Japan Visitor piece

My piece on Hokaido's remote Rishiri and Rebun Islands has been published at the Japan Visitor website.  

The link is here.


On the turntable:  David Bowie, "Changes"

Hokkaido, Twice Return

In the seventeen years since I'd last been to Hokkaido, I've learned a lot about this nation Japan's forests.  I've grown accustomed to the monoculture of Honshu, to that of Kansai in particular.  Here the trees stand straight and lined up as if waiting for a train.   How wonderful then the natural forests of the northern island, anarchically dense and lush and filled with life. 

I co-led two tours there in June and July, falling in love with the both this density and the lack of it, in the spreading farms that recalled the equally beloved spaces of New Mexico and the American West.

So it was that just off the plane on my second visit,  I found myself cursing the residents of the small towns stretching south from Memombetsu, the hillsides above planted thick with cedar.  It was the most Japanese vision of both trips. 

I've often talked about how one can truly feel the gods in the forests and mountains of Japan.  But Hokkaido wasn't the palpable land of the kami. This was something else, something more intimidating.  Here the kami have sharper teeth. 

I revisited many of the same mountains that I'd hiked sixteen years ago.  And I further stretched my legs into some of the deeper, more remote reaches, namely into Daisetsuzan National Park, whose week-long traverse still beckons after the rains of 1997.  

On the first day, under skies bright with sun despite the falling rain, atmospheric conditions most suitable for foxen nuptuals, I watched one of these creatures appear as if on cue, as a group of tourists nearly tipped their bus over as they rushed to one side to snap photos. 

I met many more foxes, and birds, and wildflowers.  I became enamored with the red hues of Ezo pines, a love that nearly rivals that of my beloved buna. 

And on the last day, my plane traces the west coast of Honshu as it heads south, offering me an overhead view of my 1997 marathon route along the Sea of Japan, and those remote places -- Sado, Dewa Sanzan, Noto Peninsula -- that have shared their magic and joy many times since.   

The teeth of the kami can also be revealed in a welcoming smile.

On the turntable: "The Rough Guide to Boogaloo"
On the nighttable:  Donald Richie, "The Inland Sea"

Nippon Extremeties: Hokkaido (Epilogue II)

August 24 & 25

I suppose saying something like, "For the first time in my three years in Japan, I found myself afraid,"  is overstating it a little.  I found myself not afraid, per se, but cautious.

The guy seated next too me was the drunkest and particularly aggressive.  He would start conversation as a pretext to entertain his mates, who roared in laughter at his asinine questions and atrocious English.  After such a long day, I really didn't need this.  A couple of times I nearly told him in my roughest Japanese to knock it off. 

The martial artist in me began to formulate a strategy.  As he was the transgressor, and sitting beside me, I would deck him in the face as hard as I could if things escalated.  Then I'd strike the side of the neck of the guy directly in front of me, hopefully taking him -- the biggest -- out of commission.  The driver would of course be too occupied to retaliate quickly, and the two behind me were pretty small and seemed harmless. As how to get out of the van, well, I'd have to deal with that later.

I'm a bit disappointed at this whole yanki thing. When I first came to Japan, I was intrigued by these people who fought so hard not to assimilate in this country famed for assimilation.  Yet it wasn't long before I realized that this bark has no real bite, being mere fashion with no real depth at all.  Many of the yanki I've talked with are surprisingly unintelligent.  I once asked a friend, a reformed "bad girl," her opinion, and she said that theirs is a world very narrow, and alone they're quite shy, unable to resist the pressures to confirm.  They find strength in others of their ilk. 

The truth in that was ever apparent now.  Yet as the ride went on, the guys up front turned out to be pretty nice, and the one's in back quiet.  As the ride wasn't long, I decided just to ignore the loudmouth's bullshit.  A couple of times he told me that his job was to help hitchhikers, and at the next parking area, he set out to prove it.  He wandered around, asking every driver to give me a ride.  I groaned, knowing that these guys with their hair and their clothes were going to scare off absolutely everyone.  So I wandered to the fringe of the parking area, hoping to find a dark and quiet corner where I could put up my tent.  I thought that I might as well give hitching one last shot, and walked to the on ramp.  I winced when I saw the driver of the van running toward me, but he merely handed me a coffee and apologized for his friend's behavior.  

Within minutes I got a dream ride from a couple heading to Osaka, who over the next three hours sped at 150kph about a quarter the length of Honshu.   At Tsuru, they tried to help me find a place to camp, but since they had a couple more hours driving and had to work in the morning, I asked them to just let me out and I'd fend for myself.  

The whole area seemed little more than a single road and some rice fields.  I decided to camp on the beach.  Facing a 5km walk, I made a half-hearted attempt at hitching, and was surprised to get a lift from a man just past middle-age.  He explained that his daughter had studied in Australia and was now a local English teacher.  There were many Canadians in the area, so he'd had lots of experience with foreigners.  Asking me if I was hungry, I lied and said no, but he took me back to his restaurant anyway, the place long closed this late on a Sunday.  He served me coffee and eggs, then pushed a couple of booths together and told me I could sleep there.  We talked a while until his attention turned more and more toward the television.  I saw this as a chance to beg off and go to sleep.  After a long seventeen hour day, I finally came to a dead stop.

As I drifted off, I thought of the nature of fortuitous timing and good luck.  Of how each ride had set up the next, and any single missing link would have brought the whole thing crashing down.  Watching one ride blend into the next worked as well as counting sheep, and it wasn't long before I was gone...


...I awoke the next morning around six.  The owner had yet to get up, and rather than wait, decided to leave him a note.  I started to write in Japanese, then settled on a simple "Thank you" in English, followed by my name in katakana.  I figured that it made for a better souvenir.

