I reach the top of Mt. Miyanoura as the sun sets on July 4th. Rising 5,808 feet in the middle of Yakushima Island, it’s the highest peak in Japan’s Kyusku region and the most southern of the nation’s 100 Famous Mountains. Usually, it’s raining or the peak is shrouded in clouds. And here I am, standing on my first peak, with 360 degree views of Yakushima’s jagged, wild greenery, the ocean, nearby islands, and billowing clouds rolling in among valleys below. It’s thrilling and isolating to have it all to myself.
The wind howls so fiercely my eyes water and nose drips. It literally takes my breath away. Even so, I can’t help but throw my arms out and yell “I’m the king of the world!” Leo-style.
Then to clarify to the universe I don’t actually think I am king of anything, I bow towards the setting sun. “Namaste.”
The wind seems to blow harder, urging me to get going. The hut where I plan to sleep is still 3.5 kilometers away. It’s setting in I’ll be finishing day one of this 25-kilometer trek in the dark. “OK, OK, I’m going,” I tell the wind. “I had to have my moment.”
I move as quickly as the steep and unsteady terrain allows. I’ve been at this hike in earnest since 11:30 a.m. It’s now past 6 p.m. and I’m tired, but adrenaline kicks in and I race the darkness. Still my average speed is an excruciating one kilometer per hour. I dwell on my pace and what I’m doing wrong. Too weak? Pack too heavy?
The light fades until it’s black under the canopy. Crescent moon light starts to filter through the trees, dappling the forest floor like the sun had all afternoon. It’s time for my 20 minute break every three hours, but I stop only long enough to pull out my head lamp and chow down half a protein bar.
Surprisingly, I feel OK hiking at night, in a strange forest in a foreign country. While at first worried about it, I figure triathletes finish Ironmans in the dark. Well, yes, but those are on well-marked courses, not barely discernible trails. Fair enough. Long distance trail runners do this all the time. Precisely. No big deal. Having done two night dives last week also buoys my confidence that night is a friendly space. There is nothing to fear, other than losing my way or twisting an ankle, which were concerns in daylight as well. Just go carefully.
I use just my red light, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dark until I think, man it would really suck if I lost the trail. I switch to the brighter white light. Steep wooden stairs, the occasional pink tape tied to tree branches and a dropped toilet paper roll assure me I am on the right track.
I start to sing some favorite songs to pass the time. Apparently, and this is a new discovery, I sing until I peter out and then a few minutes later, I hit my emotional wall. Then it’s unhappy Laura. If we are ever hiking together and I start singing, make me sit down and eat a granola bar because what comes after is not pretty.
My feet are in a world of hurt. Even my toenails have had enough. This perhaps is not unexpected after walking for 10 hours with a 35-pound pack. I want to cut my right quad out of my body to remove the burning every time I step down. I tell myself this pain is not life threatening, nothing is broken. But every step is agony. I want to cry, but don’t. Instead, I talk myself through each step outloud. I try repeating my triathlon mantras, but they don’t quite apply. I try chanting “the longer I hike the stronger I feel.” Yeah right. What finally resonates and powers me through? James wouldn’t quit. James — my strapping Texan, Iroman-finishing former roommate — isn’t a quitter, neither is Laura Petersen. Plus, you are so close, less than a half a mile, it would be so lame to stop now. 10 more minutes, you can do anything for 10 minutes, I know you can.
I could stop and sleep in the woods. But I’ve left my tent at the hostel because I am planning to sleep in the hut. It’s much larger than it sounds — a simple wooden structure with enough floor space for 60 hikers to roll out their sleeping bags. It doesn’t feel like it will rain, but Yakushima is known for being one of the wettest regions of Japan and it seems like an unnecessary risk to take so close to my destination. Also, I wouldn’t mind the comfort of knowing other humans are nearby. After 100 or so middle school students came down the trail around lunchtime, it’s just been me and a lone mountain-goat-like deer.
The day has been tough. The trail was the hardest I have ever encountered. Unlike the Grand Canyon where the path is wide and smooth and asks nothing of you other than to not be an idiot, and put one foot in front of the other, Yakushima is a mess of tangled cedar roots, granite rock, streams, steep wooden stairs and a few ropes.
