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)?