Out on the main road, I caught a short lift from a salaryman on his way to work who dropped me just this side of Obama.  It was a glorious day, bright and clear, yet I wasn't fully awake enough to trudge a few kilometers with a full pack.  I almost reverted back to my initial plan of sightseeing here, then decided once again to return in the future.  Sometime yesterday, probably as I flew past Oga-hanto, the purpose of this trek morphed from a slow, four or five-day meander in the direction of Yonago, into an all-out burst of speed and endurance.  And as a truck surprised me by stopping on a narrow road at the center of town, its driver telling me he was going to Kyushu, I knew I was as good as home.

I've come to the conclusion that all Japanese truckers are a bit loony, crazed for company, prone to chatting incessantly in a way that people do when they've been devoid of sleep for such a long time that their brain is tricked into functioning at a high rate of speed.  This driver was a nice guy, a bit younger than I.  A typical week for him consisted of taking carpets for Nissan cars from Shizuoka to Fukuoka, then a day off, followed by the return trip and a day off again.  I asked him why he took backroads rather than the expressway, and he explained that the owners didn't want to pay the 30,000 yen in tolls.  It is for this reason that the narrow country roads are jammed with rigs too big to traverse them, ofttimes carrying hazardous cargo through sleepy fishing and farming villages.  (I asked the driver what was the most dangerous freight he'd ever carried, but he just laughed and said that he wasn't allowed to tell me.)   In one such village, a narrow lane lined by homes centuries old proved an impossible place for two big beasts to pass one another.  One vehicle inched forward, then waited for the other to do the same, their driver-side mirrors gently tapping each other out of place like some gentle bout of sumo.  

My driver told me stories of the road, of accidents and ghosts and junior high school aged hitchhikers.  A trucker's life is one that doesn't allow for girlfriends, or even possessions.  I recognized in him a loneliness and a need to talk, and as the sole duty of hitchhikers is to provide a good companion, I sat back and let him go.  He had a remarkable way of continuing on a single topic for around 30 minutes, this time about greasy fast food, the next time about why Land Cruisers are the perfect vehicle.  So I listened to his talk as we passed two Japanese warships and an oil tanker anchored in surprisingly small, cove-like Maizuru harbor.  Onward into scenery unmistakably San-in, where the rocky coastline is nudged by rice fields, and the villages are indistinct from one another, yet each one just as charming as the last.

In Yonago, I walked the last kilometer home.  The sight of my fiancee's truck out front made me congratulate myself of my continued good timing, catching her on her lunch break, since I didn't have a key.  Yet after five minutes of knocking, I realized that she wasn't home.  I trudged to her office, where I was told that she'd been in the hospital for the previous week.  And in a moment of horror, I didn't realize that the unrecognized Japanese word "kensa" meant "tests," and mistook it instead for its English sound-alike, "cancer."

Fifteen minutes later, I entered her hospital room, and the look on her face was as much a delight to me as my presence was to her.  For a long while, she looked at me like I was a hallucination, like she couldn't quite grasp that I was real.  She told me that she had had some stomach trouble which had passed days before, but the doctors wouldn't let her go home.  My return gave her the strength to insist that she check out a week early.

So I guess that my Hokkaido trip had purpose after all. Like in a fairy tale, this ronin had literally traveled back from the end of the earth, through hostile environments of volcano, bramble, and ice; encountering severe weather conditions and spirit-bears; moving at an inconceivable pace in order to rescue a princess being held captive against her will.


On the turntable: Cat Stevens, "On the Road to Find Out"

Nippon Extremeties: Hokkaido (Epilogue I)

August 24 & 25

Blurry details of a marathon streak down the west coast of Japan, two jaunts of seventeen and seven hours respectively.  I was woken around 5:00 by Greensleeves being played loudly through an unseen speaker.  I quickly packed up my stuff and drank a canned coffee bought from the adjacent machine which the ryokan owner had kindly turned on a few minutes before.  I welcomed the morning by strolling for a couple of hours around the eponymous twelve lakes, which were barely even ponds. Small too was Nihon Canyon, little more than a hill whose face had slid into the river below.   

At this early hour, there was no one else to be seen, barring a couple of sleepy caged bears, poor things.  Bidding them adieu, I headed down to the highway.  I walked awhile through the morning sunshine alongside the sea.  Due to the early Sunday hour, few cars passed, maybe one every five minutes.  I met a small group of hikers readying for their assault, looking overdressed and over-prepared.   

After about 45 minutes, I finally got a lift from a guy who'd lived in the US for three years.   Nearly a decade later, he couldn't speak English anymore.  During the next few hours, he regaled me with his American adventures, singing a few songs, and really sinking into reminiscences. 

I had originally planned to go around the coast of the Oga-hantō, but suddenly the skies opened up.  I told my driver that I'd changed my mind, and would continue with him to Akita, and from that moment, every time we'd pass a sign for the peninsula, he'd joking say, "Are you sure you don't want to get out?  It's not far, you know."

Entering Akita, I had been worrying about getting a ride out of a city this size, but ended up getting one immediately.  The trouble was that it took me two more rides to go a mere 60km.  In between, I had a long walk through a modern seaside town, raising surprised smiles from a group of employees at an auto fair.  

In Sakata, I was dropped in front of the Domon Ken photography museum.  As I was exiting the car, the driver who had said nothing through the entire ride, began to ask questions as if grilling me in a job interview, no doubt probing me for information to tell his friends.  In order to give him some good material, I told him that I was a professional photographer.  

But it was inside the museum that I could see the work of a true master.  His eye, choice of subject matter, and attention to detail were spellbinding.  It was like a Kurosawa film on still film stock.  His series on the hands of Masters was brilliant, and the photo of a single leaf on a single stone left me amazed.  I'm now completely sold on black and white photography, and hope someday to steal his image of Buddha's hands.  One of my former English students had compared my work to his, and in certain shots I could understand why.  The mere comparison leaves me flattered.  I was also greatly impressed by the building itself, an architectural wonder in complete harmony with its surroundings.  Yet its large grey blocks seemed a little too modern and "linear," at odds with the simplicity in which it enshrined.

After a brief lunch at a roadside stall, I was picked up by a guy on his way back from camping and hiking.  As I was going to Zempo-ji, our talk was on temples and yamabushi.  A great conversation, passing through the beautiful forest scenery of the Yamagata coast.  

