Prairie Post
June 17, 2014
(Today from Hokkaido)
It’s been raining, raining just about every day of the week, here, in this rare place that is part of Japan but in so many ways is not. Heavy showers start during the late morning and will not let up until sometime in the afternoon when short dry spells trade places with more heavy rain. All the precipitation has made for a very lush, fresh, green flora; the white birch trees and poplars of Hokkaido proudly show their spring splendor in Daisetsuzan Sounkyo. And it is raining, and raining, and raining.
Higher up on Kurodake the snow is still piled up, dirty remnants of the long winter season that has just passed. The snow covers hiking paths in too many places making it next to impossible to continue a safe hike up the mountain. Some innocent trekkers attempt to master the path through deeper and deeper snow only to find out that the scenery at upper levels reveals the same foggy clouds all around. Perhaps it is the challenge of nature itself that propels them to continue to the next snowy hill. “Why not?” they ask and continue onward. Others follow the path to yet another glorious waterfall, one step at a time, up and up, with raingear in hand. At each corner they warn unsuspecting brown bears that they are coming. Without the famous bells, a human chirping will do. After a long roundtrip, they return to the small village for the reward: a warm ramen noodle soup with plenty of mushrooms or a local donbori dish with delightful chicken pieces. Outside it is still raining, and raining, and raining.
A little more toward the canyon the colorful flowers have started blooming: Japanese alpine cherry, skunk cabbage, lilacs, azalea, moss phlox, lily of the valley. Their yellow, red, pink, purple and white display of colors challenge the gray sky above and brown soil all around. They lead the way to spectacular waterfalls gushing over the top of the summit, water pulled by unimaginable force to the base. And it is raining, and raining, and raining.
Away from this special park, there are other national treasures worth logging. The lakes of Akan and the geysers and mud pods of Noboribetsu in Shikotsu-Toya. A bath in the local onsen immerses visitors completely in sulfuric waters, a milky bath promising to heal all ailments humans might encounter. Meanwhile, it is raining, and raining, and raining.
The coast of this island invites with roaring waves that seemingly want to push the clouds further away, the surfs come in big waves and retreat just as soon as they reach their destiny. The Pacific is close to marshland here, home of the red-crested crane that has made a remarkable come-back in recent years. Only ten or twenty were left just a few decades ago, now they have made the shallow water their trusted territory again. So they pull up their head and trumpet their primitive territorial songs for everybody to hear. “This is my land,” “This is where my hatchlings will grow up” – “Leave us alone.” Only the Japanese cuckoo responds from the distance. And it continues to rain, rain, and rain.
The showers do not bother the Ainu here, indigenous people who have lived with harsh weather conditions for centuries. They imitate the cranes’ dances and their honk, they weave and they carve, and they keep warm around the fire built in the middle of their huts. They pull out their mukkuri, a distinct wooden hand harp, and play strangely vibrating sounds that surely tell a tale of bygone times when the God of Fire ruled here, in this peaceful land, where nature governs, where the cranes defend their territory, and where it rains, all days of the week.