Friends: After climbing to 3,000 feet this morning to the plateau that Mount Fuji rises from I caught a glimpse of its shoulder through the clouds, taking my breath away. It is a monster. It seemed frighteningly close, poised to take a lunge at me.
Although Fuji is presently obscured by clouds, a ranger at the Mount Fuji Visitor Center in Kawaguchi-ko at the base of the mountain informed me that the upper part of the mountain is in the sun and above the clouds. According to his information I ought to able to see the top of Fuji from the fifth of the nine stations to the summit. It was 15 miles and 4,500 more feet of climbing from the the Visitor Center to the Fifth Station at just below 8,000 feet. The road up Fuji is a toll road. Bicyclists are charged 200 yen. I'll find a place to camp somewhere along the road before it ends some 5,000 feet below the summit, then set out to climb this mother tomorrow, though probably not all the way to its summit, as it is covered in snow.
It is said to take five hours to reach the summit from the end of the road and three to descend. The sprawling visitor center had several videos showing the summer-time mobs trudging up the various routes to the summit. It gets rough towards the top with ropes to hang on to, but much of the way it is a very well-trod thoroughfare with resting houses providing supplies. There is a weather station at the top. If I reach the summit, I could spend an hour hiking around the crater. Fuji last erupted in 1707 and is fully dormant. A 103-year old climbed it and countless children as well, so it shouldn't be too severe. For centuries neither foreigners nor women were allowed to climb Fuji. It was considered too sacred, for any but Japanese men to climb it. It will be very nice to get above the nasty weather I'm engulfed in now--cold and misty. Its the first time I've needed my Gore Tex jacket in over a week.
I'll be looking forward to a sento--bath house--when I return. I visited my second of the trip
after visit with the monkeys. I stumbled upon it by the train station in Yudanaka, a town of 11,000, thinking it was the tourist office. I was seeking information on how to get to the monkeys, just a few miles further. I realized it was a sento and not a tourist office, when I noticed lockers in the lobby and a row of shoes below and down a hallway someone carrying a towel. There was a path of footprints painted on the lobby floor to the entry of the sento that was permissible for shoe-wearers, though I received a small reprimand when I strayed from it. I had planned on taking advantage of the outdoor sento at a small hotel in the park if there had been monkeys hanging out nearby, as can sometimes happen. It was quite a bit more expensive than the train station sento, so with the absence of monkeys, I opted for the cheaper sento.
The sento at the train station was very similar to my baptismal in Hakodate, when I stayed at the Rider House, though I'm still not sure if I correctly followed the proper protocol. I knew enough to thoroughly scrub myself before dipping into the hot baths. The shower room consists of a row of foot high stools each with its own mirror and a nozzle on a cord and a bucket. On each occasion there have been two or three others vigorously washing themselves. I greatly prolonged my shower to match the length of everyone else.
There are three or four pools of hotter and hotter water to soak in. It may have been a mistake to resume riding after soaking in the hot water, as my legs felt like jelly afterward. All my energy had been steamed and soaked out of them. Fortunately my ride began with a 15-mile descent back to the valley floor of Nagano and then flat going for another 15 miles before dark. If it had been the reverse my legs may have collapsed, as they didn't seem to have any more resiliency than a strand of wet noodles.
Now, after two such indulgences, I can understand why John the Bikesmith of Bloomington, Indiana, who has been to Japan seven times, has been so actively encouraging me to take advantage of them. They have been reasonably priced at 400 yen. I've located the local sento here, so I'll have that to look forward to after my time on Fuji. It is so sacred that for a long time neither foreigners nor women were allowed to climb it.
Later, George
Monday, October 23, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Kofu, Japan
Friends: As I pulled into Joshin-Etsu (Hell's Valley) National Park after ten miles of climbing, topped by a final mile of super steepness, I was relieved to see one of the monkeys I had come to see scampering in the distance on the mountain side. He wasn't photographable, but at least my 50-mile detour to see the snow monkeys wouldn't be entirely in naught. Obviously I had no clue as to the bounties that awaited me.
There are monkeys scattered all over the southern half of Japan, including the lower levels of Mount Fuji, but this was said to be the best place to see them, a few miles from a major ski resort twenty-five miles from Nogano, site of the 1998 Winter Olympics. An added feature of these monkeys was that there were hot springs in the park that they were drawn to. The many steaming pools and geysers earned this park its name--Hell's Valley.
It was a half-mile hike and climb to the park entrance from the parking lot through the woods
along a river. I didn't see another monkey until I'd entered the park. A short ways down the path there were a handful of the small red-faced simians lolling about along the river, most in pairs grooming one another. In the distance I could see a cluster of tourists, but I was immediately drawn to these first monkeys I came upon. I wasn't sure if it was allowed to leave the path and approach them until I saw someone else up ahead having his own private photographic session just a couple feet from one of the monkeys.
As I strolled closer myself, the monkeys showed no concern or reaction whatsoever. This was amazing. The only warnings at the park entrance were not to feed the monkeys nor to bring in cats or dogs, so I didn't feel as if I needed to be too much on guard as I came closer and closer. The pair hardly payed me any attention. It took a while before they turned to look into the camera, but I got my picture and then more as I meandered over to others along the river bank. But this was almost wasted film compared to the photographic opportunities of the mobs of monkeys awaiting me up by their natural hot tub. As I hurried up, I passed several of the critters on the wooden walkway as if they were fellow pedestrians.
There were about forty Japanese tourists, all armed with cameras, milling about by the hot springs where nine or ten of the monkeys were hanging out, some sitting on the edge and others submerged to their necks. In the middle sat a mother with one infant nuzzling a nipple and another curled to her side. The mother's eyelids were drooped and she looked so blissed out that I sniffed the air for the scent of cannabis, wondering if these monkeys were dope-smokers as well. A friend back in Chicago, who works in the monkey house at the Lincoln Park Zoo, says after hours she and friends occasionally smoke amongst the apes, passing them a joint. The apes imitate their keepers drawing on the joint and passing it on. I could detect no evidence of that here, other than the occasional stoned expression.
Behind the natural hot tub was a multi-tiered wall with another forty or fifty monkeys. There were also a handful just laying about amongst us intruders, sprawled contentedly as if we were all one big happy family. They were more tame than your neighbor's cat. And since the Japanese could be counted on to strictly obey the no feeding policy, resisting all temptations, the monkeys hadn't been corrupted into begging or nagging. Some of the younger ones were intrigued by a woman's walking stick and someone else's colored shoelaces, but otherwise they just hung out and let us photograph away. They were as polite and well-behaved as the Japanese. I even thought I detected an occasional bow from the monkeys.
