Escape to the Mountains
Weekend Hiking from Tokyo
by
Randy Johnson
Originally published in The Tokyo Weekender, January 21, 1977
Photo (click): Mt. Fuji from Mutsu-ishi, by Bryce Howard
Saturday, 6 am.
The first train of the day rattles to a stop at Eifukucho Station on the Inokashira Line in western Tokyo. As the doors of the old wooden coach slide open, Bryce and I step out and silently scan the deserted platform. Suddenly, from the tunnel at the far end of the platform, Jean emerges with a large grin and waves to us as she dashes onto the train. We hop back inside just before the doors close and the train lurches off toward Kichijoji.
Somewhere in mid-train, three rucksacks drop to the floor as we slouch bleary-eyed onto a wooden bench. Across the car, a jaunty old man checks his fishing rod while his grandson dozes against his shoulder; the rest of the seats are empty. I blow into my gloved hands to ease the sting of the February chill and nod to the sway of the train.
What am I doing here? I should be home in bed; I must have gotten all of three hours of sleep this morning. But Jean is a dear; she brings out cheese sandwiches for our breakfast and revels in her first conquest of the elusive 6 o'clock train.
It is a slow, drowsy ride to Kichijoji, where we change to the Chuo Line and head west for Tachikawa. I have never really seen Tachikawa Station, except as a vague blur of overcoats and schoolgirl legs as we race up and down the steps to make that vital connection with the infrequent little Ome Line that leads up into the mountains as far as Hikawa.
This morning we made up for Jean's punctuality by dozing through the announcement to change trains at Akishima, (not usually necessary), and making an unplanned excursion on the providentially short spur line to Akita.
9:30 am.
We stumble off the bus from Hikawa at Nagatani-bashi on the shores of Okutama Lake in the heart of Chichibu-Tama National Park. The sun is beaming down warmly now, the air is clean, and the lake sparkles a bright blue beneath the surrounding mountains.
A few farms and small hamlets dot the long northern shore of Okutama-ko, and fishermen haunt the mouths of snow-fed streams that join this lake on the upper reaches of the Tama River. But we are off into the mountains, on one of the many trails that wind up to the long ridge which stretches from Hikawa all the way past the upper Ara River in western Saitama Prefecture.
Up into the mountains, we tread a lesser-known trail past large old thatched farm houses and steeply terraced fields. Beyond these, the tall silent pines obscure the sky, and the shallow blanket of Tuesday's snow flurry lies undisturbed on the trail.
5 pm.
From the summit of Nanatsu Ishi Mountain, we watch the swollen sun drop behind the bank of clouds on the horizon, beyond the far mountains. Below us, Okutama-ko stretches out its long arm up the valley between these two steep ranges. To the northwest, our ridge extends out like a swaybacked dragon toward Kumotori-yama peak (2,018 meters) and beyond.
Not long before, we had hiked in T-shirts through the few inches of snow that lay on the trails along the ridge. But with the sun below the horizon, the thin air soon turned icy cold and my bootlaces froze to my pants cuffs before I even got my jacket on. But luckily we had brought all the necessities; a litre of red wine heated over a small gas stove saw us through the wistful twilight that lingered over the glistening mountains.
Through the dark pines we discerned the flicker of lights from a small mountain hut and, picking our way with flashlights, we stumbled down the last few hundred feet to find accommodation at the little yama goya, nestled among the trees, overlooking the lake far below.
Around a wood stove we sat on mats above the cabin's dirt floor, sharing hot tea and conversation with several young Japanese hikers and the old gentleman who tends the place. We ravaged our emergency supply of instant ramen and cheese while two young men broiled fish on the stove and the old man happily discussed the trails with two pretty college girls.
Sunday 6:30 am.
Daylight filters into the communal sleeping room as we struggle to
rouse ourselves beneath two layers of heavy winter futon. Out
in the front room, the old man has a warm fire going, and hot tea for
cold hands. And there out the front door, beyond the pines to the
southwest, a distant snow-covered Mt. Fuji rises majestically above
the nearer mountains, bathed in the fiery red glow of dawn and
magnified by the stillness of the cold clear morning sky.
I no longer ask myself "What am I doing here?" How could I have forgotten, in just two weeks, what joy and peace I feel on top of these mountains? Eifukucho and Tachikawa are light years away, some Saturday morning on another plane of existence. For the three of us, at least, it is quite worth the devastation of the 6 o'clock train to watch the sun rise quietly on Fuji-san, to drink in the sunset from the snowy top of the Kanto Ridge, or even just to wander along the shore of sparkling Okutama Lake in the fresh morning air and visit with mountain farmers who never rode a subway in their lives.
Chichibu-Tama Koku-ritsu Koen is one of the closest and finest areas for week-end hiking from Tokyo. The vast area of rugged forested mountains is well serviced by marked trails (in Japanese of course), and a number of mountain huts along the ridge. Some of the huts remain open year round, and a few even provide basic meals. The caretaker at Nanatsu Ishi stays at his hut all summer, and comes up for week-end hikers during the winter months. Thanks to such convenient mountaineering huts, our day hike was painlessly transformed into an over-nighter, for a fee of 700 yen, but without the burden of heavy camping equipment.
The area is popular with Japanese hikers in the summer and with waterproof shoes and warm clothing, it can be equally enjoyable on fair-weather winter days, when the air is cleaner and the views even better. On week-ends there are other hikers to follow or ask directions, but the trails are rarely crowded.
All buses on the lake route from Hikawa go as far as the Ogochi Dam which creates Okutama Lake, and there is a hiking trail nearby. Only one bus a day runs the entire length of the lake and continues up to the mountain pass at Yanagisawa-toge. The farther you go along the lake, the less frequent the bus service. (Only four a day at the foot of Nanatsu Ishi Mountain, but seven or eight to the next closer stop, about a kilometer down the road.)
A word to the wise: bus service in such rural areas sometimes stops before 5 pm. It is advisable to check train and bus timetables in advance to eliminate long waits (and overnight stops) between buses.
On the other side of Yanagisawa Pass (1472 m.) the road drops down steeply through more tiny villages toward Enzan and the wine country of Yamanashi Prefecture. Enzan is only 2 hours by express train from Shinjuku on the Chuo Main Line and a pleasant outing for grapes and wine in the fall. Bus service into the mountains is infrequent but you can often hitch-hike with other week-end escapists.
The third access to the area is via the Chichibu Line, beyond Chichibu city to Mitsumine-Guchi, and then by bus to the ropeway up to the Mitsumine Jinja. It is possible to hike southeast from here to Hikawa all the way along the ridge, but it takes several days of hard hiking. Along the way, numerous side trails drop down to little valleys dotted with isolated villages, terraced farms, and the occasional on-sen bath.
But you don't have to go that far; the same tiny farms and simple people inhabit the mountainsides along Okutama Lake. Even a short walk up the steep trails may take you to tiny enclaves of mountain farmers, raising cabbage, daikon, and garden vegetables, horse-radish, shiitake mushrooms, walnuts, or persimmons. We've even encountered woodsmen carving wooden shoes, making charcoal in stone kilns, and raising silk worms.
So the next time you get crushed on the escalator at the Mitsukoshi, or a little old kimonoed lady elbows you off the subway -- the next time you long for escape -- remember: 'For every building, there is a mountain; for every car, ten thousand trees.'
