hump nestled up against the intimidating spires of an electrical pylon. Ah, Benten, the goddess of water, music, love, knowledge and just about everything else that pulsates through the sandy scree beneath my feet. Apart from a hand-crafted signpost, there is little evidence as to why this knob bestows the honor of receiving her blessing. In sculpted form, Benzaiten is often seen strumming a lute, offering sonic words of wisdom to those within her presence and in my walks through Japan the sight of that musical instrument usually inspires me to hum a tune or two. As I turn my eyes skyward, the buzz of the high-voltage power lines stringing overhead brings that early-80s Eddy Grant tune to mind, and now I can’t get that silly song out of my head. Oh no indeed.

Fortunately that walk down electric avenue is short-lived, as a rock formation further along the ridge snaps me back to reality, intrigued by the placement of the boulders as they cling comfortably to the contours of the land. Were these rocks simply a natural feature of the land, or were they placed here to serve as the foundation of a long-lost structure? A signpost affixed to an oak tree soon answers my internal inquiry, for I am now standing on the ruins of the Kita-no-shomon (北の小門) or small northern entrance gate to Komatsu Temple.

At the top of the next rise, an illustrated signboard atop ㊵ Mt Ibarao (茨尾山) provides that eureka moment. These very hills are the setting for Komatsuji, a large Shingon temple founded in the year 846, just a decade after Kukai’s eternal sleep. Kukai himself was appointed head priest of Toji in southern Kyoto in 823. At that time, Koyasan has just been founded, but perhaps Kukai was eyeing another mountaintop retreat a lot closer to the ancient capital. As Kukai died before the completion of Komatsuji, the work was probably undertaken by one of his disciples at Toji. The geographical location makes sense – you can clearly see the Hoshida mountains from Toji Temple, and it’s only a day’s walk from the ancient capital. The temple itself thrived during the coming centuries before finally falling into ruin in 1703.

The revelation literally gives me pause. I rest on the summit of Mt Ibarao and pull out my paper map of the region together with a list of the mountains. Everything starts to make sense: the Amida Nyorai statue of eggplant valley, the peak name of Bentaizan, the incredibly steep mountain tracks – they are all the hors d’oeuvre to the main course. All of these mountain trails are just sandō (参道) or approach paths for Komatsuji. The surrounding knobs form a lotus pattern around the main temple complex, which is now hidden among the 20th century scars of an adjacent golf course. In fact, the location of the original main hall (hondō) sits atop Mt Komatsu, directly in the middle of the links. From the summit of Mt Ibarao, a stone path led to the main temple gate at a saddle where the fairway of hole #4 now sits. The contours continue on the other side of the fairway to the summit of Komatsu, which has now been renamed Dōato-mine (堂跡嶺), one of the Hoshida 60. This complicates matters, for it now appears that I need to cross over the fairway in order to explore the temple ruins.

I continue following the ridge, within earshot of the golfers in the fairway hidden to my left, and the next bump on the route is the western peak ㊶ Mt Nishi-Ibarao (西茨尾山) of the Ibarao chain of knobs. This is the last of the unclimbed peaks on the range, but rather than turn back just yet, I climb to the top of the next hill to take in the views and an early lunch at Mt Kitasanshi (北山師岳), one of the peaks I summited back in Chapter 3. With my linking up of trails now complete, I return up and over Ibarao and drop down to the stream below the junction of Umaki-mine and back up to the summit of Mt Ōtani. In my first visit to Ōtani I headed east towards the suspension bridge but now my attention is devoted to the ridge running south along the border of the golf course. The track loses altitude abruptly, arriving at a kiretto and a heavily eroded hillside on the far side of the gap. I find some tape marks just off the ridge on the western face of the slope and scramble on up to ㊷ Mt Minami-Ōtani (南大谷山) through a section of untamed bamboo grass threatening to conceal the route.

This is one of the more pleasant ridge lines in the Hoshida mountains, without the strenuous up-and-down scrambling prevalent in the rest of the range. It simply becomes a matter of strolling along the ridge, summiting peak after peak in clockwork fashion like Christmas lights strung together on the eaves of a house. They come in quick succession, starting with ㊸ Mt Higashi-Komatsu (東小松山) or eastern peak of the namesake temple situated directly opposite my position, the golf fairways blocking direct access. Just a few minutes further on, clocking in at 284.2 meters in elevation, is ㊹ Mt Habushi (羽伏山) which happens to be the tallest peak in the entire Hoshida range, but registers as nothing more than an indiscreet bump on this undulating ridge. 

