Mt. Nipesotsu

The last time I went hiking was in the spring of 2006. It was Aconcagua and somewhere around the 6,500 metre mark I had to turn back as the guy I was climbing with was suffering from altitude sickness. In December of that year Cian was born and, well, taking care of him took care of the mountains for a while. Which was a pity as I have all this mountain gear cluttering up the house and driving Sanae mad as I won't let her throw any of it out. Not even my commemorative albeit smelly Aconcagua pee bottle.
Earlier this month I finally got to go high again when we were down in Memuro during the Obon holiday. Abandoning my family (and/or fleeing from Sanae's extended relatives who were coming to visit), I headed up through the rolling farmlands around Kamishihoro where the morning sky was bedotted with colorful balloons floating gently up in the glimmering sky. The town hosts a balloon festival every year and given the happy crowds at the riverside campsite, seems quite popular.

I, however, was planning to go higher than the balloons, so I pushed on, past the signs warning me that there are no more petrol stations for the next 80 kilometres. The road after Kamishihiro heads into the mountainous wilderness of north Tokachi. There's not much up here besides trees, bears, deer and the small tourist village of Nukabira - which has neither petrol stations nor convenience stores. But wood carvings - that they do have.

Alluring as life size depiction of a bear eating a salmon was, I kept on. I was heading for Mt. Niposetsu on the eastern side of the great Daisetsuzan Plateau. I had climbed this mountain a number of times before and if it is possible to have a favorite lump of rock, well this would be mine. There's nothing particularly awe-inspiring or sublime about the mountain - it's a long, 8 hour there-and-back trip; thankfully, it's not very popular, and more than anything else, I enjoy the solitude.
It was past 8:00 by the time I got to the trail head and there were about 10 cars squeezed in against the trees. According to the hiking log, the first hikers set out at 4:40 that morning.
You get used to this sunrise trail fever here after a while. I used to feel particularly unmanned if I set off up the mountains after 6:00am, but with age comes wisdom and a desire to eat a full breakfast before spending the rest of your day in the hills. Though, admittedly finally getting under way at 8:30 did make me feel like a bit of a slack-ass. Albeit a well fed one.

The trail winds its way up initially through mixed forest, before breaking through the tree line into pine scrub and bushes. Then you skip over slabs of rock, stopping only to admire the late blooming alpine flowers up here. But for not for too long as a predatory pika (marmot) might savage you for their winter feed.

Can you spot the voracious, man-eating pika?

This high the trees give way to lichen covered scree and patches of flower spotted meadow. Small fragile alpine flowers were enjoying their brief time in the summer sun, and the wild blueberries were ripe and sweet. A man, I began to reckon, could make a life for himself up here. Live off the land as it were; grilled pika meat and blueberries, clothe himself in pika fur and shack up with the bears over winter... But no, wife, son and responsibilities beckon. As does a hearty dinner of butadon.

There is a lot of up-down, up-down on this climb; the trail follows a ridge line over two intermediate saddles before the final summit and it's not nice on the knees. I gradually began to meet the other early bird hikers, most of them on the way down from the summit. I'm not too sure which amazed them more: a foreigner climbing the mountain, or a foreigner climbing the mountain this late in the day.

And on I went as tufts of cloud came skudding across the sky and the midday heat braized the ridges and valleys. It was strange to think that within another four weeks or so, the first fleeting snows of winter would be dusting all these high places. Already some of the plants were blushed by autumn.

By the time I finally got to the top of the mountain, I was the only one there. All the rest had been and gone. So I stopped a while, took in what I could of the shimmering, hazy view, ate a leisurely lunch and thought of absent friends, Griff and Ben, who had made the journey with me years before, never thinking it would be our last.

The Ainu call me kumanomune - 'He who has the chest of a bear'

The Circus

There were lions and women and lord knows what, but no burnished chariots nor thankfully, any raving sluts.

On the Monday after the masturi we took ourselves off to the bright lights of big city Sapporo to see the circus. Now, I haven't been to the circus in decades, generations even. I think the last time I was inside the big top was back when we were still living in Dundrum and Fossets set up their tent in the field up the road from our house. 

Though I could well be mistaken. When you get to 43 you increasingly find that memory has to be negotiated rather than merely recalled.

Anyway, this summer Sapporo is hosting the Kinoshita Circus. They haven't been back to Hokkaido in 89 years. 89 years! You'd have to wonder why - was it something we said?

So, nearly nine decades, a world war, 51 prime ministers and 27 Godzilla movies later, they have returned. 

In triumph.

