Vernal Equinox, March 2003
Spring’s heralded cherry blossoms had finally appeared. For many in Japan, this annual happening signals that it’s time to start pontificating, or drinking, or both, beneath the stunning pink petals that eventually fall like snow. My friend Chris and I decided that it was a sign that it was time to climb Mount Sobo (Sobo-san), a 5,786-foot peak found at the convergence of Japan’s Miyazaki, Oita, and Kumamoto prefectures.
Chris and I had been living in Japan as JETs, English language teachers placed in public schools throughout the country. The night before our hike, we stayed with our friend Kiev in Takachiho, which was near to Sobo-san. To our dismay, we awoke the next morning to find that the surrounding mountains were faintly white. Considering that it rarely every snows in Kyushu, and that the cherry blossoms were out by the coast, we did not expect, or prepare for this, to say the least. Undeterred, we set out. We didn’t even really know where Sobo-san was. We only had the brief description described in our Lonely Planet Hiking in Japan to go by.
At Lawson convenience store, we got directions from well-meaning patrons who tried their best to point us on the right path. Headed in the right direction or not, Chris and I drove both our cars up a serpentine, thinning mountain road that fit the description we thought we heard. As our well-used cars climbed, the sky grew darker, the wind stronger, the road more questionable, and spring further and further in our rearviews. The slick road was mostly covered in either pine needles, snow dustings, or patches of black ice. It looked like no one had been this way in ages.
Evermore tempestuous outside, we rapidly fired off doubt-laden text messages to one another on our phones (high technology for us Americans in 2003). The real spirit-killer came when we emerged from a dark and portentous tunnel into a snow-globe-esque wonderland fit for a Yeti-sama. Through the tunnel, we must have came from leeward to windward or something or other. We were forced to consider the distinct possibility that our low-budget, bald-tired vehicles were not prepared for such a mission. Were we?
Luckily, we were able to pull into a parking lot just beyond the arctic-end of the tunnel. I took out my compass and my guidebook and compared the kanjis to the providently placed plywood map in the lot. Impossibly, we were there, a trailhead to Sobo-san. We weren’t exactly at our original destination, but we were near the peak. It was apparent that our three-day, 36 km, eight-peak plan, was wholly unrealistic in this too-deep snow. Chris was more doubtful than I was and he expressed this. A compromise seemed inevitable. Studying the materials available to us I estimated that we could make it to the main peak in less than two hours using a new route from this parking lot. We agreed on the plan only to remember that we had not gotten fuel for my stove or booze for the cabin. Next to the plywood map, was a sign indicating that we could find a town of some kind further down the road. We decided that we would drive together in my car down the hill towards the town for supplies. If we didn’t come to a store within twenty minutes we would turn back.
Down the hill my car slipped and slid. Having grown up with snowy winters, I was cocksure that I had what it took, foot-deep snow or not. A minute or two later, we saw a car pulled over on the up-side of the road. The driver putting chains on his tires. As I passed I said, “Hey man you don’t need the chains, you’re almost there and on the other side of the tunnel there’s no snow.” In actuality, my Japanese approximated: “snow…[circular hand gesture]….don’t need….over there….snow…..not.” The man, seeming sure that he need not listen to whatever I just blathered, thanked me and continued to apply his snow chains. Taking his obvious indifference to my advice in stride, I asked, “How far is it to the town?” “Eto neh…., yon ju pun ato gurai.” In my mind, I slowly turned the pages of my limited Japanese-English dictionary…………..40 minutes?! Shit. Going to town was a hopeless waste of time. I turned around and started driving back up the hill. After five feet, my tires spun with abandon and I got stuck right next to the very same man I had just told didn’t need snow-chains. Even more embarrassing, we soon realized that we would now need his help to get us unstuck. Instead of chastising us, he took pity, and helped Chris push my Corolla unstuck as I applied the gas. I felt the injustice for him. He had snow-chains to avoid this. Now he was pushing someone else’s car – Americans! They’d push me free; I’d drive about twenty feet, and then get stuck again. I’d get out and help dig the tires out with my bare hands. Then they’d push, I’d get stuck, and repeat. This man’s good deed became an act of supreme gallantry as he was still pushing my car nearly forty-five minutes later. Little did we all know, but Chris and I were not done exposing our foolhardiness.
When we finally got back to the parking lot, exactly where we’d been an hour ago, we decided to eat an early lunch. Eiyuu-san, our new friend, was there too. Of course, he was also hiking Sobo-san. Completely unlike us, though, he looked like he was prepared to climb K2, or attend a Montbell fashion show at the very least.
