We were looking for a White Christmas.

So we Hearty Hikers drove up through Utogi to the Aozasa Mountain trailhead. By “White Christmas,” what we were thinking was 10 cm of snow.  Or so. To walk in. We like walking in the snow.

But there wasn’t any snow, not on the ground, anyway.  In the trees, though, was an odd sort of wind-blown, “toothbrush” snow—and a lot of ice, too.

It was gorgeous.

All is one.

We. Truth. Hope.

That’s what I felt walking along the Aozasa ridge today.

At Shizuoka University, I’m involved with an international club, YASHIO, that gives our Japanese students a chance to speak English, our students from all over the world a chance to speak Japanese, and everybody a chance to meet people from everywhere and share themselves and their cultures.

Everybody involved with YASHIO makes me incredibly happy. And when I see people from all over the world together, I feel just what I felt today.

We. Truth. Hope. All is one.

Wind-blown, “toothbrush” snow.

Mt. Fuji, this day, only showing a sliver of his belly.

Through the icy trail tunnels.

You may have never heard of NDuaDuo, but they like YASHIO a lot, too.

NDuaDuo is a po po f(aux)k music group.

You may not have ever heard of po po f(aux)k music, either. Let’s just say, though, for the moment, that it’s a non-commercial style of music.

And what we can tell you about NDuaduo is they only sing what’s in their hearts.

A few years ago, they wrote a song, “We,” to sing at an international Christmas party.

Recently they recorded a very po-po-f(aux)k version of it—and they’ve asked me to share it with you now. If it’s not your cup of tea, well, then it’s not, but they say that if you like it, if it suits the way you like to think about Christmas, then they’re happy for you to share it with whomever you like.

Wishing you all a very happy holiday season.

Hugs from all of us here at Persimmon Dreams.

WE

We’ve gathered here at Christmas time from all around the globe.

We look into each other’s eyes—we see no xenophobes.

Together we can feel so much hope.

Hope. Hope. Hope. Hope. Ho-o-ope.

In your eyes I see a light that really, really shines.

Makes me feel that all of us are something quite divine.

You’ve got me feeling mighty fine.

Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fi-i-ine.

Sri Lanka and Germany might be represented here.

Malaysia and Shizuoka’s spirit is feeling awful near.

What can you possibly see that anyone would ever have to fear?

Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fe-ea-ear.

Maybe we’ve got some Christians here, a couple of Muslims, too.

A Buddhist, a Hindi, might be sitting next to you.

You are they, and they are you, you know it’s oh so true.

True. True. True. True. Tru-u-ue.

People from Indonesia might be here by chance.

From China, Georgia, Vietnam, Ghana and France.

From Thailand and Slovokia, it makes me want to dance.

Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Da-an-ance.

Well, I’m really just so happy that you are sitting here with me.

So look into my eyes and tell me what you see.

I see you and you see me—and we are really we.

We. We. We. We. We-ee-ee.

We. We. We. We. We-ee-ee. We-ee-ee. We-ee-ee.

A beautiful day on Aozasa.

When it’s done, all there is to do is to express a whole lot of gratitude.

Mid-December.

The Aozasa trailhead. As always Red-Coat Jizo was there to welcome me to the neighborhood.

I could stand there and smile at him forever. His spirit imbues the whole mountain. A bit of snow on his cap this day.

There’d been a good bit of rain a couple of days before, and then the sun was supposed to be out, so I headed to Aozasa thinking that the views of Fuji, with a heavy snow cap, would be magnificent.

I wasn’t expecting at all what I saw: the trees atop Shimojumaisan, just across from the trail up to the Jizo Pass, all iced up and frosty.

There’d been a little snow . . . but very little. 

The blues were lovely, as I’d expected . . . except where Fuji-kun was situated. All about him were thick grey clouds.

So a day intended for Fuji-watching, turned into a day to be fascinated by the beauty of the ice on the limbs beneath a blue-blue sky.

Really, really beautiful.

I’d asked a number of different folks to come along, but everyone was busy, so I was all by my lonesome.

Though far from lonely. Solitude, Mr. Thoreau called it.

I know it was a good day for fanciful thought because twice after removing my glove to take a picture, I dropped it and left it behind and didn’t realize I didn’t have it until I’d gone along for ten or fifteen minutes. Each time. Just the chance for a little more exercise!