The temple itself  didn't disappoint, the buildings and five-story pagoda dwarfed by tall hinoki trees.  From the hill behind, I had the rare treat of actually looking down on the pagoda.  Inspired by Domon Ken, I delighted at the simplicity of the place, inspired by the details of tatami, shoji, and polished metal.  

I got a lift to the edge of town by a young surfer, just in time to be picked up by a couple who followed the windy, coastal road a good 60km out of their way.  I got out, apologizing profusely, but the guy merely shrugged saying that since it was Sunday, they were just cruising around anyway.  (I promise not to smirk the next time someone tells me that their hobby is driving.)  Despite their good deed, they let me out near the train station, so I had a good long look at the town before getting picked up on the outskirts.  This time it was a woman and her junior high school-aged daughter.    They apologized for being unable to take me more than 20km, but the daughter had wanted to talk to me. The daughter spoke to me in exceedingly polite language, the mother in a slow deliberate voice usually reserved for children.  They were concerned about money and where I would stay, suggesting I try to find fellow Americans studying at a local branch of Shinshu University International Center, which for some bizarre reason had been plonked down in this little town in the middle of nowhere.  While hitching, its simply amazing how many drivers will stop for you, them commence to tell you how difficult it is to get rides in Japan.  The reality is that you are probably traveling as quickly as they are.  Japanese seem incredulous to the idea that you want to hitchhike, and rather than leave you on the side of the road, inevitably try to take you to a hotel, or a train station.   

In this case, I was able to compromise on a 7-11 on the edge of town, where I chatted briefly with two Americans from the local college, then was picked up seconds later by a Japanese guy and his Chinese girlfriend, embarking on one of the most interesting conversations of the day.  A couple of rides ago, the driver had asked me about my travels in China and Korea, curious how they referred to things Japanese, and I had found myself translating into Japanese words from languages that I don't speak. Now 30 minutes later, I could go right to the source.  Here we were, three people from three countries, doing as in Rome by speaking Japanese.   Being foreign, she and I could ask particularly direct questions, yet wrapped in the indirect speech that defines the Japanese language, they didn't sound altogether harsh.  I asked her a great deal about China, her life in Japan, and whether people in Japan could tell right away that she was gaijin.  I later regretted asking her this last question.  At the worst of times, I loathe being singled out as different, yet how natural it is to do the same to someone else. Is this a trait that I've picked up in Japan, a place where people have the unique habit of welcoming you with open arms, while simultaneously hold you at a distance with one arm or the other?  Or is it simply human nature to inquisitively look at that which isn't familiar?  Ironically, it was she who was surprised when he, rather than she, was the first person this entire trip who understood how tired I must be of answering the same questions and tried to find new things to discuss.  As we rolled on, I noticed the Shinkansen tracks rising from the rice fields, and realized that if I could set aside pride, i could be literally anywhere in matter of hours.

I waved goodbye to the couple from the mouth of a huge expressway, the first I'd encountered so far.  Sheltered behind some trees was a patch of grass where I could pitch my tent if I needed to.  It was 6:30 as I waited just inside the row of toll booths, the sky growing dark and dimming my prospects.  But in the next ten minutes, five vehicles stopped, the first four going the wrong way to Tokyo.  When I yelled "Tottori," up to the trucker in the fifth, he said okay, and we were off.  However, this guy was real idiot, agreeing to take me to a place that he didn't know, and when he realized that it wasn't on his way to Tokyo, got confused.  He seemed really cranked up on caffeine and legal speed, jabbering away in a dialect I couldn't understand, while simultaneously reading a map and balling along at 130kph.  I may have met the muse for those horrific photos of truck wrecks.

His mistake turned out not to be such a bad thing.  Once past the junction, I'd at least have weeded out the Tokyoite.  But at the interchange, he brought his rig to a complete stop, and for a moment there I thought that he was going to make me get out in the middle of the nighttime freeway, without an exit in sight, and traffic racing by at dangerous speeds.  In Japanese, I said the rough equivalent of, "My, this certainly is an unpleasant predicament!" to him, and "Fuck fuck fuck!" a few times to myself, before he roared down the ramp leading west and let me out at a rest stop 10km out of his way.

In the parking lot, I quickly downed a hot dog and a coke before hopping into a van.  Inside in the darkness I found myself surrounded by five young yanki types, drunk and acting tough.  For the first time in my three years in Japan, I found myself afraid...

(To be continued...)


On the turntable:  Jack White, Blunderbuss"

  

Nippon Extremities: Hokkaido XV

August 22, 1997

Shortly after I awoke, I walked to the train station nearest the campsite, and found that I had a ninety minute wait until the next train.  I hitched instead to a station on a different line, but that train was an hour later still.  I decided then to hitch to the intersection of the two lines.  My reason for wanting to take the train was that I could completely bypass Hakodate, a large city that would be nearly impossible to hitch out of, and go instead to the station at the base of a large Trappist Monastery.  Luckily, the family who picked me up lived near the monastery, so I didn't need a train after all. The car was somewhat decked out and the driver young, driving slowly, since his mother, child, and pregnant wife were aboard.  Yet I could feel that he really wanted to floor it.  We stopped to look for frogs in a large pond, then checked out a secluded waterfall that fed a beautiful stretch of river that made for the perfect place to lay up a few days camping and fishing.      

The monastery was a large brick structure built on some beautiful grounds that overlooked the sea.  It appeared closed to the public, so I sat instead in the forest and read some of Thomas Cleary's translation of old Chinese zen sermons, hoping to soak up some of the place's energy.  

Back down at the sea, I was picked up by a young guy whose father was a Protestant minister, educated in England and at Princeton.  The ride was pleasant, and he treated me to a nice seafood lunch at a restaurant that was the childhood home of a once famous Sumo wrestler now decades retired and quickly becoming forgotten.

