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Hokkaido, 1989
In the beer garden, Takuya is singing. He cradles the microphone
gently in both hands, tilts his head toward sunset clouds, and
sings with his eyes closed; a medley of Beatles’ songs.
Later, surrounded by crowds euphoric in celebration of summer,
we drink and talk into the night, planning next winter’s
work, each agreeing to support the other’s goals. “Charlie-san,”
he tells me after we have moved on from beer to whiskey, “You
can speak perfect Japanese when you’re drunk.”
The following December, we stay up all
night every night for a month outside the Toikanbetsu research
hut, measuring temperature gradients and photographing microscopic
thin sections of snow crystals. We wait patiently for the right
combination of recent light snow, daytime melting, and clear,
cold nights to converge and finally, Takuya’s research on
the rapid growth of near surface faceting is complete. Now it
is my turn. Back in Sapporo, Takuya introduces me to Mikio Abe,
advisor to the Hokkaido University Ski Mountaineering Club and
a renowned photojournalist with a world-class mountaineering
resume. Mikio, in turn, introduces me to Yuichiro Miura; also
known as “The Man Who Skied Down Everest.” The four
of us work together with our professor, Eizi Akitaya, to found
Hokkaido’s first public avalanche education program.
Minya Konka, 1994
Takuya Fukuzawa dies tragically on an ill-fated expedition, bringing
heartbreak and grief to all who know the man. I return to America
to get married and change careers. Meanwhile, our avalanche education
event thrives under the stewardship of Mikio-san and Akitaya-sensei,
remaining free to the public, as Takuya had wanted it to be.
We all press on; memories of collective pasts always just a short
traverse away.
Boulder, Colorado, 2003
Years later and living another life, my long hair and beard are
gone. I wear shirts with collars and work for a multinational
corporation. Managing deadlines and massaging clients, I multitask
my way through each day, trying not to break too many rules.
The work is stressful at times and the commuting is brutal. At
some level, it works for me. Yet I am still obsessed with sliding
on snow. So, rather than taking what others might consider a
proper vacation, I try to catch up in one week these ten years
I’ve spent missing Hokkaido; missing my friends. I phone
Mikio and we plan my return to a northern island where I have
not skied since Takuya was alive. I’m going to Japan!
Narita
People converge on Tokyo’s New Narita International Airport
from every corner of the globe. Narita’s vibe is decidedly
un-Japanese. Diverse faces pass me by, all on their way from
somewhere to somewhere else. A confusion of languages swarms
my brain. A shuttle delivers me to long lines at Immigration.
Recorded announcements about SARS awaken me to reality after
twenty hours of sleepless travel and I remember it’s not
always the shortest line that gets you through in the briefest
span of time. Suppressing my cough, I choose by the gatekeeper’s
smile, and I breeze through Immigration, assisted by an agent
I’m sure I’ve seen many times before. Emerging from
Baggage Claim a little confused and empty-handed, but for the
ski boots and souvenirs I carried on, I slip through Customs
even more easily. With or without skis, I am catching the day’s
only flight to Sapporo. I board a Japan Air Lines 747 and wait
on the tarmac for Narita’s sole de-icing machine to wash
the airship down during a rare Tokyo snow squall. It has to be
a good omen.
Sapporo
I arrive at Mikio and Mariko Abe’s house on Maru-yama at
midnight after a still sleepless, now twenty-eight hour journey.
The Abe’s house clings to the south slope of a perfectly
round volcano whose name is the Japanese word for circle, or
coin. Their Siberian husky, Maru-chan, is named for the mountain
on which they live. A midnight welcoming snack is both vast and
delicious. Mariko, easily the best cook I know, serves up stir-fried
beef with asparagus and shimeji mushrooms, shrimp in garlic sauce,
fresh octopus, a salad of wild greens and dried minnows in a
sesame dressing, pork soup, sesame-flavored tofu, and rice. Mikio
makes sure my glass is never wanting for beer. We eat and drink
until I am ready to pass out. I rally for a shower, retire to
the guest room, and of course, am unable to sleep. I stare at
the ceiling in a daze of jet lag, alcohol, and anticipation.
