Musashino Musings

Hiking alone around the Japanese mountains gives one plenty of opportunity for rumination and general navel-gazing. I guess in a way that's part of the attraction - getting away from the normal hubbub and allowing the mind some space to step back and take stock.

Yesterday I had a very agreeable few hours exploring the hills above Hatonosu in the Tama valley. We've been spending a lot of time around here recently, in particular around Lake Okutama. Big M is not a fan of Yamanobori (mountain climbing) - hence the reason that I tend to hike alone. But she does enjoy being outside. Lake Okutama boasts a well maintained, and most importantly, an almost entirely flat hiking trail along its southern shoreline. We've had a couple of nice days exploring the 12km trail, enjoying the views and catching rare glimpses of the forest's residents, such as monkeys and snakes.

But whether you are slogging up steep mountain trails or meandering along lakeside paths, the one common feature of the landscape is trees. Lots of them. In fact, Japan has pretty much cornered the market in tree covered mountains. From the bamboo groves of sheltered valleys, through deciduous woodlands and up into the majestic cedar forests, trees are your constant companion when walking in Japan. So yesterday I got to thinking about trees.

In Old Norse tradition, the world was supported by Yggdrasill, the World Tree connecting the nine worlds of Norse mythology. Its roots ran to the wells of knowledge, while its upper branches reached to the heavens. The world of men lay nestled in its branches and squirrels ran up and down the trunk carrying messages between the gods and the different worlds. The evergreen tree as a symbol of life is deeply embedded in Western European culture; it's why every English churchyard sports a yew tree, and why we celebrate Christmas with a decorated pine tree - a distant echo of a far older pre-Christian tradition.

I was pondering yesterday, how the Norse view of the universe as being supported on the limbs of a great tree could be interpreted another way. If one were to imagine one's existence not as a 3 dimensional creature, but as a 4 dimensional one - the extra dimension being time - the effect rendered back into 3 dimensions would not be unlike looking at a tree. Every branch would represent some decision point in your life, where reality takes a fork into two equally valid but increasingly divergent realities; each then forking again and again as they extend upwards before finally tapering to a singular conclusion as they touch the sky.

The thing about trees is that they grow upwards towards the light. A tree never juts out a limb sideways unless in an attempt to find a new way towards the light. Unconsciously, the tree knows how to do this, and I guess we do too - constantly searching for meaning and fulfilment in life. Perhaps we too know that when we lose our thirst for sunlight, we will wither and die. But most of the time, as long as we keep trying to move upwards, just like the tree reaching upwards, our efforts will prove successful no matter what branch we start from. There are no wrong turns because we can always go forwards, and upwards. We just need to chose to.

Carrying on with my tree-related ponderings, I thought about the different trees and how the environment shapes and changes them, just as our environment shapes and changes our own development. The English Oak stands solidly alone. Its massive roots reaching deep into the earth to support its sturdy trunk and spreading foliage; the Japanese cedar grows tall and strong in the company of its fellows, wasting no effort in reaching straight for the sky from the dark forest floor. Like the roots and trunk of Yggdrasill, I kind of see each of us supported by our personal histories, our cultures and our families. The deeper and stronger these roots, the stronger we are and the higher we can reach. I guess that's why these things are so important to me - to us as human beings. And how important it is to recognise that everything we do now, everything we are, is rooted in our past effort and the efforts of those who have gone before. Our parents, our families, our ancestors and our communities How much we have to be thankful for.

So why not do something right now to nurture your own root stock - hug the mrs; pick up some litter from the street outside your house; phone your mum; take the time to appreciate the good things about where you live, who you are and where you've come from. See if you can't grow an extra inch upwards today!

In the last instalment, your humble scribe had managed the impressive feat of falling off a mountain along a precise magnetic bearing. Muddied but otherwise unhurt, he now prepares to continue - but more surprises await!

Feeling somewhat relieved, I headed off on the well-defined path. But while I was quite sure that the worst was behind me, I was  - quite literally - not out of the woods yet so caution was still very much the order of the day.

