Sanbei San

I wake up with an insatiable urge to get the hell out of my house, out my apartment, out of my small town—away from the frozen rice paddies, gravel parking lots and ringing train-crossings—and simply go somewhere, anywhere. This feeling comes and goes for me, some days stronger than others. Although it has been nearly three years, I still get hit with the realization that I am in a foreign country (no matter how familiar it has become) with an uncountable amount of new and different places all within my fingertips. It's like a smack upside the head reminding you of why you left your country to begin with; it is a reminder for you to shake off the dust of routine and 9-5 jobs, outstanding bills, and year-long working contracts. This is how I woke up on this any-old Saturday morning in Japan.

I turn on the kerosene heater, step into my slippers and open up the curtains. Sunshine floods into my apartment, giving me the extra boost of motivation that I need. With my breath visible before me and my skin tight from the cold, I walk through my tatami mat bedroom, which is littered with clothes and books, and undergo my usual morning routine--drink some freshly ground coffee, eat a bowl of granola and a piece of toast with jam and peanut butter for breakfast, and quickly check my e-mail. I eat in front of the computer—the portal to the outside world—for a little chunk of time, then I go about getting all my gear together for a camp-out on one of the only mountains in Western Japan (or what is called the 中国地方Chugoku Chihou, meaning "central country" region of Japan, although it's more to the left and down a bit on the Japanese map).

Let me digress for a second. Japan has mountains over it like pubescent teenagers have pimples. They're everywhere, and they jut out of the terrain, not giving a second thought to the country's inhabitants. As a result, the Japanese people have to either build around them or simply demolish them (like was done during the construction of greater Tokyo and other metropolises and is still being done to this very day to aid rampant public works projects). But anyway, unlike the slanting, slow-rising mountain chains in the West that one can build on the sides of, it's nearly impossible to build anywhere on Japan's mountains due to the severe angles in which they protrude from the earth. This causes Japan to be way greener than one would suspect with large amounts of undeveloped land, and also creates a spider web-looking network of cities covering any even surface in-between these tectonic folds. But, even so and to my surprise, Western Japan--especially Hiroshima Prefecture--has next to nothing when it comes to mountains. Sure there are a lot of jagged hills rubbing shoulder with rugged terrain, but there are only two mountains that are taller than 1000 metres (the bare minimum of height for a hill to be able to call itself a mountain in my opinion). These two mountains are: 三瓶山 (Sanbei mountain; 1126 meters) and 大山 (Daisen mountain; a decent 1729 metres). So, not having much to chose from anyway, and not wanting to drive for too long, I decide to tackle the former.

Considering that it is mid January, I grab my snowshoes, my winter gear (made up of hand-me-downs and inexpensive sweatshop-made clothing bought from Japan's trendy Uniqlo clothing store chain), a day or so worth of food and water, gas, cooker, and get into my three (maybe four) cylinder Suzuki and head Northwest--my i-pod connected to my old tape deck and blaring away. It's just me, my music, sunshine, and the excitement of being destination-bound.

Sanbei-san. I arrive just after Noon, driving as far as I can on a closed road that happened to have the road block moved aside, until, due to snow and a huge truck stuck in a ditch, prevents me from going any further. Perhaps I should take the truck and its driver, who is trying to fit chains on the back tires with frozen fingers, as a bad sign. But, after checking to see if I can help or not (and not being able to, but getting heaps of bows in thanks for "my generous and wanting-to-help feeling") I park my car on the side of the otherwise abandoned road, dawn my snowshoes and backpack and treck the two kilometres to the base of the mountain, look up towards the summit (now cloudy) and make my way into the white forest.

I've been told not to go hiking by myself. But you have to understand that hiking in Japan is an altogether different sport/activity than it is in other parts of the world. Who knows, maybe Japan can lay claim to a version of this sport that is entirely theirs (as all those professors of Asian studies out their groan at me for calling Japan "unique", but it's true). Here’s a list of five reasons to back up Japan’s hiking-uniqueness: 1) on almost every mountain in this country you can get away with using your cell phone. 2) the paths have been so worn-in from centuries of use by monks, priests, and now sports enthusiasts, that it's nearly impossible to get lost 3) there is a constant drone of people hitting the trails at all times of the year 4) due to this country’s love of concrete, you can reach nearly any trail head as long as you have some yen in your pocket 5) there is a lack of wildlife (especially any dangerous ones, except for the random boar or snake, which I have never seen), so there's nothing to worry in that department (unless you go up to Hokkaido and that's an entirely new ball game). All of these reasons and more make heading into the Japanese wilderness so accessible and carefree that I oftentimes don't even consider myself to much of a mountain hiker. And I say that even though I've hiked and camped in some of the most hard-to-get-to and highest mountains in the country. So, anyway, I set off alone to hike this mountain. Hell, I think, it's only about an hour and a half to the summit, what could go wrong?

Well, after all this being said, I discovered winter is still winter and it can throw some curve balls at you—or at least some heavy duty wind, clouds, snow and an overall mass of grey that cuts down the extent of one's vision to about one meter in any direction. And considering that there is snow on the ground—hence no path to be seen and white in all directions anyway including up and down—that is one hard curve ball to hit. Luckily, this storm (which got tossed in from the Japan Sea) didn't hit until about ten minutes after I reached the summit and safely got into the mountain hut on top.

