Hiking Like A Boss

For whatever reason, writing this update was really difficult. Not that I hit an emotional point or anything, just that every time I sat down to try and type it up, I didn’t know what way I wanted to do it. I could either do it written, using words and whatnot, or do it as a slideshow, using pictures I’ve taken. Then again, I could do both. Write up a few nice sentences, then show you the pictures. Or, if it doesn’t detract too much from the descriptive writing, pepper the entire post with photos as they are called for.


I’ve written that last paragraph just for the sole purpose of making me write something. I’ll keep writing and see how it goes.

A few weeks ago now I finally climbed Mt. Chōkai. After the originally planned excursion had been cancelled, I was told that we’d probably reschedule for October. The mountain had won for now, but I’d be back.

But then I didn’t hear anything. No new plan, no new hike. The only long weekend in October was approaching, and nary a word was spoken of Chōkai. You might be thinking, “Jeez, what’s the big rush? Show a little patience man, the mountain can wait!”. Well you’d be wrong. Also, shut up.

As I am repeatedly reminded, winter sets in early here, and it sets in hard. If I don’t climb my three holy mountains this month, I might not get another chance until late next spring. Many mountains are closed to hikers from November on, in the interests of public safety. Chōkai might not be going anywhere, but neither would I be. It was now or never. With this in mind, on the day of the school relay race I approached the Kyōtō-sensei (the vice principal) and asked him if the hike was going ahead on the long weekend.

Bit of context here. Each teacher in the school is assigned a club to coach. Clubs are semi-mandatory after school activities that the students participate in. Usually, the vice-principal doesn’t coach any clubs. However, my Kyōtō-sensei is the head of the mountaineering club. Teacher’s don’t actually need to have any expertise in the club they supervise, it’s just part of the job. I simply figured that the school needed an extra club supervisor, and the Kyōtō-sensei stepped up to the plate.

“Not this weekend”, he replied. The other mountaineering club teacher had other commitments, so the students wouldn’t be going this time. Tentatively, I asked if this meant that the club would in fact not be making the hike this month. He turned to scrutinise the mountains lining the horizon, the first signs of snow already sprinkling their peaks.

“Maybe not.”

Because of the snow?

“Hmmmmm.”

So there won’t be any more club hikes until Spring?

“Yes. Maybe.”

Oh. Okay. That’s a pity.

He remained fixed facing the mountains, but his gaze shifted to the corner of his eye. To me. Something close to a smile creeped across his lips.

“Two could do it.”

More context. The Liberal Arts department (the staff room for teachers of English, Japanese, Maths, Social studies, Science, Home Making, Music, Arts and Phys. Ed.) is where the Kyōtō-sensei presides. The school principal always has his own office, beside the administration staff’s room. But the vice principal takes care of the running of the teaching staff's room. For all intents and purposes, the man is my boss. And his desk directly faces mine.

At 6 am on Saturday, I’m leaving my front door with my hiking boots on my feet and a ham, tomato and onion sandwich in my backpack. I can smell the nostalgia. Literally, I can smell it. I will be riding the hour and a half long journey there, the three or four hour hike up the mountain, the three odd hour hike back down the mountain and the hour and a half long journey home, with my boss.

And only my boss.

Sitting in the passenger seat, I make simple conversation. How long have you been working at the school? Where did you grow up? A Tsuruoka man, born and raised. Most of the people I’ve talked to in Tsuruoka, are from Tsuruoka. At the moment, there’s something of an exodus of young people from the area. The draw of the big cities pulls them away, leaving towns with shrinking populations. The universities in Yamagata are quiet good from what I’ve heard, but unless you want to study what they specialise in, you’d be better off going to a different prefecture, maybe moving to Tokyo. So despite the national opinion that Yamagata is a bit of a backwater, a lot of people here have lived or studied elsewhere for a spell. The ones that have come back are here because they wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

Curious as to how somebody becomes a vice principal, I ask if he studied teaching. Nope. Electrical Engineering. Here, in Yamagata? Nope, Kyōto. (Ironic aside for anyone who’s confused here. A Kyōtō-sensei is a vice principal. Kyōto is a city, previously the capital of Japan and now largely considered to be the cultural capital. Try to keep up.)

Now I’m curiouser still. This guy studied a technical subject, and doesn’t exactly live in a cosmopolitan hub. And you’re wildly mistaken if you think this conversation was taking place in Japanese. So how come he can speak English so well? I mean, almost everybody has had 6 years of English language education in school, but definitely not everybody retains the lingo...

Turns out he spent a few years living in Jamaica. He was part of the group who helped the Jamaicans put together their education system. Oh. Try as I might, I cannot picture the man beside me eating Jerk chicken in Kingston’s streets while reggae music plays in the background. My image of this straight-backed, traditional, formal, comfortable-behind-a-desk man starts to crack.

Talk turns to his family for a while, before returning to the task at hand. Mountain climbing.

Have you climbed Chōkai-san before?

“Mnn. Yes.”

Of course he had, he’s in the Mountaineering club. How many times?

“Hmm. Maybe twelve times”.

Okay, I was gonna guess about ten, so twel...

“A year.”

So... you go hiking often then?

“Mnn. This year, I’ve climbed four new mountains so far.”

