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.