SAT 6 NOV 99

Uphill at the Big Udon

It’s Saturday in the fall. The colors of maples should be evanescing against the crisp blue of the cooling sky. But it’s too soon. Probably El Nino has poked its warming thumb into the soils of Japan and sprinkled antifreeze into the air. The last several days have been cumulatively supercharging the air to an electrical crispness that snaps with a metallic brightness.

I want to get out – I want to see, to feel. I want my hair to stand on end as the crackling current courses through me.

I plot a course that will take me north and up – cooler, crisper, cleaner.

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I start at the Hankyu Station in Umeda. At the ticket machines, I drop in my ¥580. The machine only lights up to ¥380, so I punch in the yellow button below where it says “Connecting Lines.” I assume it’s the yellow button because the line I want is yellow on the map. Sure enough, ¥580 comes up.

I go north on the Hankyu Takurazuka Line from Umeda. At some point we go through Tada Station. Imagine getting off here! You would step out of the train and onto the platform, and…Tada! There you are. It’s not every day that one has the opportunity to be part of a living pun, but I do pass this one up and instead get off at the Kawanishi Noseguchi to catch the Nose Railway. No, there were no Colombian bad guys or yellow Pulp Fiction wannabes lurking about. But yes, there were white lines on the platforms. There were even a few people lined up along them. But not many.

On the way north, the rail steadily ascends, passing through at least nine tunnels. The rail corridor narrows to a single set of tracks, with pine boughs and shrubbery brushing the windows on both sides as the train snakes its way up.

Eventually, we reach Myokenguchi, the last stop. As I leave the station on the north end, across the street from me is a bus with a driver standing outside. He recommends that I take it to the next “station” in order to reach my destination. I get on board. I watch my step, since the headroom is barely six feet in the center aisle, and much less on the sides where the seats are. There is a row of singles on the right and deuces on the left. The deuces look more like American singles, than the singles. Plus, there is so much clutter underfoot, between wheel wells, heaters, tool boxes, etc., that at most seats, my knees would be higher than my shoulders. But, for the miniaturized, diminutive elderly Japanese ladies, this is just their size.

Eventually, the bus leaves and drives up the hill for about two miles on a one lane paved road that carries two lanes of traffic, bicycles, and pedestrians. About half the bus exits. A man in front of me pauses while his wife continues ahead. As we all pass by, he irrigates a low retaining wall next to the road, despite the fact that just a few hundred feed in front of us are toilets. Yes, it’s a man’s world here-abouts. Yep. U-betcha!

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So, straight in front of me is Mount Myoken, my destination, my challenge. Stretching up from its base is an incline rail. It’s like Angel’s Flight in LA – with two cars on a cable that counterweigh each other from the top. ¥540 buys me a round trip ticket. I get on and sit in the front seat – looking out at the downhill side. The 24 or so seats fill up shortly, and they keep cramming people on board. With some 60 to 70 passengers, the car starts up the slope.

I start contingency planning: Now, if the cable breaks, should I stand up on the seat and be flung out the front window and, maybe, sail out over the turnstiles and out into the pavement in front of the place? Or, should I duck down and be instantly crushed against the platform at the bottom? In the Boy Scouts, they used to tell me to “be prepared”. Now I realized that they were talking about being seasoned and tenderized before being flung on the barbie. Do I sound nervous? Scared? Worried?

Nah! Not macho me!

Near the top, more distant peaks peer up behind the ridges closer up. A gorgeous spectacle of greenery unfolds as it dissipates into the haze near the horizon. The descending cable car passes us predictably at the halfway point. At the top we get out. Predictably, we are not at the top. We have to climb a steep paved road for about half of a mile. Predictably, since in Japan “they” always feel “they” need to retain some remnant of challenge, otherwise, you won’t remember having “been there”. – And, you can still retain some pride and bragging rights when you tell your friends that you’ve “done that” – while omitting just how much you actually have done.