With little fanfare, our new friend stoically set out for his hike. We took our time eating a big lunch at the car so that we could carry less on the trail. Again, we questioned our collective wisdom and our options. We could go home defeated, or we could push on. Despite the fact that both Chris and I are experienced hikers, not to mention former Boy Scouts, we were not prepared. Chris had low-top hiking shoes, hiking pants, and thermals to plow through the snow with. I at least had boots, but I only had chino pants with lightweight thermals for my legs. Neither of us had proper gloves. We were no better than the blue-jeaned skiers of New Jersey. Not the good ones, the ones with the frozen denim.
Chris put plastic bags in his shoes to keep his feet dry. On a prayer, we took to the trail.
After only three minutes we had gone off the snow covered path. We turned back, and found the trail. After an hour, we passed some hikers on their way out. “Er, Sobo-san dono gurai?” (“How far to Sobo-san”), I asked. “Eto neh, etohhhh……..dono gurai kaanaaaa? Eto neh….ichiji-kan ...something, something, something…. yoji-kan….something, something… hachi-ji kan…something, something. The mental dictionary turned………..eight hours!!!!!!!!!!!! That’s impossible I thought.
Chris and I examined our maps and the pages I’d photocopied from the guidebook. We were sure they had misunderstood us. We pressed on.
After three long hours on the trail we began to question our mission. We had passed our ETA and without a proper map or signs with distances, there was no clear indication that we were getting close. The snow and the cold were starting to get to us. Chris had balled his hands up in his South American, wool gloves. The abandoned fingers had turned to useless, multicolored, alpacan popsicles. My pants began to freeze stiff. We came to a sign with kanji we didn’t recognize, our destination seemed ever more enigmatic. Chris seemed pessimistic, but he wasn’t fully vocal about it yet.
Sometime down the trail, we ran into a group of elderly hikers. In fully color-coordinated, head-to-toe, whisk-whisk-whisking, mountaineering gear, they returned from a slim offshoot that appeared to lead to an overlook. Intrigued, we followed the path through the undergrowth to a ridgeline populated by thin, dwarfed vegetation where the wind suddenly howled. The route turned to barren rock and led to a pinnacle where the wind was intensely funneled to hurricane forces. Perched on the outcropping, eagle-like, sat our man, Eiyuu-san, a balding, Zen, mountain-spirit.
We got on all fours and crawled out onto the precipice. Eiyuu-san passed by us with little acknowledgment. High above the valley floor, we sat near the edge as the amplified winds tried to dislodge us. Ignoring the cold, we silently peered out onto the jagged cirque in front of us and the deep valley below us. Having been in the trees up until then, we realized the magnificence of the area for the first time. In a prefecture of mostly subdued mountains, this terrain was startling and raw.
But the biting wind and diminishing sunlight quickly trampled our tranquility; we headed back to the trail.
In the snow, we could see the paths forged by the two parties. The elderly hikers had gone one way, and Eiyuu-san another. We followed the more trampled snow. Time passed and the trees diminished. We now hiked among a series of peaks and sub-peaks set amongst rhododendron and interspersed pines. We weren’t sure of where we were. We hadn’t really been sure for some time and we really didn’t have much of a clue how far it was to the hut. We had been hiking for four hours; sunset was about that far away. If we turned back and successfully navigated our escape, we could make it to the car by nightfall. Continuing meant that we had to make it to the hut or bivouac in the snowy woods with just our 20º F bags and sleeping pads, no shelter or stove. At this point, we were sometimes tramping through knee-deep snowdrifts and some of our clothes were frozen. A night in a snow cave promised to be sleepless and cold at best.
Chris thought we should turn back. Secretly, I did too, but I didn’t want to quit. It was when defeat felt closest that Eiyuu-san, again, emerged. I can’t remember whether or not we came upon him or if it was the other way around. It was as if he just appeared.
In my broken Japanese I expressed our concerns. In his less-broken English he expressed his optimism. He said he knew exactly where Sobo-san was and we would be fine if we followed him. It was another two and a half hours to the hut. Eiyuu-san, nearly 20 years our elder, confidently led the way.
With our turn-back, or don’t-turn-back decision making dilemma over, we could just focus on the walk before us. We had new found enthusiasm, but that didn’t stop my legs from weakening, or keep the shadows from growing longer. The snow felt heavier as we grew colder. We had been constantly on the move in the snow for hours, and no amount of physical activity could sufficiently overcome our unpreparedness and the cold.
