A Visual Addition

Well, I finally decided to get with the 21st century and have started creating visual content to go along with these written tozanlogues. Don’t fret—I will still continue to document my trip reports on this blog as I continue to catch up on two decades’ worth of hiking escapades. Feel free to follow the progress on my new channel if you’re interested.

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Takashima Trail – Section Hike Finale

Fueled by the momentum of Day 7, Ted and I head out on the backroads to Makino exactly a week later, under perfect azure skies and a stable high pressure system. This time around, we play it smart and come armed with two vehicles. Hisao and Yasu are en route from Nagoya and we set a rendezvous point of Kunizakai ski resort, the terminus of the Takashima Trail. Ted parks the car in the dirt parking lot of a shrine about 100 meters from the ski lift entrance and Hisao chauffeurs us to the sprawling lawns of Makino Kōgen.

Hikers mill about, drawn to the blazing foliage above the golden grasses of the plateau. A large SUV pulls into its parking space among a dozen or so other vehicles spread out among the campground lawn as the tent city begins to spring to life. The driver seems content with forking over the 5000 yen fee for a night’s tent accommodation, as the pandemic price gauging continues unabated. Our motley crew of hikers is happy with leaving the car camping world behind as the track ascends a series of log steps and ducks into the forest proper.

I am once again in familiar territory, having taken this route on two separate occasions, but the scenery and beauty of the tranquil forest never fails to impress. Ted, Hisao, Yasu and I chat casually, catching up on life as our track enters a tunnel of lightly tinted oaks beginning to show signs of chlorophyll depletion. Further on, a lone hardwood, ablaze in a brilliant reddish-orange tint sends us scrambling for our cameras. We keep a brisk, somewhat sweaty pace before reaching a rest gazebo, where we shed a layer and rehydrate. Spirits are high and how can they not be when blessed but such stunning autumn weather.

Our route edges us closer to a mountain stream, and once past a small concrete dam we enter the world of the mighty beech. Only the distant view of a giant electrical pylon standing guard on the ridge high above can detract from the natural splendor. As we reach 500 meters of elevation the forests come alive in color. Through long switchbacks, I quiz Ted about his red-green color blindness, intrigued about what he perceives through his ocular filter. While I am spellbound by nature’s brilliant spectacle, Ted sees things through a more muted color spectrum, something that I have difficulty fathoming. Perhaps if you are born with the condition you just learn to live with it. Now, that could work in Ted’s favor, as he wouldn’t have to waste money paying for overpriced temples during the momiji season.

As we inch our way closer to the ridge and the Takashima Trail, we push through the virgin beech forest awestruck by its sheer beauty. Catching the trees before they lose their foliage is tricky, for the leaves turn a brilliant yellow for just a short time before becoming brown and falling to the forest floor in the steady November breezes. While the oaks and maples show off their foliage, the beech have already laid down for winter, but it sure beats tramping through a forest of monocultural cedar. Many thanks go out to the residents of Makino village for not selling their woods to the plantation lords.

The forest eventually thins as we pass directly under an electrical pylon and onto a broad ridge leading to Awagaragoe (6). A quick turn right and a short climb takes us back up to Mt Akasaka (5) and its brilliant views across Lake Biwa out to Mt Ibuki. Although the 824m peak is already in bare-branch winter mode, the bald summit offers a rare chance to look down upon the autumn foliage from above.

Ted takes the lead as we drop off the northeastern face of the pointy top, drawn to an even bigger peak by the name of Mt Mikuni sitting off to our left. According to the map, the trail does a bit of meandering under the mountain before reaching a junction for the optional climb to the summit. But first, the rock formations of Myō-ō no hage (4) deserve closer inspection.

We scramble among the sandstone boulders through a climber’s playground overlooking the gray waters of Biwa. The sandstone looks as if it’s been poached from the Minami Alps and plopped down directly on the ridge. No doubt a quarry owner or two has stared up at these rocks from below with feelings of greed and envy. After a bit of scrambling, we leave the rocks behind for the shelter and beauty of the forest floor once again.

Our track drops down to a mountain stream, a source of refreshment for thru hikers as the watering holes are few and far between out here on the Takashima. Once again we enter the dazzling world of reds and golds, meander a few serpentine curves, and reach the junction for Mikuni. We turn left here off the main trail and immediately embark on an abrupt ascent up a spine of low-lying trees to the 876m Mikuniyama (3) our high point of the day which we reach at 11:45am, a perfect place for midday nourishment.

