Because the sky is blue . . . it makes me cry.

Because the sky is blue — aaaaaaaahhh.

I was pretty much doomed the moment we stepped out from the woods and got our first big view of those white clouds in the blue, blue sky. The clouds were just breaking up, “splitting,” and it was not hard to see an embryo taking shape.

This was Oyarei Kuzure, or the Oyarei “Landslide” Slope. In 1707, an earthquake caused the side of Mt. Oyarei to crumble, and the result is a steep, rocky, gravelly climb  up to the ridge that leads to the top of the mountain.

Steeper than any climb in the Umegashima area—I think.  Or at least it felt that way to some of us.

The camera in my hand made everything worse.

You know, because you see those clouds splitting up and you’re amazed. You’re amazed and have to take a picture. But every moment is different. Every moment fascinates. And it’s the only moment you’re in right then. You take another picture, and another and another—and then your eyes are zooming into that high focus that makes something in your feet buzz—and you are looking at everything and wondering how everything got to be so goshdarned beautiful.

Then one of your fellow hearty hikers really, severely, messes you up. She shouts out, “A rainbow rock!”  And she shows it to you. Puts it right there in front of your revved-up eyes.

Yes, now you truly and absolutely are doomed. Now you’ve got to find your own rainbow rock.

Okay, so now you’ve got sky above you and rainbows below you. This is sensory overload if ever there was sensory overload.

When you do find your very own rainbow rock, you naturally start thinking that you might want to hang it on your wall. Actually, you tell everyone that.

I think I’ll hang this on my wall, you say.

Hey, you’re with good people. There’s nothing to worry about. None of them think you’re crazy. After all, you’ve brought them here.

Or maybe they do think you’re crazy—but even so you’ve got nothing to fear. They’re feeling a bit “out of the normal” themselves.

Ah, but don’t forget that sky. Yeah, look back up  toward the ridge—at that unbelievable blue.

And don’t forget to stop and admire the view back toward the ocean. That view is needing your attention, too.

Has there ever been a day better than this?

So the magic’s begun—and it won’t stop for a long time. How lucky you are!

Creatures begin to appear.

And up up you go.

Sunlight on flowers wow-wow-wows you.

 And up, up, up you go.

Whether you’re knees are hurting or not, the buzz prevails. You’re hovering in the blue.

And then you’ve passed over the ridge (Shinkubo), and slipped into the woods. Just below the ridge, on the shaded side, you work your way up to the top of Oyarei. The sun tries to find you.

The iwagami (“rock mirror” plants) are not blooming now, but the sun has decided they are glorious just the same. It somehow finds a path through the trees and alights upon them.

Ah, so, so much to see!

And you will not be content until you can see, really see, everything.

Everything.

And some things just look so nice together.

Don’t you think?

I do.

By the way, these pinkish little guys are called shimotsukeso. Just in case you wanted to know.

Then you’re atop Oyarei, among the birches, having lunch, verifying for yourself that nature can indeed be quite the intriguing painter.

Ah, yes, eventually the mist is going to roll in. It does nearly every afternoon.

But it’s been damn hot and you’re grateful for the cover, and now you’re back in the land of rainbow rocks, so your descent is quite the pleasant one. (Slip and slide a bit in the loose rock and your knees will thank you.)

And it won’t matter that you don’t find a better rainbow rock than the one you’ve already pocketed, because you’ll be discovering how interesting it can be to look at any rock—at least, at any rock that has flown from the innards of a mountain during an earthquake . . .

. . . and it will tickle you to death that you can just walk along and look and look and look at a bunch of rocks and be so happy . . . and yes, crazy or not, you might start to consider . . .

. . . hanging more of them on your walls.

Hey, you might even use them to make your walls!

Almost down, back into the woods, everything is so distinct.

And you wonder why you didn’t notice that rough old cowboy on the way up.

Well, I can tell you why: You weren’t buzzing quite enough way back then. Your eyes had not yet shifted into their mega-gear focus. Go ahead, wave at him. Tip your cap. Tell him he needs a shave.

And if (if, mind you)—if you thought you had found your very own personal Rosetta Stone, who, I ask, who could possibly tell you that you had not?

Don’t worry. You’re not ever going to forget the blue.

Or at least, you’re not going to forget the buzz it got going.

And no, no, this is not all some opium-induced lunacy. I’m a boringly sober guy. (And anyway, lunacy is something that comes from the moon. I was out in the sun.)

The simple fact is I did climb the mountain with my hearty hiking buddies and I did see the things I’ve talked about above. All four of the other hearty hikers can testisfy to my presence on the Landslide Slope and to the glimmer in my eyes.

Really, no joke, I was there. See.