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On the way up, two young Japanese ladies ask me about where I got my jacket. As we talk between puffs, pants, and wheezes on the way up, it turns out that they are on their way to a company picnic. I notice that all men are schlepping plastic grocery bags with at least one six-pack in each – usually more. Most ladies have other unseen stuff in their backpacks. At the top, we part our ways as they go on to the picnic grounds to the right.

I continue to the left to the single seater chairlift. A brief analysis tells me that it’s about an eight-minute ride, and that it has a THC of about 540 each way. Even further inquiry reveals that I will be reduced by weight in coinage by another ¥480 for a round trip.

This is my first time on a chair lift. So I watch carefully what the people in front of me do when they get on. When it’s my turn, I almost mangle my legs under the seat – all of the people I had observed had much shorter legs. So much for following others’ examples.

Once airborne, it was fantastic! It was almost like what I have heard ballooning to be. Well, not quite. But it was calming, quiet, and there was a definite sense of floating. My feet grazed against the hydrangea blossoms on either side, as well as other blossoming plants underfoot. At the top, there was another ascent up a gravel road for about a mile to get to the base of Mount Myoken’s crown – the Nose Myokengu Temple.

Immediately after entering the outer gates, the path is flanked by two full size statues of mares, with another two statues set well back behind them of stallions. Each mare has a front foot that is bent over in preparation for kneeling. Actual carrots have been placed there for whatever reason. At the raised area containing the left mare, there are three dogs relaxing. I can only remember that there is some saying about leaving temple dogs lying, but I can’t remember what or why. But, there they are. On the job, as the job description has been given. One of them gets up to irrigate a temple wall. It’s a dog’s world here-abouts. Yep. U-betcha!

I continue on up the stone paved avenue to the top of the mountain – all 660 meters of it. At the top is an eye-popping geometrical construct or wood, steel, and concrete, rising some twenty meters above its plaza/observation deck. It is a totally contemporary interpretation of the function of the temple. Yet it is rich in tradition and mysticism through its adherence to the eight-pointed figure that is at the core of the sect’s symbolism. It also happens to have been published somewhat recently in one of the leading architectural magazines.

Also true to Japanese tradition, despite all the glass and the ensuing greenhouse effect, the sweltering heat inside is not relieved. No one seems to be interested in opening the several large and ingeniously-designed doors that slope along with the glass walls that contain them.

I wipe my brow, wring out my clothes and continue the tour of the temple grounds. I proceed to the traditional temple building. I listen respectfully to the traditional recording of the chanting monk emanating from the temple. I wonder if he was respectfully collecting residuals through Local 47, AFofM.

I poke around a bit longer and continue down the other side past the souvenir stand and a couple of residentially scaled buildings with collapsing roofs. A bit further on, I take the path that branches to the right, while the one to the left descends steeply down some steps that are undulating with wheezing and gasping figures that slowly make their way to the top. My path quickly takes me back around to the front by the horse statues where I started. From a souvenir stand, I buy some horse chestnuts (in homage to the four horses?) and two toy Volkswagens painted up with flowers (in homage to the five vintage V-dubs I have back home?). Maybe they were being sold ‘cause they had something to do with horsepower.

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Looking at signs and maps near the temple entrance (reachable by vehicle with ample paved parking), Mount Myoken is along a hiking trail that goes from the San-in coast on the north to Osaka Bay on the south. Other trails traverse the areas on both the north and south sides of the island nation. My avid hiking days, regrettably, seem to be in the past. I’m tempted to take the trail from the top down the ravine to the bottom of the mountain, but I don’t trust my feet to adequately sustain me for the trek. Besides, I want to enjoy that floating in the chair lift again. Which is what I do.

Halfway down, I meet a lady coming up. No, she has no cats or sack with her on the chair lift. I see that she is a good twenty years my senior. She looks back at me and says “Konichiwa”. I reply in kind as we float past each other. At which point she breaks out in some traditional sounding Japanese song. Or is she channeling a banshee to drive the image of some evil spirit (me) from her memory. Her caterwauling continues until distance prevents me from hearing further.