At points along the route, the track hovers just a few meters above the golf course, affording views of the green of Hole No. 1 and the clubhouse further down the slope. A waist-high wire fence has been erected around the entire perimeter of the golf course: it not only serves to keep the wild boar off the fairways but also prevents irate golfers from attacking rouge hikers as they deliver harsh critiques of their poor swinging posture. Golf is far from my mind, however, as my lunch has now fully digested itself and it looking to make some space among my crowded intestines. That can only mean one thing: I need to move. I can barely remember much about the next peak except for the tongue twister of the name as I scurry past ㊺ Mt Fumiwari-ishi (踏割石山). The name seems to suggest a split boulder nearby but my bowels are threatening to split my trousers in two, so I assume a rather awkward gait with a clinched sphincter. Part of me just wants to jump the fence and use the facilities at the club house but rather than create an international incident, I want to keep my anonymity a bit longer.

㊻ Kineyama (木根山) and ㊼ Mt Jizō-ga-ya (地蔵ヶ谷山) are both bewildering, for I can see neither tree roots nor Jizō statues in my mad race to find a loo. The final peak on this southern spur, ㊽ Mt Iimori-ko (飯盛小山) actually has a triangulation point that I nearly trip over in my haste. A few steps beyond the eastern face I do indeed find my sought-after Jizō statue standing among the leaf litter on the forest floor. The figure overlooks a sprawling cemetery quickly encroaching the foothills of the range. The trail starts to drop toward a saddle but I can no longer wait – I drop my drawers as a deep well of a toppled tree provides a natural pit to deposit my fertilizer. I clean myself with dried leaves as best I can and slow down the pace to a much more sustainable level. 

At the saddle, I slip under the ‘Do Not Enter’ ropes and into Hoshida Enchi park. I am sitting on the southernmost border on the park, at a place that Ted and I crossed on our Ikoma section hike. Had we known that a mountain route connects Shijonawate and Hoshida, we would have taken this route instead of dropping off into Nara and tramping through the cemetery I glimpsed up on Mt Iimori-ko. On the opposite side of the saddle, I cross the broad track and slip under the ropes forbidding access to the ridge. The track is well trodden despite the illegal access, through ground mixed with pine needles and leaf litter. A pair of head-high boulders greet me on the top of ㊾ Mt Matsu-no-hama (松ノ浜山) or ‘pine beach’ peak. The loose scree beneath my feet does indeed resemble a beach if you forgive the lack of sea water in the vicinity. This peak is listed as #61 of the Hoshida 60, a substitution for the off-limits Komatsu Temple ruins.

The trail on the spur continues northward, crossing an electrical pylon before dropping suddenly and quickly down an access path built for electrical maintenance workers. Back in the valley floor, I slip under the ‘Do Not Enter’ sign and into a broad rest area sitting adjacent to a gravel road. I am now back in familiar territory, having walked up this road numerous times to access the Hoshida suspension bridge. My final peak lies directly ahead, so rather than follow the well-used road around, I turn my gaze upwards to a concrete water tower on the ridge directly in front of me. Despite the lack of a proper path, I commence my ascent by grabbing onto tree limbs and forging my own well-placed switchbacks to reach the water tower and continue to the top of the ridge to an unnamed peak. Here I spy a line down the northern face, skirting around rock formations on an improvised descent to a narrow gully. I can hear the sound of a waterfall downstream, so I turn left and head upstream to find a smaller watershed coming down from the north. I follow this upwards and forge a new route up a 50-degree slope. A tumble here would not end well, so in order to better protect myself, I bounce from tree well to tree well, avoiding the cliff edge on my right and continuing in a diagonal trajectory while double checking my progress against the GPS. Sweat flows down my brow as the heart starts to race, but somehow I regain the ridge at a pass and am welcomed by a well-marked path.

This path drops down the northern face of this second mountain pass, lined with wooden log steps that assist in my sudden loss of altitude. At the next gully a broad track leads to a third and final pass and an unmarked trail on my right. I take this a short distance to  ㊿ Mt Uma-ga-mine (馬が嶺) or horse’s peak that is just 104 meters high. I retreat back to the pass and then drop a short distance to the massive climbing wall in Hoshida Enchi park. I am craving a hot coffee, so I head to the climbers hut only to find that it is shut on Tuesdays. The vending machines glow from the other side of the locked glass door, taunting me like a nasty bully. To make matters worse, the men’s room is currently closed for renovation, but in my desperate attempt to properly cleanse myself, I slip into the women’s room to make liberal use of the toilet paper.