No, of course I’m not absent-minded, just a deep-diving daydreamer. Especially under blue like this.

When I reached the top of Aozasa, Fuji-kun was still hiding in the grey.

And then he wasn’t. How nice it was to see him!

Will be back to Aozasa soon. Will likely be some yuki ga arukiyasui snow by then.

Some facts. October 21. A two-day hike up and down Mt. Kobushi (2475 m) from Mokidaira (1433 meters). Distance going up along the Chikuma River, about 7 km, coming down via Mt. Sampo and Mt. Oyama, a bit farther. The trailhead, by car from Shizuoka, about three hours.

The Chikuma Trail is maybe the easiest trail I’ve walked going up any of the “Famous 100 Mountains of Japan.” It only took us about 4 hours to the top, and that was with me taking 634 pictures—and a leisurely lunch.

The trail takes you past the headwaters of the Chikuma River, known downstream as the Shinano River—the longest river in Japan. 

So here you are. Last week you were in the Alps hoping to see the yellow larches up against a blue sky—but the skies were overcast.

Now you’ve crossed the parking lot and stepped onto the mountain trail—and the skies . . . well, not a hint of grey anywhere.

You can feel yourself stepping into another world, into a world of color, into a big warm room filled with love.

Yes, yes, you don’t think about it—your lips just do curl up.

You come to a shrine. Right on the trail.

Inside you meet Jizo-san. He’s about 10 cm tall. But it doesn’t matter how tall he is. It only matters the expression on his face. What a sweet, comforting compassionate fellow he is! How at ease he makes you feel. You put your hands together. You hope maybe, somehow, that you can repay the favor. Sometime, somehow.

And this day you feel truly blessed.

Because this day you can believe that each and every one of the beautiful leaves is a little Jizo-san.

A symphony of comfort and compassion in yellow, blue, red, and orange.

The river rolls on . . . water so pure.

You can’t help it. You feel giddy.

You can see a young girl sitting at a piano, all nerves. You can remember how you loved the tears that welled in your eyes.
Maybe you’ll even see that girl turn a cartwheel twirl.

And it’s all right to feel joy.
It’d be hard not to.
You’ve felt the light through the trees . . .

. . . and primary colors are the most primary matters.

And yes, it’s true each leaf has its own voice. A Jizo’s voice.
Recognize each leaf’s equal worth—and everything becomes easier. Everything  begins to make sense.
And the river rolls on.

If you come to a stack of rocks, go ahead and put one on yourself. It might be a light for the next person who comes along.

Up,  up you go—but you’re amazed by how gentle the trail seems today.

And up ahead. What’s that?

Why it’s the larch tree/blue sky combo you were looking for last week!

You pass the headwaters, the trail turns up into a fir forest, but you haven’t got much farther to go. Before you know it you’re on the ridge . . .

. . . and you’ve got a completely different view.
And there you are on the summit!

Otsukaresama deshita.

The obelisk atop Mt. Jizo, one of the three peaks comprising Mt. Ho-o-san-zan, in the southern Alps.

October 13th.

Ho-o-san-zan.

We started our hike at Aoki Kosen Onsen, a little under three hours from Shizuoka City by car.  The last thirty minutes of the drive was along  a sometimes dirt road that was sometimes a dirt road with a lot of potholes and ruts. Unless you have a 4-wheel drive, high-sitting vehicle, go slow.

We Hearty Hikers had known the fall colors would be lovely, and we’d tried to wait for a blue-sky day, but the weather, especially in the mountains, is difficult to predict, and after an hour or two of walking and hoping that the mist would blow off, we accepted the fact that the day was meant to be grey—and shifted gears mentally. We reminded ourselves that a grey day has its own beauty.

Of course, it helped to hum to ourselves those lyrics of NDuaDuo:

Grey is our play / On a day like today / Grey is just grey / As we go on our way.

And the grey was beautiful—and we could, as NDuaDuo suggests, “recognize a fallen leaf’s equal worth.”

The guidebook said it was a six-hour walk up to the Ho-o-san-zan Lodge, but it only took us about five. Sometimes our times are right about at what the book says is average, and sometimes not—and it’s all fairly random . . . all to say that posted times serve as a rough estimate at best.

