Iwate San

I had to tear myself out of bed - it literally felt like peeling my body from my futon. My eyes felt like dead weights crusted with sleep, the beers I had drunk before were like what ball and chains are to a prisoner. So, when my alarm clock rang at 6:00 AM, I let out a massive sigh that sounded like it came from the bowels of some dying animal. Then I sat there for a bit, staring at the ceiling, my right hand flopping about trying to turn off the alarm.

But, I made it out of bed. I sat up, stretched, piled my futon neatly in the corner, opened the sliding door and b-lined for the kitchen to boil some water for coffee. Slowly the creaks of my joints, the stiffness of my back, and the sleepiness in my eyes began to fade away. I finished packing my massive backpack. Tent, mattress, sleeping bag, food, hiking boots, maps, road atlas, pens and paper to make signs for hitchhiking, power bars, head lamps, rain gear and a towel for a hot spring dip. It was too much to climb a mountain with, but just enough for a week long hitchhiking, mountain-hiking, camping excursion.

I boiled eggs, corn on the cob, and wrapped up salted salmon for the road. I heard the stirrings of my roommate - and my ride - in the room next door.

I've hitchhiked in this country more than I can remember - countless times on the road solo, moving somewhere on a map, maybe north, south, east or west, never knowing just how far I will make it. My language skills always jump up a level after one of these missions, as well as my motivation-levels, clarity, and general inspiration for life and for living in Japan itself. But, the longer you hitchhike for, not only do the older you get, but the juices which get you up and out of the door in the morning - the juices that get all that momentum started - are harder to tap into. "It would help to have a partner to go with," I lament to myself. "I'm 27 and STILL doing this?" I second-guess. "Aren't there better things to do with my free-time?" I worry. Some of these questions are pertinent, but I still make it out the door, Kaori, my roommate, leading the way.

You got to choose -something anyone who gives advice about hitchhiking in Japan is bound to say - between the highway/tollbooth road system in Japan, or the free, slow and "普通” or "usual" road system that link the cities. For me, I wanted to sling shot myself out of Sendai and get to where I wanted to go as fast as possible, and so I chose the former. The highways in Japan are massive bridges that run the span of the country, dwarfing the towns below them. To get onto them, you must pass through a toll booth, getting a ticket, then pay accordingly when you get off later on. Getting on these things can be a pain in the ass: if you hitchhike too close, the highway cops will come, or the gate attendant will yell at you. But if you hitch too far from the on-ramp, you can't be certain that you are targeting the right cars. And so, Kaori, with her giving me a ride to a rest stop already on the highway, was a blessing to start off the day. The highways, as they span the length of almost the whole country (except Hokkaido) have various rest stops for food, toilets, and gas. Sometime they even have parks, pic nic tables and restaurants. Kaori let me off at one of these nondescript places, which was packed with cars and massive trucks, and then headed off to work.

I stood there, the lone gai-jin or foreigner, with my bulging backpack, camera case, and thumb stuck out in the air. It took a good twenty minutes or so to catch a ride. A nice family, in a good old family van. The husband was well-ready to make conversation with a foreigner, the wife moved to the back to hang out with with the two children, and I took up the front seat. We all got along just peachy. I invoked the age-old hitchhiking conversation topics: living abroad, hometowns, current destinations, and Japanese and language learning (which inevitably moves into Japanese people's inhibitions like being "too shy" and how coming from a "unique" country is the source of such problems). Then, as the drive was a long one, we moved into more complicated but never original topics, like how foreigners are more free to travel and do what they want to do as the working life is so different in Japan (the salary man topic), we even got into some interesting talks, like Japanese women versus Canadian women. Fun, fun.

Before I knew it, I had made it to Morioka. A good two hours and a bit north of Sendai, and the launch off point for Iwate-san, one of the tallest mountains in Tohoku. It's a good 2000 meters, is a dominating site, and makes up the lower half of one of the most pristine hiking terrains in Northern Japan, Hachimantai. I would be ascending the active-volcano from the West route, up the ridge line (which makes for a more gradual, but longer climb - one less hard on the knees, as I would be carrying a good 22kg on my back). I hopped a bus, ended up at an onsen, changed from my flip flops to my hiking boots and, then... took a gondola.

Japan loves making things accessible, and I suppose, when I get old and have creaky joints and a crooked back but still love hitting the outdoors I won't complain. But, sometimes this country can pulverize its mountains with contraptions, and vending machines, and cables, and gondolas or chair lifts, all in the name of convenience. I guess it's a double-edged sword, though, as I wouldn't have been able to arrive at this mountain in such a short time if the road system wasn't so great. But, anyway, I digress. I started off the hike by riding a ski lift for a good fifteen minutes to get to the ridge line. I had descended this route before and decided it better to get to the edge of Iwate-San by chair lift versus walking, as I had a good five hours to go already - and it was already after noon.

I passed some boisterous ladies making their way down, some other old men who checked with me that I was staying on the mountain that night (I grunted my "yes"), and after a dangling and relaxed chair ride, I heaped my back pack on my shoulders, and made my way into the forest. The sun was blazing down, but I noticed the low cloud cover (which would be a god-send, due to the humidity). The trail was nicely cut and had been used for centuries. I just had to put one foot in front of the other for another five hours, shoulder this backpack, and hope my knees held out and all would be well.

The rest of the trek - if you have ever climbed a 2000 meter mountain in Japan - was beautiful but like the rest: a gradual ascension through forest, to more foliage, then to a rocky, volcanic terrain above the clouds (or in them) with gravel and often times ladders for maneuvering through the jagged rocks. I was grunting after a good three or four hours, my body taking a beating from the back pack, and the steep climb - but was loving every minute of it. I must've sweat a good 2 liters of water, because that's how much a drank.

My mind moved in and out of useless concerns related to my daily life back in Sendai: when would I teach makeup classes for my privates? would it be best to try to line up all my students on a Wednesday and Friday so I could go to soccer on Thursday? which tests did I still have to make for my current college job? was quitting work and going solo a good choice?... blah, blah. But, I soon began to come out of that cycle of monotonous, no-where thinking and noticed the winds and mists which enshrouded me with their subtleness. I felt the gravel beneath my boots and my body's muscles taut with the physical strain. I was glad to get out of the urban jungle and hit the mountains, again. Before I knew it, I had made it to the eighth station, and my destination: its mountain hut.

The hut stood two stories tall, big enough for at least fifty people, with a worker tending it. I chose a spot on the second floor, made my "bunk", hung up my sweat-soaked clothes and cooked dinner. I even got a free beer from the man in charge of the cabin. Tasted so good. All food was wonderful, even the simplest of packaged items. My body was creaky, my knees were thanking to have lost the pack, and I felt great. I must've sweat out and worked off all booze and calories gained that week and then some. The cabin had a buzz of people who were living in the moment, relishing the buzz of arriving at their goal, chatting over their portable cookers, glad to be away from it all, and on holiday. The 1500 yen was a small price to pay to be apart of the atmosphere.

I talked with the cabin manager and he told me sunrise would be at 4:43 and that I would need about 40 minutes to get to the top of the mountain if I wanted to see it. I did, and so I set my alarm for 3:30. It was 6:30 now. Bed time. Lights out was at 8:00, which seems late if you think about waking up at 3:30, but my body was well-enough worked over that a 7:00 bed time was definitely feasible. And considering that I woke up in the comfort of my room, about 150km south, in a different city, at sea level earlier that same day, I wasn't surprised. I lay down, thanked the family next to me who had give me some cookies (lovely people that the Japanese are) and mused at just how comfortable a hard-wood bedding could be. I passed out in no time (although snores, and crazy-early risings of the fellow hikers would wake me up at various points throughout the night).

3:30 AM. Pitch black, stiff limbs, and soggy clothes, but my heart was beating pretty fast. Most of the people in the cabin had already left, which kind of worried me. I quickly switched on my headlamp, packed my things, got dressed, and headed out the door. The mountain, lush with greenery had turned into a moon landscape with shadows casting this way and that, the stars gorgeous in the sky and as bright as bedside lamps made me feel like I was under some massive tapestry. I moved into the darkness like a man on the moon, making his way into some unknown landscape, nothing to trust but the light on his head and the faintly cut-out course of the trail before him.

I was panting in no time, my body's energy reserves used up from the day before. I hiked like a marionette: right leg, up, forward and down. Pause. Left leg up, forward, and down. Pause. Repeat. I made it to the top faster than most, though.

The morning sunrise on the top of the mountain in Japan is an absolutely beautiful thing. The sky begins to change hues, so subtle, that unless you stare nonstop at it, it's unnoticeable. To hike and look at the skyline now and then is to miss a transition of grades of colors words can't describe. This is all before the sun rises, at that time where the sky is licked with whatever rays coming from a sun still hidden. As the light begins to reveal itself, the stars sink away and a blue comes through which seems back-lighted like something on a set of a movie, as if the sky was a set piece that you could pass through, or go behind. And slowly, with this gradual and ever-so slight lightening up of the world above you, the land beneath your feet begins to take shape, to come alive, to become detailed and textured. You then see the unmoving clouds below you, making up a sea of cotton which seems like it was taken out of some oil painting or mural of old. The clouds just sit there, their current gone, the tide of the wind still, as if the only air that exists is above this floor of clouds, where you are, and below it is that of the ocean itself. It isn't until the sun slowly beings to emerge from below that the clouds begin to burn off, to move, to shift around. For, like a rooster in a barn, the sun is the messenger that it is now time to get things rolling. The wind picks up, temperature rises, the noises of birds and insects can be heard, and even your body begins to wake up; whereas before everything was a photograph, all has become part of an animated movie. And I sat there, one among maybe ten, on top of the world, drinking a cup of instant coffee, witness to this transition. It felt good to be in Japan. It also felt good, in one of those cheesy kind of ways, to be alive and well. I remembered why I had got out of bed the morning before and traversed the concrete jungle, took buses and sweated to the top of this place.