The map I was using (www.kobito.co.jp) was bloody good; clear, accurate and detailed. Marked on the map was the precise location of every official trail signpost, together with accurate distances between each. So this meant it was very easy to use a system of dead reckoning to pin-point my position extremely accurately as I proceeded along the trail. This information could be vital if I encountered another situation where I lost the trail and had to navigate cross-country. The process of navigation is deceptively simple; I had worked out that in this terrain with my current load, I was travelling 100m every 90 paces. So by just counting out 90 paces, I could measure my progress very accurately. Every 100m I picked up a stone, and in this way I was able to count out distances of 5, 6 or 700 m between signposted waypoints with surprising accuracy.

To my left was the running water I had heard through the trees. The trickle of water gradually broadened into a mountain stream that gurgled and bubbled its way downhill through the increasingly rocky gully. The path crossed the stream and I stopped to wash the dirt from my arms, face and hair in the cool mountain water. I was feeling pretty good about everything in my secret mountain valley as I continued, with my bear bell clinking out the steps as I counted.

Rounding a bend in the trail, I encountered something I hadn't reckoned on - a bridge. A simple wooden bridge had been constructed over a shallow rocky gully. As I got closer, I noticed that the bridge had seen better days. In fact, it was quite seriously decomposed in places. Untreated wood decays incredibly quickly in Japan's hot and humid summers. From the faded date on the "Path Closed" notice, I guessed that the last time this path and its bridges had seen any maintenance was over a year ago at least. I gave the bridge a closer inspection: its main supports, while corroded, seemed robust enough. So with caution I edged along what I hoped was the strongest part directly over one of the beams (incidentally, the picture comes from www.yamareco.com)

Having crossed with no problems, I continued. The valley I was following had become progressively steeper and rockier as it followed the increasingly energetic stream downhill. I started to encounter more bridges. Some, looked almost new; some looked like they were in serious need of repair. The gullies crossed had become deeper and more rocky. A fall through the rotten wood onto the unforgiving rocks below would be catastrophic, and I once again noted that a leg injury could prove extremely serious in this environment as there was little chance of being discovered by passing hikers. I began to have concerns again over what obstacles still lay in my path.

My concerns became more substantial as the terrain underwent a change of character from easy wooded trail to challenging rocky ravine. Walls of limestone rose steeply either side of the trail, which periodically disappeared as it passed over mossy bedrock. There was no way except forward and back. The stream now became punctuated by short, rocky waterfalls and the path skittered back and forth across rock ledges stepping their way downhill. Bridges appeared more frequently, spanning gullies that were ever deeper. The state of some of these crossings gave serious cause for concern. Suddenly the path and river parted company, with the river dropping away very sharply into a completely impassable rocky ravine. Up in the distance I could hear a waterfall. The path climbed up sharply around a rocky outcrop, narrowing as it did so. Rounding a bend, I saw a sight that made me take a big gulp.

Clinging to the side of the ravine was a completely rotten wooden walkway, complete with DANGER sign. Below, nothing but empty space and mossy rocks. Shit! I was so close to the end of the trail. But this looked to be the most serious challenge yet. I stopped to really examine the obstacle. It was clearly totally rotten. The rocky wall to the left had some tree roots growing out of it which would provide some hand holds. Below the wood was a narrow band of rock, which I hoped would be resilient enough to prevent me dropping into the ravine if the bridge collapsed. I had no choice but to continue, so puckering-up and chanelling Indiana Jones, I gingerly picked my way across, alert for the sound of splintering wood and a sudden dropping sensation. 

I made it back to solid ground. Phew.

The path once more became benign as it descended gradually through he trees. Behind me, I could hear the sound of rushing water, which I guessed marked the spot where the stream plunged over the rocky precipice. According to my map, I should now be approaching the end of the section which had been marked as closed on the sign I encountered. And sure enough, at exactly the point predicted, there was the signpost with rope strung across the path announcing its closure. I'd made it.

I clambered through the rope, and walked a few paces. Crossing a (well repaired) bridge, I was rewarded with the sight of one of the most beautiful waterfalls I have seen in Japan so far.

Shortly thereafter, the trail became a paved road, and shortly after that I arrived at the campsite. The adventure was truly over and I'd survived unscathed.

I wasted no time in pitching my tent in the pretty much deserted campsite, and getting myself sorted out for the night. An hour or so later, a light flicked on in the campsite office and I wandered over to pay my pitch fee. To me delight, there was a fridge, well-stocked with Asahi Super-Dry. After purchasing a few tins at vastly inflated prices, I retired to my boudoir to cook dinner and reflect on the day's events.