We went up one peak and down the next. It seemed that Eiyuu-san, was not interested in getting to the hut as quickly as possible. He carried on with a sense of adventure and triumph. I felt like the victim of a Japanese death march.
Chris and I ignored our discomfort the best we could. My legs were frozen but I felt like I didn’t deserve to complain since Chris was wearing low top shoes through waist-deep snow drifts. He mostly complained about his hands though. My neoprene glove liners were terribly inadequate, although the high-tech fibers held up for an impressive while.
No one had been this way since the snow fell so the trail was completely concealed. Only Eiyuu-san’s know-how, coupled with sporadic pieces of weathered-pink tape guided our way. At times we were definitely lost but our savior/tormentor somehow kept it together. We didn’t talk much; we only concentrated on keeping our pace. I didn’t ask how far it was to Sobo-san but I periodically checked my watch and guessed.
After some time, we came up to a tall sheer wall. We hadn’t seen a proper trail in ages but Eiyuu-san was somehow sure that we had to climb here. We didn’t know this feat of athleticism lay before us, so it was crushing to find out that it was going to get harder before it got any easier.
As we were walking along the wall and looking for the way up, Chris lost his footing and slid down a short snow shoot. For a brief second Eiyuu-san and I winced as we watched our climbing partner slide uncontrollably towards a 4-meter drop off. Right as Chris came to the edge he somehow stopped himself. The fall probably wouldn’t have been that perilous itself, but getting Chris back up to the trail would have been nearly impossible. With limited daylight, such a mistake could have been ruinous.
Eiyu-san then explained, in broken English, that we had to find fixed ropes and ladders to get up this nearly sheer section of rock. All we could see was a bitter-white wall. With our already frozen, barely clad hands, we had to dig through the snow to find the first rope. By the time the rope was found, my hands were like a Lego person’s – ready to accept a uniformly sized mug, pick-ax, or laser gun, but nothing else. I didn’t think I had the tactile ability to make it up, but I had to. Well into the discomfort zone, I forced my body to perform, and we all scaled the first rope. Then it was a ladder, and then bolted thick, metallic wires. Using the rope was bad enough, but my hands instantly froze to the ladder and wires every time I touched them. Effort was needed to not only grab the ladder but then to free myself from it too. Every vertical step was torture. The end never seemed near and I continued to doubt whether or not the hut we aimed for even existed. But of course, just when I thought I could take no more, we reached the top. Although I didn’t know it yet, Eiyuu-san was headed for the peak of Sobo-san, not the warm, blissful shelter I had been dreaming about. Like dehydrated nomads forgoing the Kasbah for yet another distant sand dune, we climbed on.
When we finally reached the summit of Sobo-san it was –8º C (18º F); Chris and I were nearly frozen solid. The sun had recently set and only a sliver of twilight remained. We could see the silhouette of Katamuki Mountain in the distance. Despite the circumstances, the view was glorious; we had made it. But after 5 minutes of sitting still I got progressively colder and I knew that no view could beat the inside of the hut. I think even Eiyuu-san was coming around to this notion. After a fifteen-minute hike down the other side of the summit, we found the door to the snow blanketed shelter, and slunk in.
Inside, was the most angelic sight I’d ever seen: three other hikers relaxing around a blazing wood-burning stove. Dripping socks and clothes hung from makeshift, Cordura, drying lines. Splintered wood lay haphazardly in a bin in the corner and soot found its way onto everything. But the stove was a beacon of relief and solace. I have been on longer hikes in more challenging mountains, but being so ill-equipped added that extra edge of discomfort and uncertainty that makes success so gratifying. For at least an hour, the hut seemed sublimely surreal; I simply couldn’t believe that it existed nor that I was really there. In my steaming poly-pro underwear, I huddled around the stove and begged it for warmth. Having no spare clothes, we had to sit in our wet ones and let them dry whilst wearing them.
After about two and a half hours, the steam finally stopped pouring from us. Our love for newfound-dryness, the disbelief that we had reached this stately manor, and our unending sense of self-accomplishment gave way to raging hunger. We hadn’t brought a stove, but we did bring food that needed to be cooked, so we had to make due with the wood-burning stove. This we anticipated, but the challenge of making it work we underestimated. Others had cooked on the stove before us, but we needed to cook a large pot of rice and vegetables. We fed and stoked the fire. We fanned and blew, and blew and fanned and fed and stoked. Only after more than an hour of fighting to get the fire to a state of critical rage did the water boil. In all, the whole cooking process was a major chore. If one builds strength through adversity, then we’d soon be Herculean in no time.
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