There were several professional-looking photographers with heavy-duty tripods and long-lensed cameras, and a few prowling up the mountain side. This was most certainly a photographer's paradise. These photos would steal the show at any presentation. The monkeys star in the 1992 documentary "Baraka" of stunning sights around the globe.
I was shocked at one point to see someone tossing nibbles to the monkeys. Then I realized he was a ranger. He wasn't wearing a uniform, but he had stood out from the start from all the tourists by his rather disheveled attire. It was noon, feeding time. He scattered several buckets of a small noodle like object. The monkeys were in no rush to pounce on the food. It would have been easy to spend all day just at that one place. An occasional squabble did break out with some hissing and gesticulating, but nothing serious. One doesn't have to fly all the way to Japan to see the monkeys in their spa. They have a live cam pointed at them--www.jigokudaniyaenkoen.co.jp/
My only warning to anyone who has this national park on their itinerary is that they should not visit the monkeys early in their travels, as it will most likely overwhelm everything else they see and if they haven't gone digital, they could easily exhaust all their film.
Mount Fuji is just a day away. I'm eager to see how that compares. It is said to be the most photographed object in the world. Thick clouds lay ahead. If its not raining I can bike up 7,000 of its 12,000 feet.
Later, George
There are monkeys scattered all over the southern half of Japan, including the lower levels of Mount Fuji, but this was said to be the best place to see them, a few miles from a major ski resort twenty-five miles from Nogano, site of the 1998 Winter Olympics. An added feature of these monkeys was that there were hot springs in the park that they were drawn to. The many steaming pools and geysers earned this park its name--Hell's Valley.
It was a half-mile hike and climb to the park entrance from the parking lot through the woods
along a river. I didn't see another monkey until I'd entered the park. A short ways down the path there were a handful of the small red-faced simians lolling about along the river, most in pairs grooming one another. In the distance I could see a cluster of tourists, but I was immediately drawn to these first monkeys I came upon. I wasn't sure if it was allowed to leave the path and approach them until I saw someone else up ahead having his own private photographic session just a couple feet from one of the monkeys.
As I strolled closer myself, the monkeys showed no concern or reaction whatsoever. This was amazing. The only warnings at the park entrance were not to feed the monkeys nor to bring in cats or dogs, so I didn't feel as if I needed to be too much on guard as I came closer and closer. The pair hardly payed me any attention. It took a while before they turned to look into the camera, but I got my picture and then more as I meandered over to others along the river bank. But this was almost wasted film compared to the photographic opportunities of the mobs of monkeys awaiting me up by their natural hot tub. As I hurried up, I passed several of the critters on the wooden walkway as if they were fellow pedestrians.
There were about forty Japanese tourists, all armed with cameras, milling about by the hot springs where nine or ten of the monkeys were hanging out, some sitting on the edge and others submerged to their necks. In the middle sat a mother with one infant nuzzling a nipple and another curled to her side. The mother's eyelids were drooped and she looked so blissed out that I sniffed the air for the scent of cannabis, wondering if these monkeys were dope-smokers as well. A friend back in Chicago, who works in the monkey house at the Lincoln Park Zoo, says after hours she and friends occasionally smoke amongst the apes, passing them a joint. The apes imitate their keepers drawing on the joint and passing it on. I could detect no evidence of that here, other than the occasional stoned expression.
Behind the natural hot tub was a multi-tiered wall with another forty or fifty monkeys. There were also a handful just laying about amongst us intruders, sprawled contentedly as if we were all one big happy family. They were more tame than your neighbor's cat. And since the Japanese could be counted on to strictly obey the no feeding policy, resisting all temptations, the monkeys hadn't been corrupted into begging or nagging. Some of the younger ones were intrigued by a woman's walking stick and someone else's colored shoelaces, but otherwise they just hung out and let us photograph away. They were as polite and well-behaved as the Japanese. I even thought I detected an occasional bow from the monkeys.
There were several professional-looking photographers with heavy-duty tripods and long-lensed cameras, and a few prowling up the mountain side. This was most certainly a photographer's paradise. These photos would steal the show at any presentation. The monkeys star in the 1992 documentary "Baraka" of stunning sights around the globe.
I was shocked at one point to see someone tossing nibbles to the monkeys. Then I realized he was a ranger. He wasn't wearing a uniform, but he had stood out from the start from all the tourists by his rather disheveled attire. It was noon, feeding time. He scattered several buckets of a small noodle like object. The monkeys were in no rush to pounce on the food. It would have been easy to spend all day just at that one place. An occasional squabble did break out with some hissing and gesticulating, but nothing serious. One doesn't have to fly all the way to Japan to see the monkeys in their spa. They have a live cam pointed at them--www.jigokudaniyaenkoen.co.jp/
My only warning to anyone who has this national park on their itinerary is that they should not visit the monkeys early in their travels, as it will most likely overwhelm everything else they see and if they haven't gone digital, they could easily exhaust all their film.
Mount Fuji is just a day away. I'm eager to see how that compares. It is said to be the most photographed object in the world. Thick clouds lay ahead. If its not raining I can bike up 7,000 of its 12,000 feet.
Later, George
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Matsumoto, Japan
Friends: These Japanese Alps are not misnamed. They are a vast array of stunning, snow-streaked peaks that rise dramatically and spectacularly above the tree line, piercing the sky with their knife-edged summits. They are all the more beautiful adorned by the colorful fall foliage. They could cozy up to L'Alpe d'Huez without any fear of an inferiority complex. They offer a host of beyond category climbs that would have had Henri Desgrange drooling to impose upon the Tour peloton.
The seven-mile climb from Ogimachi out of the Shokawa Valley on route 360 to Takayama was
mostly one-lane wide with a grade of ten per cent. There were mirrors at every hairpin turn. There was little traffic, as most opted for the nearby toll road. I was lucky the descent was a little wider and I didn't have to hold my breath in fear of on coming traffic or be as brake-happy as I would have if I'd been descending what I had climbed. I had Lance in mind, as it was on such a road outside of Nice where he crashed head-on into a car as he was training for the Sydney Olympics. He fractured a bone in his spine, but competed anyway.
The climb out of Takayama towards Matsumoto went on for over 20 miles, was broken by a tunnel and a couple mile descent, and then had a final coup de grace of five miles to over 6,000 feet. That was another largely one-laner at tern per cent that most traffic avoided by taking a long tunnel that was forbidden to bicyclists. The views were so spectacular that at least half the vehicles driving it were taxis. At just about every bulge in the road one had pulled over for picture-taking.