As the sun rose, I ate breakfast, took some pictures, and took it all in. After a good couple hours I made my way down the other side of the mountain. The descent is always harder than the climb - especially with a massive back pack. My ab muscles were under constant strain and if I let up on them my knees would take the brunt of it all. I wanted to just let gravity have its way and simply run down the mountain side, my backpack ever-pressing down on me. But, I persevered, soon found my rhythm and about three hours or so later, I emerged on a mountain road, with cars driving by, two guys hitting a tennis ball back and forth in a parking lot next to a camp ground, and in the reaches of society once again.

I planned this particular descent because a few meters away was an onsen / hotspring - the gods' gift to all who exercise and like to get dirty. I walked along the pavement, feeling my dangly limbs, my creaky joints, my caked-on sweat, and the weight of it all. After arriving, realizing it didn't open for another hour and fifteen minutes (it was indeed still only 8:15 in the morning - it's amazing how much you can do if you go to bed at eight and wake up before four in the morning), I pulled my feet out of my boots, peeled off my socks, and sat on a bench, enjoying life without a backpack strapped to my shoulders. (I have nothing to write about during this hour or so, as I simply sat there, in a frame of complete satisfaction, stretching here and then, watching people drive up in theirs cars only to find the doors still locked and biding my time. So, I'll get to the onsen).

The doors opened, old ladies came flooding out of nowhere, like they had set up a secret bunker just out off site, rushing to buy souvenirs and enjoy an early dip. They pushed passed me, not paying attention to the fact I had been waiting there first, and was weary with fatigue. I made it through them and their incessant chatting and poking of souvenir packages and gawking over them if they looked delicious or if it was a rare item. I paid my 500 yen, went to the change room, got naked, and scrubbed myself down until I was cleaner than I was before I even started this trek, and soaked in the just too-hot but muscle-relaxing hot spring water. It was bliss. I was in heaven. My blisters, cuts, scrapes and sore joints burned, but slowly became numb, and my mind floated, drifted up and away, all stress evaporating like the steam from the water. I sat there, until my body was as red as a lobster, and got out, lying down on the tile next to the big tub, feeling the water pulsate each time someone got in, and listening to the slapping of bare feet on tile of people walking by and kids splashing each other. If anyone comes to Japan, I have to recommend the one-two punch of physical exertion/getting dirty and the onsen soak. This country's people have it down.

But, one can only take so much of roasting-hot relaxing. I made my way out, dried off, put on the cleanest clothes I had, and made my way down the road and passed the spot I had came out of the forest. The time to hitchhike had begun once again. Cars were scarce, which is not a good thing. But, the fact I was in a hiking area and was wearing a massive backpack tipped the scales in my favor, and perhaps the fourth car stopped and drove me to the nearest on-ramp to the highway.

Plans were to head north... far north, all the way to the western edge of Aomori. After I got out of the car I realized I was in a bad spot. The sun was blazing now, I was hot, and on a sharp curve in a road where, if I moved further along I would be seen by the toll booth attendants, but if I moved in the opposite direction toward the flow of traffic there was no place for the cars to stop. So, I tried, closer to the toll booths than I'd like. Soon enough, two people started walking towards me, they were wearing blue jumper suits with decals and badges; they looked like something out of a Dr. Who/B-movie/sci-fi flick. They were Japanese cops. They played the good cop bad cop thing down to a button - so much so I wanted to laugh in their face. They wore their authority thick and in your face like all good people do who take a job for that simple reason - to have authority. After getting my i.d. off of me "just to check", and power-tripping for some time, they pointed out a better place to hitchhike and that hitchhiking anywhere past this particular sign was forbidden. I nodded, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. They left. Then they came back to see if I was obeying them. I was. They drove off. They damped my high spirits and left a bad taste in my mouth. I switched plans and tried hitchhiking on the lower roads - the slower and free ones.

It took forever. No one stopped for a good hour. I was sweating, frustrated but pulled out the stops: I made a sign, with the kanji of the place I wanted to go. I did my little hitchhiking dance, and made eye contact with the drivers, I smiled, and bowed. Finally someone stopped. A great family, full of energy, enthusiasm and adventure. They drove me to my destination, after making three stops to do some quick shopping - each time the young and vibrant wife apologized to me as if she was causing me trouble. I smiled and told her she had things backwards. She laughed. We joked. They bought me a coke. Then they let me off at yet another on-ramp. We said goodbye, they wished me luck and I looked around, the beating down of the sun the only company I had. This spot was even worse than the one before. There's wasn't even a gradual turn, so the only place to hitchhike from was just before the gates. Plus there were no cars. Maybe one every 10 - 15 minutes. I sat down on my back pack, plucked a piece of long grass and chewed on it like some farmer would after a day of tilling his crops. I pondered. And I had a moment of clarity.

I have been hitchhiking in this country for more than six years. I've met more strangers in cars than I probably have friends in this country. I am 27 years old with unfinished endeavors and ambitions, ones I need to be back at home to initiate. I have things I need to do but have been put off, I have work to begin and sort out, relationships to sort out and clarify; in short, I have other actions which need a kick start of momentum themselves back in the city - just ones which cannot be physically moved, and therefore are so much harder to get going.

I sat there, like that on my back pack, on some complete random and nondescript corner of an intersection at the very northern tip of Iwate Prefecture, for a good half an hour thinking about this. I stood up and showed my sign when I car came, but the cars drivers were icy, old, and scared people who sped up as they saw me. But my mind was not intent on getting a ride, anyway. That's when I had this moment of clarity: I realized I was hitchhiking to keep myself on the move, to physically get lost in momentum and the flow of it all - all things wonderful. But, this moving, this physical picking-up of yourself and moving to one place and then another stems from the desire to progress one's life, to meet the need of change and growth that most people have. All of which is a good thing. But, the things which can't be seen physically changing, the things which are abstract but which need to be grown and cultivated are the most important of all to get the momentum building on, and therefore are alos the things which usually get put on the back burner.

The addiction of traveling is the growth, change, and constant self-challenge which is embodied with the physical moving about of yourself. Traveling, especially hitchhiking, is probably one of the best things you can do - something everyone should do at least once, and for a prolonged amount of time, in their life. But, on this trip, hitchhiking presented itself as a catalyst, a teacher, an instruction method, perhaps even a philosophy to me; although hitchhiking is a not a way to live in and of itself, it is a way to remind yourself of the ultimate way to life your own life; hitchhiking embodies what constant change, movement, and perseverance is needed every day, in the monotonous of it all, back in the nice to five gridlock grind of city life.

I picked up my bag while continuing to chew on my long piece of grass, put my sign away, and walked to the nearest train station and reversed all my momentum which I had building going north, to that of back south, to the city of Sendai and my home there. I cut my week-long trip of hitchhiking and climbing the four tallest mountains in Tohoku down to one night, two days, and that of hiking only one mountain. But I had achieved what I had set out to do anyway, and which is why getting out of the city and heading into the wild is something I'll probably never stop doing, and which, if you haven't done lately, you should definitely think of doing sometime soon

A reprise in Hiroshima

Although my true destination on paper had been Hiroshima from the moment I bordered the 5:30 train departing Sendai, I purposefully took my time to get there and didn't have much of a route planned. Instead of taking the day-and-a-half it should take via the slow train system to arrive, I stretched it out to a week, stopping off at the island of Shikoku seeing where my thumb would lead me (see the entries below for an account of my times on Shikoku). In short, the theme of the trip was to perfect the art of meandering.

Hiroshima lies just west of Shikoku, Japan's inland sea separating the two. I crossed it faster than planned, feeling like I had spent enough time in the back country. I felt ready to head into the city, the urban jungle, the place where friends would be. I was ready to set aside my tent, let my hiking boots dangle from my back pack, and sleep on sofas and futons at the expense of my friends' hospitality. It was time to couch surf.

Hiroshima. The bomb. War. Radiation. Cancer. Politics. History. Suffering. A city with a history that most don't think about yet all have absorbed at least on some sort of level at one point in their life.

Hiroshima.

