Hokkaido diary: Sapporo to Yamaguchi

Don't know where Yamaguchi is? Don't sweat it: I didn't either until February 6th of this year. Here's a little map for you.

And here's my diary entry for that day:

2/6:

5:23 a.m. Well, shoot. I thought I was being clever. Up at 4, at the station by opening time—5:15. I checked if the subway was open, but no dice. Ah well—it was only a 15-min. walk and there was no wind and the stars were out and it was sort of sexy, sneaking to the station in the predawn blackness. On the way I saw bonsai trees in people's yards, bedecked with a network of ropes to keep the slender branches from snapping under the weight of the snow. I saw great machines scooping up the enormous heaps of snow on the curbs and vomiting it into waiting dump trucks with a keening roar. In the dark, with their garish lights wreathed in snowy dust, they seemed like monstrous creatures locked in some kind of ponderous symbiosis. 

Normally-busy Sapporo Station, a ghost town at 5:15 a.m.

I got to the station to find that the ticket counter doesn't open until 5:40 and the first train for Hakodate doesn't leave until 7:00. So much for being clever. At