Definition:
Kathmandu falls under siege to the eruption of a swift and fierce lightning storm.
The faintly-lined rooftops glowed intently under the steady flashes and endured the storm better than any. The roof dwellers, on the other hand, remained uneasy at the enormity of the bolts and with where they struck; But we were drawn to them, drawn like moths to a lantern.
One after another, their echoes crashed violently and without warning over our heads. The moon dared not show itself under the ferocity of this storm. Rather it cast itself behind the dim glow of receding clouds, patiently waiting to reclaim its reign over the sky.
An ominous lightning storm skirts around Singapore City showing its might and force by hurling massive bolts of electricity from the sky along its path.
“Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes. You must look into that storm and shout as you did in Rome. Do your worst, for I will do mine! Then the fates will know you as we know you: as Albert Mondego, a man!“
—The Count of Monte Cristo—
Location: Marina Bay Sands Hotel, Singapore City, Singapore
Captured using: Sony a7R
Lens: 24 – 240
IG: @TheLoneBackpacker
Camera Settings: (ISO 6400 / 35mm / f 4.0)
NOTE: This capture took A LOT of patience and hundreds of photos.
A powerful typhoon hovers across the Pacific Ocean and its heading, directed upon Udo Island. Udobong Peak, Udo’s tallest peak at 132.5 meters, was no match to the ferocity of this impending storm and took a reckoning blow.
Location: Udo Island, Jeju Island, South Korea
Captured using: Sony a7R
Lens: 24 – 240
IG: @TheLoneBackpacker
Mighty, yet innocent-looking clouds drifted across the sky leaving pockets of sunlight and overcast as I laid motionless—nearly lifeless—on the outrigger. Ryo was sitting above me, but had yet to learn of what had transpired just minutes before at the bottom of the ocean; all she knew, at that point, is that I was diving after worthless coins.
The floating bamboo raft had two outriggers, one on each side, and both were spacious enough to dock a Filipino ocean canoe; in the middle was a long, slender table accompanied by two bamboo benches of equal length on each side. In all aspects, the floating raft was the size of a proper and respectable boat. Regardless, it was just Ryo and me who had ventured across the sea to enjoy the solitude, among other things, that it provided. A few others were staying on the island from which we came—just off of the main island of Coron, Palawan—but none had made the journey to bask in the raft’s glory.
Anyhow: there I laid, soaking up every ray of sunlight that was fortunate enough to break through the overcast that eclipsed the sky. Every ray was as valuable as the last as the wind had become steady and fierce with the passing time. Small waves rolled under the raft smacking the bamboo rungs as they did, but the raft just rocked and rolled with each, paying them no extra attention.
We had secured our canoe with a small sliver of rope to the floating raft, which was anchored to the ocean floor, rather than dragging it aboard, allowing for more open space. With hours before sunset, we perched ourselves like seals on top of the bamboo plated outrigger, taking in what sunlight we could; I was mainly recovering from my last dive that, no pun intended, took the life out of me. The bamboo platform took a little getting used to, but with time and a little bit of finagling, it became justifiably comfortable. All the while, the sun inched down from its summit beyond the haze of the clouds and drew closer to the horizon. But, inevitably so, I became restless as I regained my energy and had a hard time laying still, let alone waiting for the sunset.
I moved about the small raft, occasionally diving into the sea to cool off, but every time I looked toward the sun, it appeared to have descended no further than the last. It wasn’t until we found ourselves sitting comfortably at the table that we noticed the sun at its final stage. But just as we were pleased to see the nearing sunset, we were just as displeased at what we saw next.
SNAKES, I HATE SNAKES
“It’s going to be a good sunset; I can feel it,” I looked to Ryo, speaking confidently, as I stepped from the bamboo bench onto the outrigger to take note of the sun’s position once more.
“HEY! WOAH! NO! NO! SNAKE! SNAKE! I HATE SNAKES! RYO!!” I fell back onto the bench, reaching frantically for anything to pull myself up and away from the slithering nightmare. It was a deadly poisonous coral snake—one like we had seen a few days earlier on a free dive at the reefs—and the only reason that I knew it was poisonous is that I had asked our boat captain about an identical snake we had seen while swimming amongst the coral. When I had asked him, he looked at me sharply with one eye as full as it could be and said: “You stay away from them, you hear me? As long as you don’t provoke them, they have no reason to bite you, but if they do, you’ll find yourself in some serious trouble” Upon further research, I came to find that these snakes are 20x more venomous than land snakes, including the Rattlesnake! Fortunately, they have small fangs, but whether or not that mattered had yet to be discovered.
Its body was long and fat; its tail, thin; and its head, rather small. It moved slowly and creepily as it slithered over the barrels that reinforced the raft from underneath the bamboo chutes. Only hints of its silver and black striped body were visible as it slid from the shadowy under-hang onto the open clearing to present itself in plain sight. The mere sight of the snake was shivering and enough to send a shrill quiver down my spine and the strongest, most courageous of men, paddling home.
I moved feverishly back and forth on the two-meter span of bench that sat far away from the snake, mostly thinking of what to do. “Do we stay here? I mean, it’s only one snake. Ah! But it’s not just one snake; it’s a poisonous snake—a deadly poisonous snake. We only have an hour until the sunset, though. But the snake could kill us with one wrong move!” My thoughts fought back and forth as I hovered frantically over the raft. “Ryo! Quick! Get the paddle from the boat!” I shouted, even though she was right in front of me. “I’m going to kill it,” I declared, rationalizing that I had no choice. “It’s either him or us,” I grumbled.
HIM OR US
The paddle was no more than a meter long, but would surely subdue the snake if I dealt it a deafening blow—or, perhaps, even kill it if I had the proper will. I even thought about drawing it further out from the bamboo and barrels and crushing its head with the tip of my oar. “Do I have the heart to do something like that?” I thought to myself. The answer would surely be no.
Paddle in hand, I jumped from the bench onto the open bamboo outrigger, fully prepared for whatever laid ahead. My feet pounded against the bamboo rungs, giving the entire raft a good rumble. Nevertheless, the snake paid no mind to me or the commotion I had created; It just continued its slow-like-slithering like I wasn’t a threat. Even with my meter-long oar, I remained fearful of any confrontation, and, somewhere between jumping onto the platform and staring at the horrifying creature, I had lost the will to act. I had hoped more than anything that the commotion of jumping onto the raft would have frightened the snake back into the water. Unfortunately, It did not. Instead, I was left to muster what little courage I could find, which wasn’t much, and do what needed to be done to kill the creature. I took a deep breath and thrust the oar into the snake’s body, but nothing came of it. Naturally, I just pissed it off—not my intended objective, as that was exactly what the boat captain had told me not to do!
Although futile, a small amount of good did come out of jabbing the snake. It gave me the courage I needed to rationalize further confrontation: “If it lunged at me, maybe I would have a reason to kill it, and not feel as guilty,” I thought. But there was no way I was about to kill this creature in cold blood—I needed a reason.
The snake slid back onto the barrels and out of sight, except for hints of black and silver from underneath the bamboo—an even more terrifying sight. I jumped back onto the bench; this time more hysterically than before.
WHERE THERE’S ONE, THERE’S MORE!
I began my two-meter route once more, thinking of what to do, yet again, seeing as my first plan went up in flames. Then it dawned on me: “Ryo,” I said calmly and rhetorically but with a hint of horror. “If there’s one snake, there muyyy b-eee-eee-ohh-GOD. WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE, NOW!” Before the words could slip from my tongue, I caught sight of another snake on the opposite outrigger. It was slithering atop the bamboo rungs from underneath the supporting barrels. The thoughts racing through my head had confirmed themselves in that very moment: “Of course there were more!”
It was getting late, and the sun was approaching the horizon. I figured the sea snakes must come on land before nightfall, as I was sure they could not and did not sleep in the water. That left the two floating rafts open for refuge—one of which, we had now become stranded. One of my worst fears had come to life leaving me with limited options and even less sense. I knew if there were two there were most certainly more, and we just couldn’t see them—yet. Our floating island would soon be home to a family of poisonous coral snakes; I was sure of it, surer than I’ve ever been. I was also certain that we needed to find a way off and back to land before the sun fled to the other side of the world. The very thing we had ventured to see was now the very thing we had come to fear, the sunset. Instead of a brilliant display of color and light, it was now a ticking clock, and our time was almost up.
I became frantic. My head shot to the straw woven roof, as my eyes scanned every last strand for even the slightest of movements. Paranoia was soon to follow as flashbacks of every snake movie I had ever seen flew like lightning bolts inside of my head. I pictured poisonous snakes slithering through the crevices of the roof, dangling down with their gaping jaws ready to lurch.
Down, up, side to side—I couldn’t look fast enough. “Ryo! We have to get to the boat, now!” I stammered. Our canoe, being tethered to the hidden layer between barrels and bamboo, was currently inaccessible and unreachable without a jolt of courage or, better yet, assurance; not to mention, everywhere we moved, except for the table and benches, even then who knew, was open territory for the snakes.
TIME TO GO
Not but two hours earlier I had fought for my life at the bottom of the sea, and now I was right back into the flames of horror: “Out of the frying-pan into the fire,” as it’s said.
I gripped the paddle tightly in my hands like a soldier ready for combat—after all, I was—and tiptoed around the table; all the while, keeping a steady eye on the roof for slivers or ruffles. I moved ever so slightly toward the rope that secured our canoe to the raft. With one quick pull, the boat was free and only bound by my fingers. I trained the canoe around the raft until it was head to head with one of the open bamboo outriggers—unfortunately, exactly where the snakes had retreated and made their new lair.
I flew from the bench to the outrigger, hoping no snakes were slithering beneath, and propped the nose of our canoe onto the raft to keep it steady and to ready it for immediate boarding. “Quick, our packs!” I yelled to Ryo. There was no time to waste; we had to evacuate the floating raft of death that was now home to a family of poisonous snakes and, the not so menacing, crabs.
I tossed the first pack onto the boat, being careful not to miss and hit the ocean, then the second, followed by the diving gear and, lastly, Ryo. I stared her directly in the eyes and told her to jump. “We’re getting out of here,” I said, meaning every word of it. Whoosh! The water rushed up around the boat as it sliced downward into it. With no further hesitation, I tipped my hat to the snakes and kicked off, giving our boat a good heave from the raft.
Our boat hadn’t even drifted two meters from the raft before another harrowing shiver crept down my spine. I could feel goosebumps surface a thousand at a time as they sent a dreadful chill into the air: We hadn’t checked the canoe before climbing in—who knew what or how many could’ve slipped in during our struggle just moments before. I didn’t want to move—I couldn’t move—I didn’t even want to search the vessel for fear of finding any, uninvited, lurking guests.
The boat was steadily rocking from the wind and waves, giving anything and everything the resemblance of a slithering snake. The small puddles of water that had accumulated at the bottom of our canoe shimmered and rippled with each rock; its movement was terrifying, as we thought of the many frightening things that could have been prowling beneath. I didn’t dare move, for fear of angering any stowaways that may have slithered aboard. I let my eyes do the work without so much as a flinch of a toe or the bat of an eyelash. I scanned every crevice of that canoe until I was sure we were in the clear and could begin paddling again.
Luck had shown herself to be merciful, and we were, in fact, in the clear of any more of those slithering nightmares. We were free of snakes and the forbidding feeling that they had so willingly brought with them.
LAND HO!
During the scuffle, I hadn’t noticed that the dreary overcast had taken full hold of the sky, beating out the comforting rays of sunlight and blue patches; the light gaps of blue and warming rays were no more. Rather, boldening storm clouds shrouded the skies and brought tenacious bouts of wind with them—wind so mighty that it shook our canoe with a vicious intent to sink us. Our boat was small; it couldn’t handle much more than an earnest rock. Nevertheless, the sea roared and ripped against us, and in the opposite direction of our heading too.
I drove my oar deep into the sea, tearing back the water, but the wind was too strong and only allowed small advances—if any. Splashes of salty seawater thwacked against my face as the ripples of the waves became more intense and even bolder. Despite everything, I battled against the current and fought against the waves. What’s more: the sea grew deeper and deeper as we neared a part of the ocean whose depth was far and great. No longer did crystal blue shimmers, reef patches, or vibrant fish accompany us.
Thankfully, none of that mattered anymore; we had escaped the floating raft ridden with snakes, survived the depths of the sea, and, the best part, land was in now sight. It would only be a matter of time before we hit the sandy shores of our island and docked our canoe, hopefully for good. The bamboo raft became a distant memory, as it faded with the horizon, along with the last golden piece of my sunken treasure. Perhaps another fellow diver will come across it one day and is fortunate enough to be spared of some, if not all, of the hardships that we had faced. Until then, there it lays at a depth of the ocean protected by the creatures who lurk above and below.
The sky wrenched down with rain, shrouding any hope of mercy that was the sun’s light. I was trapped—frozen mentally and physically. Horizontal rain daggers pierced the few thin layers that covered my body and tore through my 85-kilo pack with ease; my pack cover rendered useless, as it too succumbed to the storm’s mighty rage. The shelter I found refuge in was no match to the stark rainstorm that devoured the island. Umbrellas were ripped from the trembling hands of those around me, as they stood erect like pencils, arms extended fully to their sides. The constant shrieking of Taiwanese and Chinese travelers became muffled by the pounding of the rain against rock and wood. I weathered the storm as good as any, but this was one storm that I would not outlast. It surged on heavily for as long as I stood motionless to its torrential beating. Not once did it lift its grasp or ease its force.
Minutes before the squall had struck, I was sitting peacefully, alone, reading and writing, as I hovered over the Pacific Ocean. Accompanying me was the warming sun, abundant, rich shrubbery that sprouted from the rock walls, and the endless harmonic sound of crashing waves below; it was a heavenly kingdom, my heavenly kingdom.
A small sliver of land jutted out from the island creating a narrow, peninsula-like structure. Its reach was no more than 100 meters from the island and was connected by an earthly passage that spanned roughly two meters in width. Although natural in form, Taiwan had reinforced the footpath for ease of use and assurance.
Surely the most astounding part of this mostly natural formation was that it towered nearly 100 meters above the ocean, its only support being tons upon tons of solid rock. At the tip, sat a beautiful watchtower that gave a view of the eastern seawall and—over ten thousand kilometers out—the Americas.
The late morning passed into the later afternoon, as I became lost within the contents of my work, so preoccupied with what lay in front of me that by the time I lifted my head to scan the horizon and take a momentary lapse, it was all but too late.
Dark, ominous clouds approached from the West almost as if they had summoned from the Great Pacific, and their bearing was set straight upon the vulnerable rock in which I stood powerless to its gaze; It had the momentum of a speeding train without breaks and the force of ten thousand men marching to war.
“How is this possible?!” I stammered. Any evasive action would be futile; the storm was approaching too fast, leaving me with my second best option: steady myself to brace the storm—stare down this monstrous wall of clouds and all its ferocity. “It will pass. I am sure of it,” I declared. Optimism took a fatal blow, as I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I scurried frantically to conceal my gear utilizing every ounce of dry-sack I owned. If I hadn’t, my laptop, camera and phone would’ve been mutilated by the rain without question. A few at a time, others came bolting to the small sanctuary that bored no walls, only four sturdy pillars that held the roof intact. Within seconds, robust drops of rain began speckling the roof; a seemingly calm noise for what was to come. Soon enough, the few drops turned into many, and the many transformed into an army, an ocean of rain that doused everything it touched—and some.
I held out for the better part of an hour, far longer than any of my fellow pencils, but it was clear that this storm would outlast me and that I had to make for cover before nightfall. I couldn’t chance water seeping too deep into my pack as to get its malicious fingers into my most valuable gear. It was final, I had to desert this collapsing sanctuary, but where I would go is the thought that circled dreadfully in my head.
To town, perhaps? It was an eight-kilometer trek north on a road that was susceptible to the battering of rain and wind, as it hugged the ocean with every curve. But no other option presented itself to be any better. Lyudao Island, a relatively small island, was home to only one major town. There were others, but they were scattered about and resided in by the natives. One could easily ride the entire length of the island within one hour’s time, but the idea of walking it was blasphemy; even if it was less than half of its circumference.