Since living there, all of the above images and stigmas have been replaced, re-molded and sifted out of me. Where before, a crumbled and crucifix-of-a-building, the A-Bomb Dome, stood, now marked where the public toilets could be found. Peace Park, the location of where the bomb was dropped, was now a meeting spot for my friends and I, a place to drink some wine along the side of the river. The A-Bomb Museum--the testament and reminder of how devastating man's hubris can be--was now simply one of the many stops on the tram line along the way to the famous island of Miyajima. Where before I only had images from TV, inklings from history books, and notions from my imagination, these features of a city which tourists come to see have all been thrown in a different color, changed, absorbed and claimed as my own, as I became apart of the city. It has been over a year since I moved from Hiroshima up north to Sendai, and upon finding myself back, I realize a soft spot exists deep inside when it comes to this city. A lingering feeling of ease, of mystique and of comfortability. In the city itself, its concrete buildings, trees, cafes and bars, I find myself attached and longing to remain.

Hiroshima is a tourist hot spot. When you arrive at the station, you're going to see a lot more Caucasian people than you're used to. Yet, you see a lot more Caucasian travelers--people not teaching English but who have come to Japan to see Japan, on route to somewhere else perhaps, backpacks bulging, clothes worn and creased, maps dangling. Yet, this isn't a bad thing. These tourists are not in your face, and mainly stick to the well-known attractions, so avoiding them--if that's your thing--is easy. On the flip-side, this fact--this tourist-presence--lends an important atmosphere to Hiroshima; the locals are used to travelers, to foreigners, to the "gai jin". Which, in return, makes it easy to blend in, to feel apart of the town itself; you don't feel like you're often awkwardly skidding along the outskirts of town, as you can when up north in the more rural areas of this country. Hiroshima is accessible from the moment you set foot off the train platform. A promise of open-doors and warm smiles lingers in the air for you as you ride the old-fashioned steam-engined (but now electric) trains donated to the city after the bomb; in Hiroshima, there is a place for you, whether you're the ex-pat or the short-term English teacher, or mail order bride, or landed immigrant. One's looks don't matter so much here.

But these are just first impressions. Important? Yes, of course, for even though impressions are not based on fact and come from the gut, they oftentimes carry more truth than not. Yet, they are, still, merely impressions. After living in Hiroshima I discovered a well-ingrained, strongly-knit and intertwined local foreign population. There are art exhibitions, organized parties, locally made websites and maps and guides to help the traveler even with the shortest of stays to find a place off the beaten path. Borders were being brought down, chances to meet one another were being created, and a sense of "home" could be seen on the faces and in the eyes, in the way one walked of so many of my newly-made gai-jin friends. It struck me as rare; I hadn't experienced this feeling I was seeing on so many of these people's faces. They lived in a place they called "home"--not a temporary one and they liked it. Their groups of friends involved people from many facets of the community, gai-jin and Japanese alike. Bartenders, photographers, chefs, glass blowers, djs, musicians, the common salary man, house wives, cafe owners.

Now, at this point I had already lived in Japan for a year and half, but way up north in a placed deemed a small, mountain town, Yamagata. The word "yama" means "mountain" while "gata" means shape and it's a good insight into what the town is like. Gorgeous Mt. Fuji-offspring mountains encircle the caldera of the city, in them mornings a silvery-bearded mist creeps in before burning away from the sun, deep greens and browns are its canvas, and during the winter white, heavy, packing snow blankets every flat surface. Pottery-making stores, old-school cobblers, calligraphy schools and rice fields, sweltering summer heat. For me, the fundamental image, the heartbeat and spirit of Japan will forever be contained in the slow throbbing of life found in Yamagata. But, just as you can stare forever at your favorite painting, adoring its lines and subtleties, you yourself are not apart of it, and that's how it was for me in Yamagata. I was what my title deemed me to be, a "gai-jin". A foreign/outside (gai) person/being (jin). Visitor. Temp. Tourist. Non-Japanese.

I stood outside of the station, under an awning to protect me from the rain. A slight drizzle had started. Houses, power lines, bulletin boards slowly were slowly passing by when I first noticed the spring shower. All the colors around me were faded out, toned-down one notch, blotted out with the dull sheen of the tumbling beads of water, as clouds had moved in to suck out most vibrancy the colors had before. And now I waited, with my backpack on, for Naoko to pick me up. I hadn't seen her for over a year.

When you travel for life, when you live abroad, you cross paths with more people than you can count, indeed more people than you can even begin to create and maintain a connection with. Yet each time someone passes you by, each time you talk to someone, a potential fork in the road you're on is developed; your headlights reveal a possible fork in the path or at least a twist, oftentimes even a hairpin corner. Traveling and living abroad is like trooping around with a magnet on your back, drawing all possible encounters to you. The more you move and themore you put yourself out on the line and in new places, the more momentum you gain and with this momentum, the more paths you criss-cross. This, for some, is a wonderful thing, and is something that sets off events in one's life like a chain reaction, like lighting a fuse. Some, on the other hand, meet so many people it becomes hard to find meaning in it all; some end up taking so many of the turns, trying so many new roads and embracing each twist and blind corner that all their left with is a pervading sense of quantity over quality. And soon enough, all that remains is yet another handshake, yet another introduction, and yet another conversation about origins, reasons, and work. Naoko, on the other hand, reminded me what it was like to meet someone back at home, a meeting that does not stem from being a foreigner or the random apple in the box; she reminded me what it was like to make a connection with someone not based on geographic location but on common interests--like a meeting of old, when you're too young to scrutinize anything and therefore connect on a deeper level. Even though I had known her for only less than a year, I found myself, standing outside in the post-nasal-drip rain, feeling like I was waiting for an old friend. Funny, how living abroad and traveling redefines what's old and new, long and short. Traveling takes time and hacks it off at the knees, giving it a new measure.

I saw the car approach, a smile on the driver behind the wheel. I threw my pack in the trunk, and more-flopped-than-sat myself in the front seat. With the close of the door, I was welcomed into the city, the last five days of mountain treks and solo-missions in the woods, on mountain-tops and through villages were gone. I was welcomed back into the urban flow, traffic-jams, and city gridlocks. Yet, with the friendly hug I received from Naoko, it felt good to be back in the city--a city I felt like could've perhaps become a home-away-from-home if I had stayed long enough, if I had given it the chance. Yet, the momentum I had gained from traveling and moving around over the previous three years had proved too strong, and therefore as I sat shotgun, I found myself merely visiting yet another place I had left some roots, created some memories, and found some people to call friends.

Shikoku, Part V: The Chiiori House

I had already snagged two rides, slept over night at a rather swanky campsite, massaged my body with a long soak in an onsen, and traversed between mountain folds on roads which seemed to find the smallest crease between peaks by the time I found myself hanging out on the side of yet another road, in what was deemed a town. Upon my arrival I had tried to buy a packaged pastry, one of the nondescript kinds they sell at any old convenience store in the country. But when I went to the counter and dug around for money, the lady picked up the snack, examined it, and told me the expiry date had past already. I didn't realize the preservative-filled thing even had an expiry date. That's when I noticed the layer of dust on the clear plastic package. I smiled: I was truly in the countryside of Japan. I had then decided to buy some fruit instead, ate it and chatted with the old lady for a bit who didn't seem interested in much of what I had to say, which I also found curious. Now, I found myself jammed between the grocery house-shop and the road itself. The shoulder of this street was non-existent, and when a car came I had to hold out my thumb to show I was hoping for a ride while simultaneously be sure I didn't get it lopped off by the review mirror.

It was much hotter down here, away from the mountains. In fact, ever since I decided to take the ride and not continue into the back country, the sun had been beating down as if it was trying to make a point spring was here. Judging from this weather, I probably could've continued into the mountains alone, as planned, and been alright. But I had already made the decision not to and was in the middle of seeing out where it was leading me. I looked around, squinting at the light. I had made it deep into Iya Valley, but not yet to what could be considered its heart.

If you look at a map of Shikoku, you'll notice that its biggest land masses are found on the east and the west respectively, with a narrower piece of land in the middle connecting the two. If you move your eyes east and focus on the right land mass, you'll find a big patch of mountains, shared between the two prefectures which make up most of the east side: the eastern of Tokushima Ken and southern of Kochi Ken. If you're looking at a topographical map you can see that all the main roads bend and warp around a pocket of mountains sitting in between the prefectures, leaving a big green, undeveloped patch which is called Mt. Tsurugi Quasi-National Park; cities vanish, train lines end, and nothing is left but the curvy lines which signify various degrees of altitudes (indeed most of my destinations have such characteristics in common). Iya Valley (祖谷渓) is tucked deep in this area and is said to be one of Japan's "three hidden regions." Now, if I may lay a side note down here: no matter where you go in Japan, that area will be known for something: its food, its water, its rice, its wine, or its people or clothes perhaps. And, more often than not, it's scenic view. I've read more signs than I can count saying that "this spot is one of the three most beautiful views in Japan." Or something like "this mountains is called ____-Fuji due to it's resemblance of Mt. Fuji." After traveling through Japan you get the sense that the country has mobilized on a national scale to make absolutely everything cater to tourists; a spot that has natural beauty, which is worthy in itself to go and see even without being told about its resemblance to Fuji, or Kyoto, or what people "consider it" will be littered with such notifications and observations. So reading that Iya Valley was considered to be one of "three hidden regions of Japan" meant nothing to me. Until I started hitchhiking through it. I have to admit, this place deserved such a claim, and I found traversing through the mountainous area to be more difficult than usual (which was a nice challenge) and many of the region had such little access that my eyes fell upon an abundance of untouched nature. Furthermore, Iya has a role in history to stop even the least interested traveler.

