My Christmas Adventure, Concluded

Let's see, I left off last time with me facing a choice between continuing to ascend a technical, exposed, rock face, or returning whence I came by descending a technical, exposed, rock face.

If someone told me they'd try this climb in these shoes, I'd consider taking bets on their survival.

I notice there also very distinctive toeholds and handholds for climbing.  I'm just wishing I were harnessed in, because they are quite small, and often are just a single stone in this conglomerate rock.  Some of these stones turn out to be less than securely attached.  And, though I did not take the time to precisely measure it, I'd estimate is was a good 500-1000 foot drop from here to the valley below.  If I lean too far back (should I note that I'm also wearing a light backpack?), then if I'm lucky, they'll find my bones in the Spring. Now, I was not expecting a technical climb, much less a series of them, so I am wearing my regular walking shoes, and they are a bit worn:

For most purposes, as long as I am careful they are adequate for most hikes: I did climb Mount Fuji in these, after all, and the only complaint I had was the accumulation of cinder dust on the way down because they are slip-ons.  But, climbing shoes they are not, and I now am in a pickle.

It began with a series of ladder steps drilled into the rock face, and then transitions to a dual rope and chain above that.  Knowing the cost of returning the way I came: trying to descend that previous rock face, I decide the only reasonable course of action is to proceed upward.  So I climb again.  However, when I reach the break between the ladder and the rope, I find that the last foothold is not large enough for my shoe.  Not only would descending require figuring out the previous climb in reverse, I now would have to climb down this rock in reverse and unseeing, knowing that the bottom step is a very big one, and the ledge very short.  And the wind we saw earlier on the slopes of Mt Fuji is beginning to pick up here now, as well.

Just above the end of the rope ahead is tied a plate of metal so that each time I tug on the end, I hear the sound of metal clanging against rock.  It is the same sound you'll hear whenever an American Western movie shows its heroes approaching an abandoned ranch in the rocky desert.  And as every fan of such movies knows, that sound is the sound of pending death.

I did not take a photograph of that metal plate while clinging to that rock.

Again, yes, that is the trail; look for the rope

After waiting a few moments for the wind to calm, I started to chart out my route (another lesson learned from climbing in Boulder), because I did not want to find myself stopped in a precarious position unsure of the next foot or hand hold, with the clock ticking on how long I could maintain the current holds.  This was made rather difficult by the fact that I was staring into the afternoon Sun to do this.  I realized that although every climbing voice in my head was telling me to rely on my legs (your legs are much stronger and durable than your arms; just consider how long you can stand erect versus how long you can do a handstand or hang from a horizontal bar), I realized that the combinations of my poor equipment, the small footholds, and the locations of the overhead rope and chain, meant that the only option I had was to use my arms to pull myself over the first ledge, get my feet to my current eye level, where I could see another (solid) foothold, and then hope that the slightly gentler slope above that was enough to let me scout out the rest of the climb.  Fortunately, that plan worked (otherwise, you wouldn't be reading this), but there were no more decent foot or hand holds the rest of the way, though the slight easing of the slope meant I could use the rope and chain for leverage, rather than as my sole anchor point.  I was much relieved.

The sky shrine (Tenjin) for which the mountain is named.

Nevertheless, remembering my bouldering skills from my time in Boulder, CO, I skillfully (though slowly) ascend the rock, taking care to only advance when I was certain that my existing holds were secure.  After the initial vertical climb of about 10-15 feet, the slope eases a bit to about 60 degrees, and the climb is somewhat easier.

At the top, I saw where the "forest course (林間コース)" would have brought me.  It looks tame here, but I wonder how that adventure would have fared?  I'm beginning to worry about daylight, because I still have not yet reached the destination of this path, and the afternoon Sun is hanging low (and I am in the mountains, so I know that sunset comes early here).  Fortunately, I do not have far to go before I reach the next landmark, the peak of Mt. Tenjin (天神山, heaven spirit mountain).  This is an unassuming peak on which I decide to have lunch, before heading downhill less than a hundred meters to find a tiny shrine, about the size of a dog house.  I wonder if it is here for people to give thanks to the local kami for having survived the trail this far.  The shrine itself looks like it has been here a while, but the placard inside dates to just 2010.

Looking back from the top of 稚児落し

I continue on over hill and dell until I reach the main destination of this trail, an imposing rock outcropping.  But, as I do not yet see where the trail leads, I begin to convince myself that, surely, it will involve some ridiculous traverse across the midsection of this beast.  Luckily, it does not, but the wind is picking up, and I am amazed at how close to the edge of the drop the path continues.  In most places, if focus is lost, it would be easy to walk clean off the mountain in two or three steps.  I once went on a hike here in Japan under the light of the full moon.  I'm not confident I'd be willing to risk that here.  Still, I would like to see what this abyss looks like illuminated only by moonlight. 