The climb from the onsen to the summit of the first peak, Mt. Jizo, takes you up about 1700 meters, so it’s a pretty good haul.

There are a lot of waterfalls along the way, all very lovely, though on this day the mist made it difficult to get a clear picture.

Up, up we went.

The lodge is situated at 2382 meters. As you approach it, you move into the area that the larch trees like.

They are magnificent.

We had a quick lunch at the lodge, then set off on the final kilometer, in distance, to the top of Mt. Jizo.

The first half of this last kilometer is still in the woods and not so, so steep, but once you’re out of the woods and onto the sandy slope, it gets steep indeed. Overall, that last 1 km of walking rises about 400 meters.

I think the body language explains it pretty well. A tough thirty minutes.

I got myself plum tuckered out.

Half of the Hearty Hiking team, though, did just fine—had energy to spare.

The rocks, in the photo above, comprise the Mt. Jizo summit, at 2764 meters. Some say the obelisk is shaped like a bird’s beak, and thus the three-peak range was named Ho-o, the “Phoenix” Mountain. The obelisk is also said to be shaped like a Jizo, and thus the name Mt. Jizo . . .

. . . and that also helps explain the large  number of Jizo statues on the top.

What’s a Jizo? Here’s a quotation from a book I’m writing now. The narrator is not any sort of expert on religion or Buddhism, but his description is fairly straightforward, easy to understand, an not too inaccurate, I think.

A Jizo is a bodhisattva—that is, a Buddha in the making. But she, or he, has chosen freely (using her or his very own free will) to postpone the final leg of her spiritual journey in order to offer comfort and support to those souls struggling here in this earthly vale of tears. She especially takes pride in protecting children—and has an even more special interest in looking out for children who have been lost in childbirth or miscarriages. Basically, though, she, or he, is looking out for everyone. You’ll find her representation all over Japan, but primarily in Buddhist temples.

. . . If you tried to describe the appearance of the majority of Jizo statues with a single word, I think you’d have to choose ROUND.

These Jizo statues make me very happy. I do feel like their spirits are looking out for me—and they make me want to look out for others.

Some of you know, I’ve got a Jizo in my back yard.

And in the book I’m writing now, the Jizo at Enkoji Temple in Kyoto and the Jizo at the Mt. Aozasa trailhead make cameo appearances.

Just below the rocky summit with its couple dozen jizos, just down from the larches . . .

. . . very beautiful larches . . .

. . . down in a sandy field . . . is an entire village of Jizos.

They are watching out for all of us.

Under blue skies. Under grey. Always.

We walked back down and spent the night in the lodge. The next morning, we climbed back up, about an hour, along a different trail, and hit the ridge about a 45-minutes walk past Mt. Jizo.  In the above photo, we’re looking back toward Mt. Jizo.

Larches just below the Mt. Jizo summit.

Once we were back on the ridge, it was another hour or so to the top of Mt. Kannon, the highest point on Ho-o-san-zan, at 2841 meters.

It was snowing much of the time. 

And absolutely lovely all the time.

From Mt. Kannon to Mt. Yakushi, it’s an easy and beautiful walk, slightly downhill. The top of Mt. Yakushi is at 2780 meters.

Sometimes, on a grey day, if the sun works its way partially out from the mist, you’ll see a rainbow.
That’ll make you feel pretty good as you zero in on Mt. Yakushi.

Then it’s four hours down through the woods.
NDuaDuo: When your eyes are on the ground / There really is so much to be found. 

Wouldn’t you know it. Get back in the car and drive thirty minutes and you’re back in the land of blue skies. We were sitting out on the porch of the Nirisaki Asahi Hot Springs (carbinated water) when I took the picture below.

It’s September, and all over the neighborhood the spider lilies are blooming. I’m not sure to say how I feel about them but to say that they make me feel very aware. It’s a very good feeling.

They’re in the amaryllis family and known by zillions of names. Other names in English are red magic lily, naked lady, resurrection lily, and hurricane lily–the latter surely because they’re said to be encouraged to pop out from the ground after a big late summer or early autumn rain.