If you've studied Japanese history, the family names of Minamoto (aka Genji) and Taira (Heike) stick out like sore thumbs, the queen and king on the chess boards, figures directly shaping national identity and the progress of a nation. Like any good country, civil wars were rampant in Japan, but one only is thought to be the mother of them all: the Genpei War. These two families fought bitterly overly the dominance of the imperial court (dominance of Japan), and battles took place all over the central and western Japan (check out the map above), on land and sea. Although The Minamoto were to prevail in the end, the battle had so many twists and turns a certain victor could not have been guessed until the fateful battle on sea between the island of Kyushu and Honshu (to the west of Shikoku). When the two clans were entrenched in this civil war, The Taira clan retreated deep into Shikoku and into these "hidden regions" of Shokoku, crossing ravines on kazua-bashi or vine bridges, cutting them after traversed making it impossible for their pursuers to follow. The end of this war and ensuing Minamoto victory marked the rise of military (sumarai) power for the first time in Japan where the emperor was made a mere figurehead, and the first time a shogun was ever to wield power on a national level. Furthermore, the colors of the two clans, red (Taira) and white (Minamoto) became the national colors of Japan, seen today on its flag.

I tried to imagine samurai running along this patch of road, past these houses where cars now drove. My foreigner mind enjoyed envisioning these romantic images; I pictured horses, perhaps some peasants and farmers working in the back ground, a Kurusawa backdrop developed in my mind's eye as I soaked in my surroundings. Did The Taira clan pass through this town way back when? Could this town have lasted through all these years?

I then chuckled, for I found myself, yet again, wondering which word to use for this post of houses, for "town" fell short. This place consisted of a patch of shoulder-to-shoulder houses on both sides of the section of the road. It was, in reality, simply a section of mountain road with a few people's homes lining it, opposed to the usual trees or ravines. There was a post office, in the form of a hardware shop of sorts where you could give the old lady behind the counter a parcel and she'd be sure the next delivery truck, which came once a day, got it. Some of the houses sold vegetables, some snacks, some random necessities like batteries, light bulbs, and such. Almost every shop was the first floor of someone's home, and when I stood there, I felt like I was hanging out in someone's front yard, only that it had been paved over as it was the only place for transportation to get by. For, behind the houses which I stood in front of was a canyon, much to deep to build on, and looming above the houses opposite of me and on the other side of the road was a mountain side which turned into a bluff of a cliff; the houses seemingly fell from the sky and stood as is taking up any vacant space. I adjusted my backpack and waited for another car in the breezy silence of the "downtown area".

In Japan, come end of April, the forests turn an awe-inspiring emerald green. As almost all the vegetation is deciduous, the leaves turn color, die, and come back to life in tune with the passing of each season. During the winter, with all other surrounding vegetation dead, the coniferous trees--which don't lose their leaves--glare at you from the landscape, as if they their camouflage has been used up. The rise up, from the base of the mountain, out of place, like patches of fur leftover on a cat after a fight. The bare parts are the now leafless, surrounding trees, looking more like spines of a porcupine. And, although at first looking at a mountain chain in Japan during winter isn't a pleasant site to look at--come Spring, the forests and fields radiate a green kriptonite glow that is a color unto its own . It is so noticeable, especially after a long, cold and desolate winter, the Japanese people have given this period a name, calling it shinryoku（新緑）: "new green". And, although just a tad early, I found myself surrounded by this, on this early morning on some random day (the names of days lose meaning when you've donned your traveling shows). I felt consumed by new, my thoughts on the subtleties of difference in seasons, in landscapes and history stirring my traveling blood.

Some people come to Japan to test out the adage that it is a country where future meets the old, where technology and ancient art collide, the salary man on his cellphone walking past a temple on his way to work, bowing as he passes someone he knows by--the kind of thing that makes me groan, but, like all stereotypes, these images are born in the abyss of truth. This stereotype of the country works on so many levels, so many facets of life, that it is almost pointless to try to talk about it or note it down on a pad of paper, indeed to photograph it. All you're going to get is a photograph that every other person has taken before. The same temple, the same kid dressed in a school uniform playing the most advanced hand-held gaming device; the same geisha stepping in small, bounded spurts, texting someone on her cellphone--images that don't lie, yet don't say anything new either. This fixation the west has with Japan is founded on truth, but it's most tangibly felt not when you take a picture or look in from the outside, but when you make a good friend based on common interests and spend a prolonged amount of time together, or if you work alongside Japanese co-workers, or especially, if you get the chance to work with the guts of the Japanese education system from the inside. Like any country, this clash of tradition and new is one of the many more-deeply felt-than-seen aspects which make Japan the country that it is. My words fail when I try to describe this dichotomy, this guttural difference between the country I live in now and the one I come from. I can't claim to be any sort of expert on this, but this pulling and tugging, this adherence to old but embracing of new, this preserved tradition combined with industrialization affects my daily life on so many levels, and is a foreign feeling to my Canadian, immigrant, roots.

The car nearly skidded to a halt. I was surprised, for it was one of the many company cars which race around the countryside on various errands. Usually the driver of such a company car is too rushed, on too much of a battle against time to even entertain the thought of picking up someone hanging on the side of the road. The car pulled over, and the driver looked at me through the window with a questioning look, begging the question "is that your car? Do you need a jump?"
I looked behind me, and noticed one of the cars which didn't stop to be pick me had stopped and put on its hazard lights. I then looked back at the driver and said "that isn't my car. But I need a ride."

A brief expression of annoyance fell across the driver's face, like when a young kid realizes he's not part of the joke but, rather, that it was on him. He glanced back at the road, then back at me, and in a kind of huff said to get in. It was more of an order than an invitation. I understood and quickly opened the door, tossed my bag in, and sat down--bowing, thanking, and pardoning for my intrusion the whole time in a manner perfected over the five years of hitching. The driver sped off. I chuckled to myself, and thanked the driver in the other car who had turned on his hazards.

I didn't say anything at first, eying my driver. He wore a customary work suit; not overalls but since the off-green cream color of the pants and jacket matched each other, the combination could be mistaken for one. He had some emblem on the chest pocket of his jacket, a company insignia. The suit had stains here and there, stains that told a story of a harder worker, not simply a dirty one--as it looked like it had been used for quite some time. The man's hair was disheveled and greasy, his fingernails dirty and his hands rough with wrinkles--hands of a laborer. When he spoke, he spoke with a lisp of sorts, making it difficult to understand, but not impossible.

"Wayne-san?"

My brows furrowed and I looked at him questioningly. He wasn't asking me my name, but rather guessing at my destination. The Japanese language is made up of one-word questions, hints, comments and responses--single words that speak volumes and at times puts the power of a single English word to shame. I tried to recall the volunteers names who worked at the Chiiori House. I then tried to remember the intersection I needed to get off at. For, the road which lead me to The Chiiori House was one which lead nowhere except up, and up, into the depths of the Iya Valley mountain range as well as into one of the many hamlets which finds itself trapped between mountains folds and living off of the game and land the area provided. But Wayne? Who's Wayne?


I told the driver I was headed to a place called The Chiiori House. He grunted, more from his gut than from his nose, and said, "yeah, Wayne." After listening to him and trying to filter through some of his heavy lisped words, I gathered Wayne was one of the house's volunteers. It seemed like this Wayne also got around by hitching. I wasn't surprised, but still mused a little nod to give respects to the laid-back nature of the area; a random salary man driving through the area in the middle of work--I recognized the insignia on the side of the car and the driver's jacket and thought it to be that of an electric company--knows the locals by their first name. It was just another sign I had left the big city far behind. The driver then said he knew where the turn off was but couldn't take me up the mountain as he obviously had a schedule to keep. I said not to worry about it, as I figured I'd have to walk anyway. He grunted and said it's a long way. Again, I nodded, and said that's what I figured. He then said it was really steep. I said I would be alright. He then said it was hot. I nodded. We then went through these motions for a bit, where the idea of using one's own legs to cover a long distance was alien, and I thanked him for his concern.

I can't lie. I first heard about The Chiiori House because of my Lonely Planet travel book (something actually proving to be damn useful in my travels--not as a book to follow, but one to lay the general game plan). The book had a bit of an excerpt written about the house in the Shikoku section of it, as well as a web link. I then, before Spring vacation started, checked out the website and brought it up in some conversations with my friends. Some of them had heard about it, too, it seemed and everything they heard was positive. A non profit organization, first started by Alex Kerr (A Japanophile and author of some popular books on the country, such as Dogs and Demons) when he was--like I was doing now--hitchhiking through Japan. Finding a vein of Japan which spoke to him personally, he was moved to begin to search out a spot in the country which he could make his own, and that's when he stumbled upon the tiny hamlet called Tsui, tucked deep in the Iya Valley. Here he found an abandoned, 300 year old thatch-roofed house 萱葺　(kayabuki). He fell in love with it on the spot. The process of buying the house was laborious and anything but cheap, but it won over the locals, created deep bonds of friendship, and started a pretty inspirational story for foreigners who want to create a life over here in Japan. He had to renovate and make the massive house livable again, and through this process, he slowly earned a spot in the small, rural and tightly-knit community while learning about local customs, facets of culture and bridging cultural gaps (click here for an article on the Chiiori House. The official website seems to have been changed as the house itself is going through changes, and perhaps is now unavailable to the public for the time being. Click here to check out the book which has this story as well as many others of Alex Kerr's).

