Nowdays, I live and work near Portland, Oregon, USA. I work with a computer consulting company called EASE Software, Inc. It's a cozy little company with very nice people.
But I've also traveled around the world quite a bit -- over 6 years spent On The Road, with a rucksack through the Third World -- in addition to four years spent living in Japan.
Saturday, 6 am.
The first train of the day rattles to a stop at Eifukucho Station on
the Inokashira Line in western Tokyo. As the doors of the old wooden
coach slide open, Bryce and I step out and silently scan the deserted
platform. Suddenly, from the tunnel at the far end of the platform,
Jean emerges with a large grin and waves to us as she dashes onto the
train. We hop back inside just before the doors close and the train
lurches off toward Kichijoji.
Somewhere in mid-train, three rucksacks drop to the floor as we slouch
bleary-eyed onto a wooden bench. Across the car, a jaunty old man
checks his fishing rod while his grandson dozes against his shoulder;
the rest of the seats are empty. I blow into my gloved hands to ease
the sting of the February chill and nod to the sway of the train.
What am I doing here? I should be home in bed; I must have
gotten all of three hours of sleep this morning. But Jean is a dear;
she brings out cheese sandwiches for our breakfast and revels in her
first conquest of the elusive 6 o'clock train.
It is a slow, drowsy ride to Kichijoji, where we change to the Chuo
Line and head west for Tachikawa. I have never really seen Tachikawa
Station, except as a vague blur of overcoats and schoolgirl legs as we
race up and down the steps to make that vital connection with the
infrequent little Ome Line that leads up into the mountains as far as
Hikawa.
This morning we made up for Jean's punctuality by dozing through the
announcement to change trains at Akishima, (not usually necessary),
and making an unplanned excursion on the providentially short spur
line to Akita.
9:30 am.
We stumble off the bus from Hikawa at Nagatani-bashi on the shores of
Okutama Lake in the heart of Chichibu-Tama National Park. The sun is
beaming down warmly now, the air is clean, and the lake sparkles a
bright blue beneath the surrounding mountains.
A few farms and small hamlets dot the long northern shore of
Okutama-ko, and fishermen haunt the mouths of snow-fed streams that
join this lake on the upper reaches of the Tama River. But we are off
into the mountains, on one of the many trails that wind up to the long
ridge which stretches from Hikawa all the way past the upper Ara River
in western Saitama Prefecture.
Up into the mountains, we tread a lesser-known trail past large old
thatched farm houses and steeply terraced fields. Beyond these, the
tall silent pines obscure the sky, and the shallow blanket of Tuesday's
snow flurry lies undisturbed on the trail.
5 pm.
From the summit of Nanatsu Ishi Mountain, we watch the swollen sun
drop behind the bank of clouds on the horizon, beyond the far
mountains. Below us, Okutama-ko stretches out its long arm up the
valley between these two steep ranges. To the northwest, our ridge
extends out like a swaybacked dragon toward Kumotori-yama peak (2,018
meters) and beyond.
Not long before, we had hiked in T-shirts through the few inches of
snow that lay on the trails along the ridge. But with the sun below
the horizon, the thin air soon turned icy cold and my bootlaces froze
to my pants cuffs before I even got my jacket on. But luckily we had
brought all the necessities; a litre of red wine heated over a small
gas stove saw us through the wistful twilight that lingered over the
glistening mountains.
Through the dark pines we discerned the flicker of lights from a small
mountain hut and, picking our way with flashlights, we stumbled down
the last few hundred feet to find accommodation at the little yama
goya, nestled among the trees, overlooking the lake far below.
Around a wood stove we sat on mats above the cabin's dirt floor,
sharing hot tea and conversation with several young Japanese hikers
and the old gentleman who tends the place. We ravaged our emergency
supply of instant ramen and cheese while two young men broiled fish on
the stove and the old man happily discussed the trails with two pretty
college girls.