It was on this road that I received my first offering of food from a motorist in Japan. I may have willed it, as I had just been thinking about Thailand and how often Laurie and I had been given food and drink by passing motorists, especially on the climbs, even though none were as
challenging as this. The Japanese are as cordial and considerate as the Thais, but much more reserved. As I was pondering the contrast between the Land of Smiles and the Land of Bows, I came upon a woman stopped along the road collecting flowers. She saw me coming and stepped out holding a can of drink. I had passed her earlier, where I also noticed her foraging. I didn't care to give up what little momentum I had and took hold of the can while bowing and saying "arigato, arigato." But then she held out a plastic bag as well, forcing me to unclip from my pedals and stop. The bag contained a couple of warm brown eggs, as if they had just been boiled. She could well have submerged them in one of the hot springs along the road. They would be my first eggs of the trip. The convenience store sell hard boiled eggs, but at 63 yen, they are beyond my budget.
The woman spoke no English and did not test my Japanese, just returning to her car and driving off as I popped open a most welcome can of carrot juice and drank. I would have cracked into at least one of the eggs as well, but there was less than an hour of light before dark and I had no idea how much further it was to the summit. I needed to get over the top and descend at least a couple thousand feet. It was well that I saved the eggs for later as they were only soft-boiled. Still, they made a nice supplement to my nightly bowl of noodles. The summit came about 15
minutes later and I had time to plunge nearly 3,000 feet and 15 miles through a gorge before turning off the main road to a clearing for my tent along a stream feeding the main river. It concluded another superlative day of cycling.
Enough Westerners come to this city of Matsumoto to see its castle, that free English guide service is provided. One of the volunteers, a 50-year old woman taking the day off from her department store job, was available for me this morning. The castle, dating to 1600, has been designated a National Treasure. There are so many noteworthy castles in Japan that instead
of the usual grouping of three, there are four such castles deemed National Treasures. Only two of its original three moats remain. They are home to swans and carp. This castle has six levels. It was not a residence, rather a place to retreat to in case of attack. There were slots to drop stones on invaders and narrow windows for archers and riflemen. The archery slots were about twice the size as those for muskets. There were displays of the armaments and battle gear. The guide pointed out that the armored samurai warrior looked like Darth Vadar. We had to remove our shoes before entering the castle, but were given a plastic bag to carry our shoes in. This castle had an adjoining moon viewing pavilion. The moon could be viewed in three places--the sky, its reflection in the moat and its reflection in a sake bottle.
My guide said she too liked to travel and had been to the U.S. and Europe, but had never been to Hokkaido or Sado Island. Nor has she climbed Mount Fuji, just viewing it. She frequently visits Takayama, sixty miles away, as it retains its aura of the past, unlike Matsumoto and most Japanese cities, which are thoroughly modern and generic. The busloads of Japanese tourists at Takayama certainly testified to its appeal.
Later, George
The seven-mile climb from Ogimachi out of the Shokawa Valley on route 360 to Takayama was
mostly one-lane wide with a grade of ten per cent. There were mirrors at every hairpin turn. There was little traffic, as most opted for the nearby toll road. I was lucky the descent was a little wider and I didn't have to hold my breath in fear of on coming traffic or be as brake-happy as I would have if I'd been descending what I had climbed. I had Lance in mind, as it was on such a road outside of Nice where he crashed head-on into a car as he was training for the Sydney Olympics. He fractured a bone in his spine, but competed anyway.
The climb out of Takayama towards Matsumoto went on for over 20 miles, was broken by a tunnel and a couple mile descent, and then had a final coup de grace of five miles to over 6,000 feet. That was another largely one-laner at tern per cent that most traffic avoided by taking a long tunnel that was forbidden to bicyclists. The views were so spectacular that at least half the vehicles driving it were taxis. At just about every bulge in the road one had pulled over for picture-taking.
It was on this road that I received my first offering of food from a motorist in Japan. I may have willed it, as I had just been thinking about Thailand and how often Laurie and I had been given food and drink by passing motorists, especially on the climbs, even though none were as
challenging as this. The Japanese are as cordial and considerate as the Thais, but much more reserved. As I was pondering the contrast between the Land of Smiles and the Land of Bows, I came upon a woman stopped along the road collecting flowers. She saw me coming and stepped out holding a can of drink. I had passed her earlier, where I also noticed her foraging. I didn't care to give up what little momentum I had and took hold of the can while bowing and saying "arigato, arigato." But then she held out a plastic bag as well, forcing me to unclip from my pedals and stop. The bag contained a couple of warm brown eggs, as if they had just been boiled. She could well have submerged them in one of the hot springs along the road. They would be my first eggs of the trip. The convenience store sell hard boiled eggs, but at 63 yen, they are beyond my budget.
The woman spoke no English and did not test my Japanese, just returning to her car and driving off as I popped open a most welcome can of carrot juice and drank. I would have cracked into at least one of the eggs as well, but there was less than an hour of light before dark and I had no idea how much further it was to the summit. I needed to get over the top and descend at least a couple thousand feet. It was well that I saved the eggs for later as they were only soft-boiled. Still, they made a nice supplement to my nightly bowl of noodles. The summit came about 15
minutes later and I had time to plunge nearly 3,000 feet and 15 miles through a gorge before turning off the main road to a clearing for my tent along a stream feeding the main river. It concluded another superlative day of cycling.
Enough Westerners come to this city of Matsumoto to see its castle, that free English guide service is provided. One of the volunteers, a 50-year old woman taking the day off from her department store job, was available for me this morning. The castle, dating to 1600, has been designated a National Treasure. There are so many noteworthy castles in Japan that instead
of the usual grouping of three, there are four such castles deemed National Treasures. Only two of its original three moats remain. They are home to swans and carp. This castle has six levels. It was not a residence, rather a place to retreat to in case of attack. There were slots to drop stones on invaders and narrow windows for archers and riflemen. The archery slots were about twice the size as those for muskets. There were displays of the armaments and battle gear. The guide pointed out that the armored samurai warrior looked like Darth Vadar. We had to remove our shoes before entering the castle, but were given a plastic bag to carry our shoes in. This castle had an adjoining moon viewing pavilion. The moon could be viewed in three places--the sky, its reflection in the moat and its reflection in a sake bottle.
My guide said she too liked to travel and had been to the U.S. and Europe, but had never been to Hokkaido or Sado Island. Nor has she climbed Mount Fuji, just viewing it. She frequently visits Takayama, sixty miles away, as it retains its aura of the past, unlike Matsumoto and most Japanese cities, which are thoroughly modern and generic. The busloads of Japanese tourists at Takayama certainly testified to its appeal.