The end of the Hoshida 60 is now within reach, and with my current pace of 10 peaks per hike I can probably knock off the remainder of the mountains (minus the golf course peak) in just one final trip.

Read Full Post »

The Hoshida 60 Chapter 5 – New friend

One week after my scurrying among the peaks of Hoshida Enchi in Chapter 4, I once again return to the eggplant valley reservoir for my third exploration of the hidden lakeside trails. It is easy to return to such locations, being just a 30-minute walk from home along a rural bylane frequented by farmers. I head west, across the top of the dam as in Chapter 3 but instead of following the reservoir I turn south and climb the hillside to reach the start of a long north-south ridge paralleling the waters of the pond below. The easy-to-follow route passes just above a secluded subdivision of affluent homes affording views across a sea of dwellings to the mountains of Takatsuki city to the north.

The ridge is gentle, almost unexpectedly gentle considering what the Hoshida mountains have thrown my way so far. Could this be the much sought after weakness in the fortress walls of the serrated edges of the surrounding spurs? The first minor bump in the route turns out to be the summit of ㉙ Mt Takamatsu (高松山), barely worthy of the short side trip a few meters from the main track. As I reach the high point and retreat back to the main route, I hear a voice approaching from behind. A bespectacled female hiker who appears to be around my age approaches, studying her GPS with an uneasy eye. “Is that the track to Takamatsu?”, she intrepidly inquires and relaxes a bit when I reply in the affirmative. “How far are you going today?” I ask, hoping that she has a realistic plan in place as it is already approaching mid-afternoon.

“Not sure”, she replies, perhaps hoping for an indirect invite to join me in a game of peak hunting. I pull out my paper map, pointing to a trio of unclimbed peaks on this spur above the lake we are now following. She gladly accepts my offer to chauffeur her along these hidden tracks. For once, it will be glad to share the trail with more than just my internal dialogue. “My name’s Naoko”, she reveals, pointing to her ancestral home in the neighboring enclave of Hoshida Yamate. Our conversation naturally turns to the subject of mountains, and my new friend is the first to admit that she is far from an expert, but I promise to keep the pace gentle and our conversation flows as naturally as the contours of this pleasant ridge.

After a trio of ups and downs, we reach the top of ㉚ Mt Sakato (坂登山) for which the kanji characters literally read ‘hill climb’, an interesting choice for a peak that seems nothing more than a steady incline on the ridge. Little do Naoko and I know that we will soon find out the true origin of this peculiar mountain name.

The gains in altitude are barely noticeable on the subtle inclines, and thirty minutes further up the spur we find a pet bottle impaled on a stake with a hand-drawn map indicating the trail on our right sticks to the main ridge, while the path straight on is a makimichi traverse below. We turn right and reach a massive chestnut tree sitting directly on the summit of the aptly named ㉛ Mt Hosokuri (細栗山), my halfway point of the Hoshida 60. Instead of celebrating, however, we push further along the spur in hopes of finding a view on these tree-smothered knobs.

The track drops to a junction with yet another hand-crafted signpost. This one involves a styrofoam food tray nailed to a cedar tree on which a black marker map has been etched onto the surface once again demonstrating the DIY ethos of the Hoshida locals. The figure 8 lattice of paths mean we can simply pick and choose our preferred route to link up with the main ridge line. We opt for what is scribbled on the map as the raku no nobori or ‘easy climb’. Easy would be the last thing I would use to categorize the hillside laying directly in front of us, as the two of us spend quite a bit of time on all fours trying to negotiate the steep slope separating us from our next knob.

Plenty of tree trunks provide just enough leverage to hoisten us up to ㉜ Mt Nakao (中尾山) that sits in a field of head high bamboo teetering on the edge of an electrical pylon climbing firmly to the top of the eastern face. This is the convergence of the so-called ‘steep trail’ that we could have taken instead of our ‘easy’ way to the top. At a saddle at the bottom of the southern face another track comes in from our left, but we ignore this and keep to the main spur along a gentle incline of evergreen oaks, hemlock and camphor which bring a welcome green to the otherwise monochromatic scenery of winter.