In Matsumae, the entire camp site had disappeared (a fact I was pleased to discover while in a car rather than after doing the 6km on foot), so he doubled back and dropped me at the town's castle, a small rather unimpressive structure that admittedly had a good view of the sea.  

 I walked around the temples of Teramachi, the centuries-old.  It felt refreshing somehow to be back in the peaceful atmosphere of Zen which I haven't felt in 6 months. Here, on the cusp of Honshu, I had found traditional Japanese architecture again.  This town, like all the other seaside towns on the southern coast, was filled with sturdy, nondescript buildings erected to withstand a harsh winter.  Most of Hokkaido looks like this:  new, Western, and completely at odds with the beautiful environment that surrounds it.   But there's a lot to be said for old wood and tile to bring about a sense of peace and quiet.  Each of the four protective deities of one temple gate had zori on, as if they sneak out at night in order to fight desires.  

Further up, out of sight in the old cemetery, an old woman chanted sutras for her dead relatives.  The towering trees offered shelter from the freaky burst of rain which came on and off like a faucet.  I tore myself away, and was able to catch a ride immediately, a bit of pure luck as moments later the faucet was completely opened, and the rain poured down for two full hours, all the way into Hakodate. 

In the city, the rain was like a typhoon.  I don't know if it was the fogged up windows, or because I hadn't been a city for awhile, or because I'd had more caffeine than food, but I was feeling antsy and wanted to get out of cars for awhile.  After I checked into a cheap and friendly hotel, the rain stopped and the sky cleared completely.  I walked down the gentrified waterfront and was delighted by all the warehouses refurbished as restaurants and beer halls.  Maybe it was the rain, but everything looked new, clean, and neon-cool.  My walk took me to the Motomachi area with its mixture of old and new, of Japanese and western.  At time, I felt like I was in San Fransisco or Seattle.  Other times I was in an Asian port city like Singapore or Shanghai.  I kept walking through quiet residential districts, with old wooden homes kept by old women walking old dogs and hocking up old phlegm.  On past huge Nishi-Honganji to the foreigner's cemetery, the segregated Russians, Chinese and Protestants treated to a view of the Bay that they're not in a position to never enjoy.  Lots of churches and an old blue Victorian house which looked a mere facade.  Up a speedy ropeway for the city's famed night view, then into a museum of trick paintings.  As I strolled the quiet streets, I thought that this city would've been a great place to have been a university student.  I continued in this spirit by downing a couple of pints at the local microbrewery pub.  It brought on a silly kind of drunk, and as I walked around the waterfront area, I sang songs made up on the spot, inspired by what I saw around me.  



August 23

Up and out early, to the Trappist Convent.  Unlike the monastery's peace and quiet, this place was full on tourist hell with vending machines, souvenir stands, and a parking lot filled with buses.  I really felt for the nuns inside.  Perhaps this says something about me as a Buddhist, or as a Catholic.  For some reason, this frenzy doesn't bother me at a temple, but at a church I still see it as sacrilege.  Another thing to ponder:  if this sickens me so much, why am I here, and why didn't I happily partake in buying some of those famous cookies?

For the first time in a long while, I hopped the wrong bus, but didn't mind the walk through the Goryaku Fort toward the train station.  There I hopped a train, riding on a seatless car with only a large raised platform on which I could stretch my legs and look out the large windows opposite.  Since I didn't have the option of hitching across the sea, I took the train, but made a point to get off at the second stop, it being closer to the sea than the first.  From here I would circumnavigate nearly the whole of the Tsuruga peninsula and be far enough away from Aomori City to easily thumb a ride.   In addition to all this, I was excited to pass through the eerie 23km tunnel under the strait.  Being down that long was strange enough, but for some unexplained reason, we stopped for a while in the middle next to another train.  From the window, I could see other parallel and bisecting passages, as if this whole thing was one big interconnected underwater maze.  

In daylight again on the other side I hopped out in Kanita.  Immediatly, the hot clear weather, vegetation, and architecture helped me recognize the Japan that I know and love.  Ah, to be back on Honshu!  I flagged a ride with an English speaking guy from Osaka, an irony in that I didn't meet a local and be forced to deal with the infamous Tohoku dialect.  The driver and I kept up an interesting conversation up the coast to Tappizaka, then back down the other side to Kanagi.  I wanted to see Dazai Osamu's birth home, but it was under renovation.  Luckily, an old woman waved us in. Albeit without furniture, it was one of the most beautiful homes I'd ever seen, with dark wood, alternating western and Japanese rooms, chandeliers, and even a three-way staircase which met on a landing in the middle.  After having such a wonderful, warm place to play a child, I couldn't understand how Dazai wound up so twisted an adult.  

I parted with my new friend, and started on my long trek south. Mount Iwaki stood out across the rice fields.   It took awhile to get a ride to a town whose name I can't remember, so will call Gochisosama.  When the driver initially passed me, I could see though the windshield the surprise on his face, then he swung around and picked me up.  He was too shy to ask questions, but what was worse was that he let me off in the center of town after passing an turnoff that could've been more useful.  Cursing, I walked a long way back.

Then three young local guys picked me up.  They each had really long names, which I forgot in seconds. Little wonder, since I couldn't remember the name of their town either.  So began a fun ride where I taught them swear words in English, and they taught me Tsugaru-ben which I also promptly forgot.  As they were basically out joy-riding and little else to do, they took me 80km to Jūniko Lakes, along a breathtaking stretch of coast through little fishing villages, and a sun that turned into a bit pat of butter that melted into the sea.  Well past dark, I set up camp in the parking lot of a restroom across the road from a ryokan.  I had all I needed here, a patch of grass for the tent, a toilet, and a vending machine for morning coffee.  The curious ryokan owner came out and we chatted for a few minutes.  He came at me in mid conversation, and due to the darkness, it wasn't until he was a meter away that he saw that I was foreign.  He assured me that there were no bears about...