Later, George
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Takayama, Japan
Friends: Ten days remain in these travels. As I meander towards Mount Fuji, I have a variety of sights I can detour to--castles, temples, old traditional villages, a hot spring that attracts monkeys. The tourist attractions quickly grow stale and tiresome, however, and rarely live up to their hype. What I randomly see along the road seems more interesting and real. Taking time to join the tourists is time spent off the bike, where I truly long to be. That elevates and perks my spirit and reveals more about where I am and who I am than anything. Whatever I happen upon and discover on my own gives the most satisfaction.
Several times I've had the good fortune of happening upon a Little League baseball game. Watching kids at play appeals to me much more than wandering through an old castle. It offers as much insight into the people I am amongst and their culture than anything. Its late in the year to be playing baseball, so I may have been witnessing a championship game. With an umpire at each base, that would have been the case in most places, but here in Japan, where efficiency and detail is given priority, that may be how it is always done. There was no celebration at the game's end, just a lot of bowing. The two teams lined up facing each other from the pitcher's mound to home plate and then bowed to one another. Then they each went to the opposing team's fans, neatly lined up, and bowed. They concluded their bowing with bows to their own supporters. I saw no stupendous play, just a lot of hustle and backing one another up. The only lassitude came from the third base coaches, who were also kids. They were very very blase in telling base runners what to do, pretty much leaving it up to them.
After several weeks in a foreign land some recurring site or object will often emerge as something uniquely representative of the country. I enjoy a quick flutter of delight whenever I spot another. They are frequently something commonplace and mundane, something I barely paid any notice initially. But in time I come to appreciate them and detect that each has a distinctive character. They become an object of art. If I were a photographer, I would want to
photograph them and compile them into coffee-table book. In India it was bullock carts and their oxen. In France the village fontaines captured my imagination. I frequently filled my water bottles with their cool refreshing water. Many of the fontaines were part of a fountain in a town square. In Cuba my eye was continually captured by the vintage American cars. In
Iceland I was enraptured by the emergency huts along the road that provided shelter from severe weather. Vietnam abounded with bicycles overloaded with all manner of goods. Australia provided a gallery of working class men in navy blue singlets.
Japan offers several recurring sites worthy of a coffee-table book. One is the neat and tidy mini-botanical gardens around many people's homes. Another is the pocket-sized shrines and temples that appear here and there along the road. Lately, tunnel entrances have been emerging as one of my favorite sites. There is quite a variety to them. Some are adorned with a mini-mural or a painting of a product unique to the region--an apple or a flower or an animal. There is great variety to their surroundings and landscaping. I have spent a lot of time in tunnels here, often minutes and miles at a time, and don't necessarily regret it. Riding through a tunnel is an entirely different sensory experience than being out in the open and in the sun. Tunnels slow time and heighten the senses. Tunnels magnify sound. It is often difficult to determine whether a vehicle is bearing down on me from the front or the rear. Tunnels take me into a different world, protected from wind and sun and rain and they are generally flat, making them easier on the legs. But it is always a relief to make their exit. I feel as if I have been reborn emerging into fresh air and panoramic surroundings and relative quiet.
Perhaps the oddest sites I have seen in Japan, those that give me the greatest charge, are the gigantic bowling pins that stand atop or in front of bowling alleys. They are totems that can be seen from a great distance. When on the roof of a multi-story building, they could be the highest object in a city, a space ordinarily reserved for church steeples or observation towers or TV antennas. They stand so tall and so noble, a visitor from another planet might take them to be an object of worship or reverence, which they might well be. Bowling alleys could be found anywhere, in the heart of a city or on its outskirts in a mall or off on its own. If I go several days without seeing a pin, I feel deprived and make an effort to seek out the local bowling alley, curious to see what manner of pin marks it. The bowling pins are just one of many over-sized objects that populate Japan. There are bears and lobsters and insects and apples and fish, each stirring the imagination. They are all a symptom of the Japanese Godzilla complex and their fascination with the gigantic. Godzilla, that 150-foot tall mutant dinosaur, is by far the most popular Japanese cinematic figure. The first Godzilla movie was in 1954. It was so popular, there have been 27 sequels, each a big hit, ranking among the highest grossing films every year.
There are also some distinctive Japanese mannerisms that I have developed a fondness for. I am charmed whenever I am told "stop" or "no entry" or "not possible" or "go away," especially when it is accompanied by the gesture of crossed forearms held against the chest. I never like to be refused entry to some place I'd like to go, but the way I am told lessens the pain. It is often someone in uniform--a security guard or someone working on a road construction crew.
Later, George
Several times I've had the good fortune of happening upon a Little League baseball game. Watching kids at play appeals to me much more than wandering through an old castle. It offers as much insight into the people I am amongst and their culture than anything. Its late in the year to be playing baseball, so I may have been witnessing a championship game. With an umpire at each base, that would have been the case in most places, but here in Japan, where efficiency and detail is given priority, that may be how it is always done. There was no celebration at the game's end, just a lot of bowing. The two teams lined up facing each other from the pitcher's mound to home plate and then bowed to one another. Then they each went to the opposing team's fans, neatly lined up, and bowed. They concluded their bowing with bows to their own supporters. I saw no stupendous play, just a lot of hustle and backing one another up. The only lassitude came from the third base coaches, who were also kids. They were very very blase in telling base runners what to do, pretty much leaving it up to them.
After several weeks in a foreign land some recurring site or object will often emerge as something uniquely representative of the country. I enjoy a quick flutter of delight whenever I spot another. They are frequently something commonplace and mundane, something I barely paid any notice initially. But in time I come to appreciate them and detect that each has a distinctive character. They become an object of art. If I were a photographer, I would want to
photograph them and compile them into coffee-table book. In India it was bullock carts and their oxen. In France the village fontaines captured my imagination. I frequently filled my water bottles with their cool refreshing water. Many of the fontaines were part of a fountain in a town square. In Cuba my eye was continually captured by the vintage American cars. In
Iceland I was enraptured by the emergency huts along the road that provided shelter from severe weather. Vietnam abounded with bicycles overloaded with all manner of goods. Australia provided a gallery of working class men in navy blue singlets.