Pretty sure no one mentioned the ropes and rock scrambles. Seems like this would have been critical information to share, or perhaps it’s my naiveté, not realizing that’s what the guide book authors meant by “challenging terrain.” In reality, the climbs were manageable, but I’m wondering what my mother would think if she knew I was pulling myself, large pack and all, up a 25-foot granite boulder without another soul for miles to help me if I fall.
Before I set out on a month-long journey around Japan my mom had said “I have always believed in you more than you believe in yourself.” I thought of her words as I struggled to find my footing when starting out today. I resolved to keep going for her because she believed I could, even when I might not be so sure.
That all sounded nice and uplifting while I was marveling at monkeys and the perfect sunny day. Several hours later, all I could think was: Why do people do this? How does anyone find this enjoyable? I love nature, but what the hell was I thinking?
Of course all questions are answered at the top of a mountain. The breathtaking perspective, the sense of accomplishment.
Unfortunately, those joyous feelings are hard to hold onto when all you want to do is make the pain stop. In the dark, I continue to cheer myself on. “Come on Laura, you are almost there. You’ve done so well, I am so proud of you. You are almost there.”
I have never been more excited to see pit toilets in my life. I choke back a small sob. I made it. It took 10 hours to hike 13.4 kilometers, but I did it.
The hut is dark; clothes hang drying from the porch rafters. I don’t want to disturb the other hikers who have long been asleep, so I sit down on the porch to unpack. I cringe as I take off my boots. Too exhausted to contemplate cooking, I grab my sleeping bag and pad and head inside. It’s stuffy and full of snores. I find an empty spot by the door and lie down.
***
A few hours later, I’m awakened by someone folding up the loudest sleeping bag known to man. But after three hours in a prone position I feel… better. Like I can function and my feet won’t fall off. And I can muster enough energy to go to the toilet. While I am at it, I make some tea and rice, hoping the nutrients will help with muscle recovery. It’s not so cold, so I bring my sleeping bag out to the fresh air and peaceful porch. I pass out until heavy boots stomp by my head around dawn. I crack my eyes and see trees, hear birds, smell the woods and think, “ahhh, this is why we do this.”
All but a few people have headed out by 5:30 a.m. As I fill my water bottle from a natural spring, three friendly Japanese hikers ask if they can take a picture with me. After, I ask if they can email it to me and we exchange Facebook info. One guy says slowly as he works to speak in English: “Yakushima is the most beautiful island in Japan. You have made a good choice.” As they leave, one of them is singing Let it Go from Frozen. I laugh. I had just had that song in my head too.
The morning light in the forest is divine. Monkeys are calling in the trees. I am optimistic that my “early” 7 a.m.start will mean I make it home at a reasonable time.
Barely a half hour later, I want to stop and rest. Instead of taking a break every three hours, I’m down to basically every hour. I suppose this is what it must feel like to do a Half Ironman, and then attempt to run a marathon the next day.
I make it to Jomon-sugi, Japan’s largest and oldest cedar tree, estimated between 2,700 and 7,200 years old. I love old trees. This guy is faded and gnarly. Yet even though Jomon-sugi was the reason I picked this hike, I don’t find it as inspiring as the mountain peak from yesterday. Maybe I’m just tired, or maybe I’ve seen bigger in Northern California.
It seems like it’s taking a horrifically long time to reach the next set of significant trees. I am getting discouraged and it’s not even 10 a.m. But there is only one way off this mountain, and it’s down, so I put one foot in front of the other.
It’s Saturday and hundreds of Japanese tourists are following mountain guides up the trail to the old cedar tree. I exchange greetings — konnichiwa — with almost every single person as I make way for them. Everyone is very friendly. Many want to know where I am from. The guides are impressed I am by myself. Several eye my pack and comment “so heavy.”
After descending steep stairs for an hour, my feet are killing me. I take yet another break, by a huge stump that has a small shrine inside. I get up to soldier on, but my legs have had it. Quivering with every downhill step, forward motion seems impossible. I pick out a boulder and say “Laura you are going to sit on this rock until you feel like you can finish this hike, however long that takes.”
The tour groups that passed me on their way up to Jomon-sugi are now starting to come down the mountain. A few guides ask how I am doing, obviously concerned.
I make some tea and eat another tuna packet. Tuna fish is magical. I can feel strength and energy return to my body. It must be the sodium and potassium. As I watch more and more hikers descend, I decide, “Screw the route I was planning to take. I am following these Japanese tour groups off this mountain. Just fall in line and try to keep up. Wherever they going, I will figure out how to get home from there.”
