Yesterday, we Hearty Hikers went up to Umegashima for a quick trek up to the Great Abe Waterfall to . . . well, to see the water fall.

We walked cedar shade, looked up at the canopy light, the sparkling jade. (“Cedar shade” and “sparkling jade” are Shizuoka Duo’s words not mine.)

Our eyes feasted on color.

One of the Hearty Hikers hadn’t been with us for a while—and seemed a bit concerned about getting lost in the deep, deep wilderness, so we took her on a route that enabled her to . . .

. . . climb the Eifel Tower. You know, just to calm her nerves a bit.

But mainly we walked the water, enjoying the world’s most perfectly-tuned air-conditioning system.

And I thought about the water.

A lot.

I tried to think of something profound to say about the water . . . and finally remembered a dream I’d had once.

I had dreamed I was applying for a position as an assistant professor in philosophy—a subject I’d never studied. All of a sudden, a member of the interviewing committee was asking me this: if there’s one thing, one simple-to-grasp thing, that you think all philosopher students should come to comprehend before completing their undergraduate degrees, what would it be?

Yes, a prickly situation. I was shaking. I was sweating. I tried to remember a time, any time, that I’d felt philosophical.  And I remembered, being a boy of five or six, and standing before a little waterfall, a very little waterfall in a creek near our house, and thinking . . . “Water . . . falls.”

So that’s what I said. At my dream interview.

“Water falls.”

And in my dream, I got the job.

Ah, the mystery of job interviews!

But, indeed, water does fall. A drop or two might bead up on a level surface (surface tension?), but you can’t make a big mound of water—it falls.

Falling, for water, is an effortless action.

You can apply force to water, squirt it out of a hose or a water pistol, but if you leave it to itself, it falls. You can dam it up, stop it for a while, but the instant you pull the dam away, it falls. And here’s the amazing thing, you can wait a day or a thousand days to pull the dam away, and the water will react just the same. The very moment the dam is gone, it falls.  Years of imprisonment affect its will not one iota, affects its temperament not one iota.

It has looked within. It knows what it is.

You might compare that to your feeling when lunchtime is over and someone says, “All right, everyone, back to work.”     To fall, or to flow (if you like) is water’s inner nature. Prevent it from doing that (put it in a concrete pool, for example) and it does nothing. Just waits. It’ll wait for all eternity if necessary. Because all it wants to do is fall. It’s all, really, that it can do. Don’t get mad at it because it can’t program a computer.

I’d say more, but would surely expose that I still haven’t studied philosophy!

On the way back home, we of course stopped at our favorite onsen.

Lots of water there, too.

August 11. In Japan, “Mountain Day.” On the 10th, a long haul up Mt. Kaikoma, a lot of direct sun, and a whole team of tired legs.

Somehow, over twelve hours, our legs recovered, and with talk of rain (and at least the fog rolling in early), we were up by 3 AM . . .

. . . and out under the moon and onto the trail by 3:55, hoping to finish by noon.

Walking in the dark is wonderful. Very peaceful. Birds just waking.

Soon the sky had brightened, though, and we could see the trail and the firs clearly.

It was not going to be a day of clear, glaring, blue skies, but for a couple of hours it was a lovely combination of candy blue, lavender, and grey. That’s Kaikoma on the right edge of that range. (One of the Hearty Hikers suggested walking that entire ridge some time or another. Sure, but one mountain at a time!)

Finally out from the firs and into the scrub pines where . . .

. . . the spotted nutcrackers thrive. (In Japanese, hoshigarasu, “star crows” . . . I like that.)

The nutcrackers are crazy about the scrub pine’s soft, pink cones.

And then a scramble up some rocks and up to the peak of Mt. Little Senjo, at 2864 m.  It was 6:25 AM. We were two and a half hours in.

Then it was across the ridge to the main peak, Mt. Senjo. A lot of good places to stop and breathe slowly and deeply. Go ahead. Imagine you’re there. Stop and take a couple of good breaths—deep ones.

  The higher you go, the rockier, and foggier, it gets.

And then you’re there, at the top of Mt. Senjo, 3033 meters. 7:30 AM.

Breakfast time!

A grey day for the most part, but actually a very pleasant day after all the sun of the day before. And as Shizuoka Duo sings to us about grey days, “When your eyes are on the ground/There really is so much to be found/Walk the misty woods and see/At tiny flowers fall to your knees.”