In Japanese, their most commonly used name is 彼岸花  (higanbana = the equinox flower), 　　死人花　(shibitobana = dead person flower), 幽霊花 (yureibana = ghost flower),　蛇の花, (hebi no hana = snake flower), 剃刀花 (kamisoribana = razor flower),　狐花, (kitsunebana = fox flower), and—no offense to anyone intended—はっかけばばあ (hakkakebabah = toothless old woman).

In Sanskrit, they’re called manjushaka, which translates something like “flower of heaven.” The scientific name is Lycoris radiata, after a spirit of the sea in Greek mythology.

They originally come from China, where they still exist as diploids, that is, their chromosones come in pairs, enabling them to produce seeds. However, the spider lilies brought into Japan were tripoids, their chromosones coming in sets of three, and are unable to produce seeds. Basically, they are sterile, and can only be grown from their bulbs.

Spider lilies in the U.S., they say, all come from three bulbs brought back from Japan by a military man in 1854—not long after Admiral Perry had aimed his cannons at the mainland and said, from his “black ships,” open up for business or else.

The most common theory out there is that when rice was first brought from China to Japan, some of the bulbs came along for the ride—that is, they were not intentionally brought to Japan, and that when the poisonous nature of their bulbs was discovered, farmers planted them at the edge of rice fields to keep away small pests like mice and moles.

So you most commonly find them growing them at the edge of rice fields—and by rivers and small streams, and also in graveyards.

The bulbs may be poisonous, but some have found some sweetness in the flowers.

Some people say the flowers look like sparklers and remind them of summer festivals.

Some say they look like the garlands that a young bride and her bridesmaids might wear.

Some say there is something sexy about them.

One person told me that if roses are sophisticated and elegant ballet dancers, spider lilies are passionate Latin dancers.

Actually, the flow of petals atop a single stalk looks to me like a ballet ensemble—six dancers. One stalk with one umbel (a kind of upside-down umbrella frame) with six radiating “spokes”, each with a five-curly-petals flower, the petals from one spoke weaving together with the ones to both sides of it. The “garland” effect.

Some say the spider lilies frighten them. Some say they comfort them. Some say the fluorescent red of new blossoms is “too loud.” Others say the brilliance invigorates them.

They are certainly associated with death—so if death is something you fear greatly, then you might not like to visit our neck of the woods in September.

But it’s better not to think of them as death flowers, but as (as their most common Japanese name suggests you do) equinox flowers.

The equinox.

The rice is ready to harvest.

The persimmons are well on their way.

It’s a time to be joyous. A time to feel content. But it’s also the beginning of the cool weather. The days and nights are now of equal length, but for the rest of the year, the days are only going to get shorter, and the nights longer.

All things must pass.

The equinox. For Buddhists, this is the time of Haramitsu (in Japanese), and Paramita (in Sanskrit), which might translate as something like the Six (or Ten) Practices for Becoming Enlightened. Below is a basic explanation of the Six-Practice version. If I’ve gotten something wrong, or something is a bit incomplete, let me know.

Fuse (Dana) – generosity, charity, the giving of alms

Jikai (Sila) – ethical living

Nintai (Ksanti) – patience, forbearance, forgiveness

Shohjin (Virya) – abstinence

Zentei (Dhyana) – equanimity and awareness (perhaps through meditation)

Chie (Prajna) – wisdom, insight into the true nature of reality

To me, these are six of the many, many things the spider lilies want us to consider.

Some people say they look like sentinels, standing at the edge of fields as they do, kind of like the officers on duty in the neighborhood police box: They’re watching us.

That’s a little creepy, maybe. To me, they are much more like Jizo. They are bodhisattva, beings well on their way to enlightenment, but beings who have kindly stayed behind  so that they can help us, so that they can guide us. “All things must pass,” they say to us, “But that’s nothing to worry about. It’s always been that way and always will. You’re going to be just fine. Just live the best life you can. Follow your own inner nature and all will be fine.”

So when I look at the spider lilies, and I feel particularly moved by them . . .

. . . here’s the image that fills my head. These guys also live in the neighborhood.

Not all of the spider lilies are red. I like them in all colors. But I especially like the red ones, and I especially like the ones next to a rice field turned golden yellow . . .
. . . and especially like them next to a golden rice field under a blue sky. I’m simple. Primary colors do wonders for me.

