Surprise! Hokkaido Horserace!

-- Susan, every other Sunday

I'm currently on a three-week mountain climbing trip to Hokkaido, Japan's northernmost major island.

This is what heaven looks like.

In the six days since my arrival, I've summited three major peaks (the smallest was just under 2,000 meters, the highest 2,141), with five more possible climbs on the agenda before I return to Tokyo on September 25.

On the summit of Tomuraushi, 2,141 meters

Some of you may have seen that Hokkaido was rocked by a massive earthquake a little over a week ago (three days before I arrived). The island's 5 million residents have done a shockingly good job of recovering from the quake. Although some areas remain impacted, others have pretty much returned to normal.

Wherein lies a tale.

Two days ago I discovered that my trekking poles, permitted on the bullet train, are not permitted on the ANA flight I'm taking back to Tokyo from the northern Hokkaido city of Wakkanai. Since I travel light, my existing suitcase isn't large enough for the poles, so my guide and I used today's rest day between climbs for a detour to Obihiro, the only designated city in Tokachi prefecture, so I could buy a larger suitcase.

This is neither a city nor my suitcase. In case you were wondering.

While there, my guide discovered that traditional horse racing was taking place at the city's track this afternoon - the first such races since the earthquake. Since I love horses as much as I love mountains, we hopped in the car and reached the track just minutes before the race began.

The horse racing stadium in Obihiro, Hokkaido, Japan

We spent those minutes visiting the retired racehorses stabled near the track. The stable is open so visitors can meet these massive horses (and for the equivalent of $1 you can buy carrots to feed them - which, of course, we did).

This beautiful fellow was such a good racer that he has official citizenship papers in Obihiro.

Hokkaido's traditional racing isn't long-track, high speed racing like you see in the United States. It's short-track-with-two-hills racing referred to as "stop and go!"

The "big hill" on the traditional racing track.

The race takes about five minutes to run, and the horses seemed to enjoy the competition.

Horses coming up the "big hill" in the middle of the race.

This style of racing was invented by Japanese farmers. When the season's work was finished, they challenged one another to see whose horse could run the fastest while pulling a load.

Down the hill! It's like Western racing in slow motion. The crowd loved this part.

Today, the horses (all massive draft animals) pull weighted sleds up the little hill, to the big hill, and to the finish line.

The jockeys have to keep the horses in their lanes, or they will be disqualified.

The horses seemed to be enjoying themselves (I've spent enough time around horses to know - and these were not upset), and the weight isn't heavy enough to be cruel. In fact, the one that won was way behind and clearly decided he didn't want to finish last:

The exciting (first) rush to the finish! (There are eight more horses about 30 yards behind.)

So the 75% mark, he perked his ears forward, lowered his head, and hauled some serious horsie-tush for the finish line.

We got to watch the exciting finish four more times, as the other eight horses made their way to the finish line over the next minute or two.

I love the mountains, but I'm also an enormous fan of experiences--especially those involving traditional culture (and horses), and this was an exciting way to spend my rest day in Obihiro!

See you in two weeks, when I'll be back from the mountains and hopefully sharing more adventures from Japan's far north!

The Lanterns of Kasuga Shrine

--Susan, every other Sunday

Kasuga Taisha (Kasuga Shrine) is one of Japan's most important Shinto holy sites. The shrine was established in 768, in what is now Nara Park (located in the city and prefecture of Nara, Japan).

Most people know Nara Park for its sacred, and friendly, deer.

The hondo, or main worship hall, enshrines four deities: Takemikazuchi-no-mikoto, Futunushi-no-mikoto, Amenokoyane-no-mikoto, and Himegami. The deities have Buddhist analogues as well, and are worshipped by priests from nearby Buddhist temples as well as the Shinto priests who manage Kasuga Shrine.

The hondo at Kasuga Taisha

Among other important religious and cultural features, Kasuga Taisha is known for the thousands of bronze and stone lanterns that line the temple's halls and paths. (The total number exceeds 3,000.) Each of the lanterns represents a donation to the shrine--a practice that continues to this day.

Rows of toro (standing lanterns) near the worship hall.

The oldest lanterns are almost a thousand years old:

Despite the moss, this lantern is only about 400 years old.

During the medieval period, only samurai and the wealthiest merchants could afford to donate an entire lantern. Many famous samurai, including members of the Tokugawa shogunate and other daimyo (samurai lords) donated lanterns--which still stand at the shrine today.

Some of the lanterns donated by famous dudes.

However, groups of common people also joined together to donate a toro as a group. This one was donated by a group of 800 different people who pooled their money to pay for this single lantern.

The lantern on the right was donated by 800 individuals, working together.