There were lots and lots of small plants and flowers up there around the peak.

And . . .

. . .  rocks, as beautiful—and as alive—as any of the flowers.

Then . . . down, down, you go. After an hour or so, the trail runs into the Yabuzawa River.

After an hour or so along the river, you come to this point, where you cross back over into another fir forest.

But the hour that you walk along the river is one of the most wonderful hours you’ll ever experience. The riverside is a long, long rocky field of flowers. It’ll probably take you thirty seconds or a minute at most to scroll down through the pictures, but please, for my sake, imagine that the scroll-stroll down along the river, over the rocks and through the color, lasts an hour.

Oh, along the way, I found a waterfall to take a head shower in. Felt great!

Okay. Cooled down. Ready for the last hour. Back into the firs, and down, down, down.

How proud of the Hearty Hikers I am. Six hours of walking and still raring to go.

An hour in the firs—and then out in the open again. Yep, the skies cleared here and there.

From here, it was only another fifteen minutes—fifteen minutes through the woods and back to the Komorebi Lodge.

A wonderful day.

Above, Mt. Kaikoma.

Our goal, for August 10th and 11th, was to get up both Mt. Kaikoma and Mt. Senjo.

The summit of Mt. Kaikoma is 2967 m, that of Mt. Senjo, 3033 m. Kaikoma is the 24th tallest in Japan, Senjo the 10th. But don’t let the statistics fool you: of the two, Kaikoma is the real bear.

We stayed at the Komorebi Lodge, at the Kitazawa Pass. From Shizuoka, we drove about two hours, to Ashiyasu, then took two different buses through the mountains on the restricted roads, for another hour-and-a-half. Think long dark concrete tunnels, guardrails on the edge of huge cliffs, a lovely river below, and numerous waterfalls—one of the longest in the southern Alps. Think of a busload of hikers, anticipation lighting up their faces.

All sorts of happy faces greeted us at the lodge.

The food was great. The lodge, some other hikers said, was ranked number two in Japan.

The idea is to get to the top before the fog rolls in. You never know when the fog will roll in—but often in the morning, often early in the morning. Thus, the 4:30 AM start. We had a light in the sky, and lights on our foreheads, so no problem, though we had to remind one of our  members that she was going to have to open her eyes before we could begin.

Does 4:30 sound early? The lodge and the mountains are a different world. Everybody is up by 3 or 4. No private rooms. Rows and rows of “bunks.” Throats clearing.  Boots pounding the plank floor. You can’t sleep through it. And really, it’s a good time to begin.

There are two trails up. So you can do a loop—or take the counterclockwise or clockwise approach—and come back the way you came. We ended up doing a counterclockwise loop.

So, it’s 4:30 and we’re off. First through the forest, along the Kitazawa River. Then . . .

. . . out from the forest and up to the Sensui Pass. We got to the pass about 5:40. Above, we’re looking back at what we’ve just walked. The moon was still with us.

From the Sensui Pass, you get your first view of Kaikoma, on the left. The other peak is Marishiten.

From the Sensui Pass, you head back into a fir forest—and the steep climb begins.

Lovely views when you look back.

Nope, you don’t get to go directly up Kaikoma. First, you have to climb Komatsumine, at 2750 m.

You eventually, come out of the forest, and into the scrub pine. We reached the summit of Komatsumine at 7 AM.

On the horizon, to the left, was Mt. Kita, the second tallest mountain in Japan.

And further to the left, and way off, behind Mt. Houou, our dear friend Fuji.

And even further to the left, Kaikoma.

And sorry to say, but you have to go down before you can go up Kaikoma. It’s a rocky way, with boulder fields that you have to scramble across.

Very rocky.

Some rocks want to think they’re little mountains. Let them. As Shizuoka Duo sings, “Hope-despair are living where the thinking makes them so.”

Just as you start to go back up, up Kaikoma, you come to a choice. You can scramble-crawl straight up the side of the mountain—or take the “winding” road up. Seems most people opt for the winding road, but lots of ordinary-looking hikers chose the steeper way.

But the winding path is steep enough, believe me.

  And because it winds . . .

. . . you’re likely to think you’re ten minutes from the top . . .

. . . for about an hour.

Sand and rock.

You are a great climber, sure, but you have not conquered the moon. You’re still on Earth. 

And just when you think, you’ve gotten through the worst of it . . .

. . . oh . . . more rocks between which you’ve got to figure out how to pull yourself up.

