After two long days, I could not face a third 18-hour maptime day to Kitadake and Hirogawara, and I made silent excuses that perhaps the dog would struggle with the distance and the heat. I set off at 2:30 am under a shockingly bright moon, reached the summit of Shiomidake in time to enjoy the dawn roll out across the clouds beneath, then descended lazily to civilization. Ainodake and Kitadake will be enjoyable later in the year on a fresh pair of legs.
Refreshed after sleeping and refueling, we made good time up over Akaishi and on across the dramatic, rugged ridgeline, now moving toward the midsection of the route. This was where other approaches join from the east for hikers wishing to make just a one-night trip to Akaishidake and Warusawa. The relatively convenient access, though still 6 or 7 hours from Tokyo just to the trailhead, had brought a couple of hundred, mostly elderly hikers to admire the wildflowers on Warusawa. But no sooner than I had gone 5 minutes beyond the Warusawa junction on the ridge and I was on my own again, and I saw no one else for the next 5 hours.
As I emerged into the clearing of the Takayama emergency hut, I noticed the owner standing in the doorway, arms folded, staring at me. I slipped the lead onto Hana, anticipating a tongue-lashing. “So you’re the person who set off from Tekari yesterday? I’ve never heard of that before, and I’ve been here since this hut was built 30 years ago.” He had been informed by hut radio, presumably from Tekari or Hijiridaira.
But he was wrong. The TransAlps trail-running race passes this way once every two years, averaging 60 km a day in a 7-day, 420km coast-to-coast unsupported run across the Northern, Central and Southern Alps. The runners, and the number is limited to just 10, are not even allowed to stay in the huts or buy food there. Entry costs just 1,000 yen, but there is no support whatsoever, indeed, support of any kind is prohibited. In 2006, just two finished. The winner and Japan’s leading trail runner, Takahashi, died of a heart attack the following year in the 132 km TokyoTrailRun. The other was Mase Chigaya, in her 40s, housewife, and mother of two.
As the old man poured me a cup of oolong tea, he explained that Tokai Pulp owns most of the Southern Alps, including this hut. The hut is only open for a couple of months, and he used to carry in all his food, but he admitted, “Now the company drops me and the supplies in by helicopter, just an hour from Matsumoto. Once you’ve experienced that luxury, you’ll never hike it again.” Even at age 70, he still carries a chainsaw and tools to fell trees and clear the trail. I offered him some muesli, but in reply he merely opened his mouth to reveal no teeth. We sat on the bench and chatted in the sunlight filtering through the trees. He seemed perfectly content.
Encouraged by his warmth, I pushed on for another 3 hours to Sanpuku. Along one of the most beautiful routes, dipping through forest paths before breaking out onto exposed ridges, with landslides carving the mountainsides, I came across only one other hiker. He was sitting peacefully on the edge of a collapsing ridge, a drop of a thousand foot at his feet, staring into the distance and waiting for the mist to clear. A serious Himalayan mountaineer in his youth, he was now in his sixties and enjoying the easy hikes of Japan. His mission was rockie-han. “You don’t know that word?” he asked. “Location hunting.” He carried a large SLR and phalanx of lenses, but this was merely a prelude. When the production chief back in the studio had seen the photos that he would take and made his choice, this elderly man would return with a massive plate camera weighing 10kg.
The Southern Alps may not have the name value of the Northern Alps simply because of their inaccessibility. After a three-hour local train and an eye-watering Yen 17,000 taxi ride later, the driver dropped me at the trail head. He was clearly nervous about driving deep into the mountains at night, and before he left, handed me a couple of biscuits.
Perhaps I should have placed them under my tongue as payment for the ferryman across the Styx, for that was how I felt, embarking on a journey into another world on the roof of the Alps where I would remain for the next three days.
But it was a relief to be climbing up through the forest, gaining altitude and leaving the heat of the valley below. The rainy season had officially ended with the last downpour earlier in the day, and temperatures would soon soar into the 30s. The soft pine-needle path was still warm and damp, and the full moon cast ghostly, moving shadows that played among the tree roots.