Although the fate of the house has become obscured since I stayed there, at that time it was "run" by a lonely planet photographer and free-lance journalist, Mason Florence, with Alex more on the sidelines it seemed. Although, the project is truly run by the volunteers who care for the house on a daily basis, working with the locals and keeping the visitors coming. It was obviously a complex situation, with many people having attachments to it in one way or the other as well as seeing its future in different lights. At any rate, the house has been acting as a non profit organization for years, with various volunteers coming on stints, keeping it running, integrating the house with local programs and trying to make it stand alone as an independent project as part of the community and not propped up by individual funding.

It was the idea of being able to touch and feel a preserved part of Japanese culture which attracted me. That, and be part of a pocket of multi-culturalism, to witness with my own eyes the latticed relationships of people from different countries working and living together in the same community--for the same community. And my mind tried to conjure up some images of where I was headed and what my stay was going to be like as I hiked up the paved but bumpy mountain road. I walked briskly, my legs fresh from all the sitting-in-cars I had been doing. The sun was fiercely shining now, high in the sky creating a white sheen of a haze, filtering through the countless branches of cedar and pine above as I moved. The higher I climbed, the scarcer houses became, but they were present nonetheless. Many of the houses had metal sheet roofs, hinting at long winters, some painted baby blue, some rusty red. As I continued, dogs who had until then been lazily slumbering in the driveways or yards of their master's homes barked and paced as I walked by. Some farmers stopped to look at me, some men took a break from whatever they were doing in their sheds, or gardens to have a peep, but to be honest, most of them didn't take any notice of me. At one point, I looked down the ravine of the gorge on my left. The road I was walking on wound up the right side of the gorge, perched on the hillside, giving each house a commanding view of the opposite wall of valley below. That's when I noticed a massive boar standing, almost perching like a bird would perch, if it had four legs, on a big rock towards the back of a pen. The pen was more like a cage, the flooring messy with mud, and desolate of any life. The boar stood there, and stared bleakly ahead, like a relic of old, a neighborhood statue. It struck me not only how big the animal was, but how sad and motionless it stood there. I'm not one for zoos, especially ones in Japan made of concrete and metal bars, and this cage was no testament for closing in animals. But, it did give me a sense of where I was; it did stop me and make me look about my surroundings and feel a small surge of that feeling a traveler gets when he is in a different country and brushes against some foreign--a feeling that comes to me in very rare doses now.

After what seemed to be an hour or so, and sweating by this time, I came upon a bearded, red-haired white guy in his twenties chopping wood at a small looking cabin on the left-side of the road, looking over the valley. He stopped, looked at me and said, "you must be Jamie. How was the walk up? Did you make it alright?"

I told him about my luck with the hitchhiking and shook his hand. He had a strong grip, but shook my hand with an adjusted strength which walked the fine line of showing confidence yet courtesy as well. I didn't doubt his ability to chop wood, but felt a gentleness in his smile which was reflected in that grip--a gentleness which reminded me of someone who has learned to operate independently but would rather spend time in the presence of others. He took me inside the small cabin, leaning his axe against the wall and brushing off his hands. That's when I heard a "hello" spoken in a heavy American dialect--not one which conjures up the south, but more of the west, a very Canadian sounding accent at that. The girl spoke to me, without looking up from the computer, he hair black, her skin brown almost like it had been just a tad too dirty for just a tad too long, the sunshine and earth tones of outdoor life seeping into her face. "Just one more sec, I'm almost done here." She sat on the chair in front of the laptop as if she would jump away from it from any minute, her body already leaning in my direction, her head turned just a bit as she typed the last words on the keyboard.

Wayne asked if I wanted some tea. I said yes. Herbal was fine. I sat my bags down and before I knew it we were all joking around about sitcoms, epic fantasy novels I used to read when I was young (and which Wayne had been staying up late to read with his headlamp as of late) and even found ourselves searching up what a kamoshika is on wikipedia as my stories were received with skeptical eyes. I took a liking to the two almost immediately, and although I found out it was their job to be entertainers and basically it was in their job description to get along with anyone, I felt like the next day or two would be genuinely comfortable and relaxing. That's when they took me up to The Chiiori House to show me where I'd be spending the rest of the day, night and however long I chose to stay.

We wound up a stone path, between houses and through yards until we came upon a dog strapped to a long leash which ran along a line which looked like a clothes line; the house's guardian. My first thought wasn't too look at the house and all it's rumored glory. My first thought was more along the lines of "finally, a dog that isn't a poodle, that isn't a chihuahua, that doesn't have a sweater. Finally a real dog."

Kitty Chan. Doraemon. Anime cartoons. Manga comics. Constr- uction signs with comic book characters telling you to watch out for falling rocks; cars with eyes and mouths drawn on them notifying you of steep grades and water hazards. Japan loves cute and cute loves Japan. Hell, more than once my head has been turned by cute women wearing cute fashion in this country. But the dogs, the dogs are something else. Growing up in rural Canada, a Husky, a German Shepherd, a Rotweiler or Dobberman Pincher. A retriever, a Black or Golden Lab--these are dogs. Here, dogs are cats gown awry. Rodents in knitted sweaters with colored, little booties. Dogs are accessorized fuzzy balls of fashion and it's one aspect of this country's culture which I have to admit I can't meet half-way on. So, to cut a long rant short, The Chiiori House and its owners, indeed all of Shikoku, scored points with me as I my eyes fell upon this dog (it wasn't even that big). It was a mutt, but looked like it perhaps had a bit of Pit Bull in it. After my moment's flash of canine appreciation, I noticed the house.

It loomed before me, hedged in by grass and roofed in thatch. It didn't take my breath away like some ancient, mist-encircled castle of old perhaps would, but rather hit me with an upper cut of nostalgia. The house took me back and far away from Japan to the fuzzy, unfocused memories of when I was a toddler playing at my grandma's farm back in the Kootenays. Neon signs, public works projects, concrete telephone poles and condensed-milk cities vanished when standing in the presence of this house. It radiated a softness, a calm of sorts, like it was simply part of the landscape, witnessing the coming and going of things, like an old man who feeds the pigeons from his well-used park bench. The sun shone, even glimmered, adding a orange hue to all the earth tones of the scene before me while warming the back of my arms and top of my head. The browns and new-born greens of the surrounding trees painted the canopy for the house, that along with the clothes hanging on the clothesline and the chickens pecking, fluttering and Egyptian-dancing in the front of the house. The dog eyed me curiously but wagged its tail furiously at the volunteer who spoke to it in text-book pet, baby-talk. I took a deep breath of mountain air, and put my pack on the ground to take a closer look.

The house was big, and open. Nearly it's entire front wall, facing the deep ravine, was made of sliding, wooden and glass doors. Light entered and exited the house freely, on par with its visitors. The entire ceiling and rafters above were stained a pitch black from the irori--sunken hearth found in traditional homes used for cooking. The house exhaled earth and grassy scents. I was told to make myself at home (something I already felt) and that we'd be eating together later that night around the irori.


The rest of the day was spent taking the dog for walks, reading outside of the house, and well, simply putting the breaks on all the momentum I had built up and was encircling me since my first initial step out of my front door of my house hundreds of km away. To reach a place where you want to simple "stop" is a big thing for a hitchhiker, a traveler. When you have only an alloted amount of time and you're hitchhiking, you need to give yourself up to the swing and movement of things--never in a rush but never permanent. But here, as my backpack was now somewhere inside, with only a novel on me and relaxing under the sun on a bench, I found myself immobilized, stopped, on pause. I thought about staying here for more than the one planned night.

There are a few places in Japan, besides the tops of mountains, where you can really feel like you've got away from the bee-hive drone of it all. Japan, in a country with nearly four times the population of Canada and nearly thirty times smaller, I've learned how to dance with the ebb and flow of the presence of others, yet also to immensely appreciate the untouched, vast space found in Canada. At the very deepest place inside of me, in the pit of my stomach, like some crystallized pea, resides an innate yearning to find a patch of land to call my home, a patch developed in sync with its surroundings, where the presence of man and its feats is not shunned but used in tune with whatever mother nature provides. I found this feeling which runs through my veins as deep as bone marrow responding to The Chiiori House.

I've always said to my friends that, if I ever moved home, the first thing I'd do is run through a grassy, Canadian park in bare feet. It's funny, for to most of you who read that, such a sentence will be construed as very streamlined "hippie". But if you've ever lived in Japan, you'll know what I mean. Although I was doing no running in parks at this moment, I did find myself with mys flip-flops off and barefoot, feeling the exact experience I would long for if I was running through grass back home. But, I wasn't home, I was on the doorstep The Chiiori House, on the roof of Iya Valley, and in the backyard of Shikoku, Japan.

Shikoku Part IV

There is something odd about walking along pavement with hiking boots, lugging a heavy back pack full of the outdoor essentials. It feels akin to using one of those moving, floor elevators at an airport that scoots you along even after you've checked your bags and have nothing to carry. Everything I wore was made to make me self-sufficient, to lend me ease when living away from the man-made elements. Yet, I was moving deeper into the forest and further up the mountain on the flat but hard surface of a man-made road.