We Hearty Hikers had planned in a couple of spare days, thinking it was likely our two-day hike might be postponed by heavy rain . . . but the weather was great and we finished the hiking up Mt. Miyanoura and through the ancient cedar forest with no problems and were left with a couple of days with no plans in particular.

Yoyu. That’s what it’s called in Japanese. A bit of time when you don’t have to rush. A bit of time when you have time to enjoy the time. If you need to explore something, you’ve got more than enough time to do so. If you need to think about something, you’ve got  plenty of time for that, too.

The southern coastline of Yakushima.

I feel a little guilty showing all these beautiful ocean views. We were certainly lucky to have a chance to travel to Yakushima—and to be blessed with incredibly fine weather—but really all I want to say, at the moment, is that the world is very, very beautiful, and I hope a bit of photography can inspire all of us to consider the importance of yoyu in fully appreciating that beauty. I can’t speak for you, but the beauty does wonders for me.

If you’re in this part of the world, a trip to Yakushima is highly recommended. If you’ve got to book flights ahead of time, then you should just resign yourself to the fact that typhoons and heavy rain may dash your plans—that’s what happened to us last October.

Be patient. Get there. Sometime or another. It’s worth it.

Snorklers wading into the Kurio River, where it runs into the Pacific Ocean. Or maybe the East China Sea. Hard to say at that particular point, just looking at a map.

A view of Kuchinoerabu Island from the rocks at the mouth of the Kurio River, on the southwest corner of Yakushima.

The rocks at the mouth of the Kurio River create a maze-like series of channels. Great for snorkeling expeditions. Lots of colorful fish. Sorry, sorry, no underwater camera.

From the Kurio rocks.

Snorkeling channels.

The Kurio rocks. And the mountains. You’re never far from either on Yakushima, about 505 square kilometers in area. You can drive around the entire island in about 2.5 hours. If you don’t stop. Of course, you will stop. Many, many times.

The Kurio tide pools. Lots of little metallic blue fish here. Starfish, too. A good place for small children to explore (with parents nearby).

Not far from Kurio, the Okonotaki Waterfall.  When you drive around the island, your average speed is about 40-50 kph (25-30 mph?). There is not a whole lot of development. Drive long enough and you’re bound to meet deer and monkeys.

On the southern coastline, the Yudomari Hot Springs. Soothing water. It’s more or less free, but there’s a box to donate 100 yen for upkeep. Guys on the other side of the fence. Heard some debate about whether bathing suits were allowed or not.
Kuchinoerabu Island from the northern coastline.

The lighthouse at the western-most point of the island.

Between the lighthouse and Miyanoura Port, on the northern coast, Inaka Beach. A famous spot for sea turtles laying eggs.
Here, I recommend a little yoyu.

Near the end of the 18th century, the Prussian naturalist/explorer, Alexander von Humboldt invented a device, a cyanometer, to measure the degree of blue in the blue. If you don’t have a cyanometer, though, you’re not necessarily at a disadvantage. Just look at the smile on the face of your fellow Hearty Hikers.

Rocks at the edge of Inaka Beach. Good snorkeling. Apparently tourists are not recommended to snorkel here so much—there are other, calmer spots. I thought it was plenty safe, and just a couple of meters beyond the rocks it’s three or four meters deep with perfect visibility—lots of fish big and small. Maybe the best visibility of three spots I tried.

About 30 minutes back east from Inaka Beach, Isso Beach. A lifeguard here so tourists feel comfortable. This is on the left side of Isso Peninsula. If you go to the right side, the coastline is more rocky . . .

. . . and folks are both scuba diving and snorkeling. Why is the Heart Hiker above so happy? She’s walked straight out into the inlet, 30 meters or so, as far as she could stand up, then floated another 20 meters, perhaps out to a depth of two meters, and communed with a sea turtle. The turtle was munching on some rock greens, so didn’t move for the ten minutes we floated above him. Him, her, I don’t know. Beautiful, beautiful animal. “A goddess of the sea,” the above Hearty Hiker proclaimed.

A view of Iwojima. Not the Iwojima of WW2 fame. There are two Iwojimas. Confusing, huh. Along the road, yoyu.

Along the road, yoyu.

Toroki Falls, on the southern coast, spilling into the ocean.

Flying home.

