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Chapter 12

At Least the Frog Was Happy

June 20, 2018

On the morning I planned to climb Mount Ibuki (伊吹山) (1,377 meters), I woke to the heavy drum of rain against the hotel window. Uncertain whether it was safe to climb, I checked a number of online trail guides. None of them mentioned the trail becoming hazardous in rain. Since I knew that Mount Ibuki had a hiking trail up one side and a scenic highway up the other, with regular bus service connecting the visitor center on the mountaintop with Sekigahara Station on the far side of the peak, I decided to make the climb. If the rain continued, I would simply take a bus back down.

As I dressed for the hike, I discovered I had left my waterproof rain pants back in Tokyo. I remembered seeing some plastic pants at the conbini (convenience store) between my hotel and the station, so I hurried down the street and bought a pair. After a pit stop in the bathroom to pull the rain gear over my hiking pants, I caught the 7 a.m. bus to the trailhead.

The fact that I was the only hiker on the bus, combined with the driver’s wide-eyed stare as I disembarked at the trailhead, should have been valuable clues that this was a bad idea. However, like any good B-movie victim, I ignored the warning signs.

By 7:45 a.m. I had left the trailhead far behind and the rain had become a downpour that transformed the rocky trail into a series of small waterfalls connected by puddles the size of pizzas. A fist-sized reddish frog with huge brown eyes stared up at me from the center of one such puddle. I stopped to take his picture and continued up the trail.

In the early 2000s Mount Ibuki was home to a popular ski resort with motorized lifts and a ski-in, ski-out hotel located partway up the slope. Lack of snowfall put the ski resort out of business, but the abandoned buildings and derelict lifts remain. I had read about them in the online trail guides, so when I emerged from the forested lower slopes, the decaying resort didn’t take me entirely by surprise.

That said, the rain and the fact that I was the only hiker on the mountain changed what might have been merely weird into a post-apocalyptic wasteland. I half expected to see a horde of zombies shamble out of the ruined buildings, intent on devouring my brains.

Needless to say, I didn’t linger long.

The rain slowed to a drizzle as I left the resort behind, still mercifully in possession of my brains. (Although if I’d been using them, I would have turned back down the mountain then.)

Just before I reached Fifth Station—the supposed halfway mark—a wild deer bounded across the trail. I caught only a momentary glimpse of light brown fur and a flash of tail, but it lifted my sodden spirit and made me feel much less alone.

Above Sixth Station, the trail grew steep and narrow. There were no trees to shelter me from the rain, which had resumed, much heavier than before. Each step became an exercise in balance as I struggled up the increasingly wet and slippery trail. I tried not to think about what I’d do if I were injured in a fall.

I pushed myself to the limits of my strength and will, but barely reached the Seventh Station by the time I’d calculated as the latest I could reach the summit and return to the trailhead in time to catch the final bus.

I had to make a critical decision.

I looked back down the trail, which had become a muddy stream.

You cannot climb back down that without falling.

A painful lump rose in my throat.

People died on the hyakumeizan almost every year. I knew that fact when I made my plans, and yet, somehow, I had assumed the mountains would be easier. I believed I could overcome my fear of risk without putting myself in any real danger. I had clung to those beliefs despite what I had seen on prior climbs, and now I found myself confronted with a truth that did not match my imagination.

It was stick-horse racing all over again.

As a little girl, stick horses were my passion. I had four, and I rode them in my backyard every day. I constructed jumping courses from flowerpots and overturned patio furniture, and ran through the yard, imagining myself astride a stallion, winning gold in the Olympic Games.

One afternoon when a friend came over, I suggested we have a stick-horse race. We picked our mounts and arranged the course. I shouted, “Go!” and started off at the skipping pace that (in my head) mimicked the gait of a real horse.

My friend ran straight for the finish line as fast as she could, holding the stick horse in front of her and making no attempt to “ride.”

She won, of course, and my dream was shattered. I wasn’t a gold-medal rider on a magnificent, prancing stallion. I was a chubby kid in Coke-bottle glasses grasping a sock attached to a stick that I desperately wished was a real horse.