At the bottom of the chair lift I flip a mental coin and decide to round the hilltop over to where the picnic grounds are. Are the Japanese different at picnics from Americans? Soon I will find out.

The path gently descends about a quarter of a mile. The entry is guarded by a concessionaire that sells all nature of beverages, including beer and sake at reasonable prices (for Japan, that is) as well as foodstuffs for grilling. Close-by, they have shelves loaded with colanders, salad bowls, skillets, teapots, tongs, etc. that can either be borrowed or rented. There are covered areas with rows of pot sinks on one side, and counters with grilling stoves on the other.

Spreading out from the entry are grilling pits that seat nine, interspersed with round tables that seat six. The grilling pits sit on four-meter diameter stone platforms, with a cluster of boulders in the middle and a grill that nests into the stones about a foot above the platform. Concrete, cast to look like sections of hewn logs, forms a ring of seating on the platforms.

But the pièce de résistance is the view. All of the lower limbs from the trees in that direction have been trimmed – so the view is clear but for the trunks, while the effect of the leaf canopy is retained. In the far distance are Mount Rokko and the western ranges. In the foreground the Inagawa Township fills the valley below like a sea lapping against the feet of the surrounding mountains.

I’m drawn to the edge of the picnic grounds nearest the view. Almost strangely, the tables and fire pits closest to the edge are vacant, while the ones in the middle are full. I say “almost”, because it no longer is that strange to me. In Japan, people like to be with people. In America, the tradition of rugged individualism and self-reliance is still evident, even if not as prevalent as in the past.

I stroll back up to the concessionaire and buy a beer. I go back to the view edge and go into alpha wave mode. I just open up and let it float in – the sun’s sparkle, the tempering haze in the distance, the snap of the blue sky, the soldier’s march of the pines on the slopes, the musty moistness of the dirt at my feet, the float and cry of the crows, the shifting scents of various foodstuffs being singed, the background gaggling of this flock of picnickers. And they do gaggle. And honk. And laugh, and shout, and cry. These folks are downright boisterous.

What is pleasantly missing is radios and commercial music. It’s just people being with other people. I really do prefer just the sounds that “nature” provides: the wind whistling through leaves and needles; bird calls echoing in the stillness; the “whoosh-whoosh-whoosh” of wings churning the air; countless chirping insects laying down a background buzz; water burbling in streams, whitely roaring in falls, and the cyclic cadence of surf. The sounds here are like nature. Like the sounds just mentioned, to me they are devoid of meaning. Yes, the laughter I know is mirth, and anger has its own tone. But there are no specifics. No single point calls for attention. It all is background. With respect to content, to me it is no different than a flock of geese or a herd of sheep.

It’s sort of like the signs. In Japan, the characters have no meaning to me. So they are just graphic patterns. Change the Kanji to English words, and suddenly it would be visual pollution. The characters change from a background abstraction to a foreground attention-getter and consciousness grabber.

So here I am, sitting on a hillside, sipping a beer, alone, but for some 200 head of wildlife hooting and honking while doing ritual mating displays consisting of scorching various organic products over an open flame. It is almost three hours since I rode up the cable car, and most of the wildlife is leaving in a staggering procession – their bags of canned goodies having been guzzled.

Suddenly there’s glitter in front of me. A beetle is flitting about in front of me as the sun reflects off of its carapace. It lands upside down at my feet. I right it with my hand. I’m awestruck. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a golden scarab beetle. Its iridescence is truly like polished gold. It seems impossible that a living creature could have such an appearance. No wonder that it was prized by the pharaohs. And here’s this one that just stopped by to say “Hi.” A very silent “Hi” before flying off.

I’ve collected my gold and reaped my harvest of golden silence. And now it’s time I “fly” off, back to Umeda, back to the echoes, and back to the foghorns crying out hollowly in the mist. Perhaps tomorrow another scarab will come my way.