The return trip descends rapidly, and I quickly find myself on a trail emptying out into someone's back yard.  The rest of the route takes me through the outlying districts of Otsuki, which I spend a little time exploring in the fading light.  Upon my return, however, I investigate the name of the place I had just visited and discover its dark origins.

The rock formation was called chigo-otoshi (稚児落し).  Google translate tells me this means "baby dropping."  And, checking each of the kanji individually makes it hard to dispute this. (稚) = Young; (児) = Child, (落) = Fall, while (落し) is translated as dropping.  I can only guess that this is a place where unwanted children were tossed to their deaths because the family thought them unsupportable.  And, considering the difficulty of the path, perhaps this place was chosen because you had to really, really want to be rid of a child to carry him or her through that obstacle course to be tossed from that sickening height.  I can't imagine wanting that badly to kill a child, to go through so much effort to deny another human being even the chance to make his or her own life choices, regardless of the difficulty of that life.

And it struck even deeper for me, because I had gone on this hike on Christmas Day, which celebrates the birth of a baby who was by legal definition at that time and place, unsupportable.  I imagined Mary and Joseph, immediately after the birth of Jesus, carrying him to this precipice and hurling him off because Jewish law at the time declared that such a child conceived out of wedlock was unclean.  I also thought about a close friend who lost a close friend to suicide this month.  And, about how I considered how easy it would be on this trail I was on for someone to take two or three steps and depart this life.  And, how easy it must seem for many who are struggling with their demons to take those few steps.  But also, how hard it must have been for them to have gotten to that point; the obstacles they had already overcome.

Though, perhaps another way to look at it is to recognize that all of life is little more than a series of challenges, some much more daunting than others, some coming upon us very unexpectedly.  Much as I had expected a challenging hike, but nothing like the bouldering exercise for which I was ill-equipped.  There were plenty of opportunities to turn back, or -- more darkly -- to step into the abyss, but we keep moving forward to see what challenges and rewards still await us and those we know and love.  In the end, it seems to come down to how you mentally approach each of these challenges.  Do we see prepare for them, or respond to them; do we see them as insurmountable barriers to our success, or challenges that make us stronger, or wiser?  Do we see adversity as a murderous mountain (as the beautiful but imposing view of Fuji-san at the beginning of my hike), or as a jovial challenge to become a better person (as the Winter Illumination art near Otsuki station at the end of my hike)?

My Christmas Adventure

As I mentioned in my previous post; I was feeling a bit glum around Christmastime this year.  So, I had determined to ignore the fact that the day was not a holiday here, and instead do some 森林浴
 (shinrin yoku, or "forest bathing") with a trek in the woods north of the little mountain town of Otsuki (大月, literally 'big moon' -- or 'big month,' I'll go with Moon).

A friend of mine had suggested the trail; I had been through the area a few times before, on my way to 富士山 (Mt. Fuji), so I expected a fun hike.  The weather was expected to be outstanding as well (for a hike, not for Christmas Day) with clear skies and an anticipated high of over 60 degrees Fahrenheit.

I got started a little later than I had hoped; but discovered a larger problem when I realized about halfway though my (nearly two-hour) train journey, that while I had remembered to pack food and water and a spare jacket, I had forgotten to pack the map showing the trail!  No problem, I thought.  I have my smartphone with GPS and maps, and since the Sun will be up, I'll always have a good point of reference.  What's the worst that could happen?  (Note to reader: if you ever find yourself saying or hearing or thinking this, just stop everything you are doing, and re-consider your life choices).

Mt. Iwatono from Ostuki Station

Having arrived at the station, I could not find a tourist or visitor center (that would have maps), but I did find some helpful maps on the walls of the station, so I photographed them and set on my way.  I began by climbing 岩殿山 (Mt. Iwatono: translates as "rock building" or "rock fort"), seen here (right) from near the station:

Fuji-san from Maruyama on the slopes of Iwatono

At the first overlook of the climb, I was already rewarded with this (below) view of 富士山.  Absolutely spectacular, even with the direct sun making contrasts poor.  I had hiked up 富士山 just this summer; I don't know whether it is true, but I've been told that more people die climbing 富士山 in Winter than those who successfully summit in Winter.  Looking at it from this distance, I can understand.  Continuous and steep snow fields that are clearly icy (based on the bright specular reflection on the eastern -- left-hand -- slope in the photo), and evidence of very strong winds both near the base and at the summit.