Basically, I'd been lucky. My decision to proceed along a closed path had been risky, but it was a calculated risk - a calculated risk that had paid off on this occasion. The alternative would have led at best to a pretty miserable and pointless slog; at worse an even more dangerous situation in failing light on an unfamiliar path with exposed paths and steep scree slopes. Given my equipment and the fact that I am a confident navigator, I don't feel my decision was a bad one.

Where I did feel that lessons needed to be learned was in my emergency procedures - what would I have done in the event that I had become injured or lost in the dense woodland? I had both tent and an emergency bivi bag on board, plus food and water, so sustenance and shelter would not have been a problem assuming I could get to my pack. But what about summoning help? Mobile phones are useless in Japan's mountains. I had a whistle, but it was packed away in my emergency tin and therefore not immediately accessible. What would happen if I lost my pack?

Considering these points as the Super Dry buzz kicked in, I resolved to make the following changes:

1 - Attach whistle to pack straps so it's easily accessible - useful for bear encounters too

2 - Carry smaller emergency kit in my belt bag. In the event that I lose my main pack for whatever reason, I still have shelter and some form of sustenance.

3 - Investigate some form of personal GPS beacon such as the Spot Gen 3

I guess these measures might seem over the top given that I am really a casual weekend hiker rather than a seasoned adventurer. But even so, as thousands of Japanese weekend backpackers find out every year, you can find yourself in trouble very quickly in Japan's wooded mountains. I have no desire to become a statistic.

Why had I returned? Bloody good question, as it turned out, and one that - surprisingly - I discovered I didn't have an immediate answer to.


The next day dawned clear and bright. The brand new Gelert Solo tent I'd purchased for the trip had survived the night albeit with a worrying little rent in the inner. More on that later.

Having stuffed myself full of tinned crap, I broke camp and got underway. About five minutes later, recollections of my previous trip and the effort required to lug a fairly hefty backpack up to the start of the Llanberis path came sharply back into focus. I had been 25 last time I was here, but a smoker. I was quite pleased to find that a 52 year-old non-smoking version of me was able to set a pace that I think the younger man would have struggled to keep up with.

On I trudged, over stream, across rock and tufted grass - the latter under the disapproving stare of a rather large bull, which added a certain zing of energy to my already tired legs. After I while, I connected with the Llanberis path proper above Hebron Station and began the long climb to the summit in earnest.



The last section of the path as it passes Clogwyn gets a bit steeper and more rugged. But the reward for the knackered hiker is an increasingly impressive selection of views. The section of path where it crosses under the Snowdon Mountain Railway is particularly fine. The A5 snaking its way far below gives some impression of the elevation gain.

By now, the summit was within striking distance. I was pretty tired but I'd made good time and the weather had held this far. I was in no particular rush, so I just focussed on maintaining a steady pace. Before too long, I passed the point where the PyG track joins the Llanberis pass on the ridge that runs to the summit. It was about here that the clouds closed in and it was waterproofs and gloves time. Even in August, the windchill at the summit can be quite severe. Later that day I passed a group of muppets attempting to ascend to the summit in shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops. It is amazing that despite all the warnings, some people just seem determined to become statistics. Hopefully in this case the cold wind and rain would have turned them back before they came to any harm.











 

It's probably true to say that most gaijin Tokyo-ites' first experience of mountain hiking in Japan is a trip to Takao san. Located about an hour away by train, it's readily accessible and extremely popular for family outings and afternoon strolls in the woods. There are a number of generally well-signed trails up the mountain and around the summit that present varying degrees of challenge to the visitor. Along with the trails there is a cable car and chair lift that feeds a steady stream of visitors to the the summit; that stream becomes a torrent in nice weather. So much so that Takao san can become unpleasantly crowded and is therefore avoided like the plague by many hikers seeking a bit of intimate quality time with nature.

Thankfully, however, the Japanese built-in herding instinct also means that the average recreational walker tends to shun even well-maintained trails such as Takao san when the weather is not ideal. Being British, we are of course not deterred by a bit of weather, so I've often found Takao san to be a convenient destination for a quick couple of hours in the fresh air during week days when the weather is a bit inclement.