It had snowed through the night, and it was like the thin layer of sprinkled ice-sugar snow had dulled all sounds, muted any sharp edge a bird's voice might carry. Everything was soft, even my heavy foot steps. I stared down at my feet and then looked back: a perfect trail of foot prints were etched in the snow behind me, each step revealing a dark gray and cold concrete patch of the mountain road underneath which I was walking on. The foot prints curved, bended around the corner and down the road, then faded into the distance. I breathed in the crisp mountain air, and moved on, keeping company with myself and the stillness of everything around me.

I think I walked for a good two hours before I reached the trail head. By this point, the amount of snow had increased a good half-foot or so, in proportion with the altitude. It was a tad disconcerting because I had contacted the weather bureau the week before and at that time apparently nearly all the so had melted; it looked like I brought a cold front of air with me from the north. This was not good.

I took a deep breath, knowing that my backpack was much too heavy for a healthy hike up the mountain side, and my knees were going to pay for it. But since I planned to stay in mountain huts within the mountain range itself, I needed to lug everything up there. I put my feet ahead of me and began the climb. My legs fresh from the couple of good nights of sleep and hitching, I made good time.

That's when I realized I wasn't alone. To my right, across a small ravine and on the bank of a fold in the mountain, I could see two or three kamoshikas; big enough to stop you in your tracks, with eyes which try to stare you down I felt a mutual distrust grow between myself and the animals. They would walk, stop, stare at me and wait for my move. I continued ahead and we kept our distance. Everything seemed fine, and as long as they knew my whereabouts, they would make the effort to keep away. But, like some eerie bringer of fate I came upon a massive tree, its bark stripped bare, from the ground up a good five feet. Whatever did this had paws, claws, and strength; the good old bear, I thought.

In Japan, besides way up north in the eastern areas of the island of Hokkaido, the Asiatic Black Bear is what you're going to run into, if anything. Although it keeps to itself and mainly eats berries and vegetation (you should note that it does it meat, though), it can still grow six feet tall and weigh up to 300 pounds or so in weight. I stood there, looking at the tree for a moment, but couldn't picture a black bear doing this. Too much of the bark had been stripped away. But it couldn't be a brown bear as they aren't found in Shikoku (a grizzly is a sub-species of brown bear, only found in North America), which are known to be more aggressive and much bigger. So that left me with alone with my roaming imagination. In all my hiking travels, I have only come upon a black bear once. It was young, but not a cub. The first thing it did when it saw me was dash back off into the forest. The most important thing to do concerning bears is not to surprise them--hence the bear bells that most "serious" hikers wear. Making noise is probably the best safety measure you can take while hiking, and thus it's a good idea to always hike with someone. In my case, as I often hike alone and don't wear a bear bell, I yell every now and then, before blind curves in the path, and am general mindful of not being quiet. After eying the scalped side of the tree, I made a rather loud noise to let any unknowing animals nearby that I was here then continued ahead.

Mountain climbing is a sport which sneaks up on you. Although I don't consider it a sport, even to this day, as much as a I consider it a lifestyle. I have never been one of those people who live, die, and breathe for the feeling you get from reaching the peak of a mountain after putting in the time, energy and body power that it takes to reach it. But, somewhere along the line finding myself scraping the sky's ceiling, my own two feet and planning being the sole reason I made it there, combined with the surrounding sights gave me such a strong feeling of satisfaction that I hit the foothills of Japan whenever I get the chance. Yet, this feeling is made up of so many other subtle emotions and elements that hiking is something that becomes more of a mindset and way of life than most other sports.

I've played various sports all my life, from volleyball to basketball to ultimate frisbee. But soccer came out on top as my favourite. Competitive sports get the blood and adrenaline going, releases endorphins like any other prolonged physical exercise, giving you that sense of satisfaction that comes with getting your body in shape. Furthermore, working with a team and against another team, winning a game to prove your skill creates a feeling unrivaled. Yet, I think of hiking more in a class of its own, separate from the common term "sport". Hiking is more akin to surfing. This may come as a surprise, but some of my best friends are surfers and although it's true that the rush and sense of adrenaline that a surfer longs for is obviously not found in hiking, both of these sports become an aspect of one's life more than a team or competitive sport does. Of course, if you are a professional athlete you must train daily, eat a specific diet, and your life changes to support your role in this sport. But, if you take hiking or surfing, your purpose is to enjoy an element of the world that has always been there, and to find your place in it. Surfing: the ocean. Hiking: the mountains. And so the environment is perhaps the biggest factor when doing these sports--the surfer and his/her relationship with the water, and the hiker and his/her relationship with the mountains.

Hiking, though, is different because it is such a long activity--hiking for three or four days straight, especially solo, focuses the mind and is a test of endurance, strength, will as well as planning. After awhile of climbing a mountain, you find yourself in a rhythm, completely disconnected from society and its suit-and-tie clock but in tune with your self. Your body is tested on a daily basis to such an extent that all food becomes wonderfully delicious, your mind slowly gets rid of its stresses and worries attached to your city life, and you then begin to become aware of your surroundings more than you do when you're back in the urban salary grind. Cooking becomes a milestone of each day. Simplicities, like boiled rice and miso, becomes gourmet. A cup of instant coffee is the desert of a lifetime. A peanut-butter and banana sandwich is food sent from the gods. It's these small elements which all slowly add up, over the course of your trek which change your perspective on life as well as your lifestyle; what you deem important becomes embedded with the reasons you hike and what hiking means to you. Thus, arriving at your destination after a days of hiking through a remote mountain range, it is not so much an adrenaline rush you get, but the range of feelings you experienced from living solely out of a backpack, carrying everything you need on your own, self-sufficiently, while the whole time your body being the vehicle for any progress made or lack thereof.

And, so time flew by as I put each leg ahead of the other. My mind wandering from thought to thought. I'd stop now and then, drink some water, eat a little food, and be left with nothing else to do but continue ahead. Each bend in the path was a step closer to the top. I had to do up my hood as the wind started to blow harder. I was still hot and sweating beneath my fleece and wind-breaker, though, but knew the moment I stopped moving I'd start to cool off pretty quickly. I continued ahead, and before I knew it, I was at the top of Tsurugi-san--a decent 1954 metres in the sky. As I stood on the top of the mountain and looked around, I saw snow-capped mountains everywhere. The wind was raging now, blowing me in one direction or another. I was a constant standing leaning tower of Piza. My heavy backpack putting me even more off balance. It was barely noon, and if I continued according to plan, I was to hike for another four hours to a remote mountain hut tucked somewhere off in the South-Eastern part of of this mountain range. My fingers tingled with frost, begging the question if I had brought enough warm clothes with me to last through the night at an elevation this high. I stood there, debating my options. I hate turning back--it's a bad characteristic to have as a solo hiker--but my memories returned of the lone hike I did when I lived in Hiroshima and found myself stuck on the top of a mountain in below-freezing weather, trapped in a snow storm which blew in off the Japan sea (click here and scroll down towards the bottom of the page for that experience). Although I had been in a mountain hut at the time, I hadn't been prepared for such a freezing cold night, and even though it was a rookie mistake, the sense of being at complete mercy to a raging snow storm has stayed with me and it was saying something to me as I stood on the top of this mountain deciding whether to continue ahead into the unknown alone or not.

That's when I heard a couple voices from behind me. A man and woman, shielding their faces from the wind were at a near run towards the summit sign to snap off a picture then make their way back down. I could see they had come up here solely to get this shot and were going to shoot it and turn around immediately. My mind started to spin: if I turned around I would have to hike all the back to the base of the mountain then down the road all the way to where the obasan lived who drove me up here. I had seen no cars on the road the entire way up, and it would be a good nine hour walk to anywhere with moving vehicles. I would rather make my way into the mountains than retrace my steps on a road for another day and half. I felt another gust of wind hit me, sending shivers up my spine. I approached the couple before me. They had a car. They were going to be driving out of here. They were headed south--where I wanted to go.

I was at one of those moments where your trip could take on something complete unplanned. I sat there, thought for a second, then decided to see where getting a ride with these two people and the resulting decision would take me. Hitchiking and traveling alone is all about giving yourself up to fate, chance, and the random order of coincidence.

"Would you mind if I got a ride with you?"

"Of course not. But we're going to head down the mountain to the car in a moment."

"Alright, I'll meet you at the parking lot. I'm carrying a lot so it may take a bit longer for me to get there."

"Take your time. We're in no rush." The man talked with confidence, and with a simple air that was refreshing to my ears as it was easy to understand; I was pretty sure he was from Tokyo. He didn't take any notice of my foreign-looks, and said things as a matter of fact. The woman with him simply smiled a warm smile that concealed nothing. I smiled back and bowed.

I had passed the parking lot on my way up. It was near the trail head, next to a temple. I looked back again at the rolling mountain tops, and shrugged the shoulders of my mind. I guess this trip wasn't going to be as much as a mountain hiking expedition as I thought. But, I could see my father approving of the decision I had just made, a decision not to push the limits. My father being a helicopter pilot and doing many search and rescue missions for lost hikers, skiers, snowboarders and outdoor enthusiasts, especially during the winter. It felt strangely mature to make a responsible decision. Perhaps it was one of my first, I thought and chuckled to myself.