The summit of Iwatono-san

Onward and upward, I reached the grounds of a former temple (according to outside descriptions), which now appears to serve as a tour guide.  However, it is off-season and the office is closed.  Fortunately, there are maps available outside, and so I stock up on anything that looks as though it will show me the course I expect to follow.  I climb to the top along a fairly steep trail (I am soon to learn the true meaning of "steep," and this ain't it), reaching the summit of 634m (2080 feet).  Little did I suspect at the time that this visit to the highest point (right) on my planned route would be the easiest part of the journey.

The town of kamihamakura (上畑倉).

I descended quickly (is there any other way when the average grade is approaching 50%?) to the fork in the trail that took me along the loop trail that was my plan for the rest of the afternoon.  First, (see below photograph) I waited to hear this friendly Ent tell me the history of the People of the Valley.  Fortunately, it is not a very important history, so it did not take very long to say.  That town in the next valley is called Kamihamakura (上畑倉), which blandly translates as "upper warehouse."

Trail closed due to landslide

A few hundred meters along, the following sign tells me that the trail is out due to a recent landslide (photo below left).  Fortunately, a detour is provided... to just above the top of the landslide.  It has been dry recently, so this should be safe.  Up, over, down, and back on my way.  This is getting to be a fun little adventure.

Climbing gear required from here on?

But then I come across this (photo on right).  Now, I was told by my friend that this route was "interesting" for its rope-assisted trekking.  Well, here, I seemed to find it.  Turns out the rope was more useful as a crutch than as a support, as I was able to scramble up this climb quite readily without using the rope.  I suppose I would have relied on it more if I were descending.  But, if that is the worst that could happen (there it is again, life would be so much easier if it played the "dun-dun-dunnnnn" soundtrack of pending doom every time someone had that thought), then this hike will be a blast.

After some time along the ridge, I come to another fork in the road.  Here are my choices:

This time, I can read enough kanji to learn that the "forest route" (林間:left) is sending me down a slight slope (but really, just along the side of the mountain), while the クサリ場 (right), which seems to translate either as "cursory trail" or "squirrel trail" (my Japanese friends later tell me it means "chain route"), continues upward.  The forest trail has a rope for security; but it is not very taut, and the heavy blanket of fallen Autumn leaves makes it almost impossible to detect the vanishingly small trail that I assume exists parallel to the rope.  It is also several hundred feet down a very steep (in excess of 60 degrees) and wooded slope if I should lose contact with the ground.  As much as I'd like to continue my 森林浴 actually in the forest (森林), I decide to take the squirrel/chain route over the rocks.  What could possibly go wrong?

Yes, that is really the trail

This must be what my friend meant when he told me about the places where ropes were needed to continue on the trail.  If you look carefully, the photo on the right was from the top of the climb, so I successfully topped out over that small cliff.  Well, at least that's over with and now I can enjoy the rest of the trail peacefully.  Which is what I think until I reach the next vertical climb.

This climb begins with the traverse you see at left, is much longer than the previous, and whose top I cannot see from the base.  Holding on to the dual metal rails bolted into place as I traverse to the rock is not a problem, though I would have liked to have seen the view over the valley.  I reach the rock face, and there are again ropes, and now chains, making me wonder if I've just entered somebody's sick S&M fantasy world.  Glutton for punishment, I surely am.


You know, this post is getting rather long.  I think I'll break it up into two segments.

(How's that for a literal cliff hanger?) :-D

Christmas Reflection 2017

I've never done this before, and I can't promise that I will again; but this Christmas was far removed from the usual for me, and that may have played a role in what you're about to read.

Like many people, I was beginning to feel a bit glum during the run-up to Christmas.  Especially in the last few days.  For the first time ever, I was overseas on Christmas, in a country (Japan) that, although it celebrates the day, does not really celebrate Christmas.  For example, 25 December is not a holiday, I skipped work today to celebrate Christmas in my own little way (more on that in a later post).  And because I am overseas, for only the second time in my life I am not in my hometown visiting with friends and family on Christmas.  The first time, was the result of a blizzard in Colorado, and I was thankful to be stranded in my home rather than on a bus or in the airport, as very easily could have been the case.  This time, it was by work and by (difficult) choice.

So, I was already a little down when I went to a Christmas party with friends here on Saturday night.  Instead of lifting my spirits, I began to feel even more morose.  I thought I would be gathering with several people who, like me, missed their friends and family, but wanted to make the most of a difficult situation by holding a party.  But it seemed to me that nobody there gave a second thought for their families, whether they lived thousands of miles away, or a few train stations away.  In fact, in talking with many, they seemed almost relieved to be free of their families and would not have wanted to be anywhere else just then, as I wanted to be.  At least, that is how it seemed to me at the time.

