“Fucking Tomoko Kasumi”
Taking Japan’s highest JR railway to climb Mount Kobushi
The sake shop in Kawakami has shut down. This might have happened yesterday, maybe it was five years ago. Crates of empty bottles are still neatly stacked outside, waiting for someone. The glass is covered in a layer of sandy dust but then so is everything else in the town. It’s a sad sight. It looks like a good one – a proper hand-painted sign and walls ready to fall in on itself type of place. Rural Japan is full of buildings that just stop being the thing they were. They become placeholders until the walls do collapse. These structures aren’t built to last.
Despite this loss the town has — thankfully — carried on drinking but it’s the chemist I need to visit, which also sells alcohol. Inside the lady at the register assures me, twice, that yes, this is the smallest amount of local sake they sell, but they also do bigger bottles, if I need one. It’s this boxy, two-litre, purple carton I must lug up the mountain today, as part of the silly challenge I have given myself.
Escaping to this part of Chichibu — north west of Tokyo — allows for a trip on Japan’s highest railway. If this conjures images of precarious funicular railways snaking through craggy rock, it’s not quite up to Norwegian levels, but the two-car train is cute. It’s very Japan.
As we board my hiking partner for the weekend excitedly tells me that she stayed up all night watching BBC drama Sherlock. While I have seen a couple of episodes, her decision means two important things for this trip. Firstly, we talk a lot about the show, secondly, she’s exhausted before we even reach the base of the mountain and we end up hiking the last and most difficult sections in the dark.
It is a tough hike. We wind slowly through the mountains following a river, which occasionally disappears under old snow, which neither of us had properly prepared for. Having read a recent article about bears in the area I’m keen to get out of the thick woods before dark. Open spaces seem better in my mind because you really don’t want to startle a bear. That’s as much as I can recall. I’ve managed to retain no hard facts but plenty of fear.
My friend is unconcerned. She’s spoken to an old lady in a soba shop. She just wants to talk about Sherlock. Our pace adds an unexpected two hours. Five in total becomes seven. I hold out for as long as possible but eventually the head torches must go on. The sun has disappeared and the trees are getting thicker. They block out any remaining dusky light.
I’m using Sherlock as a distraction, to push us on, but I’m actually shitting myself. I keep hearing animal noises behind us, not sure if they are real or in my head. I take to banging each tree we pass with a stick to signal our presence. It’s only when we make it to the hut later I realise I’ve cut my hand open on the stick and everything is covered in red blood.
Finally the slopes start to get steeper and we emerge on the ridgeline. A spine of rock covered in snow. The wind is roaring now. Much louder than any bear could.
After walking at an angle for while, to steady against the wind, we reach the summit. I finally have enough time to realise that the thin moon and clear skies mean the sky is filled with stars. Giant blobs of light – from bright white to darker orange. They are everywhere. I shout to my friend how it’s incredible. We hug. Then we move on. We still have to descend down to the camp.
Arriving at the hut we find it empty except for some heavy snoring. We had planned to camp outside but the cold has already dipped below -4 and feels much colder. Sitting down, we crack open a beer and try to work out what to do. It’s at this moment a confused Japanese hut owner appears at the stairs – the snoring now over – and questions what we are doing here. He’s not happy.
I pick up from the rapid-fire Japanese that we can stay. He shows us a futon in an empty room, points to the toilet and leaves us be. It’s freezing, but we’re elated. We eat through a tub of pasta salad we’ve been carrying and drink a few more beers, already sat in our sleeping bags. Gradually shaking a little less. Eventually a full stomach, a few beers and fatigue wins over the cold. We sleep.
The internal skeletons of mountain huts — giant wooden beams, locked into one another through clever joins — are often a joy to behold. It is not the case here. It’s only in the morning light we realise that beams are hacked or bolted in a haphazard fashion. Expanding foam bubbles out of some, but not all of the joins, which means that I can stick my arm fully outside of the hut in a number of places. This solves the mystery of last night’s cold. It’s OK. We wouldn’t have been able to sit up and drink in the tent.
I rise at 5am to wish my mother a happy birthday. It’s too cold to sleep anyway. The rest of my family have synchronised to have dinner together over video conference. It’s lovely to see them all dressed up until my phone battery gives out under the cold. I creep back to the hut and try and grab a little more rest.
It turns out in the morning that the owner is incredibly friendly and was just — quite rightly — very confused last night. We sit by the oven and he recommends us to avoid our planned route. No one has used it in a while and it’s difficult to stay on course. We decide to loop back and follow the course we came by yesterday.
At the top again last night’s beautiful stars have been replaced by an endless view of mountains. Mt Fuji’s peak can be seen over the clouds, as if it’s taken to floating. We take our silly photos drinking the local sake at the peak of the mountain — it’s 7am but that’s OK — then move on. Stepping into our frozen footsteps from last night. This return trip also allows us a proper look at the last few hours of our hike up. The forest doesn’t seem so dense and the crags less steep.
The trail finishes up in an empty car park. We breathe sighs of relief and fatigue. We have a final 4 km hike back into town but it’s at this point we realise we’ve both run out of cash and have no way of getting the bus back. We ask a woman who parks up after we arrive. She is also from Tokyo but here for work. She gives us 1,000 yen and her contact details so we can pay her back.
The final hour back into town is one of the most pleasant. The scenery isn’t as impressive but I feel very relaxed. It is warmer down now. We are surrounded by small fields, each being worked on by a different group of farmers. There are some tractors but I’m surprised at how much work is being done by hand. Yesterday women with small carts were pushing seedlings along and inserting them in lines of dug soil. Today the wind has picked up and is now throwing grit in our eyes, and probably a few of yesterday’s carefully planted seeds with it.
Many of these fields are covered with silvery or white polythene, which make the crops look like they might be hovering on water. It seems fitting that Kodomo no Hi — Children’s Day — is approaching. Traditionally koi carp shaped windsocks are hoisted above houses. Here this adds to the strange aerial-aquatic scene, rippling in the strong winds. Having just emerged from the snow it feels like it could be another world.
At the station we find out that cards cannot be used here. Of course this is the case: this isn’t just Japan, this is rural Japan. The local ATM won’t accept any of our cards and it’s only after a long explanation that the station master tells us he’s found a complicated solution using our Tokyo city travel cards. We all share grins and bows. He is very happy about his solution, we are happy we can get on the train.
To celebrate the fact I visit the bathroom and I’m treated to a rare site in Japan: toilet graffiti. I take a few photos and spend the journey back translating what I presume must be very important messages. One note in particular has caught my eye — mainly for the instantly recognisable swearing.
I sit down on Japan’s highest railway, drinking from a cartoon of sake which we barely made a dent in and read about “Fucking Tomoko Kasumi.” Yes, the mountains can be stressful, they can be physically tough but there is a calmness in my mind and a pleasant tiredness in my legs. Even if I feel like writing expletives sometimes I know I will keep coming back to them.
Rough translation (with thanks to JP):
Kasumi Tomoko, living in Narita city, Chiba, born in March, blood type AB. She is the worst. She cursed here, chucked away garbage and left. Taking pics of someone else’s stuff secretly. Fuck Kasumi Tomoko. Please share this online everyone, she is the worst.