The rain steadied itself with sporadic violent bursts that pounded the soul, followed by soft intervals of mist that made one think its end was near. It was not. At the sight of my pack, no motorist would dare offer a ride, especially with the conditions as they were; not to mention, getting on the back of a motorbike didn’t strike me with enthusiasm—no matter how rewarding the outcome would be. I vowed not to hitchhike, as the risk of crashing with a foreigner who didn’t speak English was a card I didn’t want to draw. As they say: When it rains, it pours. So adding eight kilometers to the current conditions only seemed fitting.
UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS
To tell you the truth: losing all hope was incredibly freeing. I was left to my own demise, and things were already at their worst; well, I suppose a typhoon or tsunami could’ve trumped the situation. Long distances never bothered me as I’ve had my fair share, but I had spent the entire day sitting calmly and lazily with no intentions of strenuous movement; it was a day I had formerly devoted to gathering myself—a day dedicated to nothing more than being in a mellow stupor.
The first few steps sent a miserable cringe into my thought process. I was frustrated with the laws of nature and for being sent on my way when I was content with where I was.
Rhythm worked itself into my steps, and acceptance of my situation prevailed. The steady rain grew into a therapeutic whipping that was deeply soothing. I had the comfort of my music to carry me the distance and all the time in the world to make it to town. Before I knew it, I was already three kilometers in with roughly five to go—a much more manageable feat. I had been sleeping in my tent ever since I arrived at the island but decided I would spare myself for the night and allow my things to dry.
I lost my thoughts once more, mainly focusing on planting one foot in front of the other. I trudged along the long stretch of road that embodied the island paying no attention to my surroundings. Rather, I became fixated on the string-like drops of water that flung from the tips of my shoes with each step. Once they caught my eye, they’re all I noticed. I would see how far I could fling the water; sometimes, allowing my shoes soak up as much water as they could hold before testing my newly found skill. All the while, motorbikes came and went—as the storm surged on—paying no attention to the lonely fellow who strolled on the skirt of the road with a heavy pack dripping of water; I didn’t mind in the least. When I make up my mind, I seldom diverge and assume the full length.
As I stared thoughtlessly at my shoes, I noticed four glaring brake lights as they brightened several meters in front of me. By this point, I was so far consumed by my thoughts—or lack thereof—that I didn’t feel like explaining my position or, for that matter, talking to anybody; I had become content with my situation and suffering.
One bike had two riders while the other, only one. Three words penetrated the transparent walls of rain, breaking my thoughtless daze: “HEY! GET ON!” Not: “Do you need a ride?” Or: “Where are you going?” Rather, a remark that left me with no way to decline, “Get on!” The rain had subsided back to its steady cast, alluding that It was safe to jump on with a minimal threat of crashing. I threw back the hood of my jacket and could feel the puddles that had accumulated, run down my back.
Athena, Chloe, and 朱美瑜 were their names, English names, and they were the storm’s mercy; saviors who had set out on the sole mission of liberating me from the storm’s formidable grasp—not really. They were on their way back to town after a routine dive, the only reason they were on the island in the first place. Even in the heavy rain, they dove religiously. At first, I naively thought how miserable of an experience that would be, but soon learned, upon asking, that it was not at all the case, and would later come to find out on my own accord in the days that followed.
THE WORLD THAT LURKS BELOW
The depths of the deep blue are ignorant to the world above; rain, shine, wind, no matter. A thin stratum—fortified thousands strong by its ocean—shields the crystal blue world with graceful might and ease. Raindrops, no matter their size or power; even how many, merely dance upon the surface, broadening and strengthening the very shield it deems to corrode. The sea life, abundant, and sea vegetation, resilient, oar about showing no sensitivity to the destruction above. Vibrant colors and life contrast itself to the cavernous blue walls that stretch on for thousands of kilometers and hide a vast amount of indigenous creatures who lurk in its darkness. The secret world that lays below—It exists right before our eyes; hidden in plain sight; hidden beneath the cloak-like reflection of the ocean’s crown; hidden only to those ignorant of its existence.
-An adventure continues, but not here and not now.
Journal Entry: “There appears to be no sign of western civilization. I am The Outsider; with eyes on me at all times. Eating at a restaurant, I notice wandering eyes glancing up and down directed at me. Some so glaring & blatant, I have wonder if they’re aware that they are staring or if they even care for that matter. My hotel doesn’t want to deal with me, for I don’t speak their language (understandable,) and often wave their hands in an attempt to end our conversation and avoid trying to decipher what I’m saying. The game of Charades has officially become my life.”
Me, my food, and several, unwelcomed, staring eyes.
Facebook and Instagram, where I found solace, was nothing more than my portal to the Western World. It was a mind-numbing task to keep me entertained while I waited for time to pass. Nevertheless, I could no longer turn to it in my hour of need, as China had banned them along with several other applications and websites. Even with a VPN (virtual private network,) accessing social media was excruciatingly slow and agitating, mostly futile. I was forced to endure my spare time and adapt.
I had almost surrendered to the forceful will of China. The feeling of unwelcomeness, the nearly 100% fortified language barrier, the ignorance to personal space, and the constant surveillance and checking in with police, were tolling. I watched as the thought of exploring new boundaries and traversing into the untouched wilderness caught fire and turned to ash. With the regulations and risk that prowled, it seemed impossible to forge ignorantly like I always had.
Before giving up completely, I made one last ditch effort in journeying East. After all, China held far too much beauty to concede so easily. With the pronunciation of my destination fresh on my tongue, I headed for the Suzhou Railway Station in hopes that I would acquire a ticket for the following day. When I arrived, I must have seen at least 15 ticket counters, each with a line of 15 people. I took a deep breath and chose a line that appeared fast-moving. My anxiety grew, as I closed in on the counter and the realization that they don’t speak English triumphed my thoughts. “What would I do if they didn’t understand me or if they had questions or if I had questions for that matter?” I thought to myself.
When it was my turn, I repeated my chosen destination as clearly and loudly as I could. The attendant looked at me with outward confusion. I changed my inflection several times and even tried saying the word differently. Still, he looked at me with annoyance. I pulled out my phone and placed it against the glass window. He studied it for a moment and, clear as day, said: “Zhangjiajie!?” My face turned blank, as I nodded yes. I swear he repeated the exact words I had said to him. The fact that he couldn’t piece together what I was saying dumbfounded me; perhaps he was just toying with me. He typed on his computer for a few seconds before turning to me to say: there are no trains to Zhangjiajie from this station. He said if I wanted a direct train to Zhangjiajie, I would have to go to the Shanghai Railway Station.
His confidence made me curious because my contact, who speaks Chinese and did the research, had confirmed two trains out of Suzhou to Zhangjiajie. Nevertheless, I didn’t question him because the line behind me had started to grow. One man was so close I could feel his toes touching my heels and his bag jabbing into my back. I turned to him several times as if to make a point that he was uncomfortably close. Even the ticket attendant asked him to take a few steps back. He did not.
After a failed attempt at purchasing a ticket East, I reconciled that I should stick to the major cities where English was more relevant and the eyes less glaring. I had accepted defeat, and, even further, was content with it. I had resources all over the world helping me through China, but with my fate already accepted, I silenced them, rationalizing that it would be best to stick to the cities. One contact, in particular, did not accept my defeat and assured me that there was a train that went to Zhangjiajie from Suzhou. She was the one who did the research in the first place and was the reason I was so confident in going to the train station where I knew communicating with them would be a struggle. She messaged me several times saying that I should go back to the station. She went as far as reaching out to a friend, a Chinese resident, who confirmed the train to Zhangjiajie from Suzhou. She followed up with a screenshot including a Chinese sentence, the train number, the train time, and the cost. She exclaimed that I should show this to the ticketing agent and assured me I couldn’t go wrong.
I glanced down at my phone, reading the time 21:15, but I had already made up my mind. After all, I was tired and ready for bed. Then it dawned on me: what am I doing? I had 45 days left in China, and I was about to throw them all away because things got challenging. I mean, my short experience in China had been the toughest yet, due to the non-avoidable language barrier and lack of willingness on their end to work with me, but was it enough to tame me and send me back to the city? I thought to myself.
I looked over at my phone again, 21:18. The small manifestation of motivation crept through me and pushed me out of bed. I told Ryo that I would run to the train station one last time. It was close to a six-kilometer round trip but, by the time my shoes were on, I was more than thrilled to find out if the journey would continue or end within the city limits. Her confidence gave me confidence, and I was ready to face the ticket counter once more.
Cash in pocket, I raced toward the train station. The fall weather had struck China a week earlier, so the air felt refreshing and eased the tortures that running had so graciously invited. I made it to the ticketing office doors by 21:45 only to see a large sign covering the handle: Ticketing hours 07:30 – 21:30. “Fuuuuu****k,” I exhaled quietly. I searched the entire railway station looking for an information center or employee that might be able to point me in the right direction, even though I was confident that I was too late. I searched for several minutes with no luck and, eventually, wandered back toward the South Gate where my path home awaited. On my way back, I noticed an identical ticketing office. I thought it might be the same one until I saw a sign reading: “North Ticketing Office,” hanging above the corridor. I thought for a second before making the decision to go check it out, just in case they were open.
I kept my expectations maintained and approached the escalator. As few inches at a time became visible, I could see that the office lights were on and the doors open. “Could it be?” I thought to myself. I raced up the escalator and made my way into the giant room. There, I saw a lonely ticketing booth occupied by an attendant. The line was three people deep, and I was quick to become the fourth. This time, when it was my turn, I didn’t speak; rather, I slid my phone up to the glass window and looked at him intently. He looked at my phone, back at me, and then onto his computer. A few moments went by, then he turned to me and held up his index finger (he was asking if I only wanted one ticket). I nodded with hesitation, as not but several hours before, another attendant told me there were no trains to Zhangjiajie. He slid the computer screen toward me, pointing at the price. A sense of relief came about, as I handed over my money. He had my money but continued staring at me. “PASSPORT?!” he questioned. In the back of my head I knew there was a possibility that they would need my passport for the transaction, but since I had booked several bus tickets without it, I figured I wouldn’t need it. I was wrong.
He slid the money back under the window and, the best he could, said: “no passport, no ticket.” I was frantic and explained how I had left my passport at my hotel and how I really needed this ticket. I even tried to show him a picture of my passport from my phone, but he stood by his original “no” and warned that there was nothing he could do. He said I would have to find the Police Cart if I wanted more help with purchasing a ticket.
Now, the last thing I wanted was to find a police officer, as I was heavily warned always to, at all times, keep my passport on my person. I read about random spot checks and the penalty associated for those caught without it. And to think I was going to approach a police officer so I could tell him that I didn’t have mine?? To me, It sounded more like a trap than an act of goodwill.
I left my place in line anyhow and searched for the police cart. Two steps outside of the door was a police officer on the phone; I patiently waited for him to finish his conversation hoping that he spoke a little bit of English. As it turns out, he did not. He slid his phone into his pocket and blabbed a bunch of Chinese at me, barely letting in a breath. I pleaded that I only spoke English, but it didn’t seem to get through to him. I motioned to the counter and waved him to follow me. He had a smile on the whole time and didn’t appear to be bothered by my interruption. His teeth were missing and his uniform, old and tattered, but I felt comfortable with him because he seemed to be the only person who didn’t mind working with me in trying to figure things out.
When we arrived back at the counter, they exchanged words in Chinese. Some, I understood clearly. “He doesn’t understand,” I heard the police officer say, as he pointed at me with pity. The ticket attendant, trying to follow protocol, argued as if he was going to lose his job. I found it ironic that the police officer was encouraging a break in the protocol that the government had created.
After some back and forth, the ticket attendant finally accepted the picture of my passport and money, in exchange for a ticket to Zhangjiajie. I thanked them both with exaggeration and did my best to convey how grateful I was for what they had done. After all, I was considerably grateful for not having to come back the next morning or to have to run all the way back to my hotel to grab my passport. My faith in Chinese people became restored by the police officer’s actions and ability to understand what it can be like as a foreigner in a country without the advantage of words. Honestly, I could’ve hugged the man!
As I walked back to my hotel, I could feel the life sliver back into my veins and, once again, I felt its rejuvenating effects take hold. I smiled for it was the pure essence that shaped who I was and had set me apart from other weary travelers in the past. The thought of a new adventure or journey was my lifeblood and the cure for ordinariness. The seemingly normal train ticket was the difference between visiting a country and experiencing it; seeing its culture and being a part of it. It was a ticket into the unknown that would inevitably lead to more unknown and more adventures.
When I was a kid, my parents had one of those earth globes that spun on an axis, and, like most of you, I would set it a whirl until the names on the globe became a blur. After a few seconds and when the anticipation was at its climax, I would let my index finger play fate by stopping the globe, and wherever my finger landed is where I would go. Of course, I wouldn’t actually go, but the feeling was exhilarating and adventurous. Truthfully, I had no idea what most of the countries were like, let alone that they existed. I had only seen the outside world through movies and, even then, didn’t think the idea of traversing them was a possibility.
-Text conversation-
J.D. – “What is a good mailing address to send something to you? Are you staying at a hostel or something? It would arrive around the first week of April.”
Me – “What are you trying to send?”
J.D. –“Something I found in New Zealand that you’d appreciate. I can send it to the post office in Manila if you think you’ll be there. That’s the capital of the Philippines.”
Me – “Flights to The Philippines pretty are expensive. What are the chances you can reroute that package to Indonesia?”
J.D. – “Turns out it’s expensive to reroute a package of weight.”
Me – “I guess I’m going to The Philippines then…”
Initially, I had planned to fly from Kota Kinabalu, back to Singapore, followed by Indonesia, but when I found out of a package en route to Manila, I was forced to reconsider my path and reroute to the Philippines. Honestly, I had no plan or desire to travel the Philippines, as I had gotten my fair share of clear blue waters and white sandy beaches over the recent months. I was more interested in taking on the massive volcanoes that lined the mainland of Indonesia and heading to Australia or New Zealand, in search of temporary work. Unfortunately, that plan would have to wait, as I clicked “confirm purchase” for my ticket to Manila. I kept my fingers crossed, as the dial spun on the loading screen. After all, I don’t consider a plan in motion until my credit card has been pinged, and, with most foreign sights, there is a 50/50 chance that everything will go seamlessly on the first try. After a solid thirty seconds of anxious wondering, “PAYMENT PROCESSED” appeared in bright orange letters across the top of the screen. A grin of satisfaction revealed itself and a new plan was in motion.
Not long after booking my flight, I overheard an older couple, who had recently been to the Philippines, saying that the Philippines requires an onward ticket; meaning that I would need proof of exit before entering their country. This concept was new to me, but there was no way I was going to chance it! Since the start of my indefinite adventure, I had never planned anything more than a week from the day. In fact, I rarely planned anything at all and usually counted on other travelers/backpackers for places to go and things to see. It always worked out in ways you wouldn’t believe and allowed me to keep my schedule open for any spontaneous adventures that popped up (which always happened). Seeing as I had no choice, I had to figure out where I would go after the Philippines. The only question was: where would I go? I sat in my hostel pondering over a few places, and then the realization hit me. I could go anywhere or do anything that I wanted! I chuckled to myself and thought how amazing that was and about the opportunity I had created. I was free from all responsibilities, all worries, and, most importantly, from the pressure of time. Truthfully, It’s something I had taken for granted over the past six months. If I wanted to go to an exotic beach, I could. If I wanted to go to the world’s most populated city, there was nothing stopping me. If I wanted to take a day and go to Singapore, you get the picture!
I scanned the map for a reasonable path to follow, thinking it would be a good idea to book my travel a few months out to save on airfare. And although the idea of booking travel several months out excited me, it also sent an anxious chill down my spine, as it meant I was tied to a path and held victim to a timetable. After countless hours of second guessing myself and overflowing scraps of paper falling off of the table, I finally landed on a plan I was excited about and comfortable with; Hong Kong, Taiwan, South Korea, followed by Japan. Seeing as they were all within two hours from one another, via flight, it made too much logical sense not to do. Unfortunately, I couldn’t gather the courage to book those flight just yet. I wanted to wait until I was in the Philippines to actualize the new plan just in case anything came up.