On the descent back to the junction, the four of us stare out across a broad plateau and catch a clear view of Mt Norikura, our final peak on the Takashima. The amount of distance left to cover does nothing but make our hearts sink, as it looks like an impossibly long way off on a completely different mountain range. A mountain pass between here and there does offer a chance at an escape route, but for now we hold off on making that crucial decision.

Back at the main trail, we turn left and are now heading due east through a long stretch of wooden boardwalks leading through marshy grasslands of golden hues. Having a bit of flat to traverse is refreshing considering the contours we have just completed. This sense of ease does not last long, however, as the track reenters the thick woods along a knee-knocking descent adorned with fixed chains in some of the steeper places. It’s unfathomable that I had actually considered a winter ascent of Mikuni back in my winter hiking days—it surely would have killed me.

The altimeter drops as we lose a worrying amount of altitude as we finally reach a dirt forest road smothered with slippery leaf litter. To make matters worse, this is not even the main forest road at the pass, for the Takashima soon has us leaving this flat safe haven in favor of a more direct drop through a steep gully that could easily double as a ski run. With burning quads and laughing knees we stumble into Kurokotōge (2). A gravel road here leads down the valley to Shiratani Onsen, and as tempting as that might be, a quick glance at Ted confirms my suspicions that we are NOT coming back for another round. A wooden shelter housing a clean toilet offers us an excuse to rest. After relieving myself, I stuff as much chocolate in my mouth as I can hold, stretch my aching calves, and reach deep within my inner reserves for the strength to take us back up to the ridge high above.

Once again I offer to take the lead as we cross over the forest road and begin our long ascent skyward. I bite my lower lip and push through the tightness in my legs. The initial route through a gully soon merges with a broad spur of healthy beech trees. We step over a collection of scat, most likely ursine in nature as we push our way though the broadleaf dominion. The afternoon light sends deep shadows through the grove, illuminating the foliage like a Christmas lightshow. Such spectacles can do a lot to take your mind off the fatigue.

With spirits high, we reach the crest of a ridge and stop in our tracks, as a signpost clearly indicates that we have an agonizing 3.7km to the summit of Norikura. Not only do we have the debilitating horizontal distance to cover, a scan of the surround hills confirms our suspicions that we have a whole heck of a lot of vertical distance to cover as well. At a place on the map marked as Sarugababa, the trail makes a 90-degree turn and takes us due north up a hillock of susuki grass that terminates at a colossal electrical pylon constructed together with a small hut constructed for the benefit of Kansai electric workers.

The Takashima Trail now merges with a track built by electrical maintenance workers who want nothing more than to traverse the shortest and steepest route to their next electrical pylon along the grid. While rubber steps have been hammered into the hillside, the do nothing to ease the leg pain of weary mountaineers. At every step forward I let out an obscenity, cursing the laziness of the track builders who didn’t even have to courtesy to laid down once single switchback.

As we reach the next electrical pylon the four of us collapse in a heap of sweat and fatigue. I break out the map and realize that we have only progressed about an inch on paper. We veer left and then right, climbing a grassy knoll affording vistas northward to Tsuruga city and the Sea of Japan coast.

The views do nothing to lift our defeated spirits; nor do the sounds of weed whackers as maintenance workers can be seen trimming weeds from the next pylon on the grid sitting further up our impossibly steep ridge. Ted gives the crew the one-fingered salute along with a greeting that rhymes with Truck Foo, summarizing our mood in a nutshell.

With nothing to do but put one foot in front of the other, we march along in silence and climb hillock after hillock chasing those electrical giants.

Up and over three more hills we struggle, hoping for at least a view of Norikura to help lift us from the doldrums, but all we can see on the horizon is a collection of yet more electrical pylons. I can see why 99% of Takashima Trail hikers do this 80km in reverse: they can fly through this mess on day 1 and spend the remainder of their time in the more beautiful sections of trail further southwest. At last we reach a junction for the short side path to Ashiharadake, where we find the purple-suited weedwhackers of Kansai Electric. Ted lets out another profane greeting and rightly so.

Back to the junction and to the south we drop, finally away from the electrical mess and back into the lush beech forests. The contours also finally ease and we are blessed with a relatively flat track to follow as we finally start to gain some horizontal ground. We push through a brilliant grove of giant beech—easily the most impressive collection of trees of the day. Our trail takes us just below the true ridge and past these hardwood behemoths until…..

