The Wilderness Idiot by Ted Alvarez

Author:Ted Alvarez
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Falcon Guides
Published: 2019-07-23T16:00:00+00:00

But I’m not done with my quest to subjugate Daisetsuzan’s raw core just yet. On day three, Michiko leads the way back up the spur trail to the traverse and Hakuun hut, where I’ll depart solo for the empty part of Daisetsuzan. We’ve been dodging pelting rain and dense fog for hours, but when rumbles of thunder kick in, I start to wonder about spending three straight days as the tallest object for miles on a ridge.

“If you wait for good weather to go in Daisetsuzan, you will never go,” Michiko says.

“No risk no reward, eh?” I laugh.

“There is no risk if you observe and adjust properly.”

I can’t always decode Michiko’s frustrating hiking koans. Sometimes I think she just wants to lose me as fast as possible—almost like she’s pushing me out of the nest and into fog and thunder on purpose.

“Do what you feel comfortable. To get a sense for a real backpacker in Daisetsuzan, you have to go by yourself.”

During a lull in the storm, I strike out beyond into Daisetsuzan’s empty quarter. Michiko calls the Asahidake-Kurodake-Hakuundake triangle “urban Daisetsuzan”—which is funny, because we almost went entire days without seeing anyone. But when I go out on my own, I see what she means. This section offers the kind of isolation and solitude that lead to talking to yourself. I decide to let the voices in my head run wild: It’s also prime bear habitat, often shrouded in fog. Unless you want to adopt the tinkly bear bells favored by the Japanese, better brush up on your karaoke. I start belting my way through the Led Zeppelin catalog and practice my limited, hacksawed Japanese as I strike out onto the two-mile tundra bench leading to Chubetsudake.

The yellow blazes dim and disappear, and the fading trail follows a cliff edge that drops into gloomy abyss. Ancient stone trail markers, too faded to read but still standing, lean next to the shattered wood and twisted metal of recent trail signs. I can practically see giant-size claw marks in the vegetation where the wind cuts sharpest. After a few hours, the curtains part, and to my left, beyond the cliff, green mountain valleys radiate out like arm veins, rimmed by distant crags. To my right, clouds and fog open picture windows onto elephantine volcanoes tiger-striped with snow. It’s a high-country feast with an always-morphing view. My pace quickens, and I start bounding across the tundra bench into the wind. It’s all I can do to hold back a Maria twirl. I’ll have it entirely to myself for two days, until I start to forget what it’s like to not be the tallest thing on the immediate horizon. It hits me: This is exactly what I crossed the Pacific Ocean for.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.