Kasuga Taisha's hanging lanterns are made of bronze. They start out golden:

Recently-donated lanterns. Each represents a donation of 2 million Japanese yen.

...but slowly acquire a greenish-grey patina, a process that takes 40-50 years.

Older, but no less beautiful.

Until the end of the Meiji Era (July 30, 1912) the lanterns were lit every night at sunset. Today, they're lit only twice a year: on December 31, and during the August Obon celebration, when the veil between this world and the next grows thin, and the spirits of the dead return to visit (and hopefully bless) the living.

Watching for the ancestors, or just waiting for treats? Hard to tell.

Since most visitors won't be able to return for the lighting ceremony, Kasuga Taisha maintains a "dark room" filled with illuminated lanterns, so visitors can experience a piece of the lantern ceremony at any time of day, every day of the year.

I love Japanese lanterns--their five-tiered shape represents the Buddhist elements (earth, water, fire, air, and spirit), and at night they give a lovely, gentle light. At Kasuga Taisha, they also pay homage to centuries of faith in the deities that protect Japan and the Japanese people, which makes them even lovelier.

If you find yourself in Nara, by all means, go see the deer--but don't forget to visit Kasuga Shrine and its famous lanterns too.

Fuji Decides

-- Susan, every other Sunday

Most weeks, I have to consider what to post here at MIE. Between traveling in Japan and my love of all-things-ninja, there's always more to say than I can possibly include.

This week, however, the post required no extra thought -- because I've been thinking about the topic, one way or another, for more than forty years.

When I was six years old, and in kindergarten, I saw a photograph of a nearly-perfect, conical volcano rising from an empty plain, its snow-capped summit half-hidden by clouds so perfect they almost seemed unreal. Mount Fuji captured my heart at once, though it would be several decades before I finally made my way to Japan, in hopes of seeing the sacred peak in person.

In Japan, there is a saying: "Fuji decides," which usually applies to who is and is not allowed to stand on the mountain's peak--but in my case, it seemed to apply to every interaction with the famous peak--and in every case, the mountain decided "No."

After five visits to Japan, and more than two dozen trips to places where humans can allegedly see Mount Fuji (I say "allegedly" because, despite the overwhelming photographic evidence, I have never personally seen the mountain from these places), I was still waiting for an unobstructed view.

Mount Fuji is allegedly located behind these rows of mountains. Allegedly.

The closest I ever came was a seven-second, through-the-power-lines top-of-the-cone shot from a moving train in 2016.

Part of Fuji, as seen from the train. 

Every time I approached, Fuji veiled itself in clouds, as if playing a game of mountain-and-mouse.

Access Denied.

When I started my 100 Summits Project this past May, I continued to seek a clear view of Mt. Fuji, and the mountain continued to foil my plans. Part of me enjoyed the game, though it also hurt my heart that after more than forty years, I was still waiting to see this mountain I'd loved for so long.

NOPE!

Since I planned to climb Mt. Fuji during the rainy season in Japan (the climbing season runs from July 10 to September 1, the hottest and rainiest time of the year), and the forecast called for thunderstorms the entire week we planned to climb, I approached this week's attempt with the sad realization that unless I grabbed the brass ring of weather windows, I could end up not only failing to climb the mountain but not even seeing it as I approached.

On July 18, I traveled to Fujinomiya (a city near the base of the mountain) along with my Fuji climbing team: my mother and family friends Kaitlyn and Laurie Bolland.  We spent the night at a hotel there, with plans to begin our climb the following morning.

The afternoon we arrived, clouds and mist obscured the horizon to the point that we weren't even exactly sure which direction Mount Fuji lay -- despite being less than an hour's bus ride from the trailhead.

The forecast called for thunderstorms, and the official climbing website issued a thunderstorm warning for the base of the mountain. Not good omens, and I went to sleep with a prayer in my heart and carefully managed expectations.

I woke at 5:04 am with rosy sunlight peeping through my window. I got up, peered outside, and saw this:

Fuji Decides, at last.

Twenty-four hours later (almost seven hours of which I spent climbing), I watched the next sunrise from the top of Japan's highest peak:

On the summit of Fuji-san

And photographed the impressive shadow Mount Fuji casts over Shizuoka Prefecture at dawn.

Fuji knows how to throw shade.

Although I don't usually anthropomorphize mountains, a part of me can't shake the notion that Mount Fuji refused to reveal itself to me earlier because--despite my love of the mountain, and Japan--I had not earned the privilege. Everything in life means more if we have to work to earn it, and the view of Fuji was sweeter on my eyes and in my heart for all the years I had to wait to finally see it.

The view from the torii near the summit.

I put in my time. I invested time, blood, sweat, and tears. I trained. I prayed . . I approached as a pilgrim, with respect . . . and, in the end, Fuji Decided in my favor after all.