On the turntable:  Gerry Mulligan, "The Gerry Mulligan"

  

Nippon Extremities: Hokkaido XIV

August 20, 1997

Zazen at dawn, lakeside.  Hit the road early, catcing a ride with a guy who liked to drive very fast on the curvy country backroads. The countryside was stunning, dotted with small villages and roadside vegetable stands which reminded me of the Hallowe'en of my childhood back in New Jersey.    His car was low and handled well, so it was all quite thrilling.  I wasn't really surprised when he told me he'd driven all the way from Kumamoto in three days. 

 The speed of his driving made up lots of time, but he dropped me off in the unfortunate town of Ashoro which, as I'd experienced a few weeks back in Obihiro, was very difficult to hitch out of.  Was I in some ultraconservative bible-belt region of Japan?  As I walked for half an hour or so, I cursed the passing cars, in particular the guy who slowed, saw I was gaijin, then roared off.  I finally got a ride (and free Pocari Sweat), but this guy dropped me off on the near side of Obihiro, the sight of my former troubles.  I figured that I'd be there for awhile, but was able to get a ride surprisingly quickly to the opposite side of town, where I was picked up by three young dudes from Tokyo who played excellent music, including Rage Against the Machine, blaring as we raced up and over a high mountain pass.  The scenery was incredible, the weather beautiful for the first time in weeks.  

They dropped me on a road just shy of Sapporo, on a road nearly devoid of cars.  I finally got a lift to Chitose for a nice long lunch.  It felt late but was only 1 o'clock.  I walked to the edge of town and was given a lift by a middle-aged woman who at first told me that she'd drop me three km short of my destination, although she not only waited for me while I bought food, but also drove me seven km up a dirt road to the trail head.  

It was only a bit past three, so rather than wait around until the next day, and not wanting to oush my luck with the weather, I decided to do the hike.  It was a simple thirty minutes up a path laid with railroad cross-ties that seemed to hinder rather than help.  With my pack, it was slightly difficult, but nearer the top the going became easier.  Since it was a mere 1000 meters high, it well below the cloud layer, and visibility was good.  I walked across the volcanic plain amidst billowing pores, then up a steep adjacent hill.  On top, I met a couple who offered me tea, and told me I should have taken the lower road.  I walked straight down the crumbly slope until I found the trail I needed.  It was fairly flat and through sparse forest.  Unfortunately, my mind was still on bears, so I broke out my bell.  (Written in 1997:  "I'll be glad to get this new phobia under control."  Written in 2013:  "You still haven't.")   The latter section of this trail was excellent, along a sand track that zigzagged through a narrow, moss covered canyon, beneath five meter high walls.  

When I reached the road at the far end of the canyon it was well past 6, so I didn't have much hope for a ride this close to dark.  Luckily, I was picked up.  Thinking he was doing me a favor, the driver took me to a campsite, and dropped me right in front of the office of the manager, who was standing outside and couldn't miss my arrival.  I begrudgingly paid 500 yen for a tentsite.  (This encounter did prove useful since I could later hit him up for some hot water for my ramen.)  There weren't many people about, so I was lucky to set up away from the other campers, on a nice beach down at Lake Shikotsu's shore.  This was a nice change from normal camp sites where the campers plop tents down so close to one another like they're suburban tract homes.  (As usual, the nearest campers are usually the loudest ones in camp.)  I sat eating my noodles, watching the lake experiment with the color blue, and the mountains fading in such a subtle way that any magician would be jealous.


August 21

After all my good luck the previous week hitching, today took 3 hours and 2 rides to go 20 km.  My first ride was with a WWII veteran who I'd have loved to chat with, but could barely understand a word he said.  My second ride dropped me dead center in Tomakomai, and it took an hour of backtracking before I could get a lift.  Because of the traffic signals, cars would come at me in clusters, like those old video games where alien ships fly in group formation, yet in this case, I couldn't hit a single one.  

I was about to ask direction to the nearest train station, when a driver stopped and took me all the way to Shiraoi's Ainu folk village.  It's basically a huge shopping arcade built close to six small huts and a museum.  The latter was informative, and kept my interest for awhile, but I couldn't understand what 1950's type vintage shops and athletic shoe stores have to do with Ainu culture.  

I walked down to the sea for a ride to Noboribetsu Onsen, and went immediately to Kannonji.  I had planned to stay here, but the ferro-concrete structure made it look like a cult headquarters.  I decided to push on.  But first, I dropped into Dai Ichi Hotel and partook of their wonderful hot springs, soaking in twenty different tubs that varied in design and temperature.  

At this point I made a small compromise and decided to take the bus.  I wanted to travel over a series of confusing roads and thought that hitching might strand me somewhere awful.  The deciding factor was that this bus was the only one of the day going to Showa Shinzan, a detour that would save me lots of trouble later.  This volcano turned out to be a big steaming pimple, around which grew the usual cluster of souvenir shops and restaurants, all abustle.  There was an entire genus full of stuffed bears in various stages of decay, looking more ferocious than those poor creatures in Shiraoi, locked in small cages with their spirits broken.  I hoped that the stuffed ones were the bodies formerly captive bears.  It was disgusting to think that a few beautiful creatures had been killed simply to amuse tour groups from the city.  

Also pathetic was the consumer frenzy that overshadowed the museum.  It was dedicated to the man who had made this volcano his life's study, and without whom none of this would be here.  The proprietor was a quiet, gentle sort of man who I assumed was the scientist's son.  He led me to some of the exhibits, the most fascinating ones about the bizarre governmental cover-ups, since it might be considered an unlucky omen as the volcano had formed during wartime.      

Later, I also visited the volcano museum in Toyako Onsen, with its cool pictures and film clips accompanied by a powerful subwoofer.  When Mt. Usa erupted in 1977, the town was pretty much wiped out.  They've now installed vents and run-offs cut into the mountainside, as if that'll help.  What they hope to save was an admittedly picturesque town,  a little too dedicated to consumerism, and a hotspot for onsen culture.  (Nightly fireworks!)  This was all a bit too garish for my mood.  After so much time in the mountains, I now found myself hopping from one tourist trap to another. 