At the top of the next rise we finally find our sought-after views between gaps in recently felled trees on the summit of 260m high ㉝ Mt Hidaka (日高山), our high point of the day. A temperature gauge affixed to a cherry tree indicates a temperature of three degrees above zero. Naoko and I take a well-deserved break of chocolate and water while we weigh our options. Hidaka is the first of the trio of mountains known as the Hoshida Sanzan, and I suggest a loop track of the remaining two peaks of the triumvirate. She enthusiastically agrees to my proposal, even though our route is dotted on the map and our remaining daylight hours are limited.

A couple of minutes beyond Hidaka a path leads through a grove of bamboo to the south, marked by a discarded CD affixed to a dangling bamboo leaf. We follow this route through the grove and into a clearing of golden susuki grass and a thicket of dead weeds. A faint trail heads straight through this mess, the difficulty compounded by a the sprawling fingers of a thorn bush that has us in its grasp. I pull out the pocket knife and free myself from the mess and then set about liberating Naoko from its claws.

Once through the obstruction, it becomes an exercise in route finding as the bush yields back to the untouched swaths of forest. I eye the GPS while following the ever-steepening contours skywards along a narrow spur. Pulling ourselves utilizing the stability of the branches of maple and oak, the summit plateau of ㉞ Mt Botte (拂底山) is breached as Naoko and I pause to catch our breath. The peak borders a broad valley dotted with vegetable fields, the southernmost extent of the Hoshida range. Looking due west, the television antenna of Mt Iimori rise up among a trio of peaks situated just below the main ridge of the Ikoma mountains. A route from here seems plausible, but will require a bit of advanced planning to avoid that rat’s nest of undergrowth bordering the valley of vegetables.

The eastern face reveals a slight weakness as Naoko and I forge switchbacks down the rough scree, darting from tree to tree in an effort to help stop a fall if one of us should take a tumble. At the saddle, our progress is thwarted by a thick wall of weeds, with no visible way though. The map indicates a dotted trail through a meadow towards Mt Higashi-Botte, but with diminishing daylight and hydration, we make the only logical choice – backtrack up and over Botte to the more-established main route. We would have to give up on the Hoshida Sanzan for now, but the map provides us an alternative to polish off a few knows further west.

Fortunately I somehow manage to locate a track off of Botte that avoids the tangly mess of the briars and we retrace our steps back to the CD junction and turn west on the western border of the range. The path soon splits, marked by a clipboard signpost hand-scrawled in black marker and wired to a Mizunara oak trunk. We take the fork and arrive on ㉟ Kunimi-mine (拂底山) and are gifted with a glimpse of the Osaka city skyline and the fading light of day reflecting off the waters of Osaka bay. Time is running short, so we pick up the pace along the undulating ridge line to the northwest.

㊱ Mt Nishitani (拂底山) is little more than a subtle bump on the ridge, signposted adjacent to yet another gargantuan electrical pylon exercising its dominance over the range. We have two options here – either descend a short distance to the suburban enclave of Hoshida Nishi or take a side spur toward a duo of knobs due north of here. It would be a long way to come back just for these two mountains, so Naoko and I leave the main route at an unmarked junction and follow a broad spur through a glorious hardwood forest sprinkled with leaf litter. Yet another handmade signpost awaits us a saddle, so we stick to the spur and follow it to a lonesome bench affixed to the high point of ㊲ Mt Minami-Ometoishi (南夫婦石山). The name suggests a ‘married couple’ rock formation, but no boulders can be seen among the thick bamboo grass aligning the plateau. 

The spur continues and so do we, continuing our frenetic stumble through unexplored tracks of land. A series of false summits separate us and ㊳ Mt Ometoishi (夫婦石山) and yet again, the rock formation remains elusive. Decision time is here, for as much as we would like to simply backtrack and take the easy way to Hoshida Nishi, the map and GPS do suggest there is a route between here and Mt Sakato on the main spur at the start of the day. This would save quite a bit of time walking on asphalt back home. We weigh over the options before deciding on this shortcut. Remarkably, we locate a series of yellow tape marks affixed to the trees which guide us off the eastern face of Ometoishi and into a narrow gully and headlong into a 5-meter high dam cutting off access to the north. It also seems to have thwarted whomever was affixing the yellow tape, for on the far side of the gully there is no clear way forward.

Careful study of not only of the surrounding landscape but also the contours of the GPS is required here. Using my years of experience in the mountains of Kansai and my weeks of experience in the Hoshida mountains, I settle on a rain-water drainage gully clogged with toppled trees and slowly-rotting branches. I tell Naoko to keep a 10-meter following distance in case I should slip, and fortunately for us both the angle soon eases as we locate a spur just to our left that allows us to haul ourselves up to the top of the ridge. Remarkably, we pop on directly on the summit of Mt Sakato and can now safely brag that we have indeed climbed the face that gives the ‘hill climb’ its most fitting name. We high-five each other in a celebratory manner, capturing our glee on a selfie as Naoko audibly exhales a sigh of relief.