I could use a nice warm hot spring soak anyway, I thought. The couple offered to take my picture--one of those classic ones where you stand on the summit next to its sign. I agreed, lent them my camera, then packed it away and began my descent of Katana Mountain. My mind already beginning to picture my map of Shikoku and what destinations lay ahead of me. I still had a good week and a bit of vacation left, and again, I put one foot ahead of the other with no plan and no destination.

Shikoku Part III

And so I sat in the back, my hand braced against the side of the car as it twisted, turned, careened, slowed-down and sped up, following the river up into the foothills of Shikoku. I felt cold sweats that took me back to the days of my childhood and all the road trips I'd go on with my family to play soccer--and all the nausea that came with it. A hitchhiker who gets motion sickness. I laughed at myself and kept my eyes as focused ahead on the middle of the road as best I could. The couple in the front seat talked to each other now and then, in such a thick rural dialect that it didn't even seem like Japanese, let alone a language. I heard a couple set-words come out now and then--ones that fit into the second-language puzzle I had put together over the past five years of studying the language--but it was like the red-haired obasan and her partner communicated in a different tongue, a secret code. Although I should confess that I thanked the time out it gave me from having to maintain small talk, as I tried to balance my center of gravity, taking deep breaths to keep the nausea from building.

Although I did my best to focus ahead of me, my eyes followed the river at times, as it came in and out of view. Rivers are the litmus test of a country's attitude regarding their environment, and each time my eyes fall upon a river here in Japan I feel a longing for home rise deep within my chest; the concrete siding, the paved river beds, and the "waffle iron" concrete sprayed onto hillsides then bolted down with a deep metal rod wounds the soul. These gray patches among the green stare out at you like scars, unnatural wounds that never healed properly, nature succumbing to man's will. It is the construction company's battle with landslides and earthquakes they say--but the longer you live here and the more you learn about politics and public works projects, the more that reason doesn't hold up, and the more infuriating it is for the nature lover. For me, it just makes the need to get away from the concrete dominating urban sprawl now and again that much more important.

At last, we twisted around yet another corner and came upon a small village with old buildings built into the mountain side, creaking just a little too close to the valley cliff, which was now on our left. This place couldn't be called a hamlet, for it wasn't comfortable enough. Nor could it be a village as it wasn't big enough. It was like a suburb of the smallest village, an outpost: nothing in particular to take note of; yeah, I'd say it was more of a place to simply pass through, yet it was a place where a place shouldn't be. The grayness of the half-fog-clouds which caressed the trees and tickled the metal-sheet rooftops of the buildings combined with the in-between spring and winter tones which are devoid of any primary colors seemed to speak volumes for this subtle and unbecoming post of houses. Yet, it was here that the driver deemed it time to stop at a Japanese noodle shop for a bite to eat before night completely fell. I looked about and thought "a shop?" I normally wouldn't be surprised, for I have encountered some of the best noodle shops in the middle of nowhere, serving hand-picked vegetables and hand-cut soba. But still, here? It felt like everyone fled this place before the last barbarian raid.

That's when I saw the owner--a sole old women gathering vegetables out back--hunchbacked, and hobbling around, disappearing and reappearing from out behind various rectangular houses and sheds. No one else was to be found up here, dusk drawing, the air crisp giving you the hint that snow was lurking around the corner--everything had the sense that it was still just a little bit "too early". No gift stores were open, the shutters pulled shut and doors jammed closed. No cars in the parking lots, and besides the old lady, just a tad too cold to give any vibrancy of life or movement, like the crisp mountain air had descended upon the area and froze everything the way it had been centuries before. As I peered around I wondered: had I got the timing wrong? The end of March is still winter up in the mountains, even in Shikoku it seemed, and I was to hike alone for three days through the mountains which loomed beyond. I checked my cellphone, two bars stared back at me--I still had reception up here. But, who knew for how much longer. These thoughts got put on the back-burner as we all got out of the car and made our way to the old lady, who upon seeing us, bowed, said some words to the couple topped off with a chuckle. She opened up the store then fired up the gas cooker just for us. She talked with the owner as if they were childhood friends. I wouldn't be surprised if indeed they were, their dialects shining, their questions and responses receiving one another like an invisible jigsaw puzzle. I listened and imagined what the resulting picture looked like after each piece of their conversation fit together.

I then ate like a king. The warm soup, vegetables, rice and other various dishes warming the soul from my toes to my ears. I had to decline yet a third helping from my hosts and now care-takers. I brought out the map and we all hunched over it to check my plotted route. It seemed they had all heard of the trail I was to travel. They were still worried though, it seemed, and wanted me to eat more before my night in the mountains. They also started talking about the bears, and wild boars, and kamoshikas (a dear, quasi-goat animal native to Japan). I had heard all the stories before and had looked into hiking around Shikoku and knew what they said was true, and to be fair, hiking and camping alone in the mountains is a stupid idea. But, like usual, it had been impossible to find anyone else with the same holidays as me--the college I teach at giving unusually long breaks at times different than the English conversation schools. And I was not about to just meander around in the city.

With a full belly and warmed insides, we said our goodbyes, got back in the car and snaked our way up the mountain, that is, until a thing layer of snow began to sprinkle the road. Before the car could make much of a claim for its winter traction, it pulled over. The husband and driver, pulled the e-braked and turned around to peer at me from the front seat.

"It's as far as I can go. We don't have snow tires on the car." He said--or at least that's what my ears translated.

I nodded and understood. I was extremely thankful, and before they let me out, they both gave me their meishi, or name-cards, and told me to phone them if I had any troubles. Again, I was humbled and thanked them for their help. They checked and double-checked that I had a cellphone and I assured them I did. They then asked if I had warm clothes. Did I have tent? Was I prepared to sleep in the snow? How about hiking boots? I nodded and asked them please not to worry. If things got tough I could simply follow the road back down. They nodded, chuckled, said something to themselves and that was that. They did a u-turn and headed back down the mountain, leaving me standing on a paved road on nondescript mountain in a foreign country somewhere hundreds of kilometres from my place of residence up in Sendai. Snow started to fall in light flakes, the kind that reminds you of those white Christmases told only in story books or sung about--the ones with the flakes that flutter down and command a silence and serenity that no other times of the season can rival.

It is in moments like these, so far away from home at an unknown spot on the map while surrounded by the new that I feel the most aware of being in control of my life. When you find yourself in an obscure and utterly unknown place, you have to ask yourself "how did I get here"? This feeling is even more poignant than when you arrive at a famous destination spot, more than when you find yourself surrounded by people in a metropolis such as Tokyo or a cultural tourist hot-spot like Kyoto . When you find yourself on a stretch of mundane concrete, with a mural of trees to your left and right with only a rather vague sense of where you are, do you get hit with a sense of ultimate freedom. No one at this moment knew exactly where I was, indeed, no one had heard of this place on a map and probably no one before has ever pitched a tent on the middle of this section of this road during a time like this. Everything about this moment was half-way, not there yet, in the middle, and on the go. It was a destination in limbo. Which is why hitchhiking is so great: you can't control how far you are going to or how fast; everything becomes "how you get there" versus "where you're going".

As I unpacked my backpack to set up, it was night number two, the second on-route stopover
which was merely a part of the process, the journey. I felt shivers slowly dangle their long fingers along the back of my legs and up my back. I was going to need thermal underwear tonight. I was going to probably need every item of clothes I brought with me, as packing your house on your back including food and water doesn't leave room for much else.

I slept in the fetal position, together with the vague darkness, the obscurity of place, and the absence of people that only nature can claim.

Shikoku Part II

I bought a big black felt pen marker from the convenience store, aka the konbini, and went out around back to grab some cardboard boxes ready for recycling. I ripped off one side, and wrote my destination on it. As I did this, a very brief flash of my subconscious surfaced and my eyes darted left and right wondering how strange and out of place I must look—a white guy rummaging through recycled boxes behind a convenience store, ripping them apart, writing on them. Even a trivial act such as this can make you feel leagues apart from the masses of Japanese people, who generally speaking adhere to a certain way of doing things, especially when in public. But, this moment of self-consciousness soon disappeared, and I sat down on the curb and began writing. A lady and her dog walked by. I felt their questioning eyes on me. I had to check my atlas for the correct kanji of my destination (as city names are dreadfully difficult, their readings seemingly decided by the cosmos around the same time that the ancient sun goddess and mother of Japan, Amaterasu, gave birth to this country). I then sat down and scanned my atlas for the best way to get onto the roads, the best launching off point into the grid of traffic ahead. Where would someone most likely stop for me, and where would there be enough space to stop, giving the driver enough time to debate as to what to do after seeing me? I quickly realized I was in a bad spot, caught in the crags of concrete urban sprawl, and would need to walk nearly an hour north and try to get onto the massive highway system, having to abandon the series of fuutsu michi—regular roads—I usually stick to.