Japan offers several recurring sites worthy of a coffee-table book. One is the neat and tidy mini-botanical gardens around many people's homes. Another is the pocket-sized shrines and temples that appear here and there along the road. Lately, tunnel entrances have been emerging as one of my favorite sites. There is quite a variety to them. Some are adorned with a mini-mural or a painting of a product unique to the region--an apple or a flower or an animal. There is great variety to their surroundings and landscaping. I have spent a lot of time in tunnels here, often minutes and miles at a time, and don't necessarily regret it. Riding through a tunnel is an entirely different sensory experience than being out in the open and in the sun. Tunnels slow time and heighten the senses. Tunnels magnify sound. It is often difficult to determine whether a vehicle is bearing down on me from the front or the rear. Tunnels take me into a different world, protected from wind and sun and rain and they are generally flat, making them easier on the legs. But it is always a relief to make their exit. I feel as if I have been reborn emerging into fresh air and panoramic surroundings and relative quiet.
Perhaps the oddest sites I have seen in Japan, those that give me the greatest charge, are the gigantic bowling pins that stand atop or in front of bowling alleys. They are totems that can be seen from a great distance. When on the roof of a multi-story building, they could be the highest object in a city, a space ordinarily reserved for church steeples or observation towers or TV antennas. They stand so tall and so noble, a visitor from another planet might take them to be an object of worship or reverence, which they might well be. Bowling alleys could be found anywhere, in the heart of a city or on its outskirts in a mall or off on its own. If I go several days without seeing a pin, I feel deprived and make an effort to seek out the local bowling alley, curious to see what manner of pin marks it. The bowling pins are just one of many over-sized objects that populate Japan. There are bears and lobsters and insects and apples and fish, each stirring the imagination. They are all a symptom of the Japanese Godzilla complex and their fascination with the gigantic. Godzilla, that 150-foot tall mutant dinosaur, is by far the most popular Japanese cinematic figure. The first Godzilla movie was in 1954. It was so popular, there have been 27 sequels, each a big hit, ranking among the highest grossing films every year.
There are also some distinctive Japanese mannerisms that I have developed a fondness for. I am charmed whenever I am told "stop" or "no entry" or "not possible" or "go away," especially when it is accompanied by the gesture of crossed forearms held against the chest. I never like to be refused entry to some place I'd like to go, but the way I am told lessens the pain. It is often someone in uniform--a security guard or someone working on a road construction crew.
Later, George
Monday, October 16, 2006
Toyama, Japan
Friends: I did as many had before me and left a yen coin at the temple atop Ono-gam, a 600-foot high rock at the tip of Sado Island, and was immediately blessed. Ono-gam is one of the three largest rocks in Japan and it was a steep and somewhat treacherous hike to its summit. The Japanese like to group their exemplary sites and events and other items in sets of three. It allows them to spread the credit and not to give exception to one single item. Rather than identifying a rock as the largest in Japan, it is called one of the three largest. The same goes for other superlatives--the three biggest limestone caves, three most delicious types of chicken, top three festivals, most famous hot springs, waterfalls, spirit mountains, etc. etc.
It wasn't the rock that drew me to Sado Island, the second largest after Okinawa of Japan's nearly 4,000 secondary islands besides the major four that comprise the bulk of the country. Rather it was a gold and silver mine dating to 1601 and was in operation until 1989. At its height of operation in the late 1600s, it rivaled the Potosi mine in Bolivia as the most productive in the world. It was laced by 250 miles of tunnels, some that are now open to the public.
Presently the most fascinating aspect of this Japanese mine is that its many exhibits are staffed by robots performing the chores of the miners--hammering and chiseling and draining and eating and engaging in a ritual celebrating the discovery a new vein, hoping it will be a productive one. The robots are very life-like mannequins, who also grunt and talk. Wherever they are found, they are accompanied by a sign in English and Japanese warning, "Do not touch the robots."
The mine was just a mile-and-a-half from the Sea of Japan, up a steep incline from the town of Aikawa, about half-way around the 125-mile perimeter road starting from the main ferry terminal. There was hardly any traffic on the road, making for truly idyllic bicycling on narrow roads along a coastline. It was a two-and-a-half hour ferry ride out to Sado, barely discernible in the haze from the main island of Honshu. Sado was formerly a place of exile for politicians and others who fell into disfavor. I could have been perfectly content spending days going round and round the island past all the small fishing villages and patches of agriculture. There are just a couple of roads that intersect the mountainous interior of the island. There is so little traffic that tour guides stop their bus or van in the middle of one-lane bridges for the tourists to gaze over the edge and out to sea. There are many stretches where the cliff sides are so steep, and a tunnel has yet to be cut through, that the road is just one-lane wide.
I had a couple of strokes of good fortune after my pilgrimage to the top of Ono-gam, where a deity resides according to local lore. When I returned to my bike I found my cycling gloves in one of my front panniers. I thought I had left them at the last Internet Cafe. It had been the most expensive of the trip at 700 yen for an hour. The presumed loss of my gloves there made it even more expensive. Finding my gloves 24 hours after I thought I had lost them was good luck. Later that day I experienced a genuine miracle. As I was setting up my tent in a baseball field just a couple blocks from the ferry at Akadomari, a tent pole I lost over two weeks ago mysteriously reappeared. It had somehow slipped over another pole and had remained hidden there for two weeks. It was a major disaster when it turned up missing, almost enough to make me double back 75-miles to my previous night's campsite to retrieve it.
I had splintered the end of one my poles in the middle of a stretch of ten of them that were all connected by an inner cord the night before its disappearance. I had to cut the connecting cord and piece the poles together each night. Somehow I managed to lose one of those ten poles and had to make do with just nine. Not all the pole segments were the same, so it was tricky finding the right order when I went to piece them together each night. For over two weeks I had to endure a lop-sided tent with one ten-pole arch and the other nine.
I thought I had experienced a semi-miracle the night I discovered I was a pole short, as at that campsite I found an industrial-strength hard plastic straw that just barely fit over the end of my poles and lengthened it a few inches. It was the night I camped with Eelco the Dutchman at a campsite I never would have chosen on my own--in a meadow in the open on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Eelco had had tent pole maladies himself when his tent was scrunched in the flash flood in China. He had reinforced his poles with chopsticks. I tried doing that myself, but my poles weren't wide enough to accept them.
With my improvisations my tent was no longer free-standing. If I camped on ground too hard to prevent me from staking it out, it wouldn't hold together. Luckily I hadn't had such a campsite until last night, the night after I discovered the missing pole. I was on a prolonged stretch of rugged coastline with one tunnel after another. It looked as if I'd have to be very creative in finding a nook to place my tent. But then after one of the tunnels there was an open space. It led to the former road that wound around the cliff before a tunnel had been carved through it. The road hadn't been fenced off, but there were posts barricading cars and also a sign warning of bears. I didn't take the bear warning too seriously, as the terrain was straight up and down. However, if there had been a bottle of urine nearby, I would have sprinkled it in the vicinity to mark my turf. Instead, all I had were smelly socks to dangle from my bike to emphasize "Human present."