With the final light of the dying day, it is simply a matter of heading back down the well-trodden spur to the reservoir and familiar territory again. Naoko’s parents live just a short distance from the dam, and she graciously offers me a ride back to my side of town, saving that agonizing 30-minute walk on weary legs. We exchange contact information and promise to do another walk again the future, perhaps teaming up with other fellow walkers in the neighborhood who are also drawn in by the beauty and mystery of the Hoshida mountains.

Read Full Post »

The Hoshida 60 Chapter 4 – Scrambled

After a two week hiatus for the holidays, I once again find myself on a blustery weekday afternoon following the slope towards Hoshida Myoken Gu, past my daughter’s kindergarten and around the eastern face of Mt Myoken to the affluent enclave of Myokenhigashi. A series of concrete stairs sandwiched between the forests of the botanical gardens and the million-dollar abodes lead me to a crisscross network of quiet streets affording spectacular views towards Kyoto city on the horizon, the kind of hilly vistas that would not feel out of place in San Francisco. I hug the far eastern section of the neighborhood, following a row of sakura trees overlooking the secluded houses of Kisaichi snuggled firmly against the slopes of the Katano mountains.

The muted light of the overcast afternoon brings a calmness to the air, the lack of wind offering a respite from the wintry gales that have marked the change of seasons. I walk slowly, looking for an entrance to my first peak of the day, a mountain that appears on my maps to have no clear path to the top. A gap in a chain link fence draws me in, so I leave the main road like a sheepish trespasser and duck behind the protective cover of the fencing. Progress is soon halted by a maze of thick Kuzu vines. I drop to my knees and pull the pocket knife out of the rucksack and set about clearing a path through the tangled mess. Just meters on, a clearing in the brush reveals an easier access point from the adjacent road, as I am once again punished for my impatience. I skirt the edge of an eroded wash and make my way, step by careful step, up the untracked eastern face of the knob.

The first twenty peaks have provided a good training ground for my improvised climbs: I can always find a way up to the top, guided mostly by my instinct and careful study of the impossibly steep slopes in search of a weakness. Instead of heading straight up the face, I traverse in a roughly diagonal line, grasping onto pine trunks towards the shoulder on the horizon. I soon pop out and take the final few steps to the top of ㉒ Mt Konosu (鴻ノ巣山), only to find a signpost and a green erosion net draping down the more well-traveled western face. After a quick drink of water, I grasp onto this safely net and lower myself through the sandy scree to a saddle sitting just above a row of houses separated by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Someone is really doing their best to keep the hikers out.

Despite the awkward access, the leaf-littered path is easy to follow and pleasant on both the eyes and the feet, though it is likely a viper death trap in the summer season. With the abundance of both hornets and snakes, I am grateful for my decision to climb during the colder months of the year, determined as I am to complete the remaining two-thirds of the peaks before the return of the beasts. I continue through the elongated saddle, which spits me out onto an angled face accompanied by the gold tints of patches of eulalia grass lining both sides of the narrow track. It is just a five-minute scramble to reach the summit of the 192m ㉓ Mt Nandan (南谷山) and the bird’s-eye peek into the patchwork of affluent homes of Myokenhigashi. 

A proper track my route now becomes, along a heavily eroded spur paralleling a network of rusty, half-buried water pipes with manholes covering the maintenance access points. This piques my interest, as I run through scenarios in my head as to why there would be a need for water up here. My question is soon answered at the crest of the next rise, with a circular signage in red for fire hydrant affixed to a maple tree above a rectangular valve box cover sitting on the forest floor. Forest fire scenarios now run through my head as I continue plodding along, reaching a monster of a concrete water tank constructed smack dab in the middle of the spur.

The GPS indicates an unmarked junction here, so I turn east down a series of fake log steps and over a fixed rope and ‘No Trespassing’ sign to arrive inside of the Hoshida Enchi park. The public green space sports a spider’s web of well-maintained paths fanning out from an immense suspension bridge spanning a narrow valley between the mountain ridges. The bridge itself is your typical bubble-era concrete monolith, attracting throngs of tourists in the autumn season who seek a selfie to satisfy their Instagram addictions. By a simple act of luck, I am here on a Tuesday, when the bridge is shuttered and my only companions are a pair of tits (the bird, mind you – get your head out of the gutter) that flitter among the trees. I take a quick gander at the bridge and retreat back to the forbidden path, which continues on the opposite side of the spur along an additional roped-off trail.