We hiked down from Mt. Miyanoura and spent the night in the Shintakatsuka Lodge, which meant if we started hiking at 5 AM, we’d get to the most famous cedar tree in Japan,  Jomon Sugi, around 6:20.  Most people (several hundred, I’d guess) were hiking UP to Jomon Sugi and would probably get there around 10 or 11 AM, but only about fifteen or so of us were hiking DOWN to the tree. Which was good for us. We got our good look at the tree with just a few other folks around.

After about an hour of hiking the day broke.

And then we were standing in front of the Jomon Sugi. Hikers aren’t allowed to get close to the tree, and the wooden viewing deck is some 30 or 40 meters off, so with a regular little camera, or maybe any camera, it’s hard to take a picture that shows its immensity—but it is truly immense. Not so tall, only 25 meters, but very, very stout. The chest-high circumference is 16.4 meters. Estimated age is somewhere between 2000 and 7200 years old. It’s much bigger than a number of trees presumed to be 3000 years old, but some folks suggest that it’s actually more than one tree, that several trees grew together, and it’s that big not because of its age, but because of the marriage it underwent. Somehow, I feel it’s probably a lot older than 3000 years old—but that’s just a feeling.

Down the trail from Jomon, Dai-ou Sugi. A mere 11.1 meters in circumference chest-high and an estimated 3000 years old.

Compared to the big and famous cedars, this one is just a little baby.

The Meoto Sugi, the “Husband and Wife Cedar.” The “wife,” on the right, is 5.8 meters in circumference chest-high and an estimated 1500 years old. The “husband” is 10.9 meters in circumference and an estimated 2000 years old. Their bond seems strong indeed.

Most of the trail is composed of wooden steps, one, to encourage people not to wander off the trail and into the fragile environment, and two, to put the hiker’s feet above all the water that’s running every which way and surely gets fairly heavy whenever it rains.

And it rains, they say, on this part of the mountain, almost every day.

Near the bottom of the Oh-kabu Path, you come to “Wilson’s Stump,” named for an English botanist who did a lot of work with cherry tree varieties—and also introduced the stump to English readers.

The tree was reportedly cut down at the order of Hideyoshi Toyotomi, in 1586, in order to build a temple in Kyoto, though whether the lumber actually made it to Kyoto or not is unclear.

It was 13.8 meters in circumference when it was cut down and perhaps a little more than 2000 years old.

You can get up close and cozy with this tree. You can walk inside, and if you stand in just the right spot . . .

. . . you can see a heart. Not one of the tens of thousands of hikers who step into Wilson’s Stump every year has not taken this photo. There is a Shinto Shrine inside. As many as 25 people can be inside at one time . . . though thankfully when we Hearty Hikers were inside it was just us two.

Looking up at the rising trees and the light from the inside of this stump was perhaps the highlight of the day for me.

I like light, like the perception of light.

Just below Wilson’s Stump, you come to the end of the Oh-Kabu Path and to a rest area—the last toilet for those on their way up. From the rest area, you hit the railroad tracks that most Jomon hikers follow the entire 7.5 km back to the bus stop.

The railroad tracks remain from the logging days.

We got a little rain here, which was great. It wouldn’t have been a real Yakushima experience without experiencing the big drops on our heads walking along the tracks.

A river flowing under the railroad tracks.

More railroad tracks. The cedar plumes on the ground a sign of the most recent typhoon. We saw some monkeys around here, but they wouldn’t stand still for pictures. Got lots of fuzzy pictures. (Better monkey pictures on Day 3.)

We only followed the railroad tracks for about half the 7.5 km, then veered off on the trail that leads to Shiratani Unsui Gorge.

A mushroom.

The trail leading to Shiratani. All up.

Just as you get to the top of the ridge and you’re poised to go down into the Shiratani area, there’s a side trail that takes you up to Taiko Rock. When we got up there, the mist had rolled in, but you could see that it would be a spectacular view on a clear day. A big river rushes down the mountain it faces. We’d had beautiful 360 degree views atop Mt. Miyanoura the day before, so we were not upset not to get a clear view from Taiko.

And we’re glad there is weather. That there is rain. That there are forests to hold the rain. Great breathing.

The Shiratani area is famous for its moss and is said to be the inspiration for the mossy forests in certain Japanese animations. A bit of rain here, too—just what I’d been hoping for.