Anywho, It was official; I had a plan for more than 30 days out and an ideal path to follow. My only concern was picking up a package that would inevitably add more weight to my pack and make my journey around the world that much heavier. My pack already weighed over 25 kilograms and lacked the necessary space to carry food, let alone another useless trinket. “Wait… could ‘the package’ possibly be my brother?” I thought to myself. The thought circled my head and eventually faded. I couldn’t be too sure; besides, I had an entirely new journey to plan.
A few days before my scheduled flight to Manila, I reached out to my brother for the Post Office’s address. I hadn’t heard such great things about Manila, so I wanted to grab my package and get the hell out of there. Where I would go afterward was anybody’s guess. All I knew was I didn’t want to spend more time in Manila than I had to. My brother replied within minutes with a screenshot of the Post Office’s address. As I was writing the address down, I noticed something peculiar. Written in small characters, below the address, was: “1.1 miles.”
I sat back in my seat and thought for a moment. If my knowledge of Google Maps was correct, then “1.1 miles” meant that whoever took that screenshot was 1.1 miles away from the post office at the time they took the screenshot. Now… unless someone, who happened to be 1.1 miles from the Manila post office, sent that screenshot to my brother, unlikely, it had to have been my brother who took that screenshot, meaning only one thing; he was in Manila. I grinned and said out loud: “I should be a goddamn detective!” Looking back, I realized it didn’t take a genius to unveil what I had discovered, rather keen eyes. Either way, I deserved some sort of recognition, even if it came from myself. The funny thing was, not but a few hours earlier, I sent him a picture asking if he saw the fisherman waving a flag in front of the setting sun. He arrogantly remarked: “I see all details.” It was one detail I was glad he missed, and I would take the silent victory to my grave. Furthermore, I had another adventure, with my brother, to look forward to.
PIRATES AND THIEVES
By April 10th, I was more than ready to get out of Borneo and experience a new country’s culture. For the most part, I enjoyed my time in Borneo but spending over three weeks there may have been overkill. The constant gimmicks and scams took their toll, and I was pleased to wave them goodbye. It was a short flight to Manila, but a flight I would’ve rather avoided. I would’ve much rather taken a ferry through international waters. Borneo and the Philippines were incredibly close to each other and shared the same surrounding ocean. In fact, from the Northern most tip of Borneo, you could practically see Palawan. Unfortunately, there were no ferries for tourists, from Malaysia to the Philippines, due to the many political disputes between the two countries. Pirates corrupted the waters (not the Jack Sparrow kind) and eventually shut down all of the ferries. A shame indeed, but a small price to pay for backpacking through a third-world country. Chance of death aside, taking a boat through troubled waters sounded like a worthy adventure. I always wanted to have a run-in with pirates, even if they weren’t the Jack Sparrow kind.
The two-hour flight went by in the blink of an eye, and, yet again, I was in a foreign country without a plan or an inkling of where to start. The only familiar feeling was the 35+ degree heat and humidity. I knew one thing for sure; I was to make my way north toward Banaue, where I would find my brother. It was a two-day journey north, and that was assuming that I didn’t waste any time in Manila. By my brother’s advice, I walked a few kilometers from the airport in search of a trike that could take me to a Victory Liner bus station. He mentioned that they’d try to gouge you with their prices and threaten that it is not safe to go it alone. Fortunately for me, I had been traveling in S.E. Asia for close to six months and already knew most of the tricks and gimmicks.
The sun cooked the city, and the traffic was utter chaos with no apparent laws or regulations; I felt right at home. The trike drivers clung to me, like flies to a slab of meat but, upon hearing how much they wanted for a ride to town, I opted out. I didn’t feel as though an amount comparable to the flight I just took was feasible for a few-kilometer ride to town, even if it was for my safety. The sun and heat showed no mercy and remained relentless throughout my walk. It was close to 38 degrees, and my pack weighed well over 25 kilograms. All things considered, I didn’t mind the walk. Once I got into the zone, the humidity and heat became somewhat enjoyable (in a sick kind of way). Typically, if the destination is within three kilometers, I would walk it, but when a trike driver came riding by and offered me a decent deal, I caved and jumped in. I figured the cost of two dollars would be worth eliminating the headache and frustration of trying to find the Victory Liner bus terminal by myself.
My driver weaved in and out of traffic, occasionally driving on the sidewalk to avoid traffic lights and stopping. The funny thing was, I felt somewhat safe in the back of his trike because it was obvious he knew what he was doing. My ride came to an abrupt halt when the driver turned back to me and said he would go no further. When I asked why he said it was not safe for him to cross into that territory. He told me I would be okay and that if I followed the sidewalk for a few hundred meters, I would find a Victory Liner bus station. I didn’t argue with the man, as I just wanted to move on and book my bus ticket.
As the crow flies, Banaue wasn’t far, but I came to find that the transportation structure in the Philippines was a total nightmare. Whether you show up four hours earlier or four hours later than expected, their ETA was not to be trusted. Either way, I was hoping to catch an overnight bus directly to Banaue, but the bus station I had arrived at only offered a bus as far as Baguio City. Looking at the map, it wasn’t such a bad idea. It would give me an opportunity to break up a dreadful 14-hour ride, not to mention, organize my things; something I hadn’t been able to do since I left Borneo. Nevertheless, my time for decision making was up, and I could feel the line behind me grow in annoyance; I was being “that guy.” For the sake of not being “that guy,” I said screw it and booked a ticket to Baguio City. As it turns out, it would’ve been in my best interest to search for a bus terminal that offered an overnight bus directly to Banaue. Apparently, the traffic in Manila was not to be reckoned with, especially at 4 P.M.! Eight gruesome hours later, I arrived at Baguio City; unfortunately, far too late to catch the last bus heading for Banaue. The next bus wasn’t until 8 A.M. the following morning, leaving me with no choice but to sleep there.
By the time I arrived, it was past midnight and the air had a refreshing chill to it, a somewhat eerie feeling. The wind rustled the trees and sent the mildly disturbing goose boats bumping in the lake. The town was nearly vacant, with the exception of a few locals stumbling home from the bar, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I had made a mistake when I had booked my ticket to Baguio City. Stuck with the situation, I scoured the town for a place to sleep. My options ranged from expensive hotels to hole-in-the-wall lodges that, even in despair, you wouldn’t think twice about bypassing; I even contemplated sleeping in the park. Anything would’ve been better than the hole-in-the-wall I settled on. In the morning, I wasted no time getting to the bus terminal, and although I had just knocked out an eight-hour bus ride, I felt no closer to Banaue then when I had first started. In fact, If I had been patient and done my due diligence, I could’ve already been in Banaue. Instead, I had another six to ten-hour bus ride through the mountain pass. Given the option between the more affordable bus, that departed at 9 P.M, or the slightly less affordable van, that departed in less than 20 minutes, I chose the latter. Staying in Baguio City for another 12 hours was not an option, no matter what the cost.
WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?
After nearly 36 hours of nonstop traveling, I arrived at my final destination, Banaue! I was stuffed in a van, without AC, along with several other travelers for quite some time. I can’t speak for my fellow companions, but I didn’t think the ride was that bad. Before we set off, I was able to nab a stellar seat, allowing me to prop my feet up for the entire trip. And, to be honest, I prefer windows down over AC any day! Our majestic chariot stopped several times, but it wasn’t for us to grab fresh air and stretch our legs, no, it was to let the engine cool down, as it overheated easily.
Upon arrival, we were all funneled toward the information office. I, on the other hand, slipped away for a second, as I knew exactly what was about to happen. I chuckled and wondered if they knew they were heading into a tourist trap. To me, it was blatantly obvious but, then again, I had been traveling S.E. Asia for close to six months. Nevertheless, I followed just to humor myself. They all got nabbed with the “village entrance fee” (*cough-cough* bullshit!) while I walked right past the desk. The answer to my prior question was no. I stood dumbfounded, as the tour guide worked his magic. They looked like zombies, just standing and staring at him. “That sounds like a good plan.” “Oooo I like the sound of that,” they whispered back and forth. They continued to nod to each other as if they were just handed a terrific deal and a once in a lifetime experience. I remained silent in disbelief. “You guys book with us, none of this is possible without a guide. We give you best price,” he repeated over and over again. The man went on to tell them: “the more people you have in a group, the cheaper it is!” And, just as I expected, they turned back to me and said: “Does that sound good to you?” “HA! I’m here looking for my brother, so, unfortunately, I cannot join your group.” I replied. But in actuality, I was thinking: “you guys are fools… you can just do all of this yourself, and you’d save 75% of your money.” But I kept those thoughts to myself and quietly slipped out the back door.
I hadn’t spoken with my brother since I left Manila, and the last I heard, he was heading to Batad where he would spend the next few days; with that in mind, I was in no rush. The sun was at its highest point, leaving me with plenty of daylight to discover the small village. I couldn’t help but feel somewhat curious, as It was almost like I had taken a step back in time. The roads were made of dirt, and there were no fancy cars or stores. There were only a few shops, and they were situated in the village center, where all life circulated. If you wanted a coke cola, it came in a glass bottle, and you put down a coin deposit to make sure you didn’t wander off with it.
Finding a place to sleep was the least of my worries, as the village was smaller than the neighborhood I had grown up in. The choices were slim, but I wasn’t too picky. I stumbled into the first place I came across, anxious to drop my pack and continue exploring. It was a beautiful day, and the last thing I wanted was to be stuck lugging my pack door to door trying to find a place to sleep. The lights were off, and it appeared vacant. Odd, I thought to myself, as it was only two o’clock in the afternoon. The front gate was closed, but not locked. The gate creaked, as I gently pushed it open. “Anybody home?” My voice echoed throughout the halls. The lights were off, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. I gently laid my pack by the door and crept past the front desk. The wooden floor creaked with character and the wind chimes clang from the deck. “Hello?” I said once more, but no response to follow. The door to the patio deck was wide open, letting in a gentle breeze. The words “Make yourself at home,” came to mind and I headed straight for the door.
The view was unbelievable! I stood and stared for a good minute before proceeding to the overhang where I took my seat. The wind chimes illuminated the air with their euphonic sound and, for a brief moment, I felt like I was back home in the backyard I had grown in. I’ve had a few moments like this and each one I take the time to relish. The roof shielded me from the sun, and a cool breeze swept the deck, making it too difficult to walk away. I could’ve remained like a statue for hours, just staring off into the distance. Unfortunately, my piece and quiet came to an end when an older lady came walking onto the deck. “Can I help you,” she murmured. I smiled for a second and told her that I was looking for a place to sleep. She paused, smiled, and asked if I was looking for the cheapest room she had. A little taken back, I said: “well, yeah sure.” I obviously wasn’t the first backpacker to have crossed her path, and she was pretty good at picking them out!
I checked my messages, hoping that my brother had reached out to me, but there was no news from him. I had the entire day to myself and figured I wouldn’t hear from him until the following day. I took my seat on the deck and resumed my peaceful state of mind. I let time fade, as I stared aimlessly onto the vast rice terraces and valleys.
“Ping:” I looked down to see my phone light up. It was a message from my brother.
J.D. – “Where are you now? I’m back in Banaue.”
Me – “Where in Banaue?”
Me –“You do know how to drop a pin, right?”
J.D. – “No.”
J.D. – “Where are you?
I sent him my coordinates and told him he could find me on the deck of the Sanafe Lodge. Only a few minutes went by before the feeling of excitement was too much to bear; staying where I was, was no longer a viable option. I grabbed my daypack and made my way toward the village center.
The last time I saw my brother, he was dropping me off at Philadelphia’s International Airport, and that was nearly five months since. We had shared many adventures abroad, but this would be the first time we met while traveling our separate paths. He had just finished the Te Araroa Trail, a long distance trail in New Zealand that spanned from the North Island to the South Island, and I was on an indefinite adventure around the world. The thought of connecting in a country which was literally halfway around the world was terribly exciting.
I posted up in the village center and kept an eye on the Sanafe Lodge. As I was waiting, the store attendant asked if I wanted something to drink. I didn’t typically drink soda, but something about holding the glass bottle was way too nostalgic to turn down. I cracked one open and watched the flow of the village. I scanned the crowd, looking for any sign of my brother, and, within minutes, saw him navigating through the bustling jeepneys and tricycles. After five months apart, we were face to face. He wasn’t just my brother; he was the guy who I had first ventured into unknown with, and who I have shared in some of my greatest adventures. He was somebody worthy of traversing the Philippines.
We spent the day catching up and exploring the village.
view from 7-Heaven Cafe
Pancit!
The sun’s heat was unbearable but, as the day faded and the stars began to appear, the temperature dropped giving a fall-like ambiance. We cracked open a two-dollar bottle of brandy and watched the village light up one fire at a time. It was one of the most relaxing and memorable evenings I’ve had in a long time.
selfies are clearly not our thing
Our view from Sanafe Lodge
WHO’S THE DEAD GUY?
Before my alarm had a chance to do its thing, the roosters sent a cringing echo throughout the valley; except, unlike in the movies, this was well before the sun had risen above the horizon. They started around 3:30 A.M. and made sure their presence was known to all. Restless, I gave my brother a few nudges to see if he was still interested in catching the sunrise. After the fifth or sixth poke, he slowly rolled over and came to. He showed no interest in heading into the valley and said he would catch the sunrise from the deck. I, on the other hand, wanted to see the sun light up the village and rice terraces from a higher vantage point. So I grabbed what I needed and made my way through the village and into the valley. Unsure of where to go, I kept my eyes open for anything that looked like a remotely good vantage facing East. About a kilometer down the path, I came across a rock staircase carved into the valley. The path was nearly vertical and, better yet, faced East. When I made it to the top, the sun peered over the horizon and lit up the clouds with a bright pinkish tint. I watched in pure amazement, almost forgetting to take some pictures for the road.
Twice, within a 24-hour time span, I found myself completely content with my situation, with no desire to do or go anywhere else. The air was warm and filled with peace and quiet. It was far too early to be disturbed by people and for the sun to bring its unbearable heat. As I sat in awe, of yet another astounding sunrise, a local man came stumbling toward my direction. I hoped he wasn’t making his way for me but, deep down, knew he was. His breath reeked of cheap bourbon, and his motions were uncoordinated. It was clear that he was still awake from the night before and that he wasn’t going to bed anytime soon. I entertained his conversation knowing that it would be a struggle. Language barrier aside, he was drunk beyond comprehension and slurring his already broken English. I found myself repeating answers, as he asked where I was from over and over again. The conversation was exhausting, but I didn’t mind because, apparently, I was standing on his property. He grabbed me by the shirt and said: “Come, I make you special drink, and you join us. You watch sunrise from over here.” The last thing I wanted to do was accede to the drunk fellow, but seeing that he was gracious enough to let me stand on his property, I felt somewhat obligated. As we walked toward his hanging porch, he mentioned that his brother had recently passed away and that he and his family were celebrating his life. It made sense because when we arrived at his home, I found his other family members who were just as intoxicated as him. Honestly, all I wanted was to watch the sunrise and get some stellar photos of the village and rice terraces. Instead, I became the center of attention, as he and his family took turns bombarding me with questions that I could barely understand. Ever so slowly, I sipped my drink and thought of ways to dip out without making scene or offending anybody. In their culture, it’s not enough to just accept what their offering but to finish it entirely. The joy on their faces, when I drank his handcrafted “coffee,” was pleasing, and I showed no hesitation with every sip.