……depositing us on a paved—yes, you heard that right—a paved road. Bitumen, gracing the once forested slopes of Norikura. Where does this paved road lead, you might ask? Well, to a massive TV antenna of course. Oh Japan, how can you go from giving us such sheer beauty and such shocking development in a matter of minutes?

In a show of solidarity, we avoid the pavement and stick to the grassy shoulder of the broad deserted road. Just below the tower we leave the road, ascend up a collection of fixed metal ladders, and traverse past a second tower and finally back into a more comforting beech forest for the final climb to the summit of Mt Norikura (1). We have finally reached trailpoint #1 on the Trail, a journey that started back in March in northern Kyoto on trailpoint #32.

With no view to speak of, the four of us continue along the trail for just a few minutes until reaching a narrow rock outcrop directly on the trail, which seems as good a place as any for our final break. It is now 3pm and we have been on our feet for 6 hours straight. I throw Ted a Cappuccino energy gel while Yasu fires up the stove to cook noodles. Ted and I roll our eyes as we had hoped to just take a quick break instead of settling in for a second lunch. While Ted and I study the map, devour our gel, and scan the forested slopes below us for a glimpse at the location of our car, Yasu has not only cooked up a bowl of hot noodles, but has already finished eating and is packing away his stove. What we thought would occupy the better part of an hour has taken less than 5 minutes. We stretch our legs for an additional 10 minutes and let the caffeine kick in.

This final stretch of trail I vaguely remember from my first visit, and with the bear spray firmly attached to the belt of my trousers I keep my eyes peeled should the bear from my one and only encounter in Japan reappear. The scenery takes on a familiar tone as I click away, hoping to capture photos that I could not get during my first trip here. The undulating ridge shimmers in the late afternoon light as we set off toward our final descent. There is one last reunion with the electrical pylon and a steep grassy slope to navigate. About halfway down the hill my feet slip out from under me and I end up on my butt, laughing uncontrollably as the electrical workers have exacted their revenge upon us all.

Just past the pylon we leave the ridge for the final time and turn down the eastern face of the mountain. By now we are on autopilot, and with daylight waning we focus our attention on avoiding injuring ourselves on the steep terrain. While the foliage continues to impress, I can do little more than think about the final goal sitting just below us. It takes us the better part of an hour to reach the top of the ski resort, a fitting end to our Takashima dream.

Our journey is far from over, however, as we must now head straight down the top of the ski slopes through a trackless field of sandy grass. My quads scream for me to stop but I let gravity take hold, keeping my peripheral vision on high alert should the bear return. Fortunately, all is well that ends well, as our quartet reaches Arachigoe (0), the official terminus of the trail. After a congratulatory photo, it’s back to business as we reach the car and dusk and embark on the long drive home.

So, was the Takashima worth it? As a multiday hike, it does traverse through some of the best forests in Kansai. However, it would be a lot wiser and less sadistic to do this as a 4-5 day thru hike instead of doing it in sections, in reverse no less, over a series of 8 days. We did more than double the horizontal distance that a continuous thru hike would entail. Here are our stats:

Day 1: 16 km

Day 2: 21km

Day 3: 22 km

Day 4: 23 km

Day 5: 20 km

Day 6: 34 km

Day 7: 17 km

Day 8: 19 km

Total: 172 km (vs. 80km for a thru hike)

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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.

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The Ōhara 10 – Mt Hyōtankuzure

Iwakura station is but an insignificant little blip on the Eizan Railway connecting Demachiyanagi to the sleepy hamlet of Kurama in northern Kyoto city, but for William and I, it marks the start of a journey into uncharted hills. Hills which once provided a hidden passage between Kyoto and Ōhara before the advent of the automobile. The two of us set off in mid-December for the summit of Hyōtankuzure, a peculiar peak rising to the modest height of 532 meters and included on the list of Ōhara 10. We leave Iwakura under sunny but chilly skies as we navigate the back streets in search of the mountain trail, marked by a faded wooden signpost affixed to a concrete electrical pole by someone with a penchant for wirework.

Hyōtankuzure, or literally ‘toppled gourd’, is one of the more unusual mountain names in Japan, and its origins are unclear, but a local legend reveals that the shape of the peak resembles a gourd split in half and laid on its side, such is the elongated profile of the peak when viewed from neighboring Hieizan. We will be walking along the entire length of the calabash, hoping for some tiny morsels of sweet succulent scenery in this unexplored corner of Kyoto.

Cedar trees as dense as they come soon yield to a deciduous forest recently laid bare by the strong gusts of late autumn – the fallen foliage softens our footsteps along a well-laid path following the contours of the sloping hillside. Through gaps in the bare branches we stand transfixed by vistas looking straight down on Iwakura and further afield to the ridges on the western edge of the city.