You’ll do it, don’t worry.

And then you’re at the top. It’s 8:37, and you’ve beaten the fog.  Take a picture before it rolls in—because  it’s going to roll in before you can finish breakfast.

Ahhh.  Mt. Kita and Mt. Fuji have disappeared.

Back to Komatsumine.

And it’s farther back than it was coming. An amazing phenomenon that you’ll  experience often on hikes like this one.

From Komatsumine, we could have gone the way we came, back by the Sensui Pass, but we decided to go the other way, via Mt. Futago.

There’s Mt. Futago right in front of us, the green guy. It wasn’t until we’d come down from Komatsumine quite a way that we realized that the trail was going to take us up to the top of Mt. Futago. Yes, we have a silly leader.

But we made it. Then back into another fir forest—and back to the lodge at a little before 1 PM.

Would our legs recover to hike up Senjo the next day? We’ll see.

They’re about the sappiest couple I’ve ever met, that young man and woman who like to call themselves, collectively, “Shizuoka Duo.”

A couple of love birds. Always smiling.

So there they were, back from a hike up through the Ryuso cedars, still holding hands, still glowing, saying they’d hummed out a song together, la-la-lahed it out as they walked through the woods (“our” woods, they said, “we were the only ones up there”), standing at my front door, asking if I could pull the Persimmon Dreams recording studio out from my pocket and record them.

What was I going to do? Whatever I think of their singing, well, they were awful cute standing there.

I . . . love to see you

Smile . . . smile like you do

Your eyes . . . always say . . . something so true.

We . . . walk cedar shade

Above our heads . . . sparkling jade

Canopy light . . . really knows . . . . how to persuade.  

 Needles soft . . . under our feet

Azaleas bright . . . dancing so sweet

Nightingale . . . melody . . . oh what a treat.

Sometimes . . . we do kneel

Moist green moss . . . our fingers feel

These woods . . . now just ours . . . cool and tranquil.

 I . . . love to see you

Smile . . . smile like you do

Your eyes . . . always say . . . something so true.

(Photos, as best I remember, from recent climbs up Yambushi, Hakkorei, Bara-no-dan, and Ryuso.)

“Painters, poets, storytellers, return to the lotus pond! Study the light—every day!”

Who said that? . . . Someone did. . . . I guess.

If you like, you can come with me.

Down to the pond.

Down closer.

Down to edge of the muck.

Where we’ll see the light.

Maybe beneath overcast skies.

Maybe under skies of azure.

But we will see the light.

Lotus Flower

The pink petals, paper thin—

as thin as our grasp on all things—

So full of light.

How they do amaze—

Never burn but stay ablaze. 

From Shizuoka, it was about a three-hour drive to the trailhead, Karakawa Kosen, a hot springs resort in Chino City, Nagano. I didn’t forget my camera but I did forget my memory card, so this time all the pictures are courtesy of Tamami Hearty-Hiker.

The loop from the onsen can, of course, be taken in either direction—but counterclockwise we went, which meant approaching the West Tengu Peak first, and the East Tengu peak second. Maps suggested it would be about six hours of walking and that’s about what it took us.

We were ahead of the average pace on the way up, feeling fresh as daisies two hours in, along the “shakunage” ridge . . .

. . . but maybe dragged a bit on the way down.

It never feels like a particularly steep climb . . .

but negotiating the rocks, whether . . .

. . . you’re crawl-climbing over them (the final bit up to the West Peak), or you’re being mindful of every footstep upon them or between them (an hour along the river bed going down), adds a bit to the fatigue.

It was the season for kuroyuri (“black lilies”), and we were happy to spot a few.

The woods, especially those we passed through on the way down . . .

. . . are known for the moss. Some folks, we’ve noticed, like to put stuffed Totoro dolls among it, to snap photographs. (We didn’t have one!)

When you’ve driven a long way, and you’re not likely to return very often, you hope for clear skies, but when you don’t get them, it doesn’t mean the experience is less joyful.

Just look at these guys—these Hearty Hikers.

Their expressions make me so happy.

Their expressions make me feel so grateful.

A couple of coins

And a dusty bowl,

Stacked on rocks,

Light up my soul.

And as you know, when the skies are overcast, you can always focus your attention on the works of art on exhibition along the trail. Here are a few of the ones we delighted in this time. If you go yourself, keep in mind  that the curators are always putting away some pieces—and displaying anew others. You can’t predict what you’ll see, so keep your eyes open.