I slip under the rope and scale the stairs to reach a second water tank, looking much like a twin of the water receptacle sitting on the opposing ridge. These must surely be a lifesaver in the event of a forest fire, if the pipework is still in working order that is. The undulating spur is a pleasant walk, along an avenue of hardwoods and pine trees flanking both sides of the narrow path. Leaf litter and browned pine needles cushion the feet, and the tree-covered  ㉔Takeru-ga-mine (哮ヶ峰) soon comes into view. Translating as ‘howl or roar’, the name is an intriguing choice, for there are definitely no tigers in the vicinity, but perhaps in ancient times a wolf or two scrambled up this hidden knob to relay a message to the hungry pack waiting below.

Unfortunately the track dead ends here, so I am forced to head back the way I had come and retrace my steps to the first water tower and turn left along a spur heading southwest towards the main Hoshida ridge line. Through gaps in the trees I can just about make out the buildings of southern Kyoto through the overcast haze as I flow effortlessly over the crests and troughs. My mind enters what I call the tozan trance, where you reach a climbing rhythm and can totally space out on obscure thoughts, or, on this particular afternoon, on thoughts of Cookie Monster and his quest for chocolate cookies.

And of course when that furry muppet comes into your head, you just can’t shake the thought and will even start speaking in cookie tongues. Me reach the top of the cookie summit of ㉕ Mt Hinami (日南山) and I snap out of my sugary trance, only to be possessed by the spirits of Grover, Miss Piggy and Fozzie as I engage in an internal three-way dialogue, which haunts me until the top of the adjacent spur and my third water tank of the day. I now running through the logistics in my head, of how these water storage facilities could have been constructed in such an inaccessible place. 

Route-finding now takes center stage at the spur soon becomes overgrown, with a great deal of toppled trees blocking forward momentum. I slither in and out of the unkept mess and reach a split in the spur. I check the maps and realize a bit of a detour is necessary, so I continue due west over a series of false summit until finally topping out on  ㉖ Mt Anamushi (穴虫山), the peak of the insect hole. I wonder if this name refers to the most notorious insect living in holes, the Asian giant hornet. Thankfully they hibernate in the winter. I backtrack and take the southern fork and immediately start losing altitude in a sort of freefall down to another kiretto, the sort of sketchy scrambling that is now becoming a trademark of the Hoshida mountains.

At the bottom of the gap I stare up at a wall of broken ridge directly in front of me, but my eyes spy a way through by scrambling up a slope of sandy scree on the western face. I retake the spur further on, treading carefully to avoid the dizzying drops eastward until I finally breach 200 meters of altitude for the first time today. The angle continues to crescendo until I can go no higher and I stand on the brow of the tongue-twisting ㉗ Mt Shōbugataki (菖蒲が滝山). I strain my ears and can dimly make out the sound of the falls in the valley directly below. 

A metal signpost appears a bit further on, delineating this route as the Ōtani Hiking Course, which from my research actually predates the construction of the Hoshida Enchi park. What it must have been like to walk these hills in the days before a touristy suspension bridge and the placement of electrical pylons. At least we can still cherish what remains – a pristine forest devoid of cedar plantations. The path here seems better traveled, possibly due to whoever created the Ōtani trail. The undulating bumps are a pleasure to traverse and I quicken the pace knowing that just one more knob remains on the itinerary. And here it comes, the glorious ㉘ Shiramine (白峯) and the wonderful addition of a hand-crafted seat bolted to the remnants of a wilted tree stump.

It is just a few steps further along to drop out of the ‘forbidden’ zone and back under the ropes to reach the junction below Koban-no-mine in Chapter 1 of the tale. I rest here in familiar territory and descend down the track back to the Myoken neighborhood. Before I reach civilization, I make one last side trip through the ramshackle temple complex of Eitokuji buttressed between two steep valley walls. The path through the labyrinth follows a small stream, past a series of Buddhist scriptures etched into tablets until dead-ending at a cliff face and the modest Shōbugataki falls. A changing room adjacent to the chute is a testament to the esoteric rituals taking place under the waterfalls. Intel about this sanctuary is scarce, and with no one in the vicinity to fill in the holes, the origins and affiliations of this temple will remain a mystery.

Read Full Post »