A junction is soon reached on the main ridge, where a blanket of fallen pine needles cushions each footstep through patches of quickly melting snow. We turn left, following the tape marks to the crest of the ridge and the summit of our target peak. A small clearing provides a snow-capped glimpse Mt Horai overlooking the valley, while due east the towering face of Hieizan looks tantalizingly close at hand. William and I pause briefly for a mid-morning snack while bathing in the soothing rays of sunlight under the watchful eye of a miniature snowman.

We retrace our steps back to the junction and continue south along a rarely used trail with unmarked junctions fanning out on either side of the ridge. Our map is affixed with the kanji character 迷, indicating that it is easy to get lost, so we use our GPS devices to double-check our gut feelings as to the proper route. We know that the trail meanders in a southernly direction and after passing through a lovely section of lingering autumn foliage the ridge broadens and turns wild, the kind of untouched wilderness you rarely find so close to the city.

Mesmerized we are by the tranquility and isolated feel to the ridge, so we continue climbing a slope directly ahead where the path seems to peter out into a clearing with splendid vistas of the entire city. This is easily one of Kyoto’s best mountain trails, yet so few visitors seem eager to explore anything that hasn’t been written up in the tourist literature. That suits us just fine, as such hidden spots should remain out of reach except to only the motivated few.

On the far side of the clearing we somehow pick up the trail again, ducking back into a hardwood forest with clear signs of recent ursine activity. Some trees get off easy with just a few claw marks, while others are torn apart by a feisty bear with a probable termite infatuation. We are just a kilometer from civilization, but I guess animals don’t care about these things when their stomachs are empty.

Further along the meandering ridge we reach a junction and drop down toward a secluded shrine nestled against the forest. It only takes about 10 minutes to reach the upper sanctuary of Sudō-jinja, built to commemorate the 8th century prince Sawara Shinno. A gravel promenade leads to route 367 and the short walk to Miyakehachiman station. Future hiking parties may find it more rewarding to start from Ōhara and climb along the lesser-explored northern face of the gourd before continuing along the ridge to our finishing point. Just don’t forget to bring the GPS.

 

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The Gathering VIII

Planning an event during Japan’s fickle autumn weather is no easy task, and with a typhoon threatening to derail this year’s gathering, we all keep our eyes glued to the capricious predictions of the meteorologists. As the storm edges toward the archipelago, it becomes apparent that Nagano will be spared the heavy rain and winds predicted to batter the Boso Peninsula, so we move forth with preparations for the 8th annual Hiking in Japan gathering.

This time around, we head back to Togakushi, the location of the 3rd gathering and a splendid volcanic plateau jutting up from the river banks of Nagano city. I head up by train after work on Friday evening, arriving at Nagano station shortly before 10pm for a quick catch-up with my friend Trane before checking into my hotel for a short bout of sleep. The next morning, Miguel, who has just completed an exhausting overnight bus journey from Kobe, stumbles into the hotel lobby. I stumble down the elevator myself, grasping an unsteady cup of matcha, forcing some caffeine into my body in an effort to shake off the drowsiness. Paul from Hike and Bike Japan soon pulls up in his car and the three of us make our way along wet roads to the campground.

Rie and James have already started their climb up to Takazuma, so Miguel, Paul and I pick out a quiet area of the grassy campground and set up our tents. Miguel’s shelter is one-part tent, two-parts coffin but it does provide necessary cover from the elements. Paul’s is a more conventional set up, and since I’ve opted for just a lightweight tarp I stow away my excess gear in his tent before the two of us head to the Iizuna trailhead. Miguel stays behind to watch over camp, settling in for a nap accompanied by the soothing sounds of birdsong.

Iizuna’s track cuts directly through the Togakushi Eastern Campground, following a forest road before darting up into a thick forest of planted Japanese larch. Paul and I catch up since our late-July meeting in Osaka. Relating stories of a previous trail running race along our very same ascent path, we rise up away from the valley to a small marshland on the edge of the ski resort. Late summer flowers bloom along the side of the trail, which the grasslands take on their customary golden hues of autumn. A short climb later, we top out on Mt Menō, the first peak on Iizuna’s summit ridge of rotund volcanic cones. By now the clouds have closed in, depositing misty moisture on our eyebrows as we turn our eyes towards the summit buried somewhere in the murk.