At about seven o’clock in the morning, I stumble downstairs
to find Mikio with my boots, adjusting the bindings on a pair
of Volant Machetes. Precisely when he has had time to drive across
Sapporo to telemark guru Jo Tochinai’s house and borrow
these skis is a mystery; but I’ve long ago learned never
to be surprised by the depth of hospitality I receive in Japan.
I spend that day running errands and visiting
friends. Snow falls on and off and on again and I am getting
excited about the skiing. Determined not to miss a single day,
I stop at a department store to buy underwear, long johns, socks,
and a razor on my way back up the hill. It is snowing again as
I run the last mile up to the house, arriving just in time for
dinner. Tonight, Mariko is serving the sensuously named kinki
nabe; a clay pot tabletop stew made with a cornucopia of the
sea featuring, of course, kinki. Trying to determine exactly
what kinki is, the best I can come up with is, “an ocean
fish known to swim in the chill waters surrounding Hokkaido.”
Well, that’s more than good enough for me. Soon, warmed
to the core, we are all ready for the evening neighborhood walk;
a thousand feet up Maru-yama on snowshoes with the Abe’s
neighbors and their very excited Bernese mountain dog. We hang
around the summit for a good hour drinking miso soup in swirling
snow: parents, children, dogs, and one sleep-deprived visitor.
Snow obscures the lights and benumbs the sounds of the city below.
We feel as if deep in the wilderness, not surrounded by two million
people. I body-surf a luge run packed out by the kids and wallow
in swooning nostalgia, remembering how I used to ski up this
mountain at night before I ever met Mikio and Mariko. We all
run back down to the house, led by the Abe’s eighteen-year-old
son, Toshi, a nimble-footed snowshoe hare who leaves his elders
far behind. I long for my skis. The snow on this south slope
at sea level is soft and deep.
Back at the house, Mikio builds a raging
bonfire in the Kobayashi’s back yard while Toshi constructs
beautiful candle lanterns out of icicles. Mrs. Kobayashi emerges
with trays of dried Mackerel, rice crackers, and beer. Snow falls
in great clumps as we eat, drink, and gaze at the fire. Eventually,
the snow soaks through my Schoeller fabric pants. Reluctant but
shivering, I leave the party to get dry. As I step through the
foyer the phone rings. A Japan Air Lines driver is at the bottom
of the hill with my bags, containing skis and dry clothes; even
Gore-Tex pants!
Road Trip!
Early in the morning we load up the Land Rover. Fueled by a cooler
full of Mariko’s rice cakes stuffed with salmon and pickled
plums, we head out of Sapporo for Daisetsuzan National Park,
in the geographic center of Hokkaido. We arrive before noon,
stopping at the Visitor’s Center to ask about the snow conditions.
A tall, grizzly man descends from the roof wearing a full-body
climbing harness over Carharts, and a pair of size thirteen Scarpa
T-Race telemark boots. Nakamura-san, the Park Geologist and avalanche
forecaster, has been shoveling roof avalanches all morning. He
reports there was a heavy snowfall the day before and promises
to meet us on the mountain after finishing his chores.
With sulfur-belching fumaroles and hot
springs adorning its slopes, Asahi-dake is, at 2,290 meters,
the highest point in Hokkaido. A tram carries tourists up to
tree line at about 1,700 meters. But this is not a ski resort.
There is no ski patrol, no avalanche control, and nobody to tell
you where you can and cannot go. Asahi-dake attracts a small
core of powder-loving skiers and snowboarders. Our first tram
is carrying a few skiers and a moderate crowd of boarders. Every
one of the twenty-five people in the car is equipped with a backpack,
shovel, and probe. Out of curiosity, I switch my beacon to receive.
The cacophonous squawking of twenty-four transmitting beacons
turns every head my way and I just smile. Fifteen years earlier,
I hadn’t known another person in Hokkaido who owned a transceiver.
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First run: we grin, freeze, flail,
fly, and laugh our way down the mountain in near whiteout powder
conditions. As promised, Nakamura-san greets us at the bottom
and tells us he will be our personal guide for the next two days.