I've had a few bear encounters on my tours, one along the Alaskan Highway as I was wild camping and another time in British Columbia when I inadvertently camped near a small town's dump and some dump bear came by my tent when I was gone and nosed his way in through the mosquito netting and bit into each of my water bottles and my Tupperware bowl hoping to find something good to eat. When he didn't, he plopped down on my tent, collapsing it and pretzeling all my tent poles. Another time as I was camped alongside the Alaskan Highway a passing bear came ambling toward my tent. A passing motorist happened to glimpse it. He roared to my rescue, blasting his horn. He scared off the bear and stood guard until I had disassembled my tent and gotten back on the road.
There were quite a few fallen leaves on this former road. I gathered them up and laid them under my tent to soften my sleeping pad. I was happy to have just regained the free-standing capabilities of my tent to erect it on the concrete. It turned out to be one of my better campsites. I was far enough from the road to insulate me from the sound of traffic. All I heard was the rhythmic crashing of the waves several hundred feet below.
Toyama is one of the handful of medium-sized cities that has kiernan bike racing. Unfortunately, the next match isn't until Sunday. The snow-covered Japanese Alps await me inland. Then its on to Mount Fuji.
Later, George
It wasn't the rock that drew me to Sado Island, the second largest after Okinawa of Japan's nearly 4,000 secondary islands besides the major four that comprise the bulk of the country. Rather it was a gold and silver mine dating to 1601 and was in operation until 1989. At its height of operation in the late 1600s, it rivaled the Potosi mine in Bolivia as the most productive in the world. It was laced by 250 miles of tunnels, some that are now open to the public.
Presently the most fascinating aspect of this Japanese mine is that its many exhibits are staffed by robots performing the chores of the miners--hammering and chiseling and draining and eating and engaging in a ritual celebrating the discovery a new vein, hoping it will be a productive one. The robots are very life-like mannequins, who also grunt and talk. Wherever they are found, they are accompanied by a sign in English and Japanese warning, "Do not touch the robots."
The mine was just a mile-and-a-half from the Sea of Japan, up a steep incline from the town of Aikawa, about half-way around the 125-mile perimeter road starting from the main ferry terminal. There was hardly any traffic on the road, making for truly idyllic bicycling on narrow roads along a coastline. It was a two-and-a-half hour ferry ride out to Sado, barely discernible in the haze from the main island of Honshu. Sado was formerly a place of exile for politicians and others who fell into disfavor. I could have been perfectly content spending days going round and round the island past all the small fishing villages and patches of agriculture. There are just a couple of roads that intersect the mountainous interior of the island. There is so little traffic that tour guides stop their bus or van in the middle of one-lane bridges for the tourists to gaze over the edge and out to sea. There are many stretches where the cliff sides are so steep, and a tunnel has yet to be cut through, that the road is just one-lane wide.
I had a couple of strokes of good fortune after my pilgrimage to the top of Ono-gam, where a deity resides according to local lore. When I returned to my bike I found my cycling gloves in one of my front panniers. I thought I had left them at the last Internet Cafe. It had been the most expensive of the trip at 700 yen for an hour. The presumed loss of my gloves there made it even more expensive. Finding my gloves 24 hours after I thought I had lost them was good luck. Later that day I experienced a genuine miracle. As I was setting up my tent in a baseball field just a couple blocks from the ferry at Akadomari, a tent pole I lost over two weeks ago mysteriously reappeared. It had somehow slipped over another pole and had remained hidden there for two weeks. It was a major disaster when it turned up missing, almost enough to make me double back 75-miles to my previous night's campsite to retrieve it.
I had splintered the end of one my poles in the middle of a stretch of ten of them that were all connected by an inner cord the night before its disappearance. I had to cut the connecting cord and piece the poles together each night. Somehow I managed to lose one of those ten poles and had to make do with just nine. Not all the pole segments were the same, so it was tricky finding the right order when I went to piece them together each night. For over two weeks I had to endure a lop-sided tent with one ten-pole arch and the other nine.
I thought I had experienced a semi-miracle the night I discovered I was a pole short, as at that campsite I found an industrial-strength hard plastic straw that just barely fit over the end of my poles and lengthened it a few inches. It was the night I camped with Eelco the Dutchman at a campsite I never would have chosen on my own--in a meadow in the open on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Eelco had had tent pole maladies himself when his tent was scrunched in the flash flood in China. He had reinforced his poles with chopsticks. I tried doing that myself, but my poles weren't wide enough to accept them.
With my improvisations my tent was no longer free-standing. If I camped on ground too hard to prevent me from staking it out, it wouldn't hold together. Luckily I hadn't had such a campsite until last night, the night after I discovered the missing pole. I was on a prolonged stretch of rugged coastline with one tunnel after another. It looked as if I'd have to be very creative in finding a nook to place my tent. But then after one of the tunnels there was an open space. It led to the former road that wound around the cliff before a tunnel had been carved through it. The road hadn't been fenced off, but there were posts barricading cars and also a sign warning of bears. I didn't take the bear warning too seriously, as the terrain was straight up and down. However, if there had been a bottle of urine nearby, I would have sprinkled it in the vicinity to mark my turf. Instead, all I had were smelly socks to dangle from my bike to emphasize "Human present."
I've had a few bear encounters on my tours, one along the Alaskan Highway as I was wild camping and another time in British Columbia when I inadvertently camped near a small town's dump and some dump bear came by my tent when I was gone and nosed his way in through the mosquito netting and bit into each of my water bottles and my Tupperware bowl hoping to find something good to eat. When he didn't, he plopped down on my tent, collapsing it and pretzeling all my tent poles. Another time as I was camped alongside the Alaskan Highway a passing bear came ambling toward my tent. A passing motorist happened to glimpse it. He roared to my rescue, blasting his horn. He scared off the bear and stood guard until I had disassembled my tent and gotten back on the road.
There were quite a few fallen leaves on this former road. I gathered them up and laid them under my tent to soften my sleeping pad. I was happy to have just regained the free-standing capabilities of my tent to erect it on the concrete. It turned out to be one of my better campsites. I was far enough from the road to insulate me from the sound of traffic. All I heard was the rhythmic crashing of the waves several hundred feet below.