I reached the Tekari hut campsite at 1 am but there were no other campers to disturb. The campsite was a small but cosy hollow next to the hut, and had been carefully leveled and cleaned of stones by the intelligent, lively couple who ran the hut. They came out in the morning to warn me to stock up on water at the spring a few minutes below, since there was no other water for the next five and a half hours to Chaosudake.
But I flunked this first test. After 30 minutes of descending, a sense of panic began to rise. I had clearly missed the water, and had no more than a cupful remaining in the Platypus. The morning sun glistened tantalizingly on the dew-covered grasses and ferns lining the path. I tried to scoop up the beads of water with the plasticized map, but it was clearly not enough to slake our thirst.
I had no extra clothing, other than Goretex, down jacket and a spare pair of underpants. There was no choice. I took out the underpants and brushed them repeatedly through the grasses, then wrung out the dew into a bowl. Soon Hannah and I had drunk our fill, leaving only the soapy aftertaste of Fabreeze. At least they were my own underpants…
It was a relief to arrive at Chaosu and find the hut had just opened for the summer season. The staff had arrived that morning, and vivid red tomatoes were bobbing in an ice-cold bucket of running snowmelt. I was the first visitor, and a girl brought me a cup of tea and cakes, all part of the most friendly welcome I have ever received at a hut.
We set off for Hijiridaira hut. I would decide there whether to continue or camp. Another few hours later in the rising heat and both the dog and I were wilting upon arrival. Some snacks for the dog and salty noodles for me revived spirits and we set off again, now committed to reaching the Hyakkenbora hut for an 18-hour maptime day.
After climbing Hijiridake and descending the other side, I realised my GPS had dropped out of the rucksack sidepocket. So that must have been what the shouting had been about near the hut! But going back now would add another three hours and make today’s plan impossible. I hope that Japan’s famed honesty and safety will result in the GPS finding its way back to me.
By the time we reached Hyakkenbora, I was shattered. This was the price of insufficient liquid earlier. Upon checking in at the hut campsite and being asked my destination for tomorrow, I answered “the next world” for that would have suited me. I crawled into my tent and in spite of the rough stony ground, slept for 10 hours straight.
After 3 hours’ sleep, it took a while to get going on Utsugi. At the top, there was a like-minded hiker in his fifties, in shorts and half-sleeve shirt, who perked up when I arrived. He had driven up from Tokyo the previous night, got an early start, and was driving back to Tokyo in the afternoon. After a brief chat, I started to run the descent as usual, but soon became aware of laboured breathing behind me, and was startled to find the man running a short way behind. “I just love your dog,” was his explanation.
The same was not the case on the next mountain, Kisokomagadake. I had intended to take the long ridge route from Utsugi, but the logistics of getting back to the car prevailed. So with reluctance, I joined the crowds of day-trippers for one of Japan’s fastest gondola rides up to 2600 meters, listening to the ironic commentary about preserving the beautiful natural environment.
Yes, women in high-heeled shoes and short skirts were tip-toeing daintily through the final remnants of snow. Children’s screams of “Ya-ho” echoed back from the impassive, grey-faced mountain walls. And the crowds. Oh, what had the fine weather and convenience of the cablecar brought? On the track of just a few hundred meters up to the ridge was a solid stream of assorted hikers, inching their way up or down, each one within whispering distance of the next.
As I started up, suddenly an almighty voice boomed down from the top of the line. “DOGS ARE NOT ALLOWED. GO DOWN. NOW!” He was practically screaming. A hundred heads turned around in unison to stare. The background chattering ceased.
In an instant, I was carried back to my schooldays and the awful bullying, dormant feelings of dreadful revenge resurfacing after all these years.
No one said a word as I walked up, not until I reached the owner of that vitriolic voice, a stocky, aggressive man in his sixties. He was livid. “Get back down!” he shouted again, his face a menacing puce-red. “You’ll scare away the mountain animals.” He had to be kidding, but he was not. I swept my arm around in the direction of a mountainside filled with hikers, “That’s why there are no wild animals here,” and carried on.