The two of us make good work on the ridge, reaching the broad summit plateau in unexpected sunshine. We settle onto an improvised set of oblong boulders and share snacks and stories with a jovial group of local hikers. An elementary school soccer team lurks nearby, eavesdropping on our conversation in hopes of grabbing a snippet or two of free English vocabulary. After a quick summit photo, we drop off the northern face of the peak to a small saddle ablaze with autumn foliage before ascending a short distance to Iizuna shrine. From here, it’s a steep drop back to the forest, with Paul demonstrating his mountain sprinting skills down some truly tricky terrain. We slow down the pace once back in the treeline and continue sharing stories on the remainder of our loop hike back into camp.

Camp has turned into a small village, with HIJ members engaged in a variety of leisurely activities, few of which involve loitering at camp. Paul and I round up Naresh, Miguel, and Michael and head to Café Fleurir for warm pizza, tasty curry gratin, and several cups of coffee as one by one the other members of our party join us around the table. Bjorn and family have come straight from the stables after an adventurous afternoon of horse riding. John arrives after the long drive from Mt Nantai and shares stories about the infamous toll booth at the trailhead. Edward and friends also stop by briefly to say hello before ducking back into camp. I have a word with the owner about providing a candle in Naresh’s special cake – a surprise for him having recently finished climbing the Yamanashi Hyakumeizan. Follow Naresh’s blog here as he begins to tell his mountain adventures.

Bellies full, we all head back into camp to start the cooking duties. Paul starts in on the fire while Rie and James start cutting the vegetables for nabe. Bjorn and family settle into a corner of the covered kitchen to churn out another amazing bowl of guacamole. Alekh, Anna, Edward, Michael and Miguel lend a helping hand as well, shuttling ingredients between workstation and delivering prepared food to the common serving table. Naresh splits his time between the fire and kitchen, making sure everything is going according to plan and on schedule. Just as in previous gatherings, it becomes apparent that we once again have way too much food but we make a valiant effort to consume whatever is served.  Grace arrives at camp carrying her signature homemade cake – awing everyone with her baking prowess and making us full before the main dish even begins to boil.

As the first bowls of nabe come off the stove, Naresh and John have already begun roasting marshmellows for S’mores. Miguel places our framed photo of Michal closer to the fire, telling everyone about the contributions he made to the group before his untimely departure on his eternal celestial journey. Stories are told, laughs are shared, and even heated political discussions ensue but the conversation is eventually brought back to a topic we can all agree on: the beauty of Japan’s mountains.

One by one the campers drift off to sleep, some too comfy around the fire to retreat to their shelters until the embers of the campfire begin to grow dim. Mother Nature times her arrival perfectly as well, holding off on the rain until all of us have bedded down for the evening. The rain continues most of the night and slows to a drizzle as we all emerge from our cocoons.

In the filtered light of morning, the camp denizens converge on the covered kitchen area to indulge in copious cups of hot chai and an assortment of leftovers and calorie-rich muffins. Paul and James head off for a morning jog while others reluctantly discuss plans for heading back to civilization. Each year, we cram a full weekend’s worth of activities into, well, a weekend. I float the idea of perhaps trying to have next year’s gathering scheduled over a 3-day weekend, with an exciting group hike sandwiched between two nights underneath the stars. Who’s with us in 2020?

 

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Behind the Scenes Chapter 3 – The Planning

This is part of a ongoing series that will take you through the steps of publishing our hiking guidebook

 

Before you can even begin to write a guidebook, there is a lot of behind the scenes work regarding content. Tom and I had to narrow down a list of mountains/hikes to include in the guidebook, and with only 60,000 words to work with (including the introduction and appendices), we had to choose carefully. We could easily allocate our entire word count to the Kita Alps alone, so we needed to be picky.

We were both in agreement about including the ‘mainstream’ peaks of Tsurugi, Yari, and Hotaka, as well as the full traverse of the Kita Alps. However, there were a couple of mountains that were tough choices: should we leave Jonen and Kasa out in favor of Goryu and Kashima-yari? How about Kuma-no-daira and the Washiba/Suisho section?

In the end we decided to push for the inclusion of Jonen and Kasa, since they have never appeared in any English-language hiking guide. Lonely Planet mentions them briefly but doesn’t provide any detailed hike descriptions. This would not leave enough room for Goryu and Kashima-yari, but we were fine with that, as avid hikers can simply seek out a copy of the elusive Lonely Planet guide for these hikes.

