Rain. Of course it’s raining. Because it’s the last day of what could be our last trip to Hokkaido for a long while. So, of course, it’s raining. I get up anyway, still dark at 5am, quietly so I don’t disturb my wife and kid (who’s bunking with us this holiday). Just alert enough to drive, I head out of the village fully expecting to be back in bed in 20 minutes. But suddenly, around the corner, I see Yotei. It’s a giant triangle looming over everything. Dark, dominating, and really big.
And its summit is clear. Not a low-level cloud in sight. I speed up, just a little. Alone, early, clear summit. Rain or no, it’s time, at last.
The full story, and photographs, follow below the short video (3.5 min).
Thanks to the foresight and generosity of my aunt and her partner, we are lucky enough to have a place to stay on Japan’s northernmost major island, that glorious little pocket of our personal idea of Heaven otherwise known as Hokkaido. And their corner of the island is right near Mt Yotei, a nearly 1,900 meter high volcanic cone that sits 1,500 meters above everything else around there. Even the Niseko ski resort, built on the slopes of Mt Annupuri (that’s Annupuri, not Annapurna!) is a modest hill by comparison.
 Stok Kangri |
 Snow Monkeys |
 Mt Asahi |
In our four visits in the last three years, we have tried to climb Mt Yotei at least five times. Our best effort was Autumn 2017, when we reached the crater rim in a total whiteout with friends O & D, and with our then two year old on my back. Instead of continuing to the summit, we spent some time in the small mountain hut refuge – you’d call it a refugio in Europe. We had tried in summer 2016, too, again with our child, but it was too hot. Or too cloudy. Or too slippery. Or too late a start. Probably all of that.
Each time we didn’t make it, I became more possessed with the dream of getting to the top. Even when we reached the summit area in a white out, I was not satisfied. No, it made me want even more to stand on the very top in clear weather.
And there was no escape. Every time we drove down the hill from my aunt’s house, there it was. Every time we took our child to lunch at Prativo – which we all call Milk Kobo – there it was. Above the carparks of stores in Kutchan, there it was. At the fresh food market near Niseko town, there it was.
Turn left, there it was.
Turn right.
There. It. Was.
Always there. Always different. Grey, green, brown, red. White, in winter. Almost always wearing a hat of cloud – sombrero, beret, beanie, whatever. Sometimes, though, taunting me with a beautiful clear crater rim. I could barely stand to look at it some days, those days where I was tired, perhaps a little too tired, and wondered if I would ever have the strength to carry my daughter up there on the rare day when we had both time to go and a clear view of the summit.
On our most recent trip this Autumn of 2018, we had another half-hearted attempt, on a stunning blue sky day. Setting off at nearly 11am, we knew from the start we would probably not make it. Recent rain made the path very slippery, and this year we didn’t bring the baby carrier backpack. Before long, we turned back for safety’s sake. Yes, it was a beautiful day out as a family. But no, I didn’t reach the summit. I processed my disappointment as quietly as I could.
And then my wonderful wife told me to try it on my own, on our last day before leaving. I slept well, and I was up before dawn and on the trail by 6am. It was drizzling, and heavier rain was forecast, but I decided to give it a shot. No, in fact. I decided, as we sometimes say in Australia, to give it a Red Hot Go.
The sign at the trailhead suggests that it takes an hour to Station 2, then two hours 40 minutes from there to Station 9 on the crater rim. Another 40 minutes puts you on the summit, for a total ascent time of four hours 20 minutes. I set myself a cracking pace, hustling along the flat path and onto the steeper climb as quickly as I felt was safe on the slick muddy trail. I hit Station 2 in half an hour, and by 90 minutes I was already at Station Six. I was also puffed and lightheaded. So I slowed down and got into a steadier rhythm.
Before I knew it, I was at Station Nine, and feeling fine. Yes, Station Nine, feeling fine, in two hours and 22 minutes. Just twenty minutes later I stood on the summit. Right on top, and a three sixty view. A Red Hot Go indeed.
I remember two things most clearly. The sense of elation as I descended, but even more as I drove down the road, at finally having reached the top of Mt Yotei in good weather (well, good enough weather). See the end of the video for a better explanation. Most of all, I knew I could leave with No. Unfinished. Business.
But even more than that, I remember the first night back on Hokkaido on this most recent trip, before I’d completed the quest. We were driving down that road from my aunt’s place to Kutchan. Clear sky, the green field on our right almost black and hard to see. Warm evening air – fresh and calming after Beijing – coming through the open car windows. The big, black triangle of Mt Yotei, standing still and strong in the middle of everything. And a stunning bright yellow full moon to its side, as though God himself had given us a heavenly Japanese painting, just because He could.
There’s no photo of that. I don’t need one. Because like the first time you realize you love your wife or see your new-born kid, it’s a moment you will never forget.
