I wrote before about the bus I took to Tomuraushi Onsen last summer, but never about the climb itself. I've always meant to describe it, because Tomuraushi was by far the most memorable mountain I've ever climbed. The memories are a little hazy now, but it's worth getting the story down before they're gone completely. Warning: This is a very long piece.
There's a campsite in a clearing about 10 minutes from Tomuraushi Onsen. Getting off the bus that evening, I bought myself a spot for the night and went to put up the tent. Unlike the typhoon two days before when climbing Tokachidake, the weather was perfect. I was hoping the next day would be more of the same. A couple of other tents dotted the campsite, a motorbike parked outside one. Having put mine up, I headed back down to the Onsen for a relaxing bath and to scout out the local knowledge.
The waters of Tomuraushi Onsen are special, among the best I've sampled in Japan. All I remember about the restaurant was that it sold deer burgers and the waiter was very camp. On a wall near the door was an interactive map of the trail to Tomuraushi, which lit up and talked to you in true Japanese-style when you pressed certain buttons. It was long dark now, but some hikers were still returning, hosing down their boots outside. They looked knackered.
The flashing map said 14 hours return to Tomuraushi, which was a little surprising but not something I really stopped to consider. After all, Tokachidake was supposed to take eight hours but I'd done in it just over four. At that rate, it would only take me seven hours or so to climb Tomuraushi.
All the same, I headed back to the tent for an early night, and planned to set out with the dawn the next morning.
I must have been tired that night, because I didn't wake until 6am the next day. Cooking breakfast would have taken too long, so I improvised with chocolate. After organizing my pack, I headed back down to the Onsen again to see if there were any taxis going to the start of the trailhead proper (I forget its name). If I could grab one, it would take three of those 14 hours off the trip, making things a bit more manageable. Hardly surprisingly, though, there was no sign of a taxi.
I'd come this far, so I was always going to go, despite the late start. The forest had a short-cut trail to the start of the trailhead proper. By road it would have been eight kilometers, but in the woods it was only three.
Early morning is bear time, and in Hokkaido that means higuma, the Japanese brown bear. The night before, on my way back from the onsen, a family of deer had suddenly leaped out of the woods right in front of me, sprinted across the road and crashed back into the woods on the other side. It brought back to me that I was a guest in these parts, sharing the woods and mountains with many other creatures. I wasn't thinking snakes at that time--just bears.
It was a beautiful morning and nobody else seemed to be on the trail. I tried to put the worries of bears to the back of my mind, and pushed hard up the steep skirt of the mountain, making it to the start of the trailhead proper in half the allotted time. Things were going well. From the trailhead proper to Kamui Tenjyo was the next stage. Like the early part of the hike, it was steep climbing through forests until finally I reached the ridge. A sign warned of a diversion. Checking it closely, it seemed to put another two or three kilometers onto the total distance. From Kamui Tenjyo it was flat walking on a wide trail for an hour or so, until suddenly it became open ridge. As the sun rose to take its rightful position in the morning sky, the view of the Daisetsuzan range was amazing. Pushed for time though I was, I couldn”Ēt stop taking photos. I was walking on a trail cut out of head-high reeds, below which valleys and mountains were visible in all directions. It was stunning. I remember laughing with happiness to be in such a beautiful place.
In the distance was the noise of motors, which made me feel comfortable. The noise would surely work better than my timid little bell when it came to warning off any local bears. As I continued, the noise became closer, until turning a corner, I spotted two young workmen, uniformed, heads covered with white head-towels, bandanas around their faces. They were standing about 100 meters from each other, both holding chainsaw-like motorized reed-cutters, carving out the new trail. They must have been as surprised to see me as I was to see them. This was a remote, highland area well beyond roads. Unless they were dropped by helicopter, which seems unlikely, they would have had to hike at least two hours to get there, probably much longer if they were carrying all the equipment. I said hello to the first one but didn't get much of a response, so I continued on my way.
After an hour or so, the scenery changed again. I don't know how many times my world changed that day. The reeds disappeared, the forests returned, and the trail started to descend. I was going back down the mountain. The storm from the other day had been here too, and some of the ground was fairly slippery underfoot. Still worried about time, I hurtled down the mountain, probably faster than was safe. My next goal was a ford in the river that had appeared at the bottom of the trail.
When I reached the ford, I finally saw other hikers. A group of Japanese, clearly in good spirits, were sitting around eating chocolate, laughing with each other, generally having a good time. I imagine they had done the sensible thing, treated Tomuraushi as a two-day hike, and were on their way back on Day 2. Crossing the river, I saw the famous rocks of Tomuraushi for the first time. A friend of a friend, an experienced climber, had broken her leg on these rocks a couple of months before in a nothing accident. Just a minor lapse of concentration and then the feeling of broken bone. She'd been helicoptered out and was lucky. She didn't have to pay a yen.
I followed the rocky trail up the side of this other mountain, which may or may not have been Tomuraushi. I'd made another stupid mistake you see, leaving the map in the tent. I made so many basic mistakes in Hokkaido last summer, most of them on Tomuraushi.