Open wide.

“The Eye”

“Moby-Dick’s Head”

“Spotted Nutcracker in Green”

A Grass-Chewing Mouse Strolls an Overcast Night”

“Starburst in Green and Green”             “Summer Christmas”

What sort of problem is it when you can’t afford to live in the part of town where no one has any garden space, your home is not surrounded by luscious green mountains, and there is no lotus pond just down the road?

It’s the sort of problem I can live with.

There’s the pond. There’s Ryuso Mountain. I’m lucky to live somewhere in between.

But you’re not too far away from the pond anywhere in Shizuoka.  And you can always book a place on the mystery tour.

June and July are the big months for the pond. A few weeks back, though, when the blossoms were opening over about half the pond, we had a torrential rain. The dark gray clay of the pond is just like the dark gray clay of the rice fields. It holds water. The lotus leaves, which rise a good four feet above the surface were all submerged and the blossoms that had opened were destroyed.

A lot of the leaves died–or half died.

Now, at least over a lot of the pond, the buds are reappearing, and new blossoms are opening again. The buds that haven’t opened, well . . .

. . . some folks just can’t seem to wait for them to.

A few years ago, I wrote a novel, Along the Same Street. The protagonist, Kenta, a teenage boy, wrote a poem about a dragonfly. In his mind, an autumn rice field was where you’d go to try to catch a dragonfly. For him, a dragonfly was a metaphor for the amazing girl he loved. And he tried to make his poem look like a dragonfly.

The dragonflies I saw at the pond were not so frenetic.

One seemed content to perch on a not yet  unfolded lotus leaf—and remain there.

The other on the bud.

Well, you’ve gone to see the blossoms, but you end up watching the dragonflies.

And then you notice the damselflies.

You might not have even known that there was such a creature as a damselfly. And you might even get to see a pair make love, see them clasp onto to each other and curl their abdomens, forming a heart. It wouldn’t be at all strange if you saw that—because that’s why they’ve taken on their adult forms—and they’re only going to live as adults for a few weeks.

Yeah, but just sit and watch the dragonfly sitting on the lotus flower.

Maybe think about the leaves of the lotus. They’ve got a special surface. Just as birds’ feathers do. Water rolls off them. Or rolls into them. Yeah, first it rolls in, collecting whatever debris that has fallen into the leaf, then the leaf grows heavy and tips over—and . . .

. . . Presto! You have a perfectly clean leaf!

At the lotus pond, watching the dragonfly (My! but he looks obsessed with that bud!), you might began to wonder about yourself. You’ve slowed down. You’ve got the time.

You might wonder what you were meant to do all day every day. Might wonder, over the long haul, what you were meant to get done.

You might wonder what legacy you’ll leave behind when after your petals have fallen . . .

. . . after your bones have gone bare.

They say that a lotus seed can sleep for several thousands of years and then germinate. If you’d like to ensure that a message of love and beauty and truth survives deep into the future . . .

. . . you could do worse than leave behind a single lotus seed.

Things don’t always go as planned.

But an inner nature, if allowed, usually can find its way to the light.

That’s what beauty is—an inner nature, allowed, finding its way to the light.

A couple of weeks back, we had seen the yashio trees in the grey. A few days ago we managed to see them in the blue. Two different ways of looking at the yashio.

I once heard of a man who sung of thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird.

When I saw the yashio in the blue, I wondered, “Just thirteen?!”

**********

NINETEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT THE YASHIO

I

Why only nineteen ways of looking at the yashio?

I haven’t had much time–

And I am very small.

II

Was it frustating, trying to take the photo of the yashio swaying in the breeze?

III ~ VI

Yoyu.

 A little leeway. A little time to spare. A bit of elbow room.

A few seconds in which you can choose to leave—or linger.

The view expands, evolves, develops, disappears.

VII

Much to see . . . between the leaves of the yashio.

VIII

A flower.

Leaves with a flower.

IX

On the mountain, the shijukara flit frenetically.

The eye can hardly keep up with them.

The eye cannot move slow enough to see the frenetic movement of the yashio as they journey to where we all journey—

The light.

X

Stand where you will, the yashio know the way around you.

XI

Plum blossoms are bursting open now.

White-eyed birds are sucking at the source.

Cherry petals soon will paint the sky.

The yashio will give us reasons why.