But the whole day had been ruined and my nerves shattered. Regardless of the legality, and the whole hypocrisy, he firmly believed that dogs are not allowed in the mountains. If I had not taken the dog, the ugly scene would not have happened. It has taken me a couple of days to regain my nerves.
I generally try to avoid trouble, so I shall have to choose my remaining routes and times more carefully.
We both suffered this morning. Chokai on the map looked a breeze, but the maths did not tally. Asahidake was approximately 1300 meters of altitude gain, one-way distance of 8.2 km, map climb time of 6 hours. Chokai was a slightly smaller gain, the same distance, but a climb time of 4 hours, and it felt a hard slog. Perhaps we were simply tired.
The Shinzan peak was a heap of murderously sharp, large rocks, many of which had been defaced with name carvings. Mind-boggling to imagine guys (presumably) preparing mallet and chisel for such premeditated action.
The conventional way to descend a snowfield …
Keisuke showing the quicker way …
At the base of Gassan there was a sentrybox, the stuff of nightmares, manned by a crusty old man who scornfully looked at my running shoes, “You have got proper mountain boots, haven’t you?” Yes, I had. Still in the car. “You can’t get up without crampons. Impossible!”
He was trouble, so I packed Hana into her carrycase before taking her out of the car, covered the case with my wind jacket, and then dashed past the guard while he was hectoring another would-be climber. I kept her in the case for the short chair-lift ride, but at 2 pm, we were the only ones going up, passing a steady stream of satisfied hikers on the descending chairs. As we neared the top, the first spots of ominously heavy rain fell. Within 5 minutes of hiking, the heavens opened. Keisuke, with no particular agenda, wisely returned to the hut. The die-hard skiers rapidly cleared off the slope. All hikers were on their way down. Was I mad? And then thunder reverberated around the hill.
I stopped. This was nuts. Time to turn around. But after backtracking 50 meters, the ghost of Hakusan came back to haunt me. I had abandoned that one because of rain, and now faced a long trip back there sometime. Gassan was even further from Tokyo. Hana looked dismayed as I started back up the slope, my shoes now filled with rain and the path a running stream. Once you’re this wet, it no longer matters. A sweet-looking lady muttered “Kawaii so” as she passed. Yes, that’s how I felt, but she was looking at the dog. Another hiker suggested I be careful of the lightning. I replied that I hoped the gods would be kind. Once the decision was made, the madness of it made the climb enjoyable. And of course, almost no one was wearing crampons.
I raced through the entrance to the shrine at the top, past the hut and up the final few steps to the summit when a loud voice summoned me, “Come here!” I was surprised to see a priest, who in the politest of ways, informed me that I would have to pay 500 yen if I wished to go up those steps, and that dogs were not allowed within the precinct, for this was a holy place.
Normally, I might have argued back, but the Power of the Church was indeed mighty. “Stay!” kept the dog at the entrance, the priest blessed me for 500 yen with a wave of his white wand, and after paying my respects at the shrine, I asked the priest to keep the gods from striking me down with lightning on the descent. It was money well spent.
Thunk! The bat hit me squarely in the middle of the forehead with an almighty thwack that made me yelp. The insects that had attracted it were still frantically buzzing around the headlamp into which the bat had crashed.
It was 2 am, the stars were out, and I was pulling my way up Zange-zaka, which translates loosely as “Sorry-I’m-so-steep hill”. I had a deadline to meet Keisuke at 11 am at Uzen-Komatsu, the nearest train station.
At 4, there was sufficient light as I reached the start of the snow, but there were no footprints visible in the wavy, hardened crust. I was soon lost, off the snow and fighting through the slippery stalks of two-meter high dense sasa grass, following the GPS toward the true track on the ridge. (This must have been where Hana picked up more than 40 ticks. These work their way up toward the dog’s soft ears and eyes, then bury their front claws and head deep into the flesh and drink their fill, swelling to the size and colour of an azuki bean.)