After another hour or so, I was seriously hungry and slowing down. The trail changed again, from rocky trail to rocks-only trail. It veered off to the right, marked out by yellow paint-markers. I've never seen anything like it before or since. It was river of rocks in the middle of a mountain. The going was steady to slow. After twenty minutes of rock hopping the ground became a bit safer again. Up ahead was the ridge line, a clear and visible target. I pushed on, upping the pace a bit. After the ridge line, there couldn't be too much more to this mountain.
Like any ridge, reaching it was a minor triumph. It always means a lot of the hard work has been done.
There was a mountain to the left and one to the right. I was hoping the one to the left was my man, as it seemed closer. Turns out neither of them were.
Next was more scuttling across rocks. I'd long forgotten bears by this stage. After making it across them, the trail started to descend again. Suddenly there were people in sight on their way back from where I was going. I'd reached Mae-Tomu Daira, the valley before Tomuraushi. A strange rock structure lies in the center of this beautiful valley. It's a very idyllic place, Mae-Tomu Daira. It doesn't seem either high or remote.
I was beginning to understand the nature of this climb. It wasn't a climb. It was a journey into a center. And I don't think you'll know what I mean by that until you try it yourself.
Time was against me now, and I had a decision to make. At the pace I was going, I didn't have enough daylight hours to make it to the peak and get all the way back before the sun sets. I don't need to tell you why it wasn't a good idea to be in these mountains after dark.
But I'd come this far and wasn't going to turn back now, sensible though it would have been. I pushed on, up the final ascent toward Tomuraushi, whose peak I could finally see in the distance all these hours later. I was among the clouds now, and the sting from their moisture cooled me down nicely. It was a straight push from there. The last 30 minutes or so was fairly rocky, but there was nothing difficult. And suddenly, after all that time, I climbed up this one big rock and arrived at the peak.
Mixed emotions again. Nice to have made it, pity the cloud cover was obscuring the view, and hunger. A quick curry later, I was on my way back down the mountain, acutely aware of my race against the setting sun.
In the distance on the rocks I saw an Ezo striped squirrel, who moved just as I tried to photograph it. For all the time pressures, I just couldn't put the camera away.
Over the next few hours, I retraced my course, back through the different stages of rocks, down the valley to the ford, across the river, along it, back up the next mountain, all the while timing myself and setting targets for each stage. I needed to be at Kamui Tenjyo by five, I told myself, to have any chance of getting back down before dark.
The workmen were long gone, but they'd certainly improved the trail. I was almost running now, and made it to Kamui Tenjyo just after five. Despite missing this target, I was still almost on course. Or at least that's what I tried to convince myself.
Another decision awaited. Soon, and about an hour before the sun set, I would be at the start of the trailhead proper, and thus the road. That gave me two choices. Three kilometers down the forest trail, the last one in the dark, or eight kilometers down an almost unused road, the last five in the dark. I'm still not sure it was the right choice, but I went with the forest route.
I mentioned already that my preparation was ropey, but how about this: I didn't even have a torch. Can you believe that? I'm ashamed to tell you that. I had one hour to make it down the last part of the trail, which was supposed to take more than two. I had myself a situation.
Though I was willing it not to, the sun began to set, and as it did, the noises of the forest seemed to became more threatening, more sinister. Did I hear rats? Or were they snakes? I'll never know, I suppose. Despite rushing, I was going to have to do the last 30 minutes in the pitch black. Under cover of forest, with no lights anywhere, this was true darkness. If I was being honest with myself, I'd known this was going to happen since hours back, since Mae-Tomu Daira on the way up. And for those of you who do a lot of hiking, you'll know that last part, the very edge of a mountain, is often the steepest. Plus, it was wet underfoot.
The danger of breaking a leg was real. And if I did, how would they find me? You could panic easily enough in situations like that. I fell more than once, at times sliding down the mountain on my ass. I thanked the mountain gods for the ankle support in my hiking boots. Tripping over branches, falling flat, cutting my hands, and keeping going, trying not to worry about bears, snakes and rats. I had to get off this mountain.
Suddenly, almost unbelievably, I put my foot forward and touched concrete. I needed a few more steps before I let myself believe it. Yes, it was true. I wasn't imagining it. I'd arrived at the road. The feeling of exhilaration that overcame me then would not wear off until after my hot-springs later that night, when I had my first beer and the exhaustion that had been put on hold for so long finally broke through and demanded to be heard. I had decided my tent could make it without me for a night and had booked into a fancy room at Tomuraushi Onsen. The situation called for a bed.
And it was a nice beer: I remember that. But I don't remember if I finished it before the sleep hit me. I know this though: I slept the sleep of the dead that night.
My advice to you is this. If you like mountains, you won't find many more beautiful than Tomuraushi. But if you're going to climb it in a day, leave before dawn. Have a good breakfast. And don't forget your torch.