I decided to hitch to a campsite on the coast further south, but since my ride was going all the way to Hakodate, I asked them to drop me a few miles shy of Onuma National Park.  This was a fun, silly trip, with frequent food stops.  We arrived after dark and had some trouble finding the camp site, but they didn't seem to mind.  I could tell we were near a major city due to the large number of car campers and weekend warrior types.  A few cars raced along the roads around the lake, and some biker college students seemed interested only in drinking and making noise.  The advantage to arriving late to this kind of circus is that you can wander away from it, grabbing some peace after a long, full day.



On the turntable:  Billy Cobham, "Inner Conflicts"
On the nighttable:  Murakami Haruki, "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running"

Nippon Extremities: Hokkaido XIII

August 18, 1997

I awoke around seven, packed up my gear, and headed out.  Going up the driveway, I had the misfortune to run into Ryoko who first asked me I was leaving, then quickly asked if I would stay.  When I refused, she told me "firmly" that I had to pay for last night's stay.  I refused, saying that life at the Juku that particular summer hadn't been as advertised, and with that, we parted ways.  

My next encounter wasn't as bad.  Walking down the road carrying all my possessions, I met the old woman from across the road, who loaded them up on her three-wheeled bike and pushed it into town.  I shipped my books, made a quick call to my parents, then headed out to the highway again.  I got a ride to Akan with a trucker who smoked 3 cigarettes in 35 km.  I had lunch in front of a convenience store with a young cyclist.  Later, I was lucky enough to see the brilliant hue of Mashiko, unblemished by the usual fog.  On the walk onwards, I was surprised to be passed by the same couple who had given me a ride up to the overlook not an hour earlier.  This time they ignored me completely, as if they'd already reached their quota of good deeds for the day. 

I eventually dropped down to Io-san, a volcano with a crack down its side like the Liberty Bell.  Steam with a perfume of rotten eggs poured from yellow rocks.  These fumes are incredibly dangerous, yet busloads of people would walk right to them and pose for photos a few inches away.  Figuring that it must be safe, I hiked up and took a few photos, then came down feeling the same whoozy way I do after smoking a cigar. 

Over to Kawayu Onsen, where a stuffed bear in the visitor center scared the shit out of me.  I visited the shops of a few Ainu carvers, looking quite Japanese to my eyes, yet with the same bushy Hemingway beards.  Many of them resembled the mythological Ainu figures which they carved.  

I couldn't find a rotemburo in town, but had better luck in Sunayu.  I set up my tent on the shore of Lake Kussharo, then dug a hole at the water's edge.  The hole would fill with water from the lake, then be heated by the thermally heated sand.  My own personal evening bath.  My work finished, I sat by the lake and read awhile.  This lake supposedly contained a beast of Nessie-like proportions.  I'm not sure whether or not I believed it, but there were an alarmingly large number of empty boats out on the water.  I walked back to the tourist center along the water's edge, partly to enjoy the scenery, and partly to avoid the campsite master who would charge me 300 yen if he saw me.  I ate tempura soba for dinner, beside a dandified dog.  I wasn't sure what kind of tempura I was eating because when the batter melted down in the heat of the broth, there was nothing there.  After dinner, I sat and watched the sun do its creative pyrotechnics act on the sky.  

When I got back to my tent, the family from the next tent invited me over for some salmon and beef and conversation.  When the night's darkness was full and complete, I excused myself and went to take my bath.  It was heard to tear myself away from the placid lake, and when I finally did, the transition from warm water direct to sleeping bag was glorious.  I slept soundly, but for a dream where I got up to pee, and the beast of Kussharo went for my bait...


August 19

I began the next morning with a lakeside rotemburo just up the road from the campsite.   Onward toward Akan Kohan, I was picked up by a young Japanese who had lived better than half his life outside abroad:   high school in Guatemala and Spain, college in Minnesota, and now working in Thailand.  I was hoping to travel to Cambodia later in the year, and asked his advice, in light of the coup of the previous month.  He said that tourism had continued. Getting in country was no problem, but as for getting out, well...  We had breakfast together, and I promised to call him when I got to Bangkok next month.

He drove me to the trailhead, saving me a few kilometers walk.  I hadn't seen any bear signs, but as a precaution, I took out my bell and put it in my pocket.  Seconds later, I saw my first tracks, and attached it immediately.  Despite the lack of signs, I saw more traces of bear along this next stretch than in all my previous hikes combined.  Scat, tracks, scratched trees.  I think that my mind was on bear all throughout the entire hike, the tinkling of my bell like a Tibetan mantra that failed to move me back to awareness and away from anxiety.

The hike led me through some amazing forest, up into denser scrub, then onto yet another desolate, fogged-in volcano.  The steam was indecipherable from the clouds, but the quick sudden pain in the lungs would reveal its presence.  Below the ridge, the unseen vents roared.  Once again, I was hiking through hell.  And yet again, I had a strange metaphysical event.  Just as I'd seen Bracken a few days before, and had met the Ainu bear "kamuy" that same night, today I passed a discarded bottle, the only words still visible on the faded label being 'G-O-D.'  Little wonder that mountains are sacred places.

On the summit, all was windy and cold, so after about three seconds on top, I hiked down to Lake Onneto.  I set up camp, then went back into the forest to a waterfall-fed bath.  After a somewhat slimy dip, I returned to the lake. A friend of mine is a bit of a mystic herself, and had recommended it.  After dipping into my book of zen poems, I did some pranayama, ki breathing, zazen, and tai chi, the latter whilest standing waist deep in the water itself.  During dinner, someone was playing opera from somewhere, a perfect accompaniment for the lake's fading reflections.  Across the way, tourist cameras flashed like fireflies.


On the turntable:  The Chieftains, "Chieftains 4"

Nippon Extremities: Hokkaido XII

August 17, 1997

Up around five.  I started breakfast, and as I poured water in the pot, I noticed that it was yellow.  I'd run out of water on my descent the day before, and had collected this water from the waterfalls where I had showered.  In the dark, I hadn't noticed that this water was tainted by sulfur.  It would've meant terrible cramps and stomach trouble had I cooked with it.  In hindsight, that bear had been a lucky omen.