Beyond 切合小屋 hut
another few hundred meters of snowfield still clung to the ridge trail, but this was now the regular trail from 川入 and therefore easy to follow. A group of five elderly male hikers in full goretex and crampons, who had just started out from the hut, were startled to be passed at 5 in the morning by a foreigner in running shorts and shoes, followed by a dog.
Another cold, wind-swept summit in the clouds was not conducive to lingering. I was back at the car by 8, with time to wash in the river and find that I too had picked up a tick, on that most tender of parts.
I picked up Keisuke from the station and, after a 20 km detour around a collapsed road, we started up Asahidake in the early afternoon. It was so much more enjoyable to have company and he kept me going, although I could not keep up with his pace. Hana too was suffering, taking the chance at stream crossings to lie down in the water and cool off.
We met no-one else along the way, even though this was a Saturday. We were pleased to be up & down in 5 hours and 10 minutes, but the owner of Asahi Kosen hut at the base shattered any illusions we might have - the record was 3:40 return. By a schoolboy.
Work was unusually quiet for the last day of the month and the weather forecast was good, so I was out of the door by 6 pm and at the foot of Mizugaki by 7.
I knew the route so was not concerned about doing it in the dark, but it was still unsettling. Pairs of eyes, probably deer, reflected an eerie blue in the LED headlamp and the path was steep, up through massive boulders that make Mizugaki look so dramatic during the day.
Hopes of fine views of the Kofu basin by night were dashed by thick mist at the top, and the dog struggled to find her way down through the rocks on the descent. She preferred to take detours into the forest than make large, bone-jarring leaps from high boulders. But it caused me concern several times to turn around and find no dog behind me. I would call and call, and eventually spot two ghost-like eye reflections in the blackness, and she would make her circuitous way back to me.
I drove the short hop to the north side of Kinpu and rolled out the sleeping bag in the car. The stars were now out, promising a good day ahead. We were away by 3.30, walking along a forest trail by the river. I could see the morning dew falling through the beam of the headlamp, and feel the coolness of the rushing riverwater.
Having started early, I was not in a hurry and had time to enjoy the richness of this route and the rewarding views.
We returned to the car exactly three hours later, and the first hiker was just about to set off. We had already bagged the best part of the day.
The tied-back cloth over the head, rubber boots and knowing nod to the bus driver marked him out from the collection of regular hikers waiting for the first 6 am bus. In his sixties with not an ounce of spare fat on his frame, he wasted no time sitting down next to me and letting me know that he had been up Senjogatake more than a dozen times, and was involved in repairing the hiking paths and patrolling the national park.
Hana was in the carrycase hidden under the bench, silent as usual. I knew that I should not advertise her presence, but when she suddenly snorted at a scent carried on the breeze, the ranger did a double-take, eyebrows raised. I ignored his suspicious glance and asked him about the irony of the Minami-Alps rindo, forced through the Alps to satisfy construction companies and politicians, but arousing sufficient hostility to put the project on hold for a while.
And so it was with relief that the first bus of the season came and one hour later, disgorged a dozen passengers at Kitazawa-toge. The bus should have been running a month ago, but the winter damage had been severe this year, and major repairs were underway to keep the road concreted precariously to the cliff faces.
No private cars are allowed, not even bicycles. Last year, I had cycled the route through to Kofu in the dead of night, long after the gate guardsman at the bottom had gone home. A decade ago, I had started at dawn while the gate was unmanned, but halfway up, was shouted at by road workmen. Then 30 minutes later, a police car with flashing lights came racing up from behind and pulled me over. [Oh please can't you find something better to do on a Sunday morning.] “Not allowed to cycle here,” he admonished, “Get in the car!” I did, with the bike, and he drove me to the top, Kitazawa-toge. “Get out,” he barked. Then, with a knowing smile, “This side is Nagano prefecture, my responsibility. That side is Yamanashi,” and sped back down the way he had come.
