Aozasayama. An hour and 10 minutes up to the No-Name Pass, another 20 minutes up to the summit. A lot of mist.  Sometimes you just kind of melt into it, emptying your mind, and you keep up a pretty good pace.

But back down along the ridge, then over to the Jizo Pass, and down the mountain the other way, we slowed down considerably.

It always happens. Something grabs your eye. Your eye focuses. Then your eye starts searching out other things to focus on.

There are things to see and do, you realize, and you’ve got no good reason to hurry. You have time.

Time to stop and listen in to what these three guys have gotten together to talk about.

Time to wink at the pretty faces. Time to wait and see if they’ll wink back.

And you have to stop, don’t you, when a tree challenges you to a muscle-flexing contest?

Time to stop and feel the autumn.

Of course, time for a delicious lunch.

And time to chat with Mr. Jizo. Time to thank him for keeping an eye on the mountain—and those that walk it.

Time to watch this fellow, time to wonder who he is.

Time to enjoy the colors.

TIme to wonder what the chestnut’s all aglow about.

Almost back to the parking lot, we came across these curvy bells.

And the monshirocho (Cabbage White) certainly seemed to be taking their time with them. Maybe because they knew they had them all for themselves. The numbers were good.

And the monshirocho were made to get to the bottom of things with ease.

And then we came to the thistles. At first, they just looked like a patch of scraggly weeds.

Up closer, they were a bit more fascinating.

Especially to the bees.

Without the butterly’s nimble proboscis, they had little choice but to dive in. 

Sometimes they had to flex their muscles.

Seemed to be a muscle-flexing sort of day.

I have to admit I prefered the bee’s approach to heaven to the butterfly’s.

And on the way home, I kept thinking what a glorious day it must have been to be a bee.