Sunday 6:30 am.
Daylight filters into the communal sleeping room as we struggle to
rouse ourselves beneath two layers of heavy winter futon. Out
in the front room, the old man has a warm fire going, and hot tea for
cold hands. And there out the front door, beyond the pines to the
southwest, a distant snow-covered Mt. Fuji rises majestically above
the nearer mountains, bathed in the fiery red glow of dawn and
magnified by the stillness of the cold clear morning sky.
I no longer ask myself "What am I doing here?" How could I have
forgotten, in just two weeks, what joy and peace I feel on top of
these mountains? Eifukucho and Tachikawa are light years away,
some Saturday morning on another plane of existence. For the three of
us, at least, it is quite worth the devastation of the 6 o'clock train to
watch the sun rise quietly on Fuji-san, to drink in the sunset from
the snowy top of the Kanto Ridge, or even just to wander along the
shore of sparkling Okutama Lake in the fresh morning air and visit
with mountain farmers who never rode a subway in their lives.
Chichibu-Tama Koku-ritsu Koen is one of the closest and finest areas
for week-end hiking from Tokyo. The vast area of rugged forested
mountains is well serviced by marked trails (in Japanese of course),
and a number of mountain huts along the ridge. Some of the huts
remain open year round, and a few even provide basic meals. The caretaker
at Nanatsu Ishi stays at his hut all summer, and comes up for
week-end hikers during the winter months. Thanks to such convenient
mountaineering huts, our day hike was painlessly transformed into an
over-nighter, for a fee of 700 yen, but without the burden of heavy
camping equipment.
The area is popular with Japanese hikers in the summer and with
waterproof shoes and warm clothing, it can be equally enjoyable on
fair-weather winter days, when the air is cleaner and the views even
better. On week-ends there are other hikers to follow or ask
directions, but the trails are rarely crowded.
All buses on the lake route from Hikawa go as far as the Ogochi Dam
which creates Okutama Lake, and there is a hiking trail nearby. Only
one bus a day runs the entire length of the lake and continues up to
the mountain pass at Yanagisawa-toge. The farther you go along the
lake, the less frequent the bus service. (Only four a day at the foot
of Nanatsu Ishi Mountain, but seven or eight to the next closer stop,
about a kilometer down the road.)
A word to the wise: bus service in such rural areas sometimes stops
before 5 pm. It is advisable to check train and bus timetables in
advance to eliminate long waits (and overnight stops) between buses.
On the other side of Yanagisawa Pass (1472 m.) the road drops down
steeply through more tiny villages toward Enzan and the wine country
of Yamanashi Prefecture. Enzan is only 2 hours by express train from
Shinjuku on the Chuo Main Line and a pleasant outing for grapes and
wine in the fall. Bus service into the mountains is infrequent but
you can often hitch-hike with other week-end escapists.
The third access to the area is via the Chichibu Line, beyond Chichibu
city to Mitsumine-Guchi, and then by bus to the ropeway up to the
Mitsumine Jinja. It is possible to hike southeast from here to Hikawa
all the way along the ridge, but it takes several days of hard hiking.
Along the way, numerous side trails drop down to little valleys dotted
with isolated villages, terraced farms, and the occasional on-sen
bath.
But you don't have to go that far; the same tiny farms and simple
people inhabit the mountainsides along Okutama Lake. Even a short
walk up the steep trails may take you to tiny enclaves of mountain
farmers, raising cabbage, daikon, and garden vegetables,
horse-radish, shiitake mushrooms, walnuts, or persimmons.
We've even encountered woodsmen carving wooden shoes, making charcoal
in stone kilns, and raising silk worms.
So the next time you get crushed on the escalator at the Mitsukoshi,
or a little old kimonoed lady elbows you off the subway -- the next
time you long for escape -- remember: 'For every building, there is a
mountain; for every car, ten thousand trees.'
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Escape to the Mountains
