Although I was alone when Rus dropped me at the gondola at 9:15 am, I by no means ascended the summit of Mt Kuramatsu-dake by myself that day.
Every single soul on the trail gave and received a greeting, even if they could only manage it whispered on a hard stretch of climb. I even encountered two school groups, each and every student offering a “Konichiwa!” as I passed. It was the most joyous thing to experience. On the same token, it is possible to do the whole thing without a spoken word – you are the one who must choose your approach.
I absolutely deem it necessary to constantly red-line myself – I don’t mean to, and it’s not competitiveness with anyone but me and my PB – but I admit to treating hiking and rock-hopping as an Olympic sport. I take great pride in doing it well, usually without any preparation. I get it from my Mumma. She says if you aren’t living 120 km an hour, you’re not going fast enough. I ascend as strongly as I can, provided I am holding good form. If I need to stop, I pause for a breather.
I’m at the top! No water and I forgot my hat again. My face is hot anyway from the exertion, so I can’t tell if I’m getting sunburnt or not. I try to judge by referring to my bike pant line – also hard to tell. Puffing, I tie my light, black over-shirt around my head like a ninja and carry on, feeling slightly silly but also a bit pro-mountain climber. Luckily I can buy water from a vending machine in the lodge clinging to the side of the mountain here. Some girls throw me their can of sunscreen. I’ve never been so happy to slap it on.
The descent is my forte, and I pride myself on a fast one, executed with the sure-footedness of a mighty komoshika (though, to the innocent bystander, probably sounds like a wounded one). I will never, ever understand people who prefer the climb. The ever-polite Japanese hear me coming, bear bell binging, and immediately call to their comrades to step aside – my knochiwa’s and arigato’s overtaken, though, by shouts of “Seggoi” and “Genki des”! – even some clapping of hands! I don’t know if it was my shorts that gave them the impression that I was a professional (there was a bit of pointing and approving looks, and enquiries of “Was I samui?”) – all seemed impressed nonetheless. I stop and clap them, too, encouraging them to keep going, letting them know that it was even more seggoi at the top.
I always go fast, but I do consider stopping and collecting a photograph of every different flower by the path a more worthy endeavour. I overtook everyone I met on the trail – but that just means there were some out there I never caught up with, who did it much faster than I.
Sunburn in the Japanese Alps – you don’t even feel it, but by the time you’re off the mountain, over the afternoon, you’re going to ripen like a succulent, summer cherry. Sitting in the village foot onsen later that afternoon, I looked down at my legs in dismay. The stop at the icy river on the way home is now a mandatory one. Sunscreen everywhere. Or long clothes.
BIG TIME for a Strong! That was a great day and an even better evening at home.
Bronni Bowen 