Toyama is one of the handful of medium-sized cities that has kiernan bike racing. Unfortunately, the next match isn't until Sunday. The snow-covered Japanese Alps await me inland. Then its on to Mount Fuji.
Later, George
Friday, October 13, 2006
Niigata, Japan
Friends: As I pulled into a rest area early yesterday morning to replenish my water bottles, I noticed off to the side against a curb four full 16-ounce juice and soft drink bottles that must have fallen from someone's vehicle that night--a mini-bonanza for me. As I neared them my heart sank, as one of the bottles was a coke bottle filled with an all-too-familiar pallid yellow solution. Foiled again. Discarded bottles of urine are a frequent item along the roads here, more than I've ever encountered, despite the abundance of toilets at rest areas and convenience stores. The truck drivers, like all the Japanese, are relentless in their diligence to their work.
I first became aware of urine in bottles in Chicago's downtown as I messengered, thanks to the
city's cab drivers. After having been tricked into thinking I'd come upon a bottle of Welch's white grape juice once, I look very closely at the seal and contents of any bottles I find along the road. Most bottles are just partially filled, but there is that occasional bottle, masterfully filled to the top. My grape juice happened in the dead of winter and was frozen solid. Fortunately before it had thawed, my eye caught the word red on the label and I was saved. Wash cloths are another item I see with regularity along the roads here. But like the many gloves I come upon, they
are not a discarded item, rather a lost item from someone bound for and leaving the local bath house or hot spring.
Girlie magazines, along with the urine bottles, are about the only true litter I find. On Hokkaido
hardly a day passed that I didn't come upon at least one magazine. I always stop for them thinking there might be a worthwhile interview or article and that I might learn something. Plus I'm cleaning up the roadside and maybe saving some youth from corruption.
After a while it began to be a problem of how to dispose of all the magazines I was collecting, evidently the same problem faced by those who were tossing them. About the only litter receptacles I see are outside the convenience stores for recycling and its hard to be discreet
there. There are three categories--combustibles, plastic bottles and metal cans. The
combustibles container is often overflowing, with a pile of small plastic bags full of litter
piled in front of it. Japan burns 75% of its refuse and the people seem very diligent about recycling. I had noticed an occasional garbage receptacle along the highway that were on posts so one could just roll down their window and deposit their garbage. After a while it dawned on me I was only seeing them on inclines. I thought maybe it was because I was going slower and paying more attention. They had windows and I could peer in and see plastic bags inside. At last I had a place to discreetly discard the magazines. It was then I discovered they were filled with bags of sand for stuck motorists. Still, they offered a nice place to place my magazines, a treat for someone in need. I placed enough that I could well have started a trend. I'll have to come back in a couple of years and see how well it has caught on.
Yesterday was a day of being misled. I thought I had discovered peanut butter. Among the jams were small card-board containers, the same size as the jams, with nuts on them. It turned out to be some sort of peanut jelly that was almost caramel-flavored. I treated it as peanut butter anyway, spreading it on my bread and adding jam and making a sandwich of it--open-faced though, as the bread is sliced so thick one needs a mouth the size of a sumo wrestler to fit two slices into it. The standard loaf is six slices, lily-white, and priced from 128 yen on sale to 208 yen. I'm not sure of its nutritional value.
I finally found a bowl of noodles with a distinctive and pleasing flavor that I search out in
the usual aisle full of such items. And at 841 calories for 176 yen, it well exceeds my three
calories for one yen buying criteria. It is nice to have something that pleases my taste buds to look forward to, as I had been growing weary of my heavy noodle diet.
I'm often up and on the road by six a.m. trying to maximize the minimal daylight. I occasionally hit a tourist site well before its opening. Like the Sumo Museum on Hokkaido, they are sometimes open anyway. Such was the case with an Ainu Village in Hokkaido, a cluster of the large-scale, Mauri/Polynesian-style thatched dwellings of the indigenous people of Hokkaido.
Yesterday I arrived at a Buddhist Temple that housed a mummy of a famed monk at 7:30 a.m. It wasn't open yet, but shortly after I arrived the caretaker drove up saying he would open it momentarily. It gave me a chance to wander the grounds of small temples and Buddhas and a pond of gold fish and cemetery. When I returned to the temple the caretaker was awaiting me, wearing a black robe and reeking of tobacco. He pointed at my feet and said "shoes," reminding me to remove them, and then ushered me to the mummy in a glass case. It was sitting in an
upright position with legs crossed, head bowed and hands opened upward. It was one of 20 such mummies in all of Japan, 16 of which were in these region, a most holy area of Japan. This monk had followed a procedure of starving himself to death and achieving "Buddhahood in the flesh." The caretaker monk offered me tea and then pored over a map of the region advising me the best way to continue on. I had been hoping to take a small side road but he said it was
gravel and very rough.
Later, George
I first became aware of urine in bottles in Chicago's downtown as I messengered, thanks to the
city's cab drivers. After having been tricked into thinking I'd come upon a bottle of Welch's white grape juice once, I look very closely at the seal and contents of any bottles I find along the road. Most bottles are just partially filled, but there is that occasional bottle, masterfully filled to the top. My grape juice happened in the dead of winter and was frozen solid. Fortunately before it had thawed, my eye caught the word red on the label and I was saved. Wash cloths are another item I see with regularity along the roads here. But like the many gloves I come upon, they
are not a discarded item, rather a lost item from someone bound for and leaving the local bath house or hot spring.
Girlie magazines, along with the urine bottles, are about the only true litter I find. On Hokkaido
hardly a day passed that I didn't come upon at least one magazine. I always stop for them thinking there might be a worthwhile interview or article and that I might learn something. Plus I'm cleaning up the roadside and maybe saving some youth from corruption.
After a while it began to be a problem of how to dispose of all the magazines I was collecting, evidently the same problem faced by those who were tossing them. About the only litter receptacles I see are outside the convenience stores for recycling and its hard to be discreet
there. There are three categories--combustibles, plastic bottles and metal cans. The
combustibles container is often overflowing, with a pile of small plastic bags full of litter
piled in front of it. Japan burns 75% of its refuse and the people seem very diligent about recycling. I had noticed an occasional garbage receptacle along the highway that were on posts so one could just roll down their window and deposit their garbage. After a while it dawned on me I was only seeing them on inclines. I thought maybe it was because I was going slower and paying more attention. They had windows and I could peer in and see plastic bags inside. At last I had a place to discreetly discard the magazines. It was then I discovered they were filled with bags of sand for stuck motorists. Still, they offered a nice place to place my magazines, a treat for someone in need. I placed enough that I could well have started a trend. I'll have to come back in a couple of years and see how well it has caught on.