I also wanted to include Yatsu-ga-take, as it is a very popular area with relatively easy access to Tokyo, but there wasn’t nearly enough space in the book to include it. Instead, we opted for a day hike near Kawaguchiko to satisfy those hikers coming to visit Mt Fuji.

Our decisions were by no means easy, and the contents could always change in future editions of the guidebook, but hopefully there are a few hikers out there that can respect our decisions and won’t deride us for leaving out two very impressive peaks. It wasn’t an intentional oversight.

The Minami Alps section, on the other hand, is as complete a guide as you’re going to see. The only peaks we left out were the ‘minor’ summits of Nokogiri and Zaru, two of the 200 meizan that are definitely worth mentioning, but probably not worth the potential risk of including them in a hiking guide. Nokogiri itself borders on a proper alpine rock climb, with many visitors opting for a rope, harness, and helmet for safety.

The guide also includes all 4 routes up Mt Fuji, which is something a lot of guidebooks forgo due to lack of space. Since Fuji is our ‘hit single’, we hope by including the minor routes it would appeal to a larger audience looking for a quieter way to ascend Japan’s highest peak.

Time will tell if we made the right decisions, but for now it seems like we have made an honest attempt at a comprehensive guide to the Japan Alps. If the book sells well, then we can always make adjustments in future editions of the guide.

 

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The Gathering VII

It’s hard to believe that 7 years has already passed since our first meeting of the mountaineering minds in the grassy fields of Tokusawa. Each year, ‘the planning committee’ springs into action, doing the behind-the-scenes work to ensure that everyone is well-fed and warm enough to survive a night out among the elements. Last year’s gathering coincided with the Banff Mountain Film Festival, so it only seemed natural to once again pair these two auspicious events into one thrilling weekend in late October.

Since relocating to Minami Otari village earlier in the year, Paul D. is instrumental in persuading us to hold this year’s gathering at Amakazari Kōgen campground at the trailhead to Mt. Amakazari, a peak I have fond memories of summiting during my own Hyakumeizan quest.

Access to Minami Otari is by no means easy, so I head up a day early to explore what this lesser-known village has to offer. It also affords a chance to ride the Hokuriku Shinkansen for the very first time, a train line that has had the unexpected consequence of transforming Kanazawa from a ‘Little Kyoto’ to a ‘Little Tokyo’. The skies are a brilliant blue on the smooth ride through the Hokuriku plains. Tsurugidake, Tateyama, and Yakushidake follow my progress through a white-capped gaze, my first time to ever view this spectacle from one of Japan’s most notorious regions for wet weather. Paul picks me up from the station and we head for sustenance at an idyllic soba shop housed in a traditional dwelling lit by hanging gas lanterns. In this part of Nagano, cold buckwheat noodles are dipped into a miso broth with an accent of ground sesame and walnuts, the toppings pulverized by mortar and pestle. Paul and I grind the spices into a fine powder before adding them to the succulent broth and feasting on the handmade strands of soba. Once the noodles are successfully consumed, the server brings a warm cauldron of soba yū to pour over the remaining broth for a hearty finale to a satisfying meal. Paul and I are both boosting with energy and head to forests in search of a hidden village.

The village is worthy of a separate blog post, so interested parties will just have to wait a little while longer for the details. We make it back to Hakuba village in time for a quick stop at the North Face store and dinner at a local bar. Heavy rain moves in overnight and continues steadily through the morning. Yuta has just arrived by overnight train and bus, so Paul and I swoop down to meet him. Looking for a place to escape the rain, we all head to Sounds Like Cafe, a trendy hangout for the local powder hipsters in the winter season. The cafe is nearly empty at this early hour, and the smoked salmon and mashed avocado breakfast plate really hits the spot, washed down by a cup of fresh coffee. We all gaze our attention to a stunning photograph of a small alpine pond with brilliant mirror reflections. We gander a quick guess before giving up on our search for the name of the elusive location. A few minutes later, Yuta scrolls through photos of his recent trip to Shimonoroka and low and behold, on a hidden plateau on a seldom-used path sits the very exact pond adorning the walls of the cafe – Yuta had been there just one week ago but had no idea he had visited the place!

After breakfast we stop by the local supermarket for supplies and run into drone-master Edward. After shopping we agree to reconvene at Paul’s apartment to wait out the weather. At the first hints of sunshine we head further up the valley by car to Amakazari campground, reaching the damp grasslands just as the sun starts to illuminate the hillsides ablaze in autumn color.