The hut is small, two levels, has some extra blankets (thankfully so) and is essentially all one needs. I crawl up to the top floor, set out my bed and boil some water--eat some instant noodles, drink some tea, and have a banana and rice. That’s when I look out the small window and see nothing but a void of swirling grey. I suddenly realize that I am in limbo, in a state of complete helplessness, at complete mercy to Mother Nature. It was the frozen version of Dante’s purgatory. It was a rather surreal feeling. I didn't feel like I was in any immediate danger, but that feeling of Jack Kerouac "lets hit the road" type of thing I had early this morning was replaced by a lurking, nauseating feeling. I realized I only had about two days worth of food (if rationed), no compass, no map, and really, no winter experience behind me to lead me in such a situation. But, to be honest, it all sort of felt like a massive feint or test, because I could still use my cell phone (remember the Japan unique-hiking factor?), so I knew if worse came to worse I could call someone to get the local rescue team to save my white ass. But this story isn’t about life or death. It's about finding yourself completely helpless in a freezing bubble of raging snow and wind, with no one near to give you a helping hand. Although, I knew I could ask for help, I also knew that if I tried descending the mountain at the wrong time—regardless of its low height—I could easily lose my way and, well, face the risk of freezing to death. That put a rather sobering aspect on my little weekend getaway.

Your mind goes through some interesting thoughts in such a situation. My mind drifted to my, as of two weeks ago, ex-girlfriend. I felt like phoning her up and crying like a baby. But, I didn't think that'd help her any (nor our remaining friendship). My mind thought about my family, why the hell in the first place I even thought snowshoeing in the winter in uninhabited terrain would be fun, and what it would be like not be able to see where you were going on a mountain, within a couple kilometers of civilization but with death still a very real possibility. That night I dreamt of my family. We were part of some crazy life and death futuristic game (like the movie The Running Man with Arnold Schwarzenegger here you're put through a series of grim death-defying tests as people watch, enthused by bloodlust). The game in my dream was a massive mountain-shaped town, with the highest level--the summit--being the start, and the last level--the base of the mountain--being the end. And in order to make it to the next level we had to overcome great odds, enemies and such. I guess I was a tad worried that the weather wouldn't clear up before my food ran out.

I woke up many times throughout the night, my sleeping bag wet on the outside due to the condensation as I slept in the fetal position on the inside. My water bottle was half-frozen and the wind roaring. I didn't want to look out the window, for it made me want to whimper like a pup. So I slept. I woke up to my alarm clock. 6:45 AM. The moment of truth. I leapt up like someone branded me with a hot cow prod, my heart still trying to catch up to itself, and looked out the window. It was absolutely gorgeous.

One of my favorite kanji—characters borrowed from China that make up the Japanese writing system--is the word 雲海 （unkai). It means "cloud sea" or "sea of clouds". I first learned it from a person I met while hiking Mount Fuji. We stood there, together, looking down at these beautiful cotton ball clouds and he asked me if I had ever heard the word before. That memory has stuck with me to this very day. And that is exactly what I was standing above now: tops of mountains peaking their heads through a sea of clouds, with Japan's iconic rising sun starting the day. If I wasn't thinking that now could be my only chance to get off the mountain, I would've been awestruck. I was amazed enough though, to take some pictures and gawk for a couple minutes before I scrambled everything together abandoned all hope in finding some sort of trail and simply ran to the nearest edge of the mountain and slid my way down the side until I reached the small village below. My muscles were screaming, my stomach empty, my heart pounding, and my head still half-asleep, but I found my window of opportunity and took it. And it did cloud over again, so I felt a tad relieved for my quick descent even with such breathtaking beauty to be appreciated left behind.

Once I reached civilization, it was like the slow motion button was hit. I could think again, I appreciated concrete more than ever, and the simple fact of being below the clouds made me want to recite poetry of old to maidens locked in towers. I felt, simply put, good to be alive. Or, perhaps more succinctly, good to feel safe. I meandered my way back to my car, stopping to take pictures, slowly drinking water, nibbling on food and just enjoying myself. My car was still in good shape, the battery still alive. I plugged my i-pod back in, and headed to the nearest natural hot spring (or onsen as they're called here). One of the main reasons I took up mountain hiking in Japan (although I already had an affinity for nature, as I grew up in a small mountainous town called Nelson in Western Canada) is that at nearly every mountain base there is a hot spring--each ranging in temperature, minerals, healing effects, as well as in facilities. It is the absolutely best combination: a long exhausting hike and a long hot soak in volcanically heated natural baths. Wow. That reason alone makes it worth being in this country.

At any rate, here I am, sitting in a make-shift barrel, big enough for one only, soaking in rust-orange hot spring water, reflecting on my moment in the clouds, at mercy to things bigger than I. As naked old men walk by, steam rising into the winter air, I find myself feeling good about getting out of my apartment on this any-old Saturday in Japan.