Then I continued up the trail.
An hour later I emerged onto a ridge and stared in awe at the mountains, hills, and cities of Gunma Prefecture spreading out below me—far below, and as far as I could see. Looking down on the world from such a height made me feel I had accomplished something real. I had seen the world from heights before, but this time I had earned the bird’s-eye view.
I turned around, and the view in the other direction revealed that I still had a long, long way to go to reach the summit.
From that point on, the route wound steeply upward between long-limbed trees and leggy wild azaleas covered in vibrant purple and fuchsia blooms, along a trail that alternated between hard-packed earthen paths and wooden stairs.
Ninety minutes after I left the ridge, I was hungry, sweaty, sore, and had no idea how much trail remained between my current position and the summit marker, but I didn’t care. I was going to reach it, if I had to crawl.
A mere 15 minutes later, I crested a rise and found myself on top of Mount Akagi.
As I snapped my first-ever selfie with a summit marker, I burst into tears. I tried (almost successfully) to hide them from the dozens of Japanese climbers all around me and retreated to a nearby rock, where I wiped my eyes with a handkerchief and regained my self-control. With the waterworks contained, I devoured my sandwich and a box of “smoked cheese”–flavored potato sticks, washed down with tepid, plastic-flavored water from my pack.
Nearby, a pair of Japanese women prepared a meal of tea and ramen on a camp stove they had carried with them. In fact, every one of the Japanese hikers had better fare than a half-eaten chicken sandwich and potato sticks.
Next time, I would bring a better lunch.
I planned to hike Akagi as a loop, descending by a shorter route than the one I used on the ascent. However, I hadn’t considered the fact that in mountaineering, “shorter” means “steeper”—a fact that made itself painfully clear as I started down the mountain.
This is a rock slide, not a trail. You’ll be lucky not to break your neck.
I had no time to retrace my steps if I wanted to catch the final bus to Maebara, so I tried to focus on the trail and not my fears. At times, I hugged the trunks of trees to keep myself from falling. Given the pitch of the slope and the jagged boulders that covered the trail, I would have hugged poison ivy if it got me down the mountain in one piece.
Just as my legs began to feel like overstretched rubber bands that had lost their spring, I reached the road and the trailhead sign. I walked to the visitor center, and even had time to buy a commemorative “Mount Akagi” pin before my bus arrived.
On the train ride back to Tokyo, I questioned whether I could do this 99 more times. Mount Akagi was supposed to be an easy climb, but my legs and feet were aching and my chest felt raw where the straps of my pack had rested.
If this was an easy mountain, I wasn’t sure I wanted to experience a hard one.
Somehow, I had fooled myself into believing Japan would change me, miraculously and without effort, into the person I aspired to be.
I now realized that wasn’t going to happen.
However, I did feel I had accomplished something important on Mount Akagi, and learned some valuable lessons too.
A journey of 1,000 miles—or 100 mountains—starts with a single step.
I had taken that step.
Now it was time to take step two.
STATION 1:[1] TRAILHEAD TOKYO MOUNTAIN TOTAL: 1
I headed home from Mount Akagi with my urgent housing situation pressing on my mind. Our short-term apartment lease expired at the end of June, and the visa denial left us scrambling for a place to stay. Michael had never been to Japan before our move and spoke no Japanese; I spoke only a little more than he did, but I knew the country and its customs, so it fell to me to take the lead.
Tokyo has thousands of short-term furnished rentals, but most don’t welcome pets. Worse, we had to move in early summer, when most of the short-term apartments in the city were already leased. The company that owned our Shinjuku apartment had no vacancies in any of its buildings until August. A dozen inquiries to other companies yielded no better results: the ones with vacancies all had no-pet policies, and the ones that allowed a cat were fully booked.
Increasingly desperate, I scoured the internet and emailed the owners of all the available listings, asking them to make an exception for one small cat.
The Hail Mary pass connected. I secured a furnished apartment in Sumida Ward, not far from the famous Tokyo Skytree. It was available only until mid-August, and the rent went up because of Oobie, but I sent the deposit without complaint.
With homelessness prevented (at least until August), I was free to climb.
1.
Many Japanese mountains have station markers at intervals along the trail, numbered 1 through 10 (for unknown reasons, Fuji also has a Station 9.5) to mark a climber’s progress toward the summit. In this book, the Stations act as progress markers and as windows on the changes happening off the mountains.
Chapter 5
Don’t Forget the Bug Spray
May 27, 2018
A week after climbing Mount Akagi, I once again woke before 5 a.m., filled the (well-rinsed) reservoir in my day pack, and set the pack—which I’d christened “Blue” for its brilliant color—on the bed while I dressed to climb.
Five minutes later, I hefted Blue—and was promptly drenched by a rush of water that poured from the day pack onto the bed, the floor, and my hiking pants. I hadn’t closed the mouth of the reservoir properly, so water had leaked out and filled the pack while Blue was resting on the bed.
Two towels and many curse words later, I’d mopped the floor, but my pack and pants were soaked. The delay also meant I missed my train; I took a later one, but it didn’t arrive in Enzan until 7:45 a.m.—too late for me to catch the first bus to the Daibosatsu trailhead.
At 8:20, I found myself once again in a line of senior citizens clad in high-end hiking gear. When the bus arrived, we trooped aboard for the 90-minute ride. I was so excited that I felt like bouncing in my seat. Mount Daibosatsu (大菩薩岳) (2,057 meters) is known for its stunning views of Mount Fuji, and despite more than 30 previous excursions to places where Fuji was supposedly visible, I had never actually seen Japan’s most famous peak except in photographs.
When we reached the trailhead stop, I was the only one who left the crowded bus.
I watched it pull away.
What do they know that I don’t know?
A consultation of the trailhead map revealed a second bus stop farther up the mountain, for hikers who preferred a shorter trek.
I puffed out my chest, proud to have chosen the toughest route, and started up the trail through a forest of small-leafed Japanese maple trees. Sunlight filtered through the branches. Birds chirped and cicadas rattled. The thump of my hiking boots on the packed earth trail blended with the other sounds, and I took a deep breath, feeling my tension fade away as the final signs of civilization disappeared behind me.
Refreshing breezes cooled the sweat that beaded on my face. I removed my cap and, for the first time since my hair fell out, enjoyed the way it felt to expose my head to the open air.
Two minutes later I put the cap back on, having learned that my hairless, sweaty scalp was irresistible to the swarms of Enormous Winged Biting Things that lived in the forest on Mount Daibosatsu.
Rivulets