The man who I had invited me to his home, graciously handed out high-five after high-five and told me several times: “We now friends. You stay as long as you want.” It only made it harder to leave because I didn’t want to offend him. Once more, he grabbed me by the shirt and said: “Come, I show you inside.” I wanted so badly to say, “no no… that’s okay” and go back to taking pictures but, stuck in an awkward situation, I caved and followed the man inside.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said to myself, as I stood over the open coffin of his recently deceased brother. The level of uneasiness and awkwardness was unbearable, and I had no idea what to do or say. I had never seen a dead body in my life and wasn’t keen on seeing this one. Three little girls were sitting on the bench across from the body, staring at the coffin, as if it were no big deal. They giggled at the sight of me and, one by one, scattered out of the room. I, on the other hand, remained frozen. His skin glistened, and there was a light shade of red lipstick painted on his lips. His hands laid resting on his lap, and I could feel the cold energy emitting from his body. He looked like one of the bodies from the movie “House of Wax.” I was completely terrified and wondered how I could go from watching a peaceful and beautiful sunrise to staring at a cold and lifeless corpse.
The man explained that his brother had been living in the United States for quite some time and rhetorically asked why that was. He then turned to me and, in an abrupt manner, asked why I thought that was. He got very serious and asked with intent as if I had a viable answer to provide. Even worse, he continued throwing up his hand, for a reciprocal high-five, over the dead body. I had never been more uncomfortable in my entire life, and as soon as he paused to gather himself from his drunken stupor, I jumped at the opportunity to get the hell out of there. “Well… alrighty, I guess I better get back to the cliff so I can catch the rest of the sunrise…” I awkwardly interjected. He looked at me, laughed, and said: “Okay Okay, I show you.”
I was never so happy to take a breathe fresh air. I said my goodbyes and thank yous, for their gracious invitation, and casually/quickly walked down the rock staircase until I was out of their sight. As soon as I was out of sight, I picked up my pace to a steady jog for the fear that he would come walking back down and call me up for more drinks. The image of the corpse burned itself into my brain, and the eerie feeling lingered the entire walk back.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized I needed to put this experience into words.
DAY 1, Goodbye, Again, Friend
I started my journey across Japan’s northern alps in the remote village of Kamikochi. Kamikochi wasn’t accessible by private car: being one of Japan’s national heritage sites, it remains decently preserved. The only way to reach the entrance was by a hired car (taxi) or bus.
I just so happened to be with a friend I had met in the Philippines months back. As things go, we were in the same place at the same time, making it too easy not to reconnect and explore this peculiar land together. Moreover, he was traveling Japan in style…with a minivan. I met him at Tokyo’s airport where we picked up the van. We named it Serena…because why not? After nearly a week of sleeping on foam mats in the back of Serena, driving on forgotten country roads to avoid outrageous tolls, and exploring the hard-to-reach areas throughout central Japan, our time to part ways again was close. The world seemed to be getting smaller and smaller, and I was positive that our paths would eventually cross again.
My old friend, TorysAncient castle in MatsumotoBackcountry roadsA piece of Japan many don’t see
With the short shuttle bus ride from the parking terminal to the entrance out of the way, we were officially in Kamikochi, and with plenty of daylight to spare too. Segev headed for the campsite, while I remained at the information center, preparing for what I thought would be an easy few days of hiking. The plan was for Seg and I to part ways as soon as his tent was set up. I would then begin my journey north to the village of Omachi, easily a one week’s journey away.
Packable food options were limited, leaving me with no choice but to load up on fresh, perishable, food: food that probably wouldn’t last the day. I grabbed what I could fit in my already cumbersome and bulging pack and made my way toward the campsite in search of Seg.
The North Alps, from Kamikochi campsite
To celebrate our parting, Seg brought out the last bit of his Israeli coffee he had left with him. It was coffee found only in Israel, and he managed to bring enough to last his entire nine-month journey across Asia. After downing two cups of Israel’s finest mud coffee, I threw my pack over my shoulder and bid farewell to yet another friend I had made on my journey across the world. The weather was nearly perfect, and I had beams of sunlight shining through the forest’s canopy to lead my way. The first five kilometers went by just as I had expected, moderately steep elevation through a vibrant forest. I kept a strong and steady pace through the woods; I was hoping to reach my first campsite before dusk. Back at the trailhead, I had mapped out my first day to be around 16 kilometers with a roughly 2,000-meter climb. An easy day, I had ignorantly thought to myself.
The start of my journey into the Alps
By the time I reached treeline, the weather had already begun to shift. Ominous clouds pushed across the sky, settling in over the range, consuming everything in their path. Not exactly what you want to see when you plan to spend over a week in the mountains. It wasn’t long before everything in front of me was completely engulfed. I figured it was only a matter of time until there was no blue left to be seen. I had seen this happen a thousand times, and what laid in front of me painted a grim story for the next few days. And although weather in the Alps is unpredictable and ever-changing, a typhoon was heading for Japan, almost guaranteeing abysmal weather.
Emerging from treeline
The approaching storm
I pressed on, arriving at my first checkpoint by the late afternoon. It was a small mountain lodge, but they had running water and food for sale. It was also an official tent site with dozens of tents already set up. I refilled my water stores and restocked my pack with any food they had available. I hadn’t hiked far but the elevation was no small feat. From the trailhead, I had already gained about 1,200 vertical meters. I was feeling fairly decent but knew that the next bit of trail would be twice as laborious. Looking out at the terrain, I could see rock-bedded trails, disappearing up and into the fog. I remember thinking to myself how hard it was going to be, but that I’d be relaxing at the campsite with my feet up before sunset.
The day grew shorter and shorter as I reached my first peak, Nihiho-doppyo Dake where there were already a few hikers moving about. I joined the small crew in taking the glorious “summit photos.”
At the summit, I met a small group of Japanese people who spoke English well. Hoping for some camaraderie, I asked if they were heading for Okuhotaka Dake, the range’s highest peak and Japan’s third tallest mountain, too. They laughed and said no way. That’s too hard. I was a bit confused, it wasn’t that much higher from where we stood and it was less than five kilometers of trail away. Why come all this way, I couldn’t help but think.
I was ahead of schedule, affording me a generous break. I wanted enough energy to take on the next twelve peaks between me and my campsite without any issues. I remained overly-confident, but could feel my left knee starting to ache. It could have been from the initial and steep ascent or the chilling air that rushed up over the ridgeline: most likely a combination of both. My knee had been acting up more and more over the past few years, but I was hoping more than anything that it would just remain an ache and go away. Although I tried my best to ignore it, I knew that the small ache was a precursor to something bigger, and that if I wasn’t careful, I could end up in a lot of trouble.
I set my mind straight and threw my pack over my shoulders. I was roughly 850 meters from my next summit, with a 235-meter vertical gain. I thought nothing of the difficulty and continued at a strong pace. I was eager to get to my campsite and call it a day. Other than the increasingly alarming ache in my knee, there was something else that struck me as off. I hadn’t seen another hiker since I left my first peak. It wasn’t terribly late or anything, and it was dead smack in the middle of Japan’s most popular vacation season. One thing I came to find about the Japanese is that they are very active and frequent their own trails quite a bit. Up to this point, the majority of hikers I met while hiking in Japan were Japanese. I liked that about this country. These trails should’ve been crawling with people based on how busy the first lodge was. The thought passed, and I continued traversing the rocky ridge.
By peak three, it finally dawned on me as to why nobody else was on the trail: for one, fog had completely consumed it; for two; it was incredibly dangerous and arduous; and, for three, the altitude made the air hard to breathe. I could feel myself wearing down by the minute. With the six liters of water I had strapped in, my pack weighed over 27 kilograms (60lbs), and my left knee was all but finished. I was in good spirits but was nearing total exhaustion. The trail tested me mentally and physically and challenged my every step. The jagged and rocky trail was like a never-ending nightmare. It led you up 100 vertical and demanding meters before dropping you the same 100 time and time again. Hovering around 3,000 meters (10,000 ft) above sea, the altitude began eroding my spirits.
It had been hours since my last encounter with the group from summit one. Doubt filled my head as to whether or not this trail was actually open or safe. But, then, out of the fog and heading my direction, appeared a small group of hikers, maybe two or three total. I was relieved at the sight, but they were taken aback.
Curious, and speaking for the group, the middle-aged woman asked why I was heading in my current direction and so late in the day, at that. I casually told her that I was in route to the Yarigatake campsite and expected to be there before dark. They were Japanese, and when I mentioned Yari, they all wore a succinct look of confusion.
Looking down at her watch, she looked back at me and said, “Yarigatake is 20 hours by trail from here. There is no way you’ll make it there by tonight. You’d be lucky even to make it to the next campsite by dark.”
I looked at her and with a small grin said, “I’m a pretty fast hiker; I can make it.”
Based on the distance I needed to go and how fast I was moving, the math worked out.
Confident Idiot, she must’ve thought. But, in the polite fashion of Japanese people, she simply shrugged her shoulders and wished me luck. The other two followed, giving a respectful half bow. It was apparent that they didn’t speak English. I imagine they laughed too when she told them I was looking to make it to Yarigatake before dark.
I began to question my plan. Either she knew something I didn’t, or she and her group were slow hikers. After all, Yarigatake’s campsite was only 8.5 kilometers from my current position. I figured it would take me no more than three hours to reach.
I pushed on, but more and more doubt filled my head with each step forward. I wasn’t worried about hiking in the night, but these trails were steep and often precarious. It wouldn’t be a great idea to chance.
After hearing the concern in her voice and seeing the absolute difficulty of the trail, I began to wonder if I would even make it to my 7th peak, the tallest in the range, let alone my campsite by sunset. It was the first time in a long time that my ability came into question. It felt like I was making great time and chipping away at this trail, but the reality was, it was chipping away at me.
The trail taking a piece of me
By my 5th peak, I was ready to call it quits. My left knee was completely shot and my heart was pounding through my chest. The back-to-back 100-meter climbs had officially taken their toll. I sat on the 5th summit wondering what my next move was, if anything. There was no doubt that Yari’s campsite was out of the question. Looking down at my map, even reaching Okuhotaka Dake’s campsite was questionable.
It was only a matter of time before the sun fell behind the mountains, eliminating the little light I had left. I had been hiking through the fog for over four hours and hadn’t seen a man-made structure since leaving the first lodge. My breath was heavy and the temperature was slowly dropping.
After an internal struggle, I decided it would be best to set up camp for the evening. There was no way I was going to reach the next official campsite, not with Okuhotaka Dake in the way and definitely not in the dark with how exhausted I felt.
I began my descent down the 5th peak, surveying the rocks for a relatively flat area. At the gully, I found a flat rock ledge: it was almost too perfect. And while I couldn’t see beyond it, I threw down my pack and began setting up camp. In the nick of time, too. Rain was quick to follow.
DAY 2, A New Friend
It was just before six o’clock in the morning. I wasn’t completely sure, but I thought I could make out the shape of a person, scrambling down the rock trail and in my direction. I was camping where I wasn’t supposed to, and although I was pretty far far from the actual path, I didn’t want to chance being fined 100,000 yen.
I began packing up my tent immediately. As he approached, I gathered the rest of my supplies and kicked back on a large rock, as to appear composed and like I hadn’t just spent the night. As he passed, he stopped and looked at me with great surprise. The feeling was mutual.
The best he could, he asked if I had just camped there. I looked at him and said, “No way, man! I’m just taking a break.” I wasn’t sure if I could trust telling him the truth. It was odd to see somebody this early in the morning, especially considering that I was in the middle of a mountain range and hadn’t seen a soul on this trail heading north since I started. I thought maybe he worked for the lodge and was just doing a trail sweep.
His name was Youto, and his English was anything but abundant. He could understand me perfectly well but speaking it back was a bit of a struggle. I gave him a half bow, shouldered my pack, and set out on the trail in front of him, thinking that I would never see him again.
He remained on my tail, keeping my pace with ease. I thought to myself it probably wouldn’t last. I was the fastest hiker I knew at the time. Not because I had something to prove, I just hiked a lot. An hour later and a lot of distance between me and where I made camp, I noticed that Youto wasn’t fading, not even in the least. In fact, he was keeping a strong enough pace to pass me, so I let him do just that.
Youto hanging on for dear life!Me watching Youto hang on for dear life
We exchanged the lead several times, but always kept a steady pace even traversing the range’s piercing spine. The fog limited our visibility, and I often felt like we were going in circles. As we inched on, small sections of the trail became visible to us and the trail behind slowly disappeared back into the fog. Okuhotaka Dake sat only a few kilometers in front of us, yet we couldn’t see it. We could barely see each other.
Moving into the fogInto the unknown
I had intended on reaching Yarigatake by the evening, but settled on making camp at Okuhotaka’s campsite, where Youto was heading, instead. From where we had initially started, the campsite was less than two kilometers away, but it was two kilometers over loose, steep, and jagged rocks. Every 150 horizontal meters took as long as 1 kilometer. We climbed for hours up and down the rocks, using only chains and protruding boulders as secure holds. The possibility of falling was very real, but just as thrilling. Judging my Youto’s climbing helmet, he wasn’t taking any chances. There were no safety guidelines or restrictions. It was you and the trail at your own risk (I later came to find that many people die on this range and that you need to submit forms in advance to hike the Alps…whoops!).
After a long and grueling morning, we reached the summit of Okuhotaka together. There wasn’t much time for embellishing our feat, though, the weather was slipping deeper and deeper into a dismal state. The summit was cold, windy, and covered in a thick fog. Within seconds of taking my camera out, the lens and body were coated in a thin layer of moisture.
There were a few other Japanese fellows occupying the summit by the time we got there. They had hiked up from the campsite, the campsite we so looked forward to reaching. It sat just over the ridge on the saddle. Their English was above par, and they had even visited Philadelphia, my home city.
Summit of Okuhotaka Zan (Japan’s third tallest peak)
After a brief stay and a few summit pictures, Youto and I set off for the campsite. We made it to the lodge in no time, as it was all downhill and not nearly as rigid as it was on the way up. The mist lingered on and was so thick that it was like walking through sheets water. I was never so happy to see a man made structure before. The lodge was warm and cozy with a gas stove in the middle of the room. We were wet and cold and would’ve traded our last dollar to get inside. Luckily, we didn’t have to.
Compared to where we just came from, the place was crawling with hikers. As the afternoon went on, dripping wet hikers filed into the lodge one by one, all coming from different directions of the trail, but none from where Youto and I came from. The short section of trail we had traversed was some of the most dangerous terrain in the entire range; the other dangerous section laid just beyond our campsite.
We took shelter inside the lodge until the heaviest part of the storm passed. At the first opportunity, we ran out to set up our tents. The campsite was astounding, carved out of Karasawa zan, another gargantuan mountain adjacent from Okuhotaka zan. Youto and I set up camp on the two highest rock platforms that overlooked the valley. We didn’t know it at the time, but our view was unbeatable. The rain continued to pour, leaving us with little to do with the rest of our day and no view.
Exhausted, Youto retired to his tent and remained there for the better part of the day. I stayed in the lodge, drying my clothes and pack next to the stove. Among a sea of Japanese, I was the only foreigner in sight. They came in waves, flooding the common area, leaving their mark of wet footprints and dripping coats. Most weren’t as fortunate as Youto and I; we had made it to the lodge before the worst of the storm hit.
When the storm passed, we soon realized that we had an unbelievable view
When the rain ceased, I made my way back up to my tent so I could organize my things and lay out my sleeping bag. That’s when I saw it, the entire Alp range!
I hadn’t seen anything for the past two days, so when the clouds finally cleared, time stood still. Without hesitation, I ran back to the lodge to grab my rain jacket and day pack. Karasawa Dake was only a 100-vertical-meter climb away, and I wasn’t sure if I would get the opportunity to see the range again, especially from above 3,000 meters. On my way out of the lodge, I saw Youto running down from the campsite, pointing at the summit. It didn’t take an expert to understand what he meant. I held up my rain jacket and said, “Let’s move!” We were on the same page since the start and shared the same excitement to see the Alps from an incredible vantage point, the summit of Karasawa Dake. We raced up the mountain and, as we ascended, the grim weather pushed further and further away, until it was almost completely out of sight. The view from the summit made every painstaking step worthwhile.
I hadn’t seen a place like it since New Zealand or Chile. We were the first ones to take advantage of the clearing and within the hour could see several other hikers making their way up the mountain’s rigid path. The weather improved by the minute, giving way to more and more of the range. It was like a dark spell had been lifted. The bright blue skies had prevailed.We hung out at the summit for a few hours before descending back to the campsite and warmth of the lodge. Initially, the poor weather made me question my journey, but seeing the weather open up gave me the hope and motivation I needed to press on.