Yesterday was a day of being misled. I thought I had discovered peanut butter. Among the jams were small card-board containers, the same size as the jams, with nuts on them. It turned out to be some sort of peanut jelly that was almost caramel-flavored. I treated it as peanut butter anyway, spreading it on my bread and adding jam and making a sandwich of it--open-faced though, as the bread is sliced so thick one needs a mouth the size of a sumo wrestler to fit two slices into it. The standard loaf is six slices, lily-white, and priced from 128 yen on sale to 208 yen. I'm not sure of its nutritional value.
I finally found a bowl of noodles with a distinctive and pleasing flavor that I search out in
the usual aisle full of such items. And at 841 calories for 176 yen, it well exceeds my three
calories for one yen buying criteria. It is nice to have something that pleases my taste buds to look forward to, as I had been growing weary of my heavy noodle diet.
I'm often up and on the road by six a.m. trying to maximize the minimal daylight. I occasionally hit a tourist site well before its opening. Like the Sumo Museum on Hokkaido, they are sometimes open anyway. Such was the case with an Ainu Village in Hokkaido, a cluster of the large-scale, Mauri/Polynesian-style thatched dwellings of the indigenous people of Hokkaido.
Yesterday I arrived at a Buddhist Temple that housed a mummy of a famed monk at 7:30 a.m. It wasn't open yet, but shortly after I arrived the caretaker drove up saying he would open it momentarily. It gave me a chance to wander the grounds of small temples and Buddhas and a pond of gold fish and cemetery. When I returned to the temple the caretaker was awaiting me, wearing a black robe and reeking of tobacco. He pointed at my feet and said "shoes," reminding me to remove them, and then ushered me to the mummy in a glass case. It was sitting in an
upright position with legs crossed, head bowed and hands opened upward. It was one of 20 such mummies in all of Japan, 16 of which were in these region, a most holy area of Japan. This monk had followed a procedure of starving himself to death and achieving "Buddhahood in the flesh." The caretaker monk offered me tea and then pored over a map of the region advising me the best way to continue on. I had been hoping to take a small side road but he said it was
gravel and very rough.
Later, George
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Tsurako, Japan
Friends: I am in a nice stretch of tourist sites that attract the Japanese, but not noteworthy enough for the Westerner on a two or three week tour. The tourist offices have all had free Internet, a welcome bonus after finding so few on Hakkaido.
Even though they are not in bloom, the 300-year old cherry trees of Kakunodate are a site to behold, full-bodied and majestic, nobly perched on an embankment along a twisting river, standing in pairs flanking an enchanting walkway with periodic benches. During the spring cherry blossom season they are one of the highlights for those who make a northerly pilgrimage to as many of the cherry tree sites as they can.
Kakunodate is also known for a several block area of historic homes, known as the "Samurai District." The town calls itself "Little Kyoto." Even on a Wednesday afternoon in the fall there were a good number of Japanese tourists strolling the grounds of the many homes, a few pulled by rickshaw tour guides. The gardens of bonsai trees and rocks around the old one-story wooden homes were often as noteworthy as the homes. There was one area of garden plots. It was like walking through a museum looking at one painting after another, each of the plots distinctively arranged with plants and rocks.
It is not uncommon to see such well-sculptured gardens in people's yards as I'm bicycling along.
There are few traditional homes, mostly conventional box houses that could be anywhere, but their gardens are distinctly and pleasingly Japanese. There are also occasional Shinto and Buddhist shrines along the road that provide a nice spot for a peaceful break. Rarely do I encounter anyone else at them.
I've been in apple orchard country the last two hundred miles, many of them unharvested, the tress thick with large, lush red fruit and unfenced, as there is no need to fear banditry in this country of such law-abiding citizens. Rarely do I see people lock their bikes, unless they're leaving it all day at a train station. It is common for people to leave their cars running when they duck into the mini-mart. I thought it was a given that I would spend at least one night camping in one of these orchards, but they have all been small and clustered close to a home, unfit for wild camping. Last night I ended up behind a boarded-up business in a somewhat gravelly
yard that just barely allowed my tent stakes to grab hold. When it started raining at two am I feared lack of drainage could leave me in a pool of water. I did have a little seepage, but nothing drastic.
Miraculously, the rain let up after a couple of hours, though I remained under a thick, threatening cloud cover all day. There are three sacred mountains within 25 miles of here that are presently cloaked in clouds. I'll be camping in their midst, hoping for the skies to clear tomorrow.
Later, George
Even though they are not in bloom, the 300-year old cherry trees of Kakunodate are a site to behold, full-bodied and majestic, nobly perched on an embankment along a twisting river, standing in pairs flanking an enchanting walkway with periodic benches. During the spring cherry blossom season they are one of the highlights for those who make a northerly pilgrimage to as many of the cherry tree sites as they can.
Kakunodate is also known for a several block area of historic homes, known as the "Samurai District." The town calls itself "Little Kyoto." Even on a Wednesday afternoon in the fall there were a good number of Japanese tourists strolling the grounds of the many homes, a few pulled by rickshaw tour guides. The gardens of bonsai trees and rocks around the old one-story wooden homes were often as noteworthy as the homes. There was one area of garden plots. It was like walking through a museum looking at one painting after another, each of the plots distinctively arranged with plants and rocks.
It is not uncommon to see such well-sculptured gardens in people's yards as I'm bicycling along.
There are few traditional homes, mostly conventional box houses that could be anywhere, but their gardens are distinctly and pleasingly Japanese. There are also occasional Shinto and Buddhist shrines along the road that provide a nice spot for a peaceful break. Rarely do I encounter anyone else at them.
I've been in apple orchard country the last two hundred miles, many of them unharvested, the tress thick with large, lush red fruit and unfenced, as there is no need to fear banditry in this country of such law-abiding citizens. Rarely do I see people lock their bikes, unless they're leaving it all day at a train station. It is common for people to leave their cars running when they duck into the mini-mart. I thought it was a given that I would spend at least one night camping in one of these orchards, but they have all been small and clustered close to a home, unfit for wild camping. Last night I ended up behind a boarded-up business in a somewhat gravelly
yard that just barely allowed my tent stakes to grab hold. When it started raining at two am I feared lack of drainage could leave me in a pool of water. I did have a little seepage, but nothing drastic.
Miraculously, the rain let up after a couple of hours, though I remained under a thick, threatening cloud cover all day. There are three sacred mountains within 25 miles of here that are presently cloaked in clouds. I'll be camping in their midst, hoping for the skies to clear tomorrow.
Later, George
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