A note on hitchhiking: Japan doesn't have a pastime of hitchhiking, and if you stick your thumb out on the road waving it wildly at the oncoming driver you're going to get various reactions. One of them comes in the form of a massive swerve away from you into the oncoming lane, the driver's eyes bulging. It would seem, after having this experience, that someone standing on the side of the road with their thumb does gets the synapses firing in the onlookers brain, but not in the "this guy needs a ride" kind of way. Indeed, in more of a confused and "What in the world is going on here? Has this man been stranded? Is in need of help?” This reaction is usually limited to the elderly man who drives with his wife sitting in the back seat. The younger drivers: well you get a mixed reaction from this lot. You often get a thumbs-up back at you from the youthful driver, as if the hitchhiker doesn't want a ride, but is simply passing on good vibes to the drivers coming his way.

All this being said, you are going to get picked up sooner or later. But, I do recommend making a sign and writing (if you can, in Kanji) your destination on it. It's almost like a right of passage: you got the sign, now you are a man of smarts, with a mission and speaking in a language the driver's can understand. Plus, you can write kanji, which is an element of relief for the Japanese driver whom may not have all the confidence in the world to strike up small talk in English within the confines of the privacy of their car. Furthermore, if you have the backpack slung around your shoulders, have a sign, and invoke the image of a proper “worldly traveler’ it’s going to help you all the more. Things are done here properly, not half-assed. If you want to go hiking, rain or shine you need to be “a hiker”, donning the gators, the bear bell, the vest, and flannel top, the energy bars and boots—no matter the weather, the hike, nor the climate. This transcends jogging, working, club-going, and anything else. It’s good to keep this in mind when hiking. If you simply look like the average bloke, disheveled, in need of the ride and hanging out on the side of the street you’re less likely to be picked up.

I've hitchhiked, like many other foreigners do in this country, all over the damn place and I've been picked up by the very first car, and although sometimes have had to wait for quite some time, but never longer than an hour and a bit. I'd say, generally speaking, out of the four years I've been hitchhiking here, I've been picked up on average within about twenty minutes.

Now, as I hung out behind this convenience store planning my route of attack, I realized I had to make it on the highway system in order to get onto the island of Shikoku. And for those of you who don't know, Japan has a two-tier highway system. The word "highway" here means the toll highway, akin to the expressway in The West. While the highway, which in Canada usually means the roads which connect one city to another, is simply a "city road" as it is rare to ever truly "leave" a city before arriving at another one; partly, this is due to massive urban sprawl, but also do to geography. 80% of Japan's mountains are undeveloped, volcanic spires which shoot into the air, undeveloped for city life (but at times still deforested and replanted and paved now in the most ridiculous manner, but I won't get into that). Which means, the 120,000,000 inhabitants of this country can only build in between these rocky folds (or must simply bulldoze them to the ground to create more livable space, which of course is not unheard of. eg, Tokyo, Osaka, et al). If you ever have the chance to look at Japan from a high altitude, you will see that the floor of the island--the land in between the mountains--is a spidery web of roads, lights, and buildings. That western road which leaves one city, brings you into a land of animals, nature and darkness is unheard of on the main routes of Honshu. On must go to Hokkaido, or head to the mountains to experience such a thing in Japan.

So it was the express way for me. It costs a high price to get on this network of roads. The highway system was made during the bubble years where yen was flowing freely on par with pork barrel politics, and was such an expensive and major undertaking the government still hasn't paid it off to this day (or so I hear). These expressways can be jaw-droppingly amazing sites at times: the bridges more than five stories high with shock absorbers for earthquakes and which rise above you, completely dwarfing the town underneath; the tunnels last more than twenty km long, blasted through dozens of km of mountain with massive fans bolted to the ceiling to recycle the air and get out the exhaust from its depths. To the eyes of a Canadian, it's a truly massive undertaking of a project that spans nearly the entire country.

All feats of engineering aside, it's harder to hitchhike on the expressway. First of all because it's illegal, and secondly because people are driving so fast it’s dangerous (not to mention shockingly strange) to see a person standing on the side of one of these roads. To get on to them you must pick up a ride before the toll gates, not in sight of the attendant (you'll get kicked off) and at a place where the car isn't going so fast. You then must leapfrog from rest area to rest area. If you do snag a ride on here, you can cover a vast amount of distance in one fell swoop, as the highways by pass cities and their gridlocks (although the scenery is not nearly as interesting on here as it is on the lower, usual roads).

I did make it onto the island, with the help of two cars and their drivers. The first helped me get to the highway itself. With old style clothes, disheveled hair and crooked teeth, he was young fellow buying canned coffee from a vending machine when I approached him. I didn’t ask him for a ride, but for directions. He then simply said it’d be faster for him to drive me to my destination than give directions. A stroke of good luck on this chilly March morning.

Out of the two people in the second, it was the girl in the passenger seat, half enthralled with and half scared for my well-being, who I had to thank. She got her boyfriend—someone twenty years or more her senior-to stop for me. I ran up to the window of the sleek, sports car, met the eyes of a cute girl in her twenties who didn’t say hop-in but rather, dai jyoubu?—are you okay? We exchanged formalities, I assured her I was traveling according to plan, and finally got on my way, bag on lap and eyes on me.

She kept peering back from the front seat, while her boyfriend looked at me through the review mirror. They were both kind, and beyond the innocent questions most people have in this country about foreigners, conversation was easy. The girl was indeed worried for my safety and took it upon herself as responsibility to be sure I go to where I was going, as if she didn’t, someone would have been along the way to hinder my further efforts. We stopped and looked at some flowers together on route.

That’s when I made it into the first city on Shikoku - and got stuck. One’s got to avoid cities at all costs when hitchhiking in Japan (probably anywhere for that matter), for stopping not only becomes a task, but stopping on a busy street, in front of dozens of other people, like anywhere else, reduces your chances of being picked up. I had but no choice, and decided to walk along the main city road with my sign wavering until I snagged a ride. It took about an hour or so, but I got one, the driver doing his bit for karma as he had hitchhiked throughout Europe as a teenager, “giving back to all those people who helped him then”, but he could only drop me off on the other side of town. So I found myself dancing, waving, and smiling at all cars on the main road again—the cars going so slow making eye contact was an easy task. Some shying away, others waving you away like an annoying fly, most bowing apologetically, others giggling and staring at you even as the cars passed, and others, stopping for you, and ordering you to get in the car in almost a lecturing manner, chuckling among themselves.

The latter happened to me, and I snagged the ride which would steer me too the doorstep of Mount. Tsurugi-san. Who did I have to thank? Two obasan. Obasan, meaning Grandma or old lady, also pertains to one of the many archetypes which make up the world of fashion and living of Japan. Like any country, archetypes can be seen, some adhered to by people, some completely blown out of the water by others. My two benefactors this time around, driving an ordinary family sedan of Japanese proportions, encompassed what image my students would conjure up in their minds of the word "obasan" when I did I class on stereotypes. Dyed blue hair, strong personalities; a full-deal package, cracking jokes they laugh at more themselves than their listerners do. Plump, direct, to the point. Their dialect thick, their questioning tone strong—not the meek, skinny and cute image most people have of Japanese women. Although these two picked me up, they grilled me the whole duration of the ride. I felt like I shrunk one foot in size and turned back into an adolescent boy during the span of this ride. Something out of a Alice in Wonderland tale, where the two women sitting in the front seats were giants, laughing, speaking in some indiscernible dialect, poking fun and sharing some secret I could not access.

They were not rude, but the series of questions they had, truly shed the light that they viewed whatever I was doing to not only be completely alien and ridiculous, but quite immature. “So you stand on the side of the rode and ask for rides? Do you expect people to pick you up? Do you often do this? Where do you sleep?” and so on. Of course, with their many years of experience on this earth, they said, they not only had the responsibility to pick me up, but to try to feed me along the way (handing me sweets, oranges, and the like). This was nothing new to me, and instead of causing a stink, after denying their offers I humbly accepted (although I had no where to store any of them).

An hour or so later I was bowing outside of the car, not only in thanks to my two benefactors, but also now to one of the woman's husbands who came out to see what all the commotion was about--a wolf in the chicken coop, too many feathers were being ruffled for the master of the house not to come out and see what was up. I was standing outside of the house, the driver of the car now gone, leaving me saying goodbye to the obasan with the husband. I peered into the house: it was a simple one, but one that told a story of families and tradition. You could tell kids had been raised here, and the house spoke of years of undisturbed domestic living--years of proper marriages, reared children, salaries, oranges on tables, five o'clock news, and tucked in sheets on nicely made beds awaiting for the return of the moved-on children.

I looked down the road the house was on, more of a paved mountain road then a city one. I had already began to leave the city areas of Shikoku and was on the outskirts of the valleys which lay ahead. This road was my next route ahead, the mountain folds of Shikoku becoming more enclosed the closer I made my way to the mountains. The river on the right which paralleled the road getting that much bigger, rugged. The houses becoming scarcer, and as it had been almost 8 hours since I first made my cardboard signs behind the convenience store, the skies had become darker.

The husband asked me exactly how I was planning on getting to the door step of Mt. Tsurugi, the second tallest mountain on Shikoku. A mountain which was still about two hours away, in an area where traffic was unlikely.

I looked at him, and replied, "Plan?"