As the afternoon faded and the evening drew closer, the weather began to shift for the worst. I had hoped to return to the summit for sunset, but after stepping back outside, I soon realized that the idea of another summit was a fading possibility. Dark gray clouds returned, eating up the day’s remaining sunlight. I decided it was best to kick back and enjoy a highly marked up bottle whiskey I had purchased earlier from the lodge.
Early Times, for the times you want to start drinking early
As I sat, enjoying my expensive cheap whiskey, killing the last bit of brain cells the elevation had missed, I turned my head as if to appreciate the color gray one last time. “Son of a bitch,” I whispered from under my breath. The weather had turned again, with pockets of pale blue skies emerging once more.
I ran for the door, turning back to grab the last bit of whiskey I had left on the table. As I made my way out the door, I saw Youto running down from the campsite, heading my way. Just like before, he was pointing at the summit, yelling in Japanese.
We were still on the same page, only this time, I had whiskey in my blood. It didn’t matter because catching the sunset over the North Alps was something I had been looking forward to since the start of my journey. The ascent was a struggle, not because I was slightly intoxicated…okay maybe because of that. It took me longer than usual, but, eventually, I made it and just in the nick of time, too! The sun was perched just above the horizon, ready to fall below the few remaining clouds.
The view was breathtaking: or maybe that was from the altitude. We were both surprised to see only one other person. We kicked back on the summit long after the sun fell beyond the horizon and until the stars began to appear a few hundred at a time. Just as the sun fell, a nearly full moon rose directly from the east, giving off a cold glow on the mountains. I could hear myself saying “wow” over and over again. I was also pretty intoxicated, so, really, anything would’ve “wowed” me.
The Lone Backpacker
The ridgeline I had followed since Kamikochi
After a few hours and being the only two goons at the summit, we began our descent back down to our tents. It was a day for the books, and we had both seen and accomplished so much. We had only known each other for several hours but had been on the same page since the beginning. It was another bittersweet goodbye, but a goodbye nonetheless. He planned to set off by 04:00, while I didn’t plan on waking up until after 05:00.
DAY 3, Goodbye, Again, Again, New Friend
I wasn’t sure of the time, but I figured it was close to 04:00 because I could hear Youto packing up his tent. I rolled over, falling back asleep for another twenty minutes. I was utterly exhausted. Somewhere and somehow in a dream state, I realized that the sunrise from Karasawa Dake would be something to witness and missing out on it would be a huge mistake. Why come all this way? I repeated in my head.
I slid out of my sleeping bag, scrambling to stuff my pack and get moving. I didn’t have much time if I was going to make it to the summit with my pack before the sun made it to the horizon.
It was only a short climb away, but after summiting Karasawa zan twice already, and taking a full beating over the last two days, I knew it was going to take a lot out of me. My pack weighed heavily on my shoulders, dragging me down as I went up. Eager to catch the sunrise, I wasted no time with the details of organizing my pack. By 05:00 I began my ascent and by 05:15 I had summited Karasawa zan for the third time. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and I could see for kilometers over the Alps.
I had a long journey in front of me so I started on my way shortly after sunrise, allowing the sun light up my path. Back at the lodge, several hikers told me that the next part of the trail was extremely dangerous and quite steep, and after having been on the trail for over two days, I had no doubts. But with a clearing in the weather, I didn’t care. I was just happy it wasn’t raining and that the sun was shining.
Looking down from Karasawa Dake, I knew I was in for a hell of a day. The path was vertical with dangling chains and ladders bolted into the rock, leading the way. Comforting, I thought. One wrong step or faulty grab, and I would be paint for the rocks.
But first, let me take a selfie! (It’s a lot farther down than you think…)
As I descended the first stretch of trail, I could feel my hands tighten up and begin to cramp. I was a hiker, not a climber, and the amount of weight I was carrying combined with the steepness of the trail was putting a lot of strain on my hands. Not to mention, I was gripping each stone for dear life, probably exerting more effort than I really needed to.
By 07:30, I reached the saddle; it was the lowest and longest part of the trail I would be on all day. The air was thin, leaving me gasping for each breath. Even on the here, I was still around 3,000 meters above sea level.
Losing the will to continue
The saddle was a nice break, but it was only a matter of time before I had to start climbing again. My next peak was Kitahotaka Dake, sitting over 3,100 meters high. Fortunately for me, it wasn’t as steep of a climb as my descent from Karasawa Dake and there were a lot more ledges to use for rest.
I took my time climbing, with the last couple of days having beaten my body down. I had a growing headache, due to the lack of water and sleep, and I’m sure the altitude. The only thing keeping me going was the strength of my legs. The weather was the clearest it had been since the start of my journey and kept me motivated throughout the morning.
The clear weather didn’t last. As soon as I made it over Kitahotaka Dake, I could see hints of a storm moving in from behind. I knew my time was limited and that the rain would soon be here. I pressed on.
The path was clearly visible, revealing only minor variances in elevation ahead. It was going to be a walk in the woods (figuratively, considering the context) from here.
I made it to camp by noon. I was completely exhausted and as soon as my tent was erected, I crawled in and fell asleep immediately. I didn’t bother with tent registration at the lodge, even though I was sure it would come back to bite me in the ass. I, was so tired that I didn’t care; I would handle it when I woke up.
It must have been at least an hour since I had fallen asleep. Who knows. I woke up to a rapping on my tent. It took me a while to come to, but as I did, I saw a Japanese guy kneeling down at my tent, waving a wooden plank with the number 14 on it. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that I was in his spot. He was kind kind though: kind enough to swap sites with me so I didn’t have to break down my tent and haul my stuff across camp.
I was wide awake. My head was pounding but the idea of “hanging out” wasn’t really a thing I did. From my tent, Yarigatake’s ascension point sat only a few meters in front of me, and although it was covered with a thick haze, I couldn’t help myself. I moseyed closer and closer, repeating to myself that I needed to rest and that climbing Yarigatake was not a good idea.
But it was too late; I had already started to make my way up the mountain. It was a very short but steep climb to the summit. I told myself that I would just take it extremely slow and that if my head began to pound too hard, I would turn back and wait until I was fully rested, which would probably be the next morning.
I knew the words I mumbled to myself were nothing more than empty promises and worries, and I knew I wouldn’t listen. By the time I made it to the summit, my head was on fire. The clouds had settled in over the peak, too, leaving nothing visible. I couldn’t even see two meters in front of me. Truth is, I didn’t care; I just wanted the satisfaction of summiting Japan’s fifth tallest mountain, Yarigatake, after just having submitted its third, Hotaka.
Even so, a view would’ve been nice. I remained on the summit for the next few hours. If the clouds cleared, I wanted a first class ticket to see the Alp range from Yari. But, for hours, the only thing I saw was fast-moving clouds, rushing over the peak. I descended, looking forward to my tent.
That evening, I planned out my next campsite. After fully understanding that I wouldn’t make it to Omachi within the week, I needed a new plan. This trail was beating me down left and right. As long as I could continue restocking my food stores at lodges, I could continue along, taking as long as I needed to reach my final destination.
DAY 4, The Wrong Turn
I woke up to gusting winds and heavy clouds. I knew there would be no getting around the rain. Everything I owned was wet from the days before. Every attempt to dry my clothes failed: the air inside the lodges was far too cold and damp to dry anything. My tent was even worse being even more exposed to the outside climate. I would have to settle with a wet pack for the long stretch of trail I had planned out.
Exhausted, I set off around 09:30. I had to make do without my GPS, as the rain was relentless and my touchscreen couldn’t keep up with the droplets. Even if I tried, my fingers were too wet to navigate the map. Even the small task of sliding my phone open was futile and frustrating. Instead, I was inclined to give my best shot at following the Japanese trail signs.
ohhhhhh…. fuck!
I knew the general direction that I needed to go, but I was on a network of trails that intertwined from time to time. If I accidentally merged onto the wrong trail, which was a very real possibility with my navigation skills, I would be heading in a different direction altogether, a better way to put it, lost.
As it turns out, I did just that. I knew better. The rapidly dropping elevation when it should’ve been rising was a dead giveaway or at least it should’ve been. I was so focused on my steps and the rain was too heavy to pull out my phone to reaffirm my decision. It wasn’t until I saw a sign for Kamikochi that I knew I had taken a wrong turn.
I was annoyed but made peace with the minor change of plans. I was beyond exhausted and had nothing to prove. Rather than turning around, I decided I would continue down and make camp where I had started my journey, Kamikochi. A few days to regain my strength and make a new plan would do me good, I figured.
It was a long way to Kamikochi, but it was the smoothest bit of trail I had been on for days. It was flat with a slight a downgrade and followed the river the entire way. The terrain was a nice change of pace, and I began to enjoy the subtle trail-walking over the chain-climbing and rock-scrambling that occupied my last few days.
By the early afternoon, I arrived to Kamikochi, a familiar sight. As I made it to camp, the rain ceased and the skies calmed, giving way to the entire range.
Surrounded by hundreds of tourists, most of which only visit Kamikochi to see the range from the comfort of the village, it was hard to appreciate what I was seeing. Nobody knew what I had just gone through. Kamikochi and the North Alps were more to me than just a pretty sight; they were a symbol of struggle, friendship, and accomplishment. I had left a part of me up there, and every time I see it, a vivid story plays back in my head.
By the evening, most of the day-trippers had already disappeared. They shuttled out of the park by the dozens until there were only a few of us left, those of us with tents.
Just across from me, there was a couple; they were grilling an assortment of vegetables and meats. As I walked by, they waved me over. There was no turning them down because they were right next to me and that would be awkward. Not to mention, I have never denied the opportunity to eat an extra meal!
I asked where they were from.
He was from Nepal and she was from Japan. They had been living together (in Japan) for the last seven years. They were quite possibly the most humble human beings I had ever come across. His smile was inviting and his body language was genuine. You could tell that he was just happy to be there and talking with somebody who was there to truly appreciate the mountains too. She was charismatic and had welcomed my company as if we were old friend who hand’t seen each other in years. I felt comfortable and was happy they had waved me down.
Meiyo (I think that’s how you spell her name; pronounced |me*you|), who didn’t speak much English, but listened with intent and as if she understood me word for word, leaned in over the stove fire as Lama and I shared our past and adventure stories. I connected with Lama instantly. He was seven years older than me but had gone through twice as much. He was from a Sherpa family, back in Nepal, and grew up at an altitude of over 3,000 meters. I was slightly embarrassed for telling him that I had struggled through the range when he told me about how he had a similar walk to and from school every day. Essentially, what took me three full days, he would have to do twice a day just to go to school.
He mentioned that his wife didn’t believe his stories at first. It wasn’t until he had brought her all the way home (to Nepal) to meet his family and see his village that she truly believed him. I didn’t doubt the man for a second, but to see the expression on her face as she nodded in agreement was priceless.
Lama was a down to earth and incredibly genuine person. He had made a great life for himself, as an agriculturist, in Saga, Japan. I wished that my brother was there to join the conversation, as my knowledge on onions and tomatoes were somewhat limited. Beyond that, J.D. would’ve gotten a kick out of the conversation and Lama, too.
Meeting Lama made me want to be a better person. Fuck, it made me a better person! Yet, he wanted nothing from me but to be my friend. He was a man who had come from nothing but self-educated himself enough to figure out how the world worked and how to make a happy life of it. He knew over five languages: Japanese, English, Nepalese, Indian, and Tibetan. But, and most importantly, he knew how to communicate genuinely.
I’m always impressed when somebody can speak a second language fluently, let alone five.
DAY 5, Zero Day
On day five, I took a zero-day (no hiking). Even with the trail behind me, I was still exhausted. My body was broken and needed the rest. Plus, another day would give me the time I needed to dry my gear and organize a new plan.
As expected, the day was uneventful, filled with several naps. That evening, I joined Lama and his wife, Meiyo, beneath the stars, and around their crackling fire.
As we sat and enjoyed the evening, talking about the mountains, another tenter had found his way to our fire. By this point, Meiyo had retired to their tent and it was just the two of us. The third gentlemen came over with his iPhone brightly lit, shining directly into our eyes. His volume was so loud and carried so far that people from down the river could hear him clearly.
He bombarded the conversation saying that he loved talking to people and learning about them. He continued on by gloating about his career and how he was in Japan to manage his employees. He paused for a moment, reading our body language, and said, “Am I bothering you guys? If so, no problem, I can leave. If I’m bothering you guys, I can leave.”
Lama and I looked at each other, then back to the third fellow and said, “not at all.” The truth of the matter was that we were both being respectful and both understood that he most likely wasn’t aware of how rude he was being. He continued blabbing on and occasionally stopped to let out a loud burp (something that was common in his culture and not considered to be rude). Although he too was being his genuine self, he did not mesh well with our conversation. In fact, he completely contradicted himself when he said he loved to getting to know other people. If he would’ve taken a moment to listen, instead of talking a mile a minute, he would have gathered that our conversation was on an entirely different level and that we enjoyed the calm surrounding of nature. His friends got the message before he did and quickly called him over. The difference between them was striking, yet outstanding. One had come from money, and the other had come from nothing. Humility is something you can’t fake, it surrounds you and shapes the person you are.
DAY 6, Goodbye, Again, Again, Again.
The following morning, I went to Lama’s tent to say a final goodbye. It was a moment that struck me deeply. The genuine look of sorrow on his face, as he crawled out of his tent to wish me luck and say goodbye will stay with me forever. The smile on his face, for the short time we had shared, was the most humbling experience I have ever had. I threw out my hand for a handshake, but he stood tall to give me a hug. The world could use more people like Lama and Meiyo. That’s just the fact of it. Honestly, I didn’t think about writing this story, but meeting Lama compelled me to put this experience into words, and I’m glad I did, even if it’s just for me.
Sunset from Kamikochi campsite, the valley floor.
Youto and I’s camp
Youto!
Into the abyss
Four days of wearing the same socks with wet shoes…
The shrine at the summit of Yarigatake (Japan’s fifth tallest peak).
Yarigatake lodge & campsite from Yarigatake Dake.
Summit of Karasawa Zan, looking out to the lonely Yarigatake Dake, the sharp peak just off to the left in the distance.
When in Japan, you take a lot of pictures!
Japanese maps; pretending to know what I’m doing.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized I needed to put this experience into words.
DAY 1
I started my journey across Japan’s northern alps in the remote village of Kamikochi. Kamikochi wasn’t accessible by private car: being one of Japan’s national heritage sites, it remains decently preserved. The only way to reach the entrance was by a hired car (taxi) or bus.
I just so happened to be with a friend I had met in the Philippines months back. As things go, we were in the same place at the same time, making it too easy not to reconnect and explore this peculiar land together. Moreover, he was traveling Japan in style…with a minivan. I met him at Tokyo’s airport where we picked up the van. We named it Serena…because why not? After nearly a week of sleeping on foam mats in the back of Serena, driving on forgotten country roads to avoid outrageous tolls, and exploring the hard-to-reach areas throughout central Japan, our time to part ways again was close. The world seemed to be getting smaller and smaller, and I was positive that our paths would eventually cross again.
My old friend, Torys
Ancient castle in Matsumoto
Backcountry roads
A piece of Japan many don’t see
With the short shuttle bus ride from the parking terminal to the entrance out of the way, we were officially in Kamikochi, and with plenty of daylight to spare too. Segev headed for the campsite, while I remained at the information center, preparing for what I thought would be an easy few days of hiking. The plan was for Seg and I to part ways as soon as his tent was set up. I would then begin my journey north to the village of Omachi, easily a one week’s journey away.
Packable food options were limited, leaving me with no choice but to load up on fresh, perishable, food: food that probably wouldn’t last the day. I grabbed what I could fit in my already cumbersome and bulging pack and made my way toward the campsite in search of Seg.