One by one our trusty companions arrive: Naresh, Bjorn and family from Tokyo, John from neighboring Matsumoto, Rie, Hisao and David from Nagoya, and last but not least Michal (RIP), who is always with us in spirit. We pitch our tents along a thin sliver of green grass and start preparing a late lunch/early dinner of kimchi hotpot. With everyone carefully engaged in dinner preparations, Naresh, Paul, Bjorn and I head to the wetlands to take in the autumn scenery. Paul forages for ripe sarunashi, the underrated kiwiberry fruit that grows wild in this region. After taking enough photos to fill several memory cards, we stroll back to camp and feast on warm soup and hot dogs!

Shortly before sunset we head by car to Iwatake ski field for the film festival. Due to the wet weather the location has been moved indoors, but we all appreciate the added heat that comes with assembling in the large multipurpose space. Just before showtime, we convince Kaoru and Alastair to join us, and Paul slips out on a marathon driving session through the backstreets of Hakuba to pick them up. He returns just in time for the start of the film festival.

The films this year are a mixed bag. Last year it was a thrilling ride from start to finish, with every film competing to outdo the last. We all left there with a feeling of awe and an invigorating drive to head to the hills. This year, however, there were a few duds mixed in among the more brilliant footage. Sky Migrations was one such letdown. While it is a somewhat fascinating look at migratory birds, it is best appreciated on a comfy sofa cuddled up to a loved one, and not really suitable for a crowd of extreme sports addicts.

After a quick group photo, we all head back to the campsite to start the campfire, but the damp air produces a very smoky outcome, with most of us suffering smoke inhalation well before the fire produced enough heat to keep us warm. Some of us turn our attention to star photography while others drift off into a shivered reverie.

I awake at dawn to the hum of a drone. Peering outside, I find Edward taking his craft for a spin. I join him for a ‘virtual’ tour of the sky above. Mt. Amakazari sits free of cloud but the Kita Alps are cloaked and the sunrise just fails to impress. Luckily no one had made the suggestion for a midnight climb of Amakazari to view the sunrise. The autumn foliage glows warmly in the first hues of the new day. One by one the camp denizens awaken from their slumber and start their day. Paul makes the suggestion to head to Kama Ike to check out the colors and most of us head there on the double. The calm air produces perfect mirror reflections on the surface of the clear mountain pond. The beech trees wear their yellow coats proudly and look down on the spectacle with an air of content. Whatever disappointment we suffered at the film festival is now lost in reflection.

Back to camp we eventually retreat for a leisurely breakfast and quick throw of the frisbee. For some reason this is always my favorite part of the gathering due to the peaceful and calm vibe at camp just before the resignation that it must come to an end. While most of camp heads to the open-air baths of Amakazari Onsen, John and I reluctantly retreat back to Matsumoto, where I eventually catch a train back to Osaka, but not before an impromptu takeaway pizza lunch in the aptly-named Alps Park, with its impressive view of Mt Jonen to help keep us company.

With the 7th annual event now behind us, it’s already time to start looking ahead to 2019 and the next gathering. Judging by our track record, it is sure to be a memorable event. Let’s hope that Grace the Yamaholic will make a much-welcome reappearance!

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365 Mountain Project

With the start of a new year comes a new social media undertaking: The 365 mountain project. In going through my collection of thousands of photos, I came to the stark realization that I have indeed climbed more mountains in Japan than there are days in a year.  What better way to reveal the beauty of Japan’s mountains than by posting a peak for every day of the year on my Twitter feed. Feel free to bookmark and follow along.

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Shaken up finale – The Walk

12:15pm

The asphalt sizzles slightly as I follow route 22 northeast past the campus and along the edge of a deserted suburban collection of overpriced dwellings. Rows of planted keyaki trees provide  protection from the blazing midday sun shimmering off the pavement. Cars whizz by, oblivious to the lonely foot soldier on his march to freedom.

12:45pm

I make good work on the elevated protection of the sidewalk, following along steadily through the rolling hills to a busy intersection flanked by chain restaurants and a sprawling Kuroneko distribution center. Here I head west onto National Highway 302, a busy thoroughfare cutting straight through the northern tip of the Ikoma mountain range. A narrow sidewalk offers safe passage briefly before giving way to a narrow shoulder barely the width of a sneaker. These roads were not designed for foot traffic.

1:00pm

Trucks whizz by just inches from my scrunched-up shoulders as I climb higher into the hills. On normal days, vehicles use this road to gain access to the expressway, but due to the quake the highways are all closed: the car navigation systems have somehow rerouted all of the transport trucks along this typically quiet section of Kyoto Prefecture. At the top of a crest I reach Kawachi-tōge, flanked on the east by the glistening chimney of a garbage incineration plant. Here I cross over into Osaka Prefecture and return to the comforts of a wide sidewalk.