With this life of crime behind me, today I was eager to get away from the milling crowd at the pass. I prepared myself quickly and unobtrusively, let Hana out of the bag at the last minute, then ran up the path. I heard a cry of “Aarghh, it’s a dog” echoing as I disappeared around the first bend and was off up the hill.
There was no-one else up here yet, the skies were clear, and the morning was ours to enjoy.
Back down at Kitazawa pass, at the command of “House”, Hana obediently went back into hiding in her carrycase while I restocked on snacks and water, then once again, made a dash for the start of the Kaikomagadake trail. No sooner was she out of the bag than an SUV patrol car with flashing light came up the road. “Oh $#@*!” You would think it was sin city itself. I ducked into the forest and was quickly hidden from view.
Having done the long Kuroto-one route on the eastern side last year, I had assumed this shorter western route would be easy, but the route involved a few rock scrambles and helping hand for Hana. In retrospect, the maki-michi would have been the easier, but less fun option. The small shrine at the top was decorated with straw sandals. Do the real pilgrims walk back down barefoot?
I had checked the departing bus times and from the top of Kaikoma, the bus at 1 pm now looked a possibility and would avoid a long wait for the next one. Without a break, we scrambled back down to Kitazawa pass with 10 minutes to spare, put the dog in her case, and who should turn up but the ranger who had preached to me this morning. “Enjoy your jaunt up Senjo?” he asked, with just a whiff of condescension. “Yes, and Kaikoma”. “What the top?” he asked, his face registering total disbelief. “Yes, the top. Of both.” It was his turn to snort; he never said another word.
But that was just fine, because the bus driver was a real local character, pointing out the waterfalls, peaks, route names, and not least Nokogiri, which from here was a terrifyingly serrated ridge that renewed my awe for cjw’s report of two months ago.
The elderly driver stopped the bus and pointed to the ridge. “See that hole in the rock?” It was true, even from a distance of 3 kilometers on the opposite side of the valley, we could clearly see a needle’s eye formation just below the ridge. “Well, that’s Shika no mado (鹿の窓, The Deer’s Window). And as I’m the bus driver, I’m allowed to boast a little.” And as he spoke, he pulled out a large black and white photo of himself in his youth, standing proudly in that window alongside a lady, whom I imagined now to be his wife.
“And over there, see that massive rock face?” We all peered across the valley. It was preferable to looking down the vertiginous cliff to the river some 2000 feet below. “If you look closely, you can see a path across the face. That’s a deer track. They come to lick the salt. This whole area used to be under the sea.” If he was fibbing, he was good at it.
The dog was not happy to be turfed out of bed at 3 am, and neither was I, but having been rained off last weekend I felt pressure to seize this dry window during the rainy season.
Route 20 was populated only by the long-distance trucks hammering along and avoiding expressway tolls, then the last 10 km of rough dirt shook off the vestiges of sleep.
I parked the car at the trailhead by an abandoned hut that was being devoured by the forest, and headed up. After 20 minutes of climbing, the trail temporarily broke out into a clearing that was the true end of the road, another 300 meters higher. Still, in a Honda Z weighing close on a ton but powered by only 660cc, perhaps it had been quicker to hike.
There appeared to be no one else on the mountain, and upon reaching the rocky summit of Yakushidake, the Southern Alps hit me with their rugged grandeur. A jagged ridge puncturing the sky with almost 100 km of trail stretching to Tekari at the southernmost end. Kaikomagadake was already bereft of snow, but Ainodake was still struggling to shake off the winter. And the main route up Kitadake (Daikambasawa, below) was still a lethal snow gully streaked with rockfall from the Buttress.
The open ridge to Houousan was one of the most enjoyable walks so far, with views as far as Norikura and Hakuba, and quiet save for the cascading snowmelt far below. I trotted along the white/grey gravel that gives the mountains their whitish appearance from the Chuo line valley, and on the return, met the first and only hiker (thanks for the photo, H).
It felt unreal to be back down in that valley and at work by 10am, looking up at where I had snatched a morning worth living.