As I stood alone, high on Mount Ibuki, once again my visions of victory dissolved in puddles at my feet. I cried, both for my current self and for the injured child who longed for greatness far beyond her reach.

Forty-seven years old, and I was still that little girl.

I don’t want to be a failure anymore, my injured child-self cried.

Tears flowed freely down my face. I looked at the rocky trail below and at the mist that concealed the trail ahead.

Up was terrifying.

Down was worse.

Every muscle in my body ached. I had pushed myself beyond what I could handle, and yet I could not give up. Somehow, I had to get off the mountain.

I wanted the rain to stop and the rocks to dry. I wanted to feel strong and safe. I wanted to succeed. Most of all, I wanted a bus.

I had passed the Seventh Station. As between the bus at the trailhead and the one at the top of the mountain, the top was closer.

Decision made.

In the hour that followed I lost the trail three times and had to double back along the rocks to find my way. With every step, my aching thighs and pounding feet hurt worse. My fingers scraped against the stones as I grasped for balance. More than once, I accidentally grabbed one of the giant earthworms that emerged from the ground to escape the watery mud.

I was hungry, exhausted, and terrified that I would fall or that my dwindling strength would fail before I reached the top.

My inner voice chimed in.

For once it didn’t work against me.

Take one step. Just one step more. You don’t have to climb the entire mountain right this minute. You just have to take one step.

I took that step. And another. And another, until I finally dragged my muddy, rain-soaked body over the final rise and past the marker for Station Ten, where the trail evened out for the final hundred yards to the summit. I splashed along it, only to stop in disbelief at the sight of a 10-foot chain link fence across the trail, just yards from the summit marker.

And the gate was padlocked shut.

In the fictional, stick-horse version of this story, I emerged atop the summit as the sun burst through the clouds and a rainbow arched across the peak.

In the real world, a padlocked gate denied me the final yards.

I could see the marker, but I couldn’t get there.

Slowly, I turned away from the gate and followed the path around the summit plateau to the visitor center where I could catch the bus. The rain, which had faded to a drizzle, once again became a downpour—one last kick to a fighter already down.

Inside the visitor center, the staff sat around a table, warm and dry, enjoying cups of tea. They sprang to their feet in shock as I crossed the parking lot, and by the time I walked through sliding doors the tea had disappeared and the staff stood waiting at their stations.

One of them approached me, wearing a look of confused concern.

“Hello,” he said in English. “Where did you come from?”

I answered in Japanese. “Amerikajin desu.” (I’m an American.)

“No, yes, okay. But . . . did you climb?” His voice rose dramatically on the final word, implying that, despite appearances, this could not be true.

I nodded and switched to English. “From the trailhead.”

“In the rain?”

I switched to Japanese again. “What time is the bus to Sekigahara?”

An older man behind the counter answered. “Bus?” He shook his head. “There is no bus today.”

I desperately hoped I had misunderstood. “No bus?” I repeated in Japanese.

He gestured to the window. “It is raining.”

THAT’S PRECISELY WHY I NEED THE BUS.

Unable to comprehend the brilliant stroke of planning that cancels buses when it rains (in retrospect, it’s true few people visit mountains on a rainy day), I grasped at my last remaining straw. “Takushii desu ka?”

In my desperation, it didn’t occur to me (and wouldn’t, until much later) that I hadn’t asked “Is there a taxi?” but, instead, inquired “Are you a taxi?”

To his credit, the elderly gentleman didn’t bat an eye. “It is expensive.”

“ That’s okay .”

My inner voice was screaming, Whatever it costs! Just get me off this mountain!

He exchanged a glance with the younger man, who spoke to me in English.

“He worries because the taxi is expensive.” The young man wrote a number on a piece of paper: ¥10,000. The equivalent of a hundred US dollars.

I had worried it would cost much more.

“That’s fine,” I said in Japanese. “Please call a taxi.”

With a nod, the older man picked up a phone and dialed. When the call connected, he spoke for a moment, listened as the other party answered, and then slowly turned his face away before he whispered, “Gaikokujin.”