Red-tipped leaves will glisten like the stars.

It’s bound to give our closed-up hearts a jar.

XII

What was just behind the yashio?

XIV

We sat upon a tree that had bent down low beside the trail for us.

We looked at the yashio blossoms, peered into the centers,

Read the green braille on each petal

As the bees do.

  XV

A shadow—perception’s knife.

XVI

We were not sweating,

Not panting.

The climb up the ridge where the yashio bloom

was not a climb at all—

not on this magical day

in the magical month of May.

XVI

She said,

I’m so glad you’ve come along with me.

I said,

I am so glad you have come along with me.

Neither of us spoke words.

XVII

Look, Jane, look.

Look, Dick, look.

XVIII

Pot luck.

We’ve brought the oxygen—

Decorated the table.XIX

Respiring, inspiring—with the yashio, breathing.

May 14th. Up to Umegashima, up the Mt. Hakkorei trail, we went, to see what the yashio were doing. They usually bloom around the end of May, but it was a cold spring, so we weren’t sure how far along they had come. The forecast was for blue skies, and we had dreams of taking some great pictures.

The skies, though, didn’t turn blue. They remained grey—and except for the bottom end of the trail, most of the yashio leaves were not yet out.  But at the bottom, up against the grey sky, the leaves that were out were lovely.

In some places the leaves were so thick, you could hardly see the grey sky at all.

Yashio trees belong to the azaela family. They grow, more or less, along mountain ridges (out in the wind and the partial-day sun), at altitudes between about 1500 and 2000 meters.

Unlike some of the other azaelas in the neighborhood, the yashio trees have rough bark—and they’re quite skillful at twisting their limbs out and around and all about, in search of sunlight. The wind, of course, also affects the way they curve all about.

The good thing about the trees not yet blooming—and many of the leaves not yet out is . . . we can go up and look again. We will. For sure.

Anyway, it was a misty grey day, and on such days, we often, suddenly, find ourselves remembering those lyrics by Unknown Shizuoka Duo . . .

When your eyes are on the ground/There really is so much to be found

Walk the misty woods and see/At tiny flowers fall to your knees.

So that’s what we did. Look for tiny flowers.

Like the little guy below. He was all by himself—and had our eyes been absorbed in a blue sky, we likely would not have spotted him.

The kibanahananekonome （Yellow-Blossom Cat’s Eye) were growing more profusely and were easier to spot.

It was also the season for the iwazakura (Rock Cherry) to bloom. We knew that. We’d seen them last year. But we didn’t think to think of them this time, until a fellow hiker, passing the other way, reminded us of them.

The iwazakura grow, more or less, out from the face of rocks—and you can see . . .

. . . that if you don’t have them in mind, you may not spot them.

The same flower closer up.

Charming they are.

Also this time of year, you’ll surely see this green swirling guy, with hundreds of his friends, growing along the Hakkorei trail. His name is baikeiso, and some folks mistake him for an edible green. Don’t you. He’s deadly poisonous.

Hopefully, we’ll have more photos to share in a week or two, of, with a little luck, yashio leaves and blooms against a blue-sky backdrop.

But even if we don’t get blue skies on a day we can go, there will be no great loss. The grey is lovely too, and we’re going to go again next year.

Emerald City.

One of our Hearty Hikers had been wanting to take us all to Hinata Mountain for a while now, and though she had something she wanted to celebrate on May 2, the weather forecast suggested April 30 might be better, so we all piled into the car and headed up to Yamanashi that last day of April.

It wasn’t May, but it was in place of  a May celebration, and what with our beloved yashio (click here) always blooming in May, we are always believing in (as Shizuoka Duo sing), “A magical, magical, magical May/A magical day in the month of May.”

Except for our leader, we weren’t exactly sure what we were in for, but as soon as our car crossed over a hill and Kaikoma Mountain came into view, we got a good feeling about things. Our plan was to follow the Ojira River canyon up and up and up, and at the last moment turn up the steep ridge up to Hinata (only half as tall as Kaikoma), and then down the other side, a much shorter route back to the campground parking lot.

Out the back of the campground we walked, into the grounds of a shrine, where . . .

. . . a mighty warrior leapt out in front of us. Indeed, he was imposing, but the way he sort of pranced in place, did a silly sort of bent-knee jig as he talked, was, admittedly, a bit comic.

“Follow the emerald-green road,” he chanted. “Follow the emerald-green road.”