Wow, okay. I’m adding that to the dozen or so times he’s climbed this particular peak, and the assumption that this isn’t the only mountain that warrants return visits. I don’t really know what to think. So I ask the obvious question. Has he climbed Mount Fuji, Japan’s highest and most iconic mountain. It’s also the only Japanese mountain I know...

“Mnn. Six times. In winter.”

To my knowledge, they close the mountain path in winter. Because people die.

“Summer is too easy.”

This image I had? The one I mentioned of a stereotypical Japanese pencil-pusher? It’s now in pieces on the floor. This guy’s a beast.

The car continues to make it’s way up the steep and winding road that leads to the start of the hiking trail. The scenery gets progressively more varied and beautiful, and a thick mist embraces the peak before us. It’s not Everest, but at 2,236 meters, it’ll be the highest thing I’ve climbed by a wide margin. Exiting the car at the road’s end, I zip up my winter jacket, strap up my gaiters, look up into the mist and start walking.

If it’s okay with you, I’ll let the photos lead the way from here.

We set out from here, at an altitude of about 1,200 meters. The trail begins just behind that small wooden box. The leaves on the trees are starting to turn as autumn sets in, and the path cuts straight through them. When the tree line shrank back, we found ourselves walking in the loose, gravely soil lining a small mountain stream, with the mist slowly closing in around us. Before long, only the footfalls of the man in front of me were breaking the eerie silence.

Here you can see him wait for me at a cabin which materialised out of the haze. Knowing what I now know about this man, I started wondering if I would make it out of there alive. It's the quiet ones you have to watch...

We pressed on and the fog slowly lifted. The temperature was dropping as we climbed, and it wasn't long before we came across a huge mass of ice, resting in a shallow valley. It looked like a small glacier. I wasn't sure what I was seeing at first, thinking it was only a thin sheet. But then I saw a cross-section, where the ice has split. It was as thick as the height of a man. Solid ice. My companion told me that this was the compacted snow of last winter, which had refused to resign itself to meltwater. It would now never melt, remaining on the mountain until the new winter season set in.

Before I left for Japan, one of the things I read about my new home-to-be was that on some of the local mountains, snowfall could reach a depth of 8 meters. Looking at this wedge of ice in October, I was starting to get the picture.

And speaking of snow, soon we were crunching our way over small patches that lay fresh on the ground, possibly from the night before.

Look carefully, and learn. This is how a mountain-beating badass hikes. With his hands firmly planted on his hips anytime he's not giving Nature the middle-finger.

I snapped this shot when the fog pulled back far enough to let me see a stretch of the plains. The photo doesn't capture just how imposing that cloud-line was, especially as it had descended upon us again within seconds.

As we climbed higher, the winds started to pick up and the snow became thicker underfoot. We passed by a vertigo-inducing crater, the rope guarding it's edge now more ice than anything else.

Each step now required concentration. What looked like crisp snow could actually be polished ice, smooth from the biting wind that was constantly blowing over it. Or it could in fact be crisp snow. Only maybe two feet of it.

There's a point in the trail where a frozen metal ladder can be descended, taking climbers along a narrow, exposed cliff edge. This is the path to the top. We were not equipped to deal with that trail, so we took the second path, which leads to the second highest peak of the mountain. It's a mere 8 meters shorter than the official summit and only about 200 meters of valley separate the two peaks, so I didn't feel too bad about it. As far as I was concerned, it still counted as getting to the top. What's 8 meters between friends?

But then when we reached this point, my Kyōtō-sensei said that we should turn back. Neither of us had hiking boots that were fitted with ice-studs, and we were no longer finding much grip. The strong, erratic wind put us at risk of being pushed off the trail. Which wouldn't be too bad, but... The alternative to the trail didn't look like that great an option. Go ahead and click on the image. See how the tufts of grass appear to be frozen flat against the ground? That's because they are. Here, all the snow was gone. What you see now is all ice. It was as though the entire peak had been varnished.

Even if you were to only lose your balance enough to misplace a foot onto the slope... there was simply nothing to grip that would help you recover. Looking down the mountain-side, I tried not to think about how far down you would slide on the glass-like ice before you'd come to rest. Unless of course you were to hit one of the jutting rocks. Unfortunately, the mountain decided to show me just how far, and the cloud cleared.

So there I was, looking over the edge. Contemplating my odds.

I turned to look at my boss. And I smiled. It sure would be a shame to come all this way...

So we pushed on through the wind, closing in on our goal. The frozen gales that brought the ice all the way from Siberia left the landscape as though Jack Frost had touched it. Boulders stood like monsters, covered in scales.

Placing my hand against them for balance caused shards to break off and scatter into the gusts of wind, creating music as they struck each other.

Then we were standing before the peak.

Once more, it was suggested we turn back. Once more, we me each other's eyes and grinned.

Finally reaching our destination, we were greeted with this view.

Winter. Autumn. And in the distance, Summer. Three seasons, spread out in front of us. A beautiful sight.



On the way back down, we stopped and sat next to each other, our backs against a snow bank. He produced a rice ball, and I rustled in my bag for my sandwich. I handed him some chocolate and we sat there, munching happily and staring out at the view.