1:05pm

After 50 meters I reach a fully stocked 7-11 and enter the air-conditioned space. First on my list is sunscreen, followed by a cold sports drink and a few snacks. The interior seems to have come through the quake with very little noticeable damage, though I suspect that the diligent staff had already finished cleaning up the mess before I arrive.

1:45pm

The route climbs gently before leveling off at the mountain ridge for a short while. Here I pass by two in suits walking in the opposite direction: they too have taken to foot due to the utter meltdown of the train system. Thick forests give way to broad rice fields and vistas across the Hirakata plain and directly towards the quake epicenter. I make note of the lack of smoke on the horizon, a reminder that things could have been a lot worse.

2:00pm

Route 302 ducks under the Dai-ni Keihan Expressway and back into familiar territory. After reaching the JR train tracks I turn south and follow quieter streets towards Tsuda station. I notice my first signs of damage: kawara roof tiles lay in shattered fragments among crumbly leaf litter and cigarette butts. Street smarts start to kick in, though it not muggers that I am afraid of encountering. Instead, I study my surroundings carefully, planning out a possible path of escape should a strong aftershock send the electrical lines directly overhead into a free fall.

2:20pm

I arrive at Tsuda station, only to find the entrance cordoned off. There will be no shortcuts back to my house by train – I am committed to my own foot power. I continue south until spotting a torii gate snapped in two. My curiosity gets the better of me and I enter the shrine grounds. Beyond the gate lay the toppled remains of a giant tōrō lantern, a seismic ode to Stonehenge if you will. I step around the obstacle and exit out the rear of the grounds through another off-balance torii gate teetering on collapse.

3:00pm 

Continuing south, I now enter the familiar grounds of the Jingūji vineyards. To my great surprise, an elderly woman sits patiently at her stall, peddling stacks of freshly harvested grapes. I stop in for a chat and end up buying a couple of kilograms of Delaware grapes to bring back to Kanako and to my neighbors. I know they have probably been through a rough day so it seems like the best remedy to calm frail nerves.

3:45pm 

I finally reach my neighborhood and navigate around fallen debris and into Kanako and Ibuki’s waiting arms. All of my neighbors are outside, conversing about the rough start to the work week. We all have our own stories, especially those stuck in Osaka city who, like me, had to improvise their way home. As we chat, with smiles of relief for everyone safely accounted for, the pavement beneath our feet rises up-and-down as if we are all standing on a trampoline. A magnitude 4 aftershock sends vertical seismic waves through our bodies. Little do we know that the coming weeks are about to become a whole lot shakier.

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Shaken up – part 3

8:08am

After the tears dry I pull myself together and look through class materials, knowing that I will have no need for these today but convincing myself that taking my mind of the unfolding catastrophe will somehow help.

8:30am

The first administrative staff arrive at school but are unable to give an answer to our inquiries regarding class cancellations. The waiting game begins.

8:35am

The first aftershock rumbles through the building sending our rattled nerves closer to the edge.

8:45am

Still no official word from the administration, but I know that classes will eventually be cancelled. It’s just a matter of whether it will be announced before first period commences at 9am

8:55am

Not a peep from the higher-ups, so I head to my classroom to find 10 brave students sitting still in class. They were the lucky ones, having either walked from their nearby dwellings or having made an earlier train before the rumbling begins. One student confesses that he was sitting in the classroom having breakfast when the quake hit.

9:00am

As class ‘officially begins’, I plug in the laptop and stream NHK on the flat screen TV. I offer the following instructions:

1) There will be no class today. Please work on tasks from other courses or contact your friends and family on Line.

2) If a strong aftershock occurs, duck under your desk and move away from the windows.

9:10am

An announcement over the loudspeaker confirms that morning classes have been cancelled. Morning classes only. I leave everything in my classroom and head back to the teachers lounge to await further instruction. All train lines have been indefinitely suspended.

10:45am

I am informed that all classes have been cancelled. With no trains in operation, I head to the cafeteria for an early lunch and to weigh the options.

11:30am

Still no movement on the trains, so I do a bit of navigating on Google Maps and make a breakthrough discovery. My house is directly over the mountain behind the school. There is no trail to speak of, but a network of paved roads will lead me through the greenery home. Old man Google says it’s a 15km walk. So the journey begins.

(To be continued)

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