A shiny cedar stump along the river path.

A shiny—and knotty–himeshara tree.

Nanahon Sugi.

The Shiratani River.

Walking along the river.

The skies cleared just as we were finishing up. Started at 5 AM. Finished around 1:30 PM.

Finally we made it to Yakushima. Last October, we were typhooned out, but this year we avoided typhoons and rain and amazingly had three days of complete sunshine, and one day with a total of an hour or an hour and a half of rain. So we were so blessed—and could do everything we’d hoped we could do—and even more. Two days of hiking and two days of snorkeling. The first day, a climb up Mt. Miyanoura, at 1936 meters the highest on the island.

From Shizuoka, we flew to Kagoshima. On the way, we were told  that if too much ash spewed out from the Sakurajima volcano that we may have to divert to another airport, but we fortunately were able to land at the Kagoshima Airport as scheduled. From there, it was a prop plane hop over to Yakushima, a 20-minute taxi ride to our pension, five hours or so of sleep, an early-bird, one-hour taxi ride to the Yodogawa trailhead . . .

. . . and a 5 AM hiking start. As you can see, my blurry eyes make the sign at the trailhead appear a little blurry.

If you do any hiking, you need to get a hiking pass, 1000 yen for day hiking, and 2000 yen, if you spend a night up on a mountain. The pass is a small square piece of cedar that you can attach to your backpack.

From the trailhead at 1365 meters, it’s about an hour (1.5 km) to the Yodogawa Hut. Up to the Miyanoura summit, there are lots of streams, so you can get water just about whenever you want, at least over the first 3/4ths of the way up to the summit. The Yodogawa Hut has the last outhouse on the trail up, so after that you’ll have to use a portable toilet (you don’t want to pee or poop illegally on a World Heritage site!) until you reach the lodge two hours down from the summit—six, seven, or eight hours from the Yodogawa Hut, depending on pace and the number of breaks to you take.

The Yodogawa River.

Around 6:15, the sun begins to work its way into the woods. 

The higher you go, the more you get open views of what’s up ahead.

It’s about 2.8 km from the Hut to the Hana-no-Ego peat marsh (1630 m). You’re doing pretty good! Stand tall! Enjoy the view! From the marsh, it’s 3.5 km to the summit. From the trailhead to the summit, maybe 5 or 5.5 hours walking time.

In the foreground is a shakunage bush/tree, a sort of rhododendron. They bloom in June, so if you can go then, the mountains will be a combination of green and pink.

Sometimes the trail is just where a stream and rocks cut through the bamboo, a smaller variety than what grows on the mountains in Shizuoka.

Also some fun rocks to climb up through.

The last hour or so is all rock and bamboo. The rocks are beautiful. The bamboo is beautiful. It’s all beautiful.

You might imagine Yakushima, southern island that it is, to always be beautiful like this, but apparently these sort of days are not so common. There can be lots of rain, even when it’s sunny down on the coast, and if winds come through, they can make it hard to stand . . . but this day we were truly, truly blessed.

Up through the bamboo.

Up, up through the bamboo.

Enjoy the rocks. Ponder how the sculptor got that giant rock on top of that mega-giant rock.

As you approach the summit, you get a mighty fine view of the neighboring Mt. Nagata.

Finally, a view of the summit.

And then voila, you’re on the top. I think our walking time from the trailhead was about 4.5 hours. With a couple of breaks, we got up there at 10:15.

A small early lunch and then it was down the other side on the trail that leads to the Jomon Sugi cedar tree, almost certainly the oldest tree in Japan, with estimates from 2000 years old to 7200 years old. Other much smaller trees have been proven to be over 3000 years old so I’d personally guess (sitting in my armchair) that Jomon is at least 4 or 5 thousand year. Old enough.

No sooner had we started down that the fog blew in. If you hike you know how that is. Blue skies one minute . . . and then . . .

. . . disappearing mountains and grey the next.

More bamboo and rocks.

A silver cedar trunk.

The green, green view of the back side of Miyanoura.

Back into the trees. From the Miyanoura summit to the Shintakatsuka Lodge, where we stayed the night, about 3.5 km, or 2 or 2.5 hours. The Jomon Sugi will have to wait until the morning.