We ski his private playgrounds in thigh-to-waist-deep powder
for the rest of the afternoon, and then retire to the onsen (hot
spring bath) for a soak and a beer. Swathed in cotton yukata
and padding about the hotel in too-small slippers, we kill time
admiring stuffed grizzly bears. Eventually we embark on a feeding
frenzy with mountains of sushi and rivers of beer. After dinner
we return to the hot spring for another bath. The next day we
ski more deep powder under a cloudless sky in bitter arctic temperatures.
Mikio fires off roll after roll of Fujichrome. This is exactly
my idea of heaven.
We hit the road after another bath, stopping
at a supermarket in the beautiful town of Biei for croquettes
and sushi. Vermilion alpenglow on the Tokachi Mountains captivates
us and we eat on the side of the road as the light fades away. |
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Above: Nakamura-san skimming treetops at Asahi-dake
- photo: Cesare |
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A graceful mountain with a beautiful Ainu
name, Oputateshike (sounding a little like, “Open the mesh,
Kay”) joins the eastern end of the Tokachis to the Daisetsuzan
massif. Takuya often told me that the aboriginal Ainu people
consider Oputateshike to be the most beautiful mountain in Hokkaido.
Our original plan had included a camp,
climb, and ski descent of Oputateshike with Miura-san. But since
Miura is making history by skiing the Valle Blanche in Chamonix
with his 99-year-old father this week, Mikio and I decide that
Oputateshike will have to wait for another trip.
Local skiing
Toshi takes the next day off to play guitar and hang out with
friends under a pretense of studying. Mikio and I head up into
the Kinshou Mountains just west of the city. From the parking
lot of the Sapporo Kokusai ski area, we skin south and climb,
breaking trail for three hours, up nine hundred meters in impossibly
deep snow to reach the summit of Shirai-dake. While it pains
me to admit it, I grudgingly concede that Mikio, on alpine touring
equipment, is a far more effective trail-setter than I am on
telemark gear. He all but drags me to the top of the mountain.
In another whiteout, we sit down on the summit to eat rice cakes
and mandarin oranges, discussing the avalanche hazard in the
main bowl. After dropping a chunk of soft cornice to test the
slope, we share a moment of careful reflection and then ski the
thirty-degree bowl in chest-deep snow, leapfrogging from giant
beech to giant spruce, one at a time, all the way out. We linger
only once, to respond to howls from a group of women who have
stopped for lunch in our skin-track on the ridge.
On the way home, we pull into a swanky
hotel in the resort town of Jozankei, where the owner is displaying
a selection of Mikio’s photographs of ancient trees in the
lobby. Relaxing in the rooftop rotemburo (outdoor bath) in falling
snow, with beers in our hands and towels on our heads, we reenact
the famous scene from the film “Conan the Barbarian”
in which a group of warriors discuss what is good in life. Contrary
to Schwar-chan glorifying victory in battle, our answer is simply,
“Ski – onsen – beer.” The patient understanding
of our loving spouses notwithstanding, ski – onsen –
beer becomes our password to juvenile self-indulgence.
Niseko
Is it universally true that teenagers know how to sleep? If so,
it’s also not surprising that it takes no small effort to
drag Toshi out of bed the next morning. We drive west again,
this time over Nakayama Pass to Niseko. The snowiest region in
Hokkaido, Niseko is a small chain of perfectly formed volcanoes
rising from 1,000 to 1,300 meters from the Japan Sea. Five ski
resorts adorn the southern and eastern flanks of the tallest
one, Annupuri. As we drive west into ever deepening snows, Mikio
says, “Charlie-san, I am sorry we do not have so much snow
this year.” Glancing out the window, I notice we are driving
through a veritable tunnel with snow banks four meters high on
either side. In Niseko, we go straight to Shinya’s Woodpeckers
Lodge, a rustic, hard-core skiers inn with hand-hewn furniture,
bare walls, a huge kitchen, and a loft that sleeps 30, dormitory-style.