I gave up on breakfast and broke camp.  Walking down the road, I startled a family of deer on a rise above me, the doe pushing her fawn back toward the woods, and the buck silhouetted in the early light, making 'yelp' like sounds.  Until that moment, I never knew deer had voices. Not far beyond them I came to the waterfalls again, and only now did I see the signs warning people not to camp here due to the "severe bear activity."  

I hitched a ride to Shiretoko-go-ko but it wasn't yet open, presumably to let the bears return to the deeper forest after a morning of foraging.  While waiting, I let myself into the men's room in order to wash my face in the sink.  I wandered amidst the lakes on wooden planks built above the marsh.  All the way I was feeling tired and bear-phobic.  

Then began a long series of short rides between road junctions.  I finally ate my breakfast on a jetty in Rausu.  I was picked up there by a young couple who drove down the coast, the Russian islands visible not far offshore. ( On a roadside sign nearby a sign;  "Give us back our occupied islands!")  The couple took me out along a peninsula much like Cape Hatteras, then getting  terribly lost, they dropped me off then picked me up three more times. I wandered awhile down through the flat farmlands.  My last ride was with a somewhat clueless girl and her "cool guy" boyfriend, all the way to my door.  

I spent the afternoon unwinding, went to the onsen and the grocery store. After more than two weeks away, Shin Shizen Juku was much the same, the same dull poses in the living room.  I met the new folks:  Peter, very British and very dull; and Uli, so desperate to find a Japanese husband that she asked me where to find one, as if I'm Chuck Woolery or something.  While I was away, a letter came from my German friend Mark, who I'd met when I lived in Hong Kong.  He was coming to Japan, and I instantly decided that Yonago was a better venue to meet.  I'd only been back a few hours, but already decided to hitch out tomorrow...

HOKKAIDO QUESTIONS:

--Why so many SDF recruiting offices?

--Why publish a road atlas called "Zig-zag?"

--Why do so many drivers make a U-turn to give me a lift, as if my foreign status is the sure reason for the ride?

 -- How many people in Japan have my picture?  
(Japan in 1997 was crazy about 'print-club,' a photo booth that was in nearly every convenience store.  If I hitched a ride with young people, they always wanted to stop and get a photo together.  This must have happened dozens of times that summer.)

    
On the turntable:  R. Carlos Nakai, "How the West was Lost"

Nippon Extremeties: Hokkaido XI

August 16, 1997

Woke up late, hoping that the sun was well up and had already made everything warm.  Unfortunately, yesterday's cloud layer had risen over the tableland, so everything was dark and cold.

After a heavy breakfast I set out, basically a hike spent going over grassy ridges and dropping into meadows filled with wildflowers.  In one spot, stones rose eerily from a small pond, creating a medieval and somewhat evil feel.  The trail became quite steep, then led to a small clearing at the top.  I sat here awhile and ate jerky.  It was a blissful day.   Aside from passing Kazu earlier, I hadn't seen anyone else.  I didn't even see any animals, though there were many traces of bear in scraped rocks, partially eaten food, and in one case, four neat holes beside a stone, as if it had turned underfoot.  

Just below the summit, the sun finally broke through, so I stopped and rolled around happily in a meadow.  As I was looking for the trail down, the clouds parted even more, revealing a higher peak, and I realized that this wasn't the true summit.  I crossed yet another steep, crumbly volcanic ridge, then climbed.  Near the top, I lost the trail, so began to free climb, the weight of my pack threatening to pull me backward and over the void.  It was hard to get good grips, as two out of every three rocks broke away in my hand, but just enough were sound enough to help me scramble to the top.  In all seriousness, I truly ought to be dead now, rather than calmly writing this.  So it was that I sat on the peak a long while, too freaked out to do much else.  

My ability to find the trail down proved another source of frustration.  As I hadn't come up the true trail, I wasn't sure where it descended.  I simply stood there looking around, into thick cloud that revealed nothing.  Then, the clouds opened in a wink, and on the ridge below I could see my shadow.  For some strange reason, there was a ring like halo around my head.  I'd heard about the Brocken spectre, but this was the first time I'd experienced it.  Ironically, it led me to what was the most logical place to descend, and so, in a profoundly metaphoric moment of zen, I moved toward myself in order to find the true path.  Some mysterious portent?  Who knows, but I pondered the metaphysical for most of my descent through a gully filled with dusty rocks and gnarled grey trees.  At one point, I worked my way down an unreliable and melting snowbank, frightened of breaking through and shattering bones in a fall onto boulders three meters below. 

Finally the trail reentered the forest, leading eventually to a desolate area of steaming sulphur beds.  Sitting here, the clouds fully broke for the first time all day, revealing a tremendous seascape.   I had this in front of me as I worked my way down to the road below.

Near the trailhead was a scenic overlook with just enough space between the guard rail and the cliff's edge for me to pitch my tent.  Afterwards, I walked down the road for a kilometer in order to enjoy a hot shower beneath a waterfall whose waters were heated by the volcanoes above.   There was steam rising higher up the gorge, and I scrambled naked over the rocks until they became too steep, figuring then that I'd had more than enough for one day.  Sliding down, I scared the hell out of a young guy with this sight of a wild-eyed, wild-haired, naked Tarzan.

Feeling a bit refreshed, I walked back in the dark to my tent.  The moon was expected to rise full, and the night was clear enough that I decided not to use my flashlight.  When I was about 30 yards from my tent, I heard a thrashing up in the trees on a hill across the road, and I looked up to see a large bear silhouetted against the sky.  I was terrified, of course, but kept a steady pace until I was in my tent.  I sat in the center in my sleeping bag, hugging my knees, straining to listen.  Then it was right beside me.  Somehow it had climbed down the hill, crossed the gravel road, and climbed over the metal guardrail before I heard it sniffing at the side of my tent.  To move that far, that silently, was an act of incredible grace and nimbleness.  It circled to the front of the tent, and at one point, I could see the shape of its nose pressed against the nylon.  It lingered awhile at the tent's mouth, most likely smelling my hiking boots, wet and dirty after a two day slog over sodden ground.  Then, I heard another thrashing.  It had fallen off the cliff!  I sat for awhile still freaked, then began to get ready for bed.  It was only 19:30, but I didn't want to go outside to eat.  I didn't even want to go outside to pee, so I wasted a good water bottle.