Limbs twisting about, searching for the light—as we all are.

A friend.

Himeshara trees and shakunage.

Finally the lodge. Outhouse a minute’s walk away. No meals served, no electricity, just a wood floor to sleep on, and lots of mice to tickle your dreams as you try to get yourself a bit rested for another 5 AM hike start. Me, I took a bath beside the nearby stream.

The deer seem to find the moss on the rocks around the lodge tasty.

An early August hike/climb up Mt. Tsubakuro. Actually, the first leg of a three-day hike, two nights on the mountain ridge.

From Shizuoka, it’s about a three-hour drive to Azumino City in Nagano. We parked our car next to Hotaka Shrine, in the lot allotted to hikers, and took an hour bus ride to Nakafusa Hot Springs. I think we caught the bus at about 5 AM.

The trailhead up to Mt. Tsubakuro begins at the back of the onsen. The altitude, 1462 m. The trail up to the ridge and the lodge is 5.7 km long—and 1.321 km up. A pretty steep climb. We got started on the hike at 6:30 AM.

One expects the temperatures in the North Alps to be cooler than other places in Japan, but on this day it was almost the same—in the mid-thirties. Ninety plus degrees Fahrenheit.

About two, two-and-a-half hours up, the forest opens up a little, and you begin to get  nice views of the Mt. Yari ridge.

Beautiful trees glimmering in the sunshine.

A first time ever. Somewhere near the top of the trail, a shop dealing watermelon. The trail was really crowded, at least at the bottom, as so many people start at the same time.  There were at least a hundred folks eating watermelon in the ten minutes we were there.

Finally, Mt. Yari comes into view.

And most of the green gives way to blue.

The Mt. Tsubakuro ridge.

The lodge, at the top of the trail, comes into view.

The Yari ridge gets bigger.

Torikabuto flowers (“monkshood” ) along the trail. Poisonous.

Almost to the ridge. Hints of the campsite.

Finally, up to the ridge. The view opens up completely. For us about three hours to this point. Now it’ll be an hour or so over to the summit and back.

The view over to the Tsubakuro summit.

The famous “dolphin” rock. Komakusa flowers. Don’t know of any English name.

Gradually, the summit gets bigger.

  The megane (“eyeglasses”) rock.

Hearty Hiker feeling mighty fine.

A minute from the top.

A week or so ago, I was lucky enough to get to visit a group of university students and talk about how writers use imagery to communicate ideas.  I had students focus on images related to winter and summer.

I talked mainly about how it was easy to find things in both winter and summer that were irritating (dry skin and cold toes in winter, mosquitoes and sweat-drenched clothes in summer), but also easy to find beautiful things, too.

Not only that, but were you to feel a little down, and if your eyes were down, too, whether in summer or winter, you might just find something new—new and beautiful

Which means that you could, just by presenting some images from winter and/or summer, suggest that when you’re down in the dumps you can perhaps pull yourself up and out from the dark into a brighter mental state by simply changing your perspective and shifting your focus. In that sense, a song or a poem about winter and/or summer may become a song or poem about something bigger than winter and summer. This is what makes human language so amazing. Things are sometimes easiest understood when they are not explained too directly.

Anyway, I sang to the students:  When your eyes are on the ground, there really is so much to be found.

Having sung it, I thought we Hearty Hikers should head to the mountains and see if it were true. And (drum roll), it was!

We walked from the town of Umegashima, up through the cedars, then along the Sakasa River to the Abe Pass, and then up to the top of Bara-no-dan, and all along the way there were all sorts of discoveries waiting for us down by our feet.

And focus on the ground long enough, and you might suddenly want to be down on the ground. Which is good.

The flow of energy can feel a little different down there.

As you approach the Abe Pass, it’s hard not to have your eyes on the ground. The ground is swelling up all around you.

And when your eyes have seen so much, whether on the ground, or in the trees, or in the sky, something very magical can happen.
Things begin to vie for your attention. A tree might give you a little wiggle.
Folks may wander out in front of you, maybe sixty, seventy meters off, and dare you to find them.

Really. This happens a lot. Everyone may come out from the mist, to greet you, to be seen by you—if only for a minute or two.

So yeah, when your eyes are on the ground, there really is so much to be found.