Mikio and I spend the afternoon drinking coffee and talking with
Shinya-san around the communal dining table. Shinya shows us
his extensive mountaineering library and also an ingenious clothes-drying
rack, suspended from the ceiling on retired climbing ropes, providing
a musty chandelier effect. Toshi makes up for his missed day
by spinning around in the terrain park. |
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Toshihiro Abe dropping steep powder at Asahi-dake
- photo by Mikio Abe |
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We meet up with a group of Mikio’s
friends the next morning at the base of the Annupuri gondola.
Legacies of the Hokkaido University Ski Mountaineering club,
they have driven overnight, in the style of much younger men,
from distant corners of Hokkaido.
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We seven range in age from eighteen
to sixty one. Buying single ride lift tickets to get us high
on the mountain, then traversing past the Higashi-yama lifts
to Hirafu, on the east side of the mountain, we soon begin ascending
a boot track to the summit of Annupuri with about two hundred
other people. While these resort skiers are admiring the view
of Yotei-zan (the Fuji of Hokkaido) just across the valley, our
group tiptoes around a corner, ducks behind a rock, and drops
into the north face of Annupuri. A deep and untracked, thousand-meter
descent brings us to a remote valley between Annupuri, Iwao-nuppuri,
and a distant, old-time ski area on the curiously named Weisshorn.
I laugh to myself, remembering an alcohol-fueled and correspondingly
comic Chinese Downhill race with about thirty other telemarkers,
out of bounds at the Weisshorn, in which I crashed twice yet
still managed to finish eighth. We skin up Iwao-nuppuri in snow
squalls and gather, taking pictures in a whiteout on the summit.
Alternating leads, we ski wide, treeless bowls back to the valley,
then tour out, passing by the newly renovated Goshiki Onsen.
I make a mental note to remind Mikio that I have not bathed in
this new rotemburo. Contouring up onto the lower slopes of Annupuri,
we find more small bowls, winding creek beds, and low angled
trees with ever-deepening powder, all the way back to the cars. |
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Above: Cesare on the north face of Annupuri,
with Iwao-nuppuri in the background - photo by Mikio Abe |
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The sky is dumping snow. This is the last
run of my trip; I will be flying out tomorrow morning. So we
bid sayonara to our companions and drive up the pass to where
the road is blocked at Goshiki Onsen for another bath and beer
to put the finishing touch on a week that has passed by far too
quickly.
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Top: Cesare getting in deep - photo by Mikio
Abe. Left: Mikio Abe on Asahi-dake -photo by cesare. Right: Mikio
and Toshi Abe in the rotemburo at Goshiki Onsen - photo by Cesare |
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Full Circle
Back at the Abe’s house in Sapporo, Mikio hands me an envelope.
It contains a letter, hand-written in careful English, from Aki,
Takuya’s widow. She wants me to know that she remembers
how fond of me Takuya had been and that she is ok—living
in another city in another part of Japan. Reading Aki’s
words, here on Maru-yama, this song by the Brazilian singer and
composer Milton Nascimento emerges from distant memory and takes
up residence in my soul:
One coin, hardly is worth anything alone,
Covered in the shadows until,
Glimmering and sun shining more come,
Gathering together, they grow.
One man, trying to find some meaning alone,
Wishing to find some feeling until,
Coming to know one true friend more come,
Following and joining, we grow.
Gathering together, we show.
Gathering together, we know.
Gathering together... *
I read a book once, before I ever went
to Japan, which said that foreigners should expect never to be
accepted into anybody’s inner circle. Happily, my experience
tells me that the author could not have been more mistaken. My
Japanese friends and family have always taken me in and cared
for me with a kindness and hospitality that I can scarcely comprehend.
They honor me and keep me in the very center of their world.
While Kazumi and I live in a beautiful place and have a happy
life, I often dream about returning to Hokkaido to ski out my
retirement years. For such a cold place, it is home to some of
the warmest people, not to mention the finest backcountry skiing
I have ever been privileged to enjoy. And of course, Oputateshike
is waiting…
* One Coin, by Milton Nascimento
1976
Minas Music (ASCAP)
Skyhill Pub. Co. (BMI) |