We stared in disbelief.

“The trail may grow knotty,” he chanted, “but follow the emerald-green road.”

“You may need to build a ladder to the sky and climb on every rung,” he sang, strumming an imaginary guitar, “but follow the emerald-green road.”

We were shocked, to say the least. We were used to meeting Jizo (click here) out on the trails, but never such a mysterious fellow as this. Maybe it really was going to be “a magical day in the month of May.”

Along the river we went.

We were just about to think that we’d imagined the  warrior speaking to us . . .

. . . when we came to the first waterfall, the first emerald green pool. Something inside us began to buzz. Maybe we were on a magical way.

Sometimes the trail would take us high above, and out of sight of the river, and we’d wonder if we’d been tricked, but just then . . .

. . . a line of azeala flowers would dance across the trail, or we’d see that . . .

. . . the emerald road was following us. The emerald road was . . .

. . . looking down on us, watching over us—no matter how far from the river we got.

Once we were aware of that,  we lost all sense of being on the trail for the first time.

We just felt we were exactly where  we were supposed to be.

And then we were back on the river . . .

. . . feeling more and more . . .

. . . giddy. Feeling giddy . . .

. . . and something else. I felt it as much as anyone, but I couldn’t find the word for it.

Not until our leader suddenly raced to the edge of a pool . . .

. . . and said this:

I do believe in gratitude.

I do believe in gratitude.

I do I do I DO believe in gratitude.

Believe me, we all understood it then. And that was the magic of the emerald green road.

At least, that was the start of the magic.

Our vision improved.

So much delighted us.

And the way we felt just then, well the forest sensed it—and just then we peered in among the trees and realized that the trees had gathered and conferred . . . had chosen a representative—an ambassador—to bestow on us Hearty Hikers a heartfelt message.

I know, some of you may be disbelievers, tree branches don’t talk to hikers on the trail, you may say—but just try telling that to any of the Hearty Hikers who experienced that magical, magical, magical day—a magical day in the month of May.

Sure, you may take a dozen or so strides down toward the tree, get off the trail, get a different angle on things . . .

. . . and try to tell us all that the branch was not intentionally showing us its heart (in a language that we could understand, of course) . . . but we Hearty Hikers will answer that your perspective only shows how hard the tree is trying to persuade its branch to try and try and try to speak in a language that passing-by hikers can understand. Your perspective only shows the effort trees do make on our behalf.

You might try going back and standing in from of the emerald pool, just where our leader stood.

But it was steep, make no mistake about that. And as the warrior had warned . . .

.  . . things did get knotty.

Once we even came to a place where a landslide had destroyed the trail.

Fortunately, our emeraldized leader was undaunted. She clicked the heels of her boots together three times . . . and suddenly . . .

. . . there was our ladder to the sky.

Have you ever climbed a ladder to the sky? I’m not talking about that children’s story beanstalk mularkey—I’m talking about a genuine ladder to the sky,  a ladder to the stars.

Once you have, as my good friend Henry says, you will never see the tree you’re walking past—or your neighbor, or anything—in the same light again.

The stars are the apexes of what wonderful triangles! What distant and
different beings in the various mansions of the universe are
contemplating the same one at the same moment! Nature and human
life are as various as our several constitutions. Who shall say what
prospect life offers to another? Could a greater miracle take place
than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?

Once we’d gotten up that ladder, once we’d seen all the way to the stars, we certainly saw things in a new light.

All sorts of things.

We saw that trees could channel a lot of rock if they wanted to.

We saw that tree roots could channel tree trunks.

We saw that trees could grow right out of rock if they wanted to. (It’s a matter of minerals—and security.)

And finally we saw that you could climb up and up and up through the canyon, up and up and up the ridge toward the mountaintop . . .

. . . and come to sand dunes.

Saw that if you trudged up through the sun dunes, you would come to a magical kingdom.

Come to the the most glorious beach . . .

. . . overlooking the most glorious ocean.

Kaikoma would look on, enviously.

But this, after all, is just a hike. At a good clip (but stopping for pictures), four and a half hours through the canyon and up to the mountaintop. From there, maybe an hour and a half back to the campground and your car.

But as you take the short walk back, you’ll probably find yourself peering up through the trees, trying to keep a hold of the magic a little longer.

And once you’re down, you’ll probably need to drive to the nearest hot springs as quickly as you can . . . to let the whole day soak in.