As I was lying down, I heard some footsteps in the gravel, and that sniffing sound again.  The bear was back.  It hung around for a little while, and this time rather than being scared, I was a bit annoyed, completely exhausted but unable to go to bed.  I turned on my flashlight and swung it around awhile until the noises stopped.  But around ten minutes later, the bear was back again, so I reached into my pack for my bear bell and started ringing it wildly until I heard the bear tear off into the woods again.  It was a long awhile until my heart slowed enough for me to sleep...

Memory is funny in how much it is like a game of telephone.  It's curious how this journal entry from 1997 has morphed over the years into the version I told at The Flame event fifteen years later: 

On the turntable;  Meat Beat Manifesto, "Original Fire"

Nippon Extremeties: Hokkaido X

August 14, 1997

Waiting for a 8:10 bus to Cape Soya, the northernmost point in Japan.  A guy with an enormous head started asking me asinine questions in horrendous English.  All the while, my eyes were fixated on the spittle flying from his lips and making beelines for my yogurt.  Luckily, the bus was full, forcing us to sit apart.   When he wasn't looking I slipped on my headphones so when he asked me, "Are you listening to music?" I could pretend not to hear him.  I found some relief in the jacket of the guy sitting in front of me:  "Kinki University Agriculture Cycling Club."  A kinky proposition if I ever heard one.  

The cape disappointed in being yet another pointless tourist site, so I decided hit the road, thumb out, beginning what would a marathon hitching session of about 350 km.  I rode with one family for better than half the trip.  When they stopped for an hour at an ice museum, my fatigue kept me from exploding with sheer excitement, and I opted instead to read down by the sea.  Outside Shari, a young couple picked me up, but when they went a bit past their destination on my account, the sight of an incredible traffic jam in what would be their return direction forced them to drop me in the middle of nowhere.  As I stood there feeling bad that I caused them this trouble, I was lucky to catch a ride with a family in this weird converted bus which dropped me off at the hostel where I failed to find a message from the to Akikos who I'd met with Jordan on Furano-dake.  

I finally made it to a nearby mountain hut that I nearly burnt down while cooking my dinner.  Afterward, I found heaven in the natural hot springs out in the woods.  There were a number of bathers there, co-ed, but it was hard to make out anybodies gender due to the steam and the rapidly fading light.  Later, I had a fascinating conversation about an intriguing indigenous group living on Sakhalin, which had once been half-Japanese and half-Soviet.  During the war, the Japanese had enlisted them to spy on the Reds, who subsequently had them executed after the war.  Today, most of them consider themselves either Russian or Japanese (depending on where they live). An old woman running a small museum in Abashiri figures that their language will die with her.  I also talked with a native Japanese traveler of 38 countries (including time spent on a kibbutz) who married a Polish woman.  Facing social pressure in both countries, they are now both traveling on  Canadian passports.

As lights out was at 20:30, I sat out on the deck of the hut in misty rain, finishing an amazing book of stories by Edogawa Rampo...



August 15


I surprised myself in waking up late.  Most everyone else had already left, their departures having been marked by the tremendous rustling they made as they packed.  There had been a few idiots in the hut who had been up talking and drinking until well past three o'clock, but surprisingly, they too had gone.  The other only person besides myself was Kazu, who I'd met the previous night.  He was an interesting guy, a Tokyo school teacher who takes a 6 month leave every few years in order to hike and photograph the Himalayas.  I didn't know such a thing was possible in Japan, and am not quite sure how he pulled it off.   We began the day with a soak out in the hot springs near a waterfall, followed by a light breakfast.  When we finally set out, it was well past nine.  A few hikers were already coming out of the backcountry, and scolded us about such a late departure.  

Kazu had warned me to expect a slow pace, but it was comfortable for me to move slowly due to the heavy weight on my back.  He seemed to really enjoy frequent stops in order to appreciate nature's glory, so I expected a mellow, mindful walk.  The trail moved up through the clouds, their moisture lining dozens of spider webs.  A light misty rain fell intermittently but never got too heavy.  In one area, a sign warned us about bears, both of us eager to see one.  The trail itself was incredibly muddy, with water running down it in some places.  It eventually fell into a ravine up which we hiked, alternating between snowbank and over large rocks. 
 
By now this 'mellow' pace started to include frequent nips off the flask.  All of this start-stop, tightrope-walking heel-to-toe steps were beginning to drain my energy.  Finally, I politely told Kazu that I'd meet him at the camp near the base of Rausu-dake, which was our mutual goal for the day.  I then raced up the final ascent, allowing my momentum to carry me.

It was strange to literally step out of the cloud cover and onto a tableland saddle between Rausu and its neighboring peak.  All was sunny and blue.   I staked out my campsite amidst some stunning scenery,  then climbed to the summit of Rausu-dake.

Atop Rausu

Down the range the cape points to America.
Volcanic scars filled by snow banks,
Alpine meadows of yellow and blue.
Russian islands rise from the clouds,
Scattered stones framed in white.  

Back down in the saddle, I met an American guy from Tucson named Greg who'd also chosen this quiet and peaceful spot to set up camp.  He and his Taiwanese girlfriend had met at Tsukuba University's language school, and had hitched to Hokkaido for their summer break, sleeping in shrines along the way.   We talked until well after dark, until it became too dark to stay out any longer.  Sadly a couple of guys had followed suit in setting up tents nearby, diminishing some of the peace with their obnoxious radio.  Sometime later, 
I left my tent after the moon had set, to stare up at a brilliant sky of stars...
   

On the turntable:  Serge Gainsbourg, "L'Integrale"