Not 10 minutes later, we reach the flat part of the hike that runs along a shaded old train track. All I have to do it follow the tracks to the trailhead. It’s still three hours of walking, and every step hurts, but at least it’s not picking over roots or fording rivers.
I play leapfrog with a few groups. One of the guides who speaks some English has these little green alien dolls that he stages on moss-covered stumps. I finally realize they are not aliens, but characters from a famous anime film set in this forest.
I start to sing Disney songs, Beatles songs, uh oh… the flat boards run out and now its just rail road ties. No matter how I try to time my steps, the planks seem to hit the most painful spots through my boots. It’s been 9.5 hours and with every step, waves of pain run up my legs and my face riles in agony. James wouldn’t quit. James wouldn’t cry about it either. But this time, tears well up and spill down my cheeks. I stagger along through watery vision, trying only to hide it when yet another group passes me.
A guide tells me “Five minutes.”
It takes a long moment for his words to register. Five minutes and I’m done. I am still crying, but propel myself forward on this information. “Five more minutes. Five. Minutes. Five.”
And suddenly, we’re finished. As Japanese exchange high fives and take group pictures, I drop my pack and assume a sitting fetal position. The English-speaking guide with the anime dolls comes over and tells me I can catch a shuttle from here. Two female hikers — one who went to college in Sacramento, the other in San Diego just like me — talk with me and translate for other Japanese guides curious about my story. When the shuttle comes, it seems like the entire group is collectively helping the sad-looking white girl get on that bus and get home.
Turns out, the shuttle drops us off most of the way down the mountain, but still a mile or more from the nearest bus stop. The guide with the anime dolls offers to drive me the rest of the way. This is now the second time locals have offered me rides on this island. They are so incredibly gracious.
The guide — whose name I learn is Otomoko — explains his house is next to the bus stop. The last bus going my direction is coming in 30 minutes. After unloading my pack, he rushes off, but returns shortly carrying two cans of beer. We crack them open on the sidewalk and then sit around a covered table talking until the bus comes. It’s incredible how quickly my outlook on life improves after a few minutes of sitting and a cold beer.
I ask Otomoko — who studied parks and recreation, as well as agriculture in the U.S. — if he has any favorite hikes in the Japanese Alps, where I plan to go in a couple weeks. “The alps!?” he says. “Too steep!” Surprised, I point towards the jagged peaks behind us.
“That’s a job,” he says. “I like the woods, but maybe, canoeing, drinking a cup of coffee, gentle hikes.”
He acts out each activity, paddling, leaning back with his feet up and hands behind his head, outlining gently rolling hills with his hands.
I laugh and laugh, in total understanding and agreement.
The bus comes. I hurriedly hand Otomoko my half-finished beer and say thank you. We wave as the bus pulls away and I smile the whole way to the hostel.
***
It takes five days before I can walk normally again. My quads are totally wrecked and my feet and ankles swell like an old lady. Family friends hosting me in Mishima dub my condition “Yakushima legs.” Rest, elevation and a lot of ice help.
Elizabeth Gilbert talks about being willing to face and accept hard truths about yourself, as part of quest physics. The truth is, I can mentally push through just about anything, but physically, I am weak. Even with a lighter load and smoother trails, the 82 miles of trekking I planned out for this month is a recipe for extreme discomfort or worse.
This is not the first insanely hard goal I have set for myself. “Don’t do too much too soon, you are bound to hurt yourself,” is advice I have been regularly ignoring since 2008. I am not a competitive person, but I don’t like hearing I can’t do something. I think I’ve been trying to make up for years of timidness.
Yakushima handed me a grand dose of reality and humility. I need to recognize and accept I have limits. Just because I say I want to hike all these mountains doesn’t mean I am physically ready. And that’s OK. I know I can do it with more training, and more importantly, I know I am not intimidated to try.
So I still plan to immerse myself in the natural beauty of Japan, but I’m going to scale back the trekking. Camping and day hikes sound quite manageable. Instead of hiking Mt. Fuji from the bottom, I’m going bus up with everyone else to the fifth station, which is about half way up the volcano. I have no doubt it will still be plenty challenging.
I have so many more stories to share, so stay tuned — I am writing as fast as I can, which is, unsurprisingly, slow.