I decided to go to Christmas Eve Vigil Mass in the evening at the Franciscan Center in Roppongi.  The Christmas Mass was a typical Christmas Eve Mass: many over-excited children, many people who are a little disoriented because this may be the only time of the year they see the inside of a church, standing room only (see previous).  Not that any of this truly bothered me: it's the most exciting night of the year for these children, even the most angelic would be fidgety in these circumstances; the people who had not been here since last Christmas, at least they are here today and maybe they'll be inspired to come back again next week and continue to strengthen their faith -- journeys of a thousand miles, single steps, and all that; and I had arrived 20 minutes before Mass began, so I at least had a seat!  ;-)  But, I think because it was so familiar, it had a deeper effect on me.  I felt both comforted by the familiarity, but pushed deeper into my malaise by the glaring omission of what had been so familiar for every other Christmas.  It was almost like I was living out the closing scene from "It's a Wonderful Life," but in a darker world: "This is what Christmas would be like without you... nothing has changed."

Then I heard the fellow sitting behind me telling his neighbor that he was a recent convert to Catholicism.  That he had met a young priest in Las Cruces, went to Mass the following Sunday, and then over the next few years decided to enroll in RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults).  This caused my ears to prick up because I sometimes have business in Las Cruces (at New Mexico State University), and had been to the very parish he mentioned on several occasions.  Four thousand miles from home, and I'm now seated three feet away from someone who quite possibly heard the same Homily and Mass that I did a year ago when I last visited Las Cruces.  What are the odds?  Then, I notice another familiar face.  A NASA representative with whom I had finally formally met just three days prior after months of trying to line up schedules, walks by and says, "Hello."  I begin to wonder whether I have found the twilight zone.

The Christmas Mass is a joyful one, partly because of what we celebrate, but partly because we Catholics had just spent the previous four weeks in a Penitential Season preparing ourselves for this celebration.  Many exceptionally festive parts of the Mass are either skipped or subdued during that time, which makes them all the more noticeable when they return.  And, because of this, I am feeling a little better.  But I am also a people-watcher (by default, I can't help it), and I can see the children at Mass getting more and more antsy, and their parents bravely keeping them under control, but becoming more and more exasperated.  I hope none of the parents felt embarrassed, they were fighting a losing battle; I'm glad they found the strength to chose to fight that battle in public and partake of this Mass, rather than choose the easy path to stay home.

But then after Communion, something strange happens.  The little girl with the family seated next to me, who has been becoming increasingly animated throughout Mass, needs to fix her shoe.  She stops bouncing around, reaches up and grabs my hand to steady herself as she reaches with her other hand to re-seat her fluffy boot.  Her mother is very apologetic, but I don't mind.  This interaction causes me think about my niece who is about the same age.  And I feel that, just for a moment, that little girl invited me into her family.  Because, what is family, if not a group of people you can always count on to lend a hand?  And, a group of people who always seem to need a hand!

And that got me to thinking about what I think is one of the most beautiful doctrines of the Catholic Church: the Church Triumphant, Penitent, and Militant.  The first two are those in Heaven and in Purgatory, and all those here on Earth, struggling every day in battles against evil, are the Church Militant.  All three are part of the family that is the Church.  And, more importantly, the Church Militant truly means all of humanity, for while we may have some disagreements about what specifically constitutes evil, I think we all believe we are motivated to eliminate or minimize that evil.  That means everyone in this churchroom today is my family.  Everyone at that party the other night is my family.  Everyone here in Japan, even those who seem to completely miss the point of Christmas, they are my family.  The people you've been in a political tussle with, they are your family.  The jerk who just cut you off on the road is your family.  Even those we've "disowned," they are our family.  And, here I am, singing "Silent Night" on Christmas Eve, just as I would have been back home, with a group of people who, though imperfect like me, have chosen to be here, with the rest of their extended human family, for this hour, on this holy yet hectic night.  And, truly, I had to hold back a tear.

Of course, I still missed the family and friends back home whom I wanted to see.  But, I suddenly realized that even though I have never seen many of these people around me before in my life -- and maybe never will again -- I have a family with me here tonight.   From the little girl who reminded me of my niece, to my colleague with whom I may be working over the coming months, to the fellow from down the road, to hundreds of others from literally around the world.

And I think it was not just me feeling this connection.  I noticed that as the priest began the final blessing, he began to speak a few words to the congregation.  His voice broke as he could barely get his words out, "Thank you all for coming.  It is truly wonderful to see so many people here tonight to come to this church and celebrate this special night with us and each other."  He then was able to collect himself to add both jokingly and in all seriousness, "We do this every week; if you enjoyed this, please come and see us again next Sunday!"