Alone in the mountains with thunder

I am now 58 and I can remember trips into nature from my urban digs as far back as when I was 6. I have always felt like an explorer in nature, seeing something for the first time that no one else has ever seen! (even when it was a squirrel running up a tree in crowded Camp Curry, Yosemite at the height of summer tourist season.) The mountains, oceans, and wildlife have forever fascinated me.

I have had friends who said they hate the outdoors, the bugs and sweat, lack of cozy bed and showers. I never understood them......

Living near the coast in California, I was introduced to the soul of the ocean at an early age. How it seems to have a sadne,ss or joy or excitement depending on the day, the hour, the season. Walking late on a moonless night when you can only hear the water lapping at the shore and feel the water seeping into your footprints as you lift your heels toward the next step is such a contrast to the wild spray of wind swept surf on a hot summer day with the seagulls screaming over head. It is never exactly the same and yet it is always the same, ever changing. For the past 20 years I have lived in or near Long Beach, California. Although it is an ailing, dying strip of ocean I still love to smell the salty air and to breathe in the wind as it hoists the birds high on an invisible thermal roller coaster. Yeah....I love the ocean and the beach, but the most awesome time of my life was when I was alone in the mountains with thunder.

I lived in Japan as an exchange student and then illegal alien for 5 years in the 70's and early 80's. I went to school at Waseda University. Although I couldn't speak more than 100 words of Japanese (and those ..very poorly) when I first arrived, I sought out young Japanese to befriend, so I could learn more about the country. At home in California I did a little rock climbing and so joining a mountaineering club in Japan seemed just the ticket.

My club would go hiking or river climbing (Sawa nobori) every weekend, at nearby Tanzawa National Park. After a year of weekly trips, Tanzawa became my backyard. When I had free time during the week I would sometimes go off by myself and wander the many paths looking for little wonders and scenic spots to sit, relax and reflect. On one such occassion, I became so comfortable and at home in the lush green hills that I decided upon an overnight stay, alone. No tent... just a sleeping bag, day pack, a dog-eared map, and a small wad of yen in my pocket.

I got off the train around 6am and started off, up the gentle slope towards the mountains I loved. I can't remember much of the assent. (it was probably much like many others, head down, step by step, higher and higher, Calling out at cheerful but badly pronounced, "Gokorosama" to other hikers along the path as they headed down the hill.) But as afternoon came the sky turned gray, the clouds obscuring the line between mountains and sky in a deep deep mist. I welcomed the change in weather as I was sweaty and hot from the long uphill hike, and the mist reminded me of a zen like spiritual experience as it wove itself around the trees, and left clear droplets of water in silence on the leaves and rocks. The smell of the wet earth and woodsy aromas seemed to rush up to my face and the stillness became all consuming as the birds and insect took shelter. As night fell I stumbled into a riverside campground and paid a few yen for a place to lay my sleeping bag. I started a small fire, heated water in a tin cup for noodles, and began to wonder if I was really as bright as I liked to think I was. The light mist covered my sleeping bag in a white watery gauze that tore where ever the sleeping bag creased or wrinkled, and I began to think this might not be the best night to sleep next to the river or without a tent.

It came first as a slow, soft, muffled grumble, so unlike thunder that I thought it was my stomach crying out for hot soup that was warming in the cup. Then all was still, except for the crackle of the fire, and the bubbling of water from both the cup and the river.

In the dark there was a brief but very bright glimmer of light, ( a fellow hikers flashlight I thought.) and then all was still again. I blew the steam away from the brim of my cup and took a wary sip of soup, careful not to touch the metal with my lips (as I had done so many times before). Then, he came! Thor opened the kitchen cupboard of the sky and dropped all the pots and pans of heaven directly on top of me. My gut vibrated and I laughed, a stunned, nervous laugh followed by a whispered WHOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAA!

But it didn't stop, it echoed and echoed and echoed through the mountains all around me. It made me giddy, too surprised to be scared and suddenly fully aware of the power of nature. I felt so small and powerless, but it wasn't ever fearful....it was like being in a cathedral like Notre Dame. I was never so isolated... but I wasn't really alone...I was part of all the generations of people and animals who have inhabited this earth from the dinosaurs on, who have wondered at the power of the natural world. There I was ...as the large drops of rain began to fall, alone in mountains with the thunder.