The View from the Peak

Sipping my coffee, I stared out at fog. “God, we really want to go hiking today,” I prayed silently. “Please let us get to the top.” Another billow of cloud rolled across the deck of the little rest hut at the top of the ropeway. Our goal was Asahidake, a relatively short hike for a short autumn day, but still a significant climb to the tallest peak in Hokkaido.

“Well… we could try walking around the lakes and see if it clears up?” I suggested. Keith nodded in agreement, and we zipped up our rain coats and headed out into the fog. Maybe we would keep climbing if we felt like it.

At Full Moon Pond, we spotted a patch of blue sky, and by the time we got to Husband and Wife lakes, a startlingly clear view of the side of the mountain. We could almost see the peak, which reflected back out of the dark water. Just past Mountain-View Lake, a blue streak appeared between layers of clouds.

We decided to climb. I had this weird confidence it was going to be clear when we got to the top. This was going to be amazing.

My confidence grew as the fog kept lifting, always just a little bit ahead of us, as we climbed. We saw a hiker with red backpack disappearing into the fog above us, then reappearing, then disappearing again. At the sixth station, a bit of sun lit up the side of the mountain, and in the valley below, the mountain shrubs’ autumn foliage flamed red.

Then, between the seventh and eighth stations, the fog stopped lifting. The strong wind came up over the ridge, pelting us with rain. “If this keeps up, we’re going to have to turn back,” warned Keith. Just before the ninth station, we passed a young woman in a rain slicker on her way down. “How was it? Did you make it to the top?” we asked. “Yeah… it was cold. I couldn’t see anything!”

But we kept going, holding out hope for a clear view from the top. Only 100 meters left to climb. We’ll make it, I thought. We can’t give up now!

We turned a corner and found snow on the ground, probably from last night. How much longer? Who knew? We stumbled on through total whiteout, with rain falling sideways. We guessed that the temperature was close to freezing.

We came over one last ridge, and the trail flattened out. Was this the top? It didn’t clear up. In fact, it started raining harder. We found the top-of-mountain signpost, took our selfies and then immediately turned around and clomped as fast as we could down the mountain. I couldn’t feel my legs, but I was sure that my knees would pay for this rough descent once they thawed.

We emerged from the fog below the sixth station, and shortly after that met a guy attempting the climb in tennis shoes and a jeans jacket. “You’ll never make it dressed like that,” we warned him. He smiled and thanked us, then kept going.

Heavy rain turned to downpour the last few hundred meters. We arrived back at the top of the ropeway, dripping wet, miserable, and chilled. What was this all about? Where had all that confidence gotten me?

I can certainly say that after all that, lunch (steaming hot curry-rice with local vegetables) tasted amazing. During the course of lunch, my legs thawed, and I discovered, as we took the stairs to exit the restaurant, that indeed, my knees had not appreciated our style of descent. We headed straight for the onsen to cure our weary muscles and joints.

By late afternoon, we were back in our hotel room, and I was already wearing pajamas. My clothes were hanging to dry in front of the heater. Keith looked out the window. “It’s sunny!” he exclaimed. “I’m going back out!” I whimpered something about wet clothes and stairs, but after seeing sunlight on the yellow maples and red Japanese rowan trees outside, I threw my clothes back on and limped down the stairs and out into the parking lot.

There was Asahidake, flaming red and glorious in the evening light, and not a single cloud.

Thanksgiving Came Early

I sighed, gazing into the empty vegetable drawer. Three days after the earthquake, the power was back on, and so was the water. The freezer was full of freezer-burned meat that needed to be eaten quickly. We had plenty of rice, a few eggs, and even a little bit of milk, but no vegetables.

I hungrily searched the garden. A few tiny leeks, a handful of herbs, an abundance of parsley, some stunted carrots; hardly enough to make a meal.

But I was not yet desperate enough to brave the lines of stern-faced housewives at the grocery store as they snapped up every scrap of fresh food before I even got through the door. What would happen, I wondered, to the people who really were desperate, who didn’t have our well-stocked pantry, or who had lost everything in their freezer? How could they compete with the others who were panic-buying simply because fresh food had become scarce?

The warm early autumn breeze carried the fragrance of yakiniku from somewhere in the neighborhood. Perhaps someone else had partially-thawed meat to use up. Our neighbor across the street stood on a ladder trimming his pine tree. Other than the grocery store, our neighborhood was a haven of peace and serenity. I sighed with regret over the beets and Swiss chard that I planted in the spring, which had been choked out by weeds in our absence over the summer. If only we had been able to plant a garden this year. I thought of our friends with large farm plots, starting to feel jealous.

Then it dawned on me that in Hokkaido in the autumn, no one needs to go hungry. The abundant vegetables in the fields don’t care one bit that there’s been an earthquake. Scarcity was an illusion that had grown in the minds of the self-sufficient. But I had no need to rely only on my own resources, and neither did anyone else. I could ask for help. What if I asked my farming friends? There was no bread in the stores, either, since there was neither milk nor eggs. I can make bread without using either. Why not make a trade?

So we asked. And our friend arrived in our genkan with a huge box of potatoes, a bag of vine-ripened tomatoes, a bundle of green beans, some eggplants, and the largest kabocha I had ever seen. “No need to return the favor,” he said, smiling. That night we ate a feast, and we continued to feast for a week.

I delivered a bag with two little loaves of fresh sourdough bread to his wife at church the following Sunday, tears in my eyes as I hugged and thanked her.

Lord of the Harvest, we give you thanks for your mercy to all of us here in Hokkaido. By your grace, the earthquake happened in autumn. No one went hungry, and no one froze. And we thank you that you welcome us to ask for help.

(By the way, we saved one pie's worth of the kabocha and froze it for our Thanksgiving pie.)

Winter Salsa

This recipe was inspired by a huge amount of cilantro in my garden, snow in the forecast, and the need for appetizers for Thanksgiving dinner. Also, persimmons are in season, but tomatoes are not. And persimmons look like tomatoes, so it should work out, right?

Winter Salsa

Ingredients:

• 3 persimmons
• 2 bell peppers
• 1 tablespoon avocado or olive oil
• 1 large onion, diced
• 4 cloves garlic, minced
• 3 green onions, minced
• 1 chipotle pepper in adobo sauce, minced, with additional adobo sauce added to taste
• Large handful of cilantro, chopped
• Juice of one lime
• Salt to taste

Instructions:

1. Peel and cube the persimmons as you would do with tomatoes in “normal” salsa. 
2. Fire-roast the peppers using your method of choice. I cut them in half and grilled them in my fish grill, but I am guessing most of the people who read my blog don’t have a fish grill. Allow the peppers to cool, remove as much of the skin as possible, and dice. (Or raw peppers are fine.)
3. Heat the oil in a frying pan. Fry the onions over low heat, stirring frequently, until they are caramel brown, about 15 minutes. Add the garlic and green onions and fry them for another couple of minutes. (Or, once again, you can skip this step if you like the flavor of raw onion and garlic. I don’t.)
4. Put the persimmons, peppers, and onion mixture in a large bowl, and season to taste with chipotle pepper, cilantro, lime juice, and salt. Enjoy!

On top of tonight's dinner...

Persimmon trees lose their leaves before the fruit falls off.