The North Alps, from Kamikochi campsite
To celebrate our parting, Seg brought out the last bit of his Israeli coffee he had left with him. It was coffee found only in Israel, and he managed to bring enough to last his entire nine-month journey across Asia. After downing two cups of Israel’s finest mud coffee, I threw my pack over my shoulder and bid farewell to yet another friend I had made on my journey across the world. The weather was nearly perfect, and I had beams of sunlight shining through the forest’s canopy to lead my way. The first five kilometers went by just as I had expected, moderately steep elevation through a vibrant forest. I kept a strong and steady pace through the woods; I was hoping to reach my first campsite before dusk. Back at the trailhead, I had mapped out my first day to be around 16 kilometers with a roughly 2,000-meter climb. An easy day, I had ignorantly thought to myself.
The start of my journey into the Alps
By the time I reached treeline, the weather had already begun to shift. Ominous clouds pushed across the sky, settling in over the range, consuming everything in their path. Not exactly what you want to see when you plan to spend over a week in the mountains. It wasn’t long before everything in front of me was completely engulfed. I figured it was only a matter of time until there was no blue left to be seen. I had seen this happen a thousand times, and what laid in front of me painted a grim story for the next few days. And although weather in the Alps is unpredictable and ever-changing, a typhoon was heading for Japan, almost guaranteeing abysmal weather.
Emerging from treeline
The approaching storm
I pressed on, arriving at my first checkpoint by the late afternoon. It was a small mountain lodge, but they had running water and food for sale. It was also an official tent site with dozens of tents already set up. I refilled my water stores and restocked my pack with any food they had available. I hadn’t hiked far but the elevation was no small feat. From the trailhead, I had already gained about 1,200 vertical meters. I was feeling fairly decent but knew that the next bit of trail would be twice as laborious. Looking out at the terrain, I could see rock-bedded trails, disappearing up and into the fog. I remember thinking to myself how hard it was going to be, but that I’d be relaxing at the campsite with my feet up before sunset.
The day grew shorter and shorter as I reached my first peak, Nihiho-doppyo Dake where there were already a few hikers moving about. I joined the small crew in taking the glorious “summit photos.”
At the summit, I met a small group of Japanese people who spoke English well. Hoping for some comradery, I asked if they were heading for Okuhotaka Dake, the range’s highest peak and Japan’s third tallest mountain, too. They laughed and said no way. That’s too hard. I was a bit confused, it wasn’t that much higher from where we stood and it was less than five kilometers of trail away. Why come all this way, I couldn’t help but think.
I was ahead of schedule, affording me a generous break. I wanted enough energy to take on the next twelve peaks between me and my campsite without any issues. I remained overly-confident, but could feel my left knee starting to ache. It could have been from the initial and steep ascent or the chilling air that rushed up over the ridgeline: most likely a combination of both. My knee had been acting up more and more over the past few years, but I was hoping more than anything that it would just remain an ache and go away. Although I tried my best to ignore it, I knew that the small ache was a precursor to something bigger, and that if I wasn’t careful, I could end up in a lot of trouble.
I set my mind straight and threw my pack over my shoulders. I was roughly 850 meters from my next summit, with a 235-meter vertical gain. I thought nothing of the difficulty and continued at a strong pace. I was eager to get to my campsite and call it a day. Other than the increasingly alarming ache in my knee, there was something else that struck me as off. I hadn’t seen another hiker since I left my first peak. It wasn’t terribly late or anything, and it was dead smack in the middle of Japan’s most popular vacation season. One thing I came to find about the Japanese is that they are very active and frequent their own trails quite a bit. Up to this point, the majority of hikers I met while hiking in Japan were Japanese. I liked that about this country. These trails should’ve been crawling with people based on how busy the first lodge was. The thought passed, and I continued traversing the rocky ridge.
By peak three, it finally dawned on me as to why nobody else was on the trail: for one, fog had completely consumed it; for two; it was incredibly dangerous and arduous; and, for three, the altitude made the air hard to breathe. I could feel myself wearing down by the minute. With the six liters of water I had strapped in, my pack weighed over 27 kilograms (60lbs), and my left knee was all but finished. I was in good spirits but was nearing total exhaustion. The trail tested me mentally and physically and challenged my every step. The jagged and rocky trail was like a never-ending nightmare. It led you up 100 vertical and demanding meters before dropping you the same 100 time and time again. Hovering around 3,000 meters (10,000 ft) above sea, the altitude began eroding my spirits.
It had been hours since my last encounter with the group from summit one. Doubt filled my head as to whether or not this trail was actually open or safe. But, then, out of the fog and heading my direction, appeared a small group of hikers, maybe two or three total. I was relieved at the sight, but they were taken aback.
Curious, and speaking for the group, the middle-aged woman asked why I was heading in my current direction and so late in the day, at that. I casually told her that I was in route to the Yarigatake campsite and expected to be there before dark. They were Japanese, and when I mentioned Yari, they all wore a succinct look of confusion.
Looking down at her watch, she looked back at me and said, “Yarigatake is 20 hours by trail from here. There is no way you’ll make it there by tonight. You’d be lucky even to make it to the next campsite by dark.”
I looked at her and with a small grin said, “I’m a pretty fast hiker; I can make it.”
Based on the distance I needed to go and how fast I was moving, the math worked out.
Confident Idiot, she must’ve thought. But, in the polite fashion of Japanese people, she simply shrugged her shoulders and wished me luck. The other two followed, giving a respectful half bow. It was apparent that they didn’t speak English. I imagine they laughed too when she told them I was looking to make it to Yarigatake before dark.
I began to question my plan. Either she knew something I didn’t, or she and her group were slow hikers. After all, Yarigatake’s campsite was only 8.5 kilometers from my current position. I figured it would take me no more than three hours to reach.
I pushed on, but more and more doubt filled my head with each step forward. I wasn’t worried about hiking in the night, but these trails were steep and often precarious. It wouldn’t be a great idea to chance.
After hearing the concern in her voice and seeing the absolute difficulty of the trail, I began to wonder if I would even make it to my 7th peak, the tallest in the range, let alone my campsite by sunset. It was the first time in a long time that my ability came into question. It felt like I was making great time and chipping away at this trail, but the reality was, it was chipping away at me.
The trail taking a piece of me
By my 5th peak, I was ready to call it quits. My left knee was completely shot and my heart was pounding through my chest. The back-to-back 100-meter climbs had officially taken their toll. I sat on the 5th summit wondering what my next move was, if anything. There was no doubt that Yari’s campsite was out of the question. Looking down at my map, even reaching Okuhotaka Dake’s campsite was questionable.
It was only a matter of time before the sun fell behind the mountains, eliminating the little light I had left. I had been hiking through the fog for over four hours and hadn’t seen a man-made structure since leaving the first lodge. My breath was heavy and the temperature was slowly dropping.
After an internal struggle, I decided it would be best to set up camp for the evening. There was no way I was going to reach the next official campsite, not with Okuhotaka Dake in the way and definitely not in the dark with how exhausted I felt.
I began my descent down the 5th peak, surveying the rocks for a relatively flat area. At the gully, I found a flat rock ledge: it was almost too perfect. And while I couldn’t see beyond it, I threw down my pack and began setting up camp. In the nick of time, too. Rain was quick to follow.
DAY 2
It was just before six o’clock in the morning. I wasn’t completely sure, but I thought I could make out the shape of a person, scrambling down the rock trail and in my direction. I was camping where I wasn’t supposed to, and although I was pretty far far from the actual path, I didn’t want to chance being fined 100,000 yen.
I began packing up my tent immediately. As he approached, I gathered the rest of my supplies and kicked back on a large rock, as to appear composed and like I hadn’t just spent the night. As he passed, he stopped and looked at me with great surprise. The feeling was mutual.
The best he could, he asked if I had just camped there. I looked at him and said, “No way, man! I’m just taking a break.” I wasn’t sure if I could trust telling him the truth. It was odd to see somebody this early in the morning, especially considering that I was in the middle of a mountain range and hadn’t seen a soul on this trail heading north since I started. I thought maybe he worked for the lodge and was just doing a trail sweep.
His name was Youto, and his English was anything but abundant. He could understand me perfectly well but speaking it back was a bit of a struggle. I gave him a half bow, shouldered my pack, and set out on the trail in front of him, thinking that I would never see him again.
He remained on my tail, keeping my pace with ease. I thought to myself it probably wouldn’t last. I was the fastest hiker I knew at the time. Not because I had something to prove, I just hiked a lot. An hour later and a lot of distance between me and where I made camp, I noticed that Youto wasn’t fading, not even in the least. In fact, he was keeping a strong enough pace to pass me, so I let him do just that.
Youto hanging on for dear life!
Me watching Youto hang on for dear life
We exchanged the lead several times as we traversed the range’s piercing spine. The fog limited our visibility, and I often felt like we were going in circles. As we inched on, small sections of the trail became visible to us and the trail behind slowly disappeared back into the fog. Okuhotaka Dake sat only a few kilometers in front of us, yet we couldn’t see it.
Moving into the fog
Into the unknown
I had intended on reaching Yarigatake by the evening, but settled on making camp at Okuhotaka’s campsite, where Youto was heading, instead. From where we had initially started, the campsite was less than two kilometers away, but it was two kilometers over loose, steep, and jagged rocks. Every 150 horizontal meters took as long as 1 kilometer. We climbed for hours up and down the rocks, using only chains and protruding boulders as secure holds. The possibility of falling was very real, but just as thrilling. Judging my Youto’s climbing helmet, he wasn’t taking any chances. There were no safety guidelines or restrictions. It was you and the trail at your own risk (I later came to find that many people die on this range and that you need to submit forms in advance to hike the Alps…whoops!).
After a long and grueling morning, we reached the summit of Okuhotaka together. There wasn’t much time for embellishing our feat, though, the weather was slipping deeper and deeper into a dismal state. The summit was cold, windy, and covered in a thick fog. Within seconds of taking my camera out, the lens and body were coated in a thin layer of moisture.
There were a few other Japanese fellows occupying the summit by the time we got there. They had hiked up from the campsite, the campsite we so looked forward to reaching. It sat just over the ridge on the saddle. Their English was above par, and they had even visited Philadelphia, my home city.
Summit of Okuhotaka Zan (Japan’s third tallest peak)
After a brief stay and a few summit pictures, Youto and I set off for the campsite. We made it to the lodge in no time, as it was all downhill and not nearly as rigid as it was on the way up. The mist lingered on and was so thick that it was like walking through sheets water. I was never so happy to see a man made structure before. The lodge was warm and cozy with a gas stove in the middle of the room. We were wet and cold and would’ve traded our last dollar to get inside. Luckily, we didn’t have to.
Compared to where we just came from, the place was crawling with hikers. As the afternoon went on, dripping wet hikers filed into the lodge one by one, all coming from different directions of the trail, but none from where Youto and I came from. The short section of trail we had traversed was some of the most dangerous terrain in the entire range; the other dangerous section laid just beyond our campsite.
We took shelter inside the lodge until the heaviest part of the storm passed. At the first opportunity, we ran out to set up our tents. The campsite was astounding, carved out of Karasawa zan, another gargantuan mountain adjacent from Okuhotaka zan. Youto and I set up camp on the two highest rock platforms that overlooked the valley. We didn’t know it at the time, but our view was unbeatable. The rain continued to pour, leaving us with little to do with the rest of our day and no view.
Exhausted, Youto retired to his tent and remained there for the better part of the day. I stayed in the lodge, drying my clothes and pack next to the stove. Among a sea of Japanese, I was the only foreigner in sight. They came in waves, flooding the common area, leaving their mark of wet footprints and dripping coats. Most weren’t as fortunate as Youto and I; we had made it to the lodge before the worst of the storm hit.
When the storm passed, we soon realized that we had an unbelievable view
When the rain ceased, I made my way back up to my tent so I could organize my things and lay out my sleeping bag. That’s when I saw it, the entire Alp range!
I hadn’t seen anything for the past two days, so when the clouds finally cleared, time stood still. Without hesitation, I ran back to the lodge to grab my rain jacket and day pack. Karasawa Dake was only a 100-vertical-meter climb away, and I wasn’t sure if I would get the opportunity to see the range again, especially from above 3,000 meters. On my way out of the lodge, I saw Youto running down from the campsite, pointing at the summit. It didn’t take an expert to understand what he meant. I held up my rain jacket and said, “Let’s move!” We were on the same page since the start and shared the same excitement to see the Alps from an incredible vantage point, the summit of Karasawa Dake. We raced up the mountain and, as we ascended, the grim weather pushed further and further away, until it was almost completely out of sight. The view from the summit made every painstaking step worthwhile.
I hadn’t seen a place like it since New Zealand or Chile. We were the first ones to take advantage of the clearing and within the hour could see several other hikers making their way up the mountain’s rigid path. The weather improved by the minute, giving way to more and more of the range. It was like a dark spell had been lifted. The bright blue skies had prevailed.We hung out at the summit for a few hours before descending back to the campsite and warmth of the lodge. Initially, the poor weather made me question my journey, but seeing the weather open up gave me the hope and motivation I needed to press on.
As the afternoon faded and the evening drew closer, the weather began to shift for the worst. I had hoped to return to the summit for sunset, but after stepping back outside, I soon realized that the idea of another summit was a fading possibility. Dark gray clouds returned, eating up the day’s remaining sunlight. I decided it was best to kick back and enjoy a highly marked up bottle whiskey I had purchased earlier from the lodge.
Early Times, for the times you want to start drinking early
As I sat, enjoying my expensive cheap whiskey, killing the last bit of brain cells the elevation had missed, I turned my head as if to appreciate the color gray one last time. “Son of a bitch,” I whispered from under my breath. The weather had turned again, with pockets of pale blue skies emerging once more.
I ran for the door, turning back to grab the last bit of whiskey I had left on the table. As I made my way out the door, I saw Youto running down from the campsite, heading my way. Just like before, he was pointing at the summit, yelling in Japanese.
We were still on the same page, only this time, I had whiskey in my blood. It didn’t matter because catching the sunset over the North Alps was something I had been looking forward to since the start of my journey. The ascent was a struggle, not because I was slightly intoxicated…okay maybe because of that. It took me longer than usual, but, eventually, I made it and just in the nick of time, too! The sun was perched just above the horizon, ready to fall below the few remaining clouds.
The view was breathtaking: or maybe that was from the altitude. We were both surprised to see only one other person. We kicked back on the summit long after the sun fell beyond the horizon and until the stars began to appear a few hundred at a time. Just as the sun fell, a nearly full moon rose directly from the east, giving off a cold glow on the mountains. I could hear myself saying “wow” over and over again. I was also pretty intoxicated, so, really, anything would’ve “wowed” me.
The Lone Backpacker
The ridgeline I had followed since Kamikochi
After a few hours and being the only two goons at the summit, we began our descent back down to our tents. It was a day for the books, and we had both seen and accomplished so much. We had only known each other for several hours but had been on the same page since the beginning. It was another bittersweet goodbye but a goodbye nonetheless. He planned to set off by 04:00, while I didn’t plan on waking up until after 05:00.
DAY 3
I wasn’t sure of the time, but I figured it was around 04:00 because I could hear Youto packing up his tent. I rolled over and fell back asleep for another twenty minutes. Somewhere along my dreaming process, I realized that the sunrise from Karasawa Dake would be something to witness. I immediately slid out of my sleeping bag and began packing up. I was motivated to be ready to move out before sunrise. It was a short climb, but after summiting Karasawa zan twice, I knew it was strenuous and exhausting, especially with a 27-kilo pack weighing me down. Eager to catch the sunrise, I wasted no time with the details of organizing my pack. By 05:00 I began my ascent and by 05:15 I had summited Karasawa zan for the third time. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and I could see for kilometers over the Alps.
I had a long journey to Yarigatake, so I started on my trek shortly after the sun lit up my path. Several other hikers had told me that the next part of the trail was extremely dangerous and quite steep, and after being on the trail for two days, I had no doubt in what they had said. Looking down from Karasawa Dake, I knew I was in for one hell of a day. The path was vertical, and I could see the dangling chains and ladders bolted to the stone. Nevertheless, I wasn’t discouraged, rather, pretty excited. I love a trail that offers challenges and excitement. Something about the possibility of death makes the journey that much more exciting. It may sound like I’m exaggerating, but I assure you that one wrong step would’ve ended fatally.
But first, let me take a selfie! (It’s a lot farther down than you think…)
As I descended from Karasawa Dake, I could feel my hands beginning to cramp. The amount of weight I was carrying combined with the steepness of the trail was putting a lot of strain on my arms and hands. Not to mention, I was gripping each stone for dear life. By 07:30 I had made it the valley floor and out of danger’s path. The air was thin, and I often found myself gasping for air, even though I wasn’t on an elevated path. And although I was on the valley floor, I was still sitting close to 3,000 meters above sea level.
Losing the will to continue
The ridgeline was a nice break, but it was only a matter of time before I had to start climbing again. My next peak was Kitahotaka Dake, sitting over 3,100 meters high. Thankfully, it wasn’t as steep of a climb as my descent from Karasawa Dake, and there were a lot more crevices to rest. I took my time climbing, as the last several days had compounded on my body, making it difficult to keep at my usual pace. I had a growing headache, due to the lack of water and sleep. The only thing keeping me going was the strength of my legs. The weather was the clearest it had been since the start of my journey and kept me motivated throughout the climb.
Unfortunately, the clear weather did not last, and as soon as I made it over Kitahotaka Dake, I could see the storm clouds moving in from behind. I knew my time was limited, so I picked up my pace in an attempt to make it to my next campsite before the rain. After summiting Kitahotaka, the rest of my journey was like a walk in the woods.
The path was clearly visible with only minor elevation. I tackled my next three peaks with ease and made it to the Yarigatake campsite by noon. I was completely exhausted, and as soon as my tent was set up, I crawled in and fell asleep. I didn’t bother with registration, even though I was sure it would come back to bite me in the ass. At the moment, I was too tired to deal with the process and would handle the situation as it arose. And just like I thought, I was woken up by a Japanese guy, waving a wooden plank with the number 14 inscribed on it. I figured I was in his spot. Thankfully, he was kind enough to swap sites with me, after I got registered, instead of making me break down my tent and move.
By that point, I was wide awake. My head was pounding, but the idea of sitting still wasn’t happening. The base of Yarigatake sat only a few meters in front of me and, although it was covered in a thick haze, I couldn’t help myself. I moseyed closer and closer repeating to myself that I needed to rest and that climbing Yarigatake was not a good idea. But it was too late; I had already started to make my way up the mountain. It was a very short, but steep climb to the summit. I told myself that I would just take it extremely slow and that if my head began to pound too hard, I would turn back and wait until I was fully rested.
The words I mumbled to myself were nothing more than empty promises and worries. I knew I wouldn’t listen to myself, and by the time I made it to the summit, my head was on fire. The clouds had settled over the peak and left nothing visible. Thankfully, I didn’t expect much, as I couldn’t see two meters in front of me. Honestly, I just wanted the satisfaction of taking on Japan’s fifth tallest peak, along with my already accomplished third. In spite of my lack of view, I remained on the summit for hours. In the event that the clouds did clear, I wanted a first class ticket to see the Alp range. Unfortunately, the only thing I saw was fast-moving clouds, rushing over the peak. I hadn’t expected to see anything leaving me content with my decision to climb Yarigatake. I took the rest of the evening to rest up and figure out a plan for day four.
DAY 4
I woke up to heavy winds and settled clouds. I knew there would be no getting around the rain this day. I did my best to dry my things, but the air inside of the lodge was too cool and damp. I would have to settle with a wet pack for my long trek. I set off around 09:30, heading for my next campsite on the ridgeline. I had to make due without my GPS, as the rain was relentless and plenty. Even if I wanted to use my phone, my fingers were too wet to navigate through the map. Sliding my phone to open was futile and frustrating. Instead, I was inclined to give my best shot at following the Japanese trail signs.
ummmm…. shit!
I knew the general direction I wanted to go but there were a network of trails that intertwine, and if I accidentally merged onto the wrong trail, I would be heading in a different direction altogether. As it turns out, I did just that. I should’ve known better when my elevation was dropping rapidly. I was too focused on my steps, and the rain was too heavy to pull out my phone to check. It wasn’t until I saw a sign for Kamikochi that I knew I had taken the wrong path.
I was slightly frustrated but didn’t have a problem with the minor change in plans. I decided I would make camp where I had started my journey and take a few days to regain my strength and make a new plan. It was a long way to Kamikochi, but it was the nicest bit of trail I had seen for some time. The trail was completely flat and followed the river the entire way. It was the first time I had walked on flat grounds in a while.
By 13:30, I had arrived back at Kamikochi and the weather was back to normal. The blue skies emerged once more, and the peaks had become visible. The only bummer was that I was surrounded by hundreds of tourists who visit the village just to see the range, not hike it. Nobody knew what I had gone through over the past four days, but me. Kamikochi and the Alp range were more to me than just a pretty sight; they were a symbol of my small accomplishment and struggle I had gone through. I had left a part of me in that range and every time I stared up at the ridgeline, a vivid story played back in my head.
That evening, I ran into a couple who were grilling an assortment of vegetables and meats. As I walked by them, they waved me over and asked me to join them. There was no turning them down because my tent was right next to theirs. Not to mention, I have never denied the opportunity to eat a free meal! I asked where they were from, thinking they were both from Japan but, as it turned out, the man was from Nepal, and his wife was from Japan. He has been living in Japan with her for the last seven years, and his story was absolutely incredible. He was possibly one of the most humble human beings I had ever come in contact with, in addition, his smile and body language were warming and genuine.
His wife, Meiyou (I could have very well destroyed the spelling of her name…it is pronounced |me*you|,) didn’t speak much English, but listened with intent, as Lama and I shared our past and stories. I connected right away with Lama, as we shared the same values and interests. He was seven years older than me but had gone through twice as much. He was from a Sherpa family, back in Nepal, and grew up over 3,000 meters above sea level. I was slightly embarrassed for telling him that I had struggled through the range after he had told me about how he had a similar walk to that to get to and from school every day. Essentially, what took me four days, he would have to do twice a day just to go to school. He mentioned that his wife didn’t believe his stories at first until he brought her to Nepal to meet his family and see his village. I didn’t doubt the man for a second, but to see the expression on his wife’s face, when she agreed with him, was priceless. Lama was a down to earth and very genuine person. He made a great life for himself, as an agriculturist, in Saga, Japan. I kind of wished that my brother was there to join the conversation, as my knowledge on onions and tomatoes were somewhat limited. Meeting Lama made me want to be a better person, and he wanted nothing from me but to be my friend. He was a man who had come from nothing but self-educated himself enough to excel in this world. He knew over five languages; Japanese, English, Nepalese, Indian, and Tibetan, and most importantly, how to communicate genuinely. I am always impressed when somebody can speak a second language fluently, let alone four, especially without a proper education system.
DAY 5
The following day, I took a zero-day to relax, dry my gear, and organize a new plan. The day was uneventful and filled with several naps. That evening, I joined Lama and his wife, beneath the stars, around a crackling fire. As we sat and enjoyed the evening, talking about random things, another fellow camper decided to come over and join us. At this point, Lama’s wife had retired to their tent and it was just the two of us. The third gentlemen, from India, came over with his iPhone brightly lit, shining directly into our eyes. The volume of his voice was so loud that people from down the river could hear him. He bombarded the conversation saying that he loved talking to people and learning about them. He continued on by gloating about his career and how he was in Japan to manage his employees. He paused for a moment, reading our body language, and said: “am I bothering you guys? If so, no problem, I can leave. If I’m bothering you guys, I can leave.” Lama and I looked at each other, then back to the third fellow to say: “not at all.” The truth of the matter was that we were both being respectful, and both understood the culture he was coming from, and that he most likely wasn’t aware of how rude he was being. He continued blabbing on and occasionally stopped to let out a loud burp (something that was common in his culture and not considered to be rude). Although he too was being his genuine self, he did not mesh well with our conversation. In fact, he completely contradicted himself when he said he loved to getting to know other people. If he would’ve taken a moment to listen, instead of talking a mile a minute, he would have gathered that our conversation was on an entirely different level and that we enjoyed the calm surroundings of nature. His friends got the message before he did and quickly called him over. The difference between them was striking, yet outstanding. One had come from money, and the other had come from nothing. Humility is something you can’t fake, it surrounds you and shapes the person you are.
DAY 6
The following morning, I went to Lama’s tent to say goodbye. It was a moment that struck me deeply. The genuine look on his face, as he crawled out of his tent to wish me luck and say goodbye will forever linger with me. The smile on the man’s face, for the short time we shared, was the most humbling experience I have ever had. I threw out my hand for a handshake, but he stood tall to give me a hug. The world could use more people like Lama and his wife. That’s just the fact of it. Honestly, I didn’t think about writing this story, but meeting Lama compelled me to put this experience into words.
Sunset in KamikochiA thief in the night
Youto on the rightInto the abyssInto the Heavens
Four days of wearing the same socks with wet shoes…Summit of Yarigatake (Japan’s fifth tallest peak).Yarigatake lodge & campsite, from Yarigatake Dake.Summit of Karasawa Zan, looking out to the lonely Yarigatake Dake.When in Japan!Japanese maps; pretending to know what I’m doing.
I can speak for the both of us when I say, we never thought a place like this existed. Sure, I’ve seen a ton of movies that depict towering snow-capped mountains and the monstrous ice glaciers that cut through them, but these days, you never really know what is photoshopped or enhanced by digital imagery. Not to mention, the only trail I had to compare it to was Mt. Mansfield, Vermont, and in comparison, Patagonia pummeled those trails, not even making it fair. The air we breathed was polluted by none, and the water we drank came from some of the freshest sources in the world, the glaciers. We were surrounded by rich green forest and colossus mountains for as far as the eye could see. Every few steps I had to come to terms with the fact that I was actually here and this place actually existed. I was experiencing sensory overload as my brain funneled the radiant images into its crevices. It took me a few days before I wasn’t completely shocked by everything I saw. I felt like I was a kid at Disney World for the first time, and everything was new and exciting, even the ground I walked on.
My brother and I on the bus to Torres Del Paine
THE PATH LESS TRAVELED
There were several campsites in Torres Del Paine; some, with modern huts and structures. There was a famous portion of the trail called the “W,” given its name from the shape it makes on a map. On the W is where you’ll find the more moderately kept trails and huts, along with the organized trips and explorations you can partake in, permitting you’re willing to cough up the money. You’ll even find people lugging suitcases around… very odd, but true. Still, far from a developed city or town, it remained undisturbed and maintained all of its beauty. The back half of the trail, the backbone, is made up of various campsites with small shacks where you can buy supplies. The amount of backpackers/hikers on the backbone is not even close to that of the W, and the trails, that much more exciting. Something about seeing men and women with rolling luggage, while you’re carrying your tent, food, and supplies on your back, really cheapens the adventure. So when it came to which part of the trail to start and end on, the decision was easy. We headed straight for the backbone, moving farther away from the comfort and protection of the W.
The path less traveled
DAY 1 – CAMP SERON
We trekked over barren valleys and through the remains of what was once, a forest desecrated by fire.
Years after the fire and the forest has yet to regrow.
The story goes: a man throwing burning toilet paper off of a mountainside, to dispose of it, hoped that the embers from the toilet paper would expire before they hit the ground. He rationalized: if the embers don’t burn out on the way down, they shouldn’t be enough to start a massive fire, right? He was dead wrong, the embers of his toilet paper did not burn out, igniting the dry dead leaves below, eventually, taking the entire forest with them. A sad story indeed, but all of it true. Ever since then, all fires in Torres Del Paine National Park were banned, and anybody caught making one would pay a heavy price. As unfortunate as the forest remains were, they made for an incredible landscape to traverse and more so, painted a vivid picture of what carelessness can get you. We could see for miles over the charred stumps and what remained of the once, vibrant forest.
We had just come from the Northern part of the States, where the weather was battering my city with waves of snow, rain and ice. I felt like I was cheating Mother Nature as we hiked through the temperate lands of Patagonia. I was happy to be away from the chaos of snow storms and even happier to be 75+ degree weather, with the sun shining on my back. We followed the trail for miles before the valley was separated by a massive river. The river ripped through the terrain, eroding any loose rock in its path. The water was beyond cold (close to freezing) and it flowed directly from the surrounding glaciers.
We both brought our own water filters, but seeing as we were amongst some of the freshest, most untouched, and cleanest water in the world, they were deemed useless. The water was cool and crisp and tasted just like it looked… absolutely incredible. If we weren’t swayed by the threats of Giardia, we would’ve ditched the filters and saved the pack space.
We followed the winding river until the sun set, eventually arriving at the wooden gates of Camp Seron. Camp Seron was a huge open field with tents neatly placed throughout. The floor was covered with lush green grass and littered with daisies.
As we set up camp, we got to know some of the other fellow backpackers heading in the same direction as us. We were all here for the same reason and got along like we’ve known each other for years, even though we just met five minutes ago. While sharing stories over our Mountain House meals, the sun hid behind the mountains and the moon came out, illuminating the camp. The place became enchanting and the stars shined brightly over the valleys. There was zero light pollution, giving every star a chance to shine. It was late and we had a big day ahead of us, so we retired to our tents officially ending our first day on the trail.
Camp Seron
We didn’t know them yet, but the couple in that tent is Chris & Pam and we became lifelong friends.
DAY 2 – CAMP DICKSON
By the time I woke up I was covered in condensation, that dripped from the walls of my tent.
That morning I woke up shivering, covered in condensation
Well.. It wasn’t really a tent per say… I borrowed my brother’s bivvy in place of a tent because it was light weight and didn’t take up much space in my pack.
Which one of these is not like the other? lol
Let’s just say that turned out to be a huge mistake. Truthfully, at the time, I didn’t even own my own tent! I was so new to backpacking that I didn’t own much gear at all. Even the pack I carried was borrowed from my brother. Why he had duplicates of everything… I simply do not know.
The bivvy, old and worn, had lost most of its waterproof layer, leaving a thin sliver of tarp between me and the talons of Mother Nature. If you don’t know what a bivvy is, it is a mummy-like coffin designed to be a lightweight and compact tent. It is a great concept If you don’t mind tight spaces and little leg room for stretching out. Unfortunately, I mind both of these things very much! The feeling of being buried alive is by no means pleasant, and throughout the night I would wake up gasping for air, fumbling for the zipper so I could rip open the cover. After the few first times of nearly suffocating, I slept with the bivvy slightly unzipped, so the air could circulate through the tent.
As my brother lay, like a king, in his mansion of a tent, I couldn’t wait to get up and out of my coffin.
The sleeping King in his mansion (sorry for the unflattering pic, brother)
Excited for what the lay ahead, we gathered our things in preparation for the trek to Camp Dickson. We had incredible weather on our trek to Camp Seron and were fairly new to the climates of Patagonia, so we didn’t know what to expect or to wear on our trek to Camp Dickson. I threw on some light layers expecting the same weather we had the day before.
A few backpackers, who set off right before us, were within sight on the trail, and in an attempt to catch them we threw our things together and departed from Camp Seron. Right when we threw the packs on our backs, a heavy mist came lofting down from the skies, blanketing the valley. It didn’t take long for the mist to turn into a torrential downpour as we attempted to cross a small pass in the mountains. We continued pressing on only to be bombarded with high-speed winds coming from over the small pass. The wind was fierce and relentless, sweeping through my jacket and nearly lifting my feet from the ground. The rain turned to hailing bullets of water, pelting me from every angle on my body. It felt like somebody was shooting me with an airsoft gun (a gun that shoots little plastic bullets). Far from discouraged, I became encouraged as the storm gave me energy. The feeling of pushing through the elements was exhilarating and I never felt so alive. I felt like I was apart of a crew on an expedition and that we had a mission to complete, make it to Camp Dickson at all costs.
Before too long the weather subsided, leaving us with a calm and steady rain. My boots were soaked and my pack was dripping water from the inside out. I made one of the biggest rookie mistakes a backpacker can make… I didn’t bring a pack cover or anything waterproof for that matter. Right before we left the states, my brother mentioned that I should bring a pack cover. I didn’t own one, and by the time he mentioned it, it was already too late. We were less than eight hours from catching our flight to Chile. Luckily my sister gave me a giant 50-gallon trash bag, in place of a pack cover, hoping it would be enough to keep the elements out. Unfortunately, the giant plastic bag only lasted so long, and I paid the price, with soaking wet everything. Everything in my pack, from my socks to my jackets were left completely soaked. I ignored the thoughts because I still had a few kilometers to go and it was pointless to worry about something I had no control over. I knew if I could make it to camp, pending the rain stopped, I could lay all of my stuff, giving it a chance to dry.
I picked up my speed and separated from the pack, in anticipation of coming across Camp Dickson. As I rounded the mountain, there it sat… the elegantly composed Camp Dickson. It laid nestled beneath the mountain, surrounded by the river and its glacier.
Camp Dickson
From where I was standing, I could make out the tents, so I began running down the mountain, bounding from one rock to another. The weather started to clear giving hope to my wet clothes. Water leaked from my boots with every step and my hands remained wrinkled.
None of that mattered because I was standing in front the gates of Camp Dickson and the sun was triumphing over the clouds. I was so happy that I didn’t have to set up my tent in the rain, especially since everything was already soaking wet! Shortly after getting settled in, the rest of the crew, including my brother, came trudging through camp. They set up their tents and laid out their clothes all over the campsite. The place was starting to look like a laundry mat. My brother and I spent the rest of the evening exploring the terrain with a bottle of wine, getting intoxicated all the while. It was a great evening after a hard day’s hike.
J.D. killing the rest of the wine
DAY 3 – LOS PERROS
We left Camp Dickson in great spirits, heading for Los Perros and the weather was back to “normal” or at least, the rain stopped and there was no sign of any more. This was a huge relief, especially after being hammered by the rain and wind the entire way to Camp Dickson.
Camp Dickson with the sunrise
As we hiked on the path to Los Perros, we would continue to fall in love with the landscape of Patagonia. Just when we thought we had seen it all, the trail would reveal another vista giving us more reason to question if where we were, was real.
Looking back at Camp Dickson as we hiked to Los Perros
A few kilometers from camp Los Perros
The path to Los Perros wasn’t long, but more than made up for it in elevation and roughness. There was no apparent shortage of water, as the path followed the river the entire way, and we didn’t think twice about overfilling our canteens with the cold refreshing glacier water. The stuff was intoxicating and gave me a new love for water.
By the time we arrived in Los Perros it was early in the afternoon and I was ready for some much-needed rest. The campsite was enchanting and took cover in the midst of the forest, covered by the trees above.
The river flowing around Los Perros
The ground was covered in patches of grass and dirt and was almost perfect for setting up a tent. It had various spots where the sun peaked through the trees heating the ground. I took full advantage of the sun, laying the rest of my wet clothes out to dry. I spent the rest of the afternoon walking around the camp, gaining an understanding of my surroundings. The place was absolutely magical and there were bouts of horses trotting in, carrying rounds of supplies and water.
Horses and men carrying in loads of supplies into Los Perros
As I walked around, I found that the campsite was filled with empty tents, which, if need be, you could rent for the night. Fortunately, I found a nice flat area that was lightly covered with trees. The trees were tall and thin, not providing much coverage from the weather, but I took the gamble anyway hoping the rain would hold. My brother, on the other hand, found a grassy area that looked out to the mountains, just on the cusp of camp. Jealous of his spot, I proceeded to set up my things and prepare for the evening. We had plenty of daylight left and both wanted to check out the surroundings.
We hiked a few kilometers back, from where we came and found a ridge that led to a massive rock wall. The wall appeared to be the only thing keeping the glacier from bulldozing the campsite.
We followed the ridge as far as we could until running into the rock wall. Looking up, it was much bigger than I had originally thought. I could see the glacier creeping over, as the water gushed into the river below. I couldn’t help my curiosity, and began climbing the wall. A few meters up, my brother insisted that what I was doing was a terrible idea. I turned to him and saw the sun setting behind the mountains, along with dark storm clouds setting in.
Heading back, as the storm moves in over Los Perros
As much as I wanted to continue up, I knew, what come up must come down. The rocks were wet and slippery from the water seeping down from the glacier and made for a terrifying climb down. We looked out over the tree line, which was mind blowing, and knew what was coming. We thought we had escaped its grasp, but the storm was coming back to finish what it had started. We raced down the ridge and the rain started drizzling down, warning us of what was to come. Wearing the only dry clothes I had left, I couldn’t help but worry about my tent, sitting in a vulnerable position under the feeble protection of the trees. I couldn’t take another night in the rain and pleaded for it to stop. I became infuriated with nature, as it continued to show its might, not letting up for a day. When we arrived at camp, the rain increased from a drizzle to an all out rainstorm. The water raged through camp, flooding the gullies, turning the dirt to mud. The rain was so thick you couldn’t see five feet in front of you, and it gave off a chilling energy. We grabbed what we needed to cook with and headed for the only “shelter” in camp, where all of the other backpackers were.
THE BREAKING POINT
The shelter, a dilapidated shed with arbitrary pieces of fiberglass covering the ground, was no more coverage than the tree above, but it would have to do for cooking. There were nails placed throughout the wooden support beams, and all of the backpackers took full advantage, hanging their cold wet clothes from them. Finding a few nails ourselves, we hung what we could in an attempt to dry them. There were holes scattered along the roof, and the rain barricaded in. We all gathered together in small groups to keep from getting wet. In spite of the rain, pouring from the holes in the roof, everybody continued to cook and, with the exception of me, in great spirits. It was this very moment that I hit my breaking point, and watching everybody else carrying on, laughing, and having a good time only made it worse. My attitude was shattered, and I was left with negative thoughts ripping through my head. My anxiety peaked when I realized I didn’t own one dry item. I could only think about how much my tent, my only source for sleeping, was getting thrashed by the rain. All of the noise and laughter became a distant mumble as I stood there, glassy-eyed, fixated on the water flowing from the holes in the roof. The ground beneath me turned to mud and giant puddles began to accumulate. My boots remind soaked, and the air, cold. The water flowed down my arms, dripping from my fingertips. Although all of these things registered in my brain, I stood there motionless and helpless. I was brought to by my brother, nudging me, handing me my food. I, very slowly, processed his actions, grabbing the cold metal vessel, filled with ramen noodle, from his hands. He had a smile on his face, unbroken by the elements and what nature threw at us. Noticing my facial expression, he said I could cram into his tent for the night.
My face should say it all…
Lost in time and space for a brief second
He knew my bivvy didn’t stand a chance in the storm and that there was no way it would be suitable for sleeping. To this day, I don’t know how my brother kept it together, but him offering a spot in his 1-person tent was the only thing keeping me from losing it altogether. We left the shelter, heading for his tent, where we both stood in utter shock. I could’ve cried at the sight, as all hope retreated from my body. Standing in the rain, we watched the river slowly consume his tent. When he had originally set it up, it was far enough from the river that it was out of harms way, but as the rain continued to pour, the river grew in width swallowing everything in its path, including his tent. Twenty-five percent of his tent was submerged in water, demolishing all hope for any restoration.
A small chuckle rumbled from the back of my throat and I closed my eyes in amazement at what was happening. The only good news was that I had officially hit my lowest and there wasn’t much more Mother Nature could throw at me. The surrounding tents were vacant, and it was dark enough that we could sneak into one without paying. Although, if it came down to it I would throw my money down in an instance. We grabbed our packs, sneaking into the closest vacant tent. One of the camp officers saw us, but turned his head in pity as if to say, “go ahead, I understand.” We hung our drenched socks from the top rafters along with other articles of clothing. The air was cool and damp making it unlikely that any of our clothes would be dry in the morning, but we continued anyway. Even with my brother beside me, the tent had more than enough space for both of our packs. It was a luxury I had yet to come across during my journey in Patagonia, and it came at just the right time.
I closed my eyes and the sense of anxiety passed. The dry tent kept me together in my time of despair, and although we were in an absolutely extraordinary place, I couldn’t help but wish for it all to be over. The dreaded night slowly passed as I faded into sleep, becoming nothing, but a memory.
To Be Continued…
All of our food we carried on our backs
All of the food super condensed
J.D.’s pack (left), Sam’s pack (right)
The wine from Camp Dickson
The town of Puerto Natales (right before Torres Del Paine)
Ready to catch the bus to Torres Del Paine National Park
It was a beautiful sunny day when I left Huế, a small city on the central coast of Vietnam. I set off with the intention of making it as far south as the Quảng Ngãi Province before the day’s end. No end destination in mind, just south. I had no idea what was there, and I didn’t really care; I just knew I needed to cover as much ground as possible over the next few days.
The day before, I purchased a motorbike from a local Vietnamese shop owner. It set me back a good four and a half million Vietnamese dong, only $200 or so USD, but I now had the freedom to go anywhere. The only thing was, I planned on booking a flight out of Ho Chi Minh City in a couple of days and that was over a thousand kilometers away. I had little time to explore or fool around. Between the scenic mountain road and coastal highway, the coast was the only route that would get me to my flight in time. Even then, it would only give me about a half day to sell my bike. I tried not to think about the details of it all, hoping that future Sam would figure it out.
I was making great time, cruising at a steady 80 km/hour. I had the Rolling Stones plugged into my ears and the repetitive flap of my shirt and jacket, tailing in the wind behind me. My pack was heavy, tied tightly to my body, but the majority of the weight sat on the bike and I got used to it fairly quickly. The sun was gleaming and warmed my chest, arms, and face while the fast wind, rushing against me and my bike kept me cool and comfortable. I felt like I was on a different planet. Nothing could shake the smile from my face. The idea of time was irrelevant and appeared to stand still. There was no feeling like it.
With a few hours of riding behind me, I blew past the small town of Quảng Ngãi and still had plenty of daylight left. Something kept me motivated to stay on the road.
As I closed in on Qui Nhơn, the next big city on my map, heavy storm clouds appeared off in the distance behind me, dividing the sky in half. In front of me was a calming cloudy blue sky. Behind me, and gaining, were dark and ominous storm clouds. The line in the sky looked like it had been drawn and it was sweeping across the sky in the same direction as me.
Where the sky divided the sun peeked through the clouds illuminating the rice patties below. It was a stunning sight but alarming all the same.
I picked up my speed in an attempt to outrun the fast-moving storm; the last thing I needed was to be caught between lightning and rain. I wrenched on the throttle, watching the speed gauge slowly creep up over 95 km/hour. I was in a race against mother nature, trying to outpace where the two skies collided.
A sense of relief set in as I left the monstrous clouds behind me in my sideview mirrors. As it’s said, I was home free.
I wasn’t the only rider trying to escape the storm. Moving at a quicker pace than me, another rider came cruising past, leaving me with no choice but to move aside. Beneath me was loose gravel and dirt from fresh construction of the 1A. Initially I thought nothing of it until the feeling of my back tire sliding underneath my bike registered in my brain. Immediately, I knew what was happening and all I could do was close my eyes and let the inevitability of what was about to happen, happen.
I once heard that there are two types of riders: those who have gone down and those who are going down. I was going down, fast and hard.
I slid under my bike against the loose gravel for what felt like an eternity before it kicked out from on top of me in another direction. I continued to slide for another couple of meters while a thousand thoughts raced through my head, chief of them being the absence of my helmet. Adrenaline coursed through my body, numbing me from any pain. I had been moving at a pace close to 100 kmh (60mph) for several hours and now I was completely still. I slowly stood up processing what had just happened as a few locals who witnessed the accident rushed over to assist me.
As I came to, I hobbled over to my phone, sitting in the gravel a few meters in front of me. I picked it up to see the screen had been shattered to pieces. It still lit up. My Nikon still hung around my neck. The flash was hanging on by its wires and the lens was shaved down to the glass. It didn’t work. My sunglasses sat beside my bike somewhat intact. They were nicked and the glass was scratched a good bit but they still did their job. My pack was still on me, and I could see the side had been shaved down quite a bit with the side buckles busted open. Bulging at the seams, my pack took the brunt of the damage. If it hadn’t been strapped to my body, I don’t know what shape I would’ve been in. My bike sat sputtering in front of me with visible body damage.
My material objects were a small price to pay for a seemingly clean bill of health. Sure, I was pretty beat up and bleeding in various spots, but I could still think clearly.
Gearassessment: camera smashed to bits, sunglasses cracked and shaved, phone shattered, pack shredded, bike mangled. Physicalassessment: palms completely skinned and bloody, knee split open, oozing blood, numbed elbow, most likely fractured.
The Show Must Go On
In an attempt to pick up my bike, I accidentally pulled on the throttle, kicking the bike forward. Maybe I wasn’t thinking as clearly as I thought. The sun was setting, and, now, I only had one working headlight. The rest of the bike remained intact, intact enough to keep riding.
I strapped on my pack and got back on my bike. Outside of the visible physical damage, I didn’t bother doing a deeper assessment. I wanted to wait until I made it somewhere safe before analyzing the rest of the damage to avoid any unnecessary anxiety.
I rode for about 16 kilometers, watching as the last bit of light fell below the horizon. The adrenaline slowly wore off and pain took its place. My entire body ached. The blood from my left hand crept up my arm as it was pushed by the wind. My right arm was most likely fractured. I clutched it in close to my body, resting it on my lap as I kept my bike straight and steady with one arm. It was hard to breathe, each deep breath sending bursts of pain throughout my body.
I continued on in the dark for a few more kilometers, keeping my eyes open for any sign of civilization. I was in the middle of nowhere with dirt and sand on either side of me.
Off in the distance, I saw a lonely light. As I got closer, I could make out a several-story cinder block building with a flickering hotel sign that barely hung to its side. There was nothing else around for as far as the eye could see except for a one-story building that sat directly across the street. It had lights that gave off a cold neon white glow. The entire place resembled a scene out of a horror film, Texas Chainsaw Massacre coming to mind, but at this point I was running out of options and needed to get off of the road. I was in no shape to continue on and I was running out of petrol.
They were open. Other than the owner, there wasn’t a soul in sight, yet the only room available was the lovers’ suite. Who cares, I thought. I handed over a few bills and headed straight for my room.
In The Loneliest of Places
Most of my cuts and scrapes appeared to be superficial and just needed to be cleaned and bandaged. The gash in my knee was deep, very deep, and was filled with bits of gravel. Both of my hands were shaved just shy of the bone, and I had road burn on my stomach and legs. My leather jacket was worn through on the right arm, the arm I think I fractured and my long pants were ripped and tattered giving them a little bit of character.
After examining the state of my body, I went down to the lobby, looking for some medical supplies. I had low hopes, but I had to try for peace of mind. The owner, who doubled as the desk attendant, didn’t speak any English. I revealed my cuts, hoping he would get the picture. After a quick head to toe scan, he looked up at me and said, “ahhh,” then proceeded to the back room out of sight. He was only gone for a second before returning with a medical kit. He poured a liquid green solution onto my hands and knee and began scrubbing it with gauze. The pain was excruciating, and I couldn’t help but let off a loud groan. He appeared to know what he was doing, so I let him continue. I trusted him.
Bandaged up, I retired to my room flopping down onto my heart-shaped bed. My lungs tightened, making it difficult to breathe. I tried to analyze the severity of my situation only making things worse. I began to worry about the deep cut on my knee, the throbbing pain in my arm, and my severe shortness of breath. I was scared and alone, and the closets town was over 50 kilometers away. I had to find solace in my situation, but at the time that seemed nearly impossible.
A Long Way to Go
In the morning, I woke up with no recollection of falling asleep. My body was stiff, and I was ready to get out of this lonely place. I took a moment to recenter my attitude and came to the realization that this is what adventure is all about. I didn’t need to be afraid or put my tail between my legs. I stood up tall, regaining every ounce of my confidence I had lost the night before. I strapped on my pack and jumped back on the bike that took me down. After all, I still had over 650 kilometers to go.
Its reach was no more than 100 meters from the island and was connected by an earthly passage that spanned roughly two meters in width. Although natural in form, Taiwan had reinforced the footpath for ease of use and assurance.
The Wanderer 