To be honest we all enjoyed it, though in a somewhat descending scale of satisfaction. First Sanae, next me, and then Cian who was pretty happy until the lions and elephants left and they started d'auld spangly costumed, glittery hair trapeze shite. The most spangly and glittering of the lot of them was stripped to the waist and by my Roman Catholic estimation, spent most of his time swinging at and in bars. This didn't stop Sanae from embarrassing me and Cian by 'oohing' and 'aahing' like a star-struck teenager. I pointed out that I often go stripped to the waist, particularly with the muggy summer we're having this year, but all that elicits from the woman is a sharp 'For buddha's sake, put your shirt back on before you frighten the neighbours'!

(As a flocculent aside, I am suffering something terrible with the humidity this year. My body's ongoing Darwinian response to the harsh Hokkaido winters is making my life hell in the equally harsh and sweltering Hokkaido summers. You try walking around with this

in the 30 degree heat like we experienced today. Sure it looks good (and yes ladies, feels even better), but imagine you are wearing one of Des Kelly's finest Berber carpets around your body in mid summer and you'll begin to get an sweaty idea of where I'm coming from. Whereas in the more traditional 'Stans of Central Asia I would be rightly revered as the hirsute love god that I truly am, in Japan people usually mistake me for a bear and make panicked phonecalls to the police.)

Date Musha Matsuri

After our aquatic adventures it was time for something more calm, something more considered, indeed something more cultured. So on Saturday evening (two weeks ago - sorry) we headed off to Date for its annual matsuri (festival). As the following clip shows, the event tends to be big on noise, charcoal-grilled meat and questionable dancing.

More importantly though, was that the matsuri was a highly enjoyable family occasion as was evident from all the parents and young children thronging the streets. Cian is at that age where is his sense of independent self has yet to completely subjugate his desire to be with his Mammy and Daddy. So plans to go rafting or see the matsuri are enthusiastically received; there is no need (yet) for cajoling, threatening, or forceful rendition tied up in the boot of Daddy's car. 
This isn't go to last for much longer I suspect. From next April he will start elementary (primary) and with it its attendant sports and clubs. Then his peers rather than his parents will increasingly determine what he wants to do and who he wants to do it with. But for now we enjoy these family moments willingly embraced, while once more humbly showing obeisance to the gods of centrifugal forces. 

Down river, up mountain

One of the subtle pleasures of parenthood is the vicarious joy you derive from the excited happiness of your child. So it was with Cian when we returned to Niseko for our annual rafting trip (and baked beans buying*). Where we put into the river is where the rest of the boats put out, for the section we traveled down was mellow and meandering. 
But that's looking at it through the eyes of an adult.
For Cian the river was a non-stop stretch of wild, watery excitement. That brown log, poking through the water - a ravenous alligator to be sure! The sharp, protruding boulder splitting the current - a shark, indeed most probably a great white shark. The Shiribestu river is notorious for them. Those sagging branches of a willow tree - a scraggly limbed monster attempting to pluck us from the raft.
Adding to our enjoyment was Sanae's hitherto hidden desire to make like a fish at every opportunity. The woman couldn't be kept out of the water. If she wasn't doing her Buster Keaton routine on the stand-up paddle board, she was plunging into the river at every chance, only saved from a watery death by the cool, controlled rescuing technique of her son. 






















After lunch we headed for the mountains. Now normally, sitting in a stuffy hot cable car slowly rattling our way up the hill would be something anathema to me, but for Cian, well if you could bottle the boys excitement and sell it, I would have enough money to sit down and recount this in person to each and all of you individually.

 I did salvage some manly pride by walking down the mountain where I encountered yet another snake. And today out jogging I nearly stepped on another one. Mother Nature is trying to tell me something but I am not quite sure what it is. Any suggestions?

Finally, at Sanae's insistence, we stopped at a local dairy farm for some hand made ice-cream. Also at Sanae's insistence, I can't show you any photos of same. Instead you'll have to just enjoy Cian enjoying the farm.

At the Beach

Yesterday was a bit of a sweaty swelterer of a Tuesday, so myself and Sanae mitched off early from work, sprung Cian from his nursery school and headed for the cool of Itanki beach.
Ahhh, Itanki beach. It could never be mentioned in the same sentence as Banna beach or Brittas Bay (but you just did!), but on hot humid day like yesterday, it can hold its own.
Cian swooshed into and through the water like a, a feline porcupine! Yes, Cian is now known as the cat-dolphin boy wonder. Mammy was a bit more circumspect, striking poses worthy of National Geographic Traveler magazine. And Daddy, well he did what he does best - made a fool of himself.

We were soon joined by my friend and colleague ‘Uncle’ Mikey. He too found it hard to resist the allure of Itanki and its cool (and surprisingly clean) waters. He also found it hard to resist the allure of the ‘Leap of Death’, as did Daddy.
I should point out that we are both husbands, fathers, assistant professors at the university and on the wrong side of 40, but damn, was it ever fun.