Tokyo got hit by a very heavy snowfall this year - the heaviest for 30 years apparently. Outside of the urban areas, the snow was up to a metre deep in many places, with many of the mountain trails and roads closed and avalanche warnings in place on even some of the closer peaks. Naturally this is all very frustrating to those looking for a couple of hours escape. Especially those who had taken the opportunity of a recent trip to Europe to pick up some new hiking kit, and was itching to get out there and start playing.

So it was that I hatched the (in hindsight, perhaps not the wisest) plan to take a quick run up Takao san. I was concerned that I would miss out on seeing the woods bedecked with snow. I needn't have worried on that score!

Armed with cooker, tarp and emergency gear I set off from Takao san guchi station at about 10am for what I thought would be a gentle schleppe up Route 2 / 3 to the summit. Pretty soon after starting my ascent, it became apparent that this was going to be a lot harder slog than anticipated.

The snow was deep. When I say deep, I mean it had completely covered the path to a depth of 50-100cm or more. Traffic on the path had packed it down in places, but in many places it was quite treacherous. As I ascended, I found I was getting stuck more and more where the hardened surface of the snow wasn't enough to hold my weight and my feet kept suddenly disappearing into the depths, pitching me over on numerous occasions.  what made it worse was the fact that the path is very narrow at best, but the snow had pretty much obscured the edge of the path, so that what looked like solid ground was actually merely a fluffy overhang above a steep, wooden gully strewn with rocks and very unforgiving branches. This really was a job for snow-shoes and crampons - and I had neither with me! Big mistake.

After a couple of hours of wading through thick snow, I made it to the top. A digger had cleared some of the roadway on the top section so it was possible to see just how much snow was there. My hiking poles are about 120cm in length.

I had arrived very much later at the top than I'd planned, and I was mindful that I still needed to get down before nightfall, so I decided to head straight off down Route 6. I could have chosen Route 1, which is paved all the way. But in all honesty I would have viewed this as a bit of a cop-out after working so hard to get up by a more challenging route. So turning myself around, I headed off for Route 6. There was lots more fun to follow?

Route 6 starts down the mountain with a couple of long step sections. Although there was snow, it wasn't too deep and the steps themselves were fairly clear. I passed a couple of people coming up the path dressed in fairly inappropriate clothing for the conditions - i.e. trainers, so I surmised that if they had made it thus far the conditions further down were probably OK. How wrong I was!

After a fairly benign start, Route 6 drops into a stream bed gully, strewn with rocks and potentially ankle-twisting traps. Here the snow had really drifted heavily so the stream was completely and totally buried about a metre down. But it was still there, running under the show! Every so often, I could see massive potholes where some unfortunate had dropped through the crust into the stream below, which was happily burbling away under it's icy blanket. Clearly, with very few people around, twisting an ankle (or worse) and getting trapped in these conditions would be a serious problem, so I moved as cautiously as possible given the fact that I only had a couple of hours to negotiate my way down.

Here again, the path had been completely buried so in many cases is was just not  possible to determine what was stable ground and what was just wind-blown snow. What made it worse was that pine twigs had blown down onto the surface, making it look like a muddy path - but it wasn't! The real path lay 30-50cm below it. At one point my foot sank unexpectedly into a pothole and I pitched over backwards, just managing to stop myself from rolling over the edge and into a rocky gully below.

A bit further down the path, you come across a famous spot called the Biwa Waterfall. It is here that monks undergo their rigorous Misogi training - sitting under an icy-cold mountain waterfall while reciting Buddhist mantras. To protect the monks from the prying eyes of tourists, a screen has been erected along the top of the cliff edge. Normally, I can comfortably walk under the screen supports without having to duck too much. On this occasion, I was forced to climb over them.

I eventually made it down OK with plenty of time to spare. It certainly turned out to be a considerably more eventful trip than anticipated. And a valuable one: The big takeaway from this little adventure is that the Japanese backcountry is not to be taken lightly. Even on well-travelled routes like Takao san, conditions can be treacherous and you really, really need to be well-equipped and well armed with information on the weather conditions. Most popular mountains have websites where it's possible to get day-to-day updates on weather. I also learned that crampons and snowshoes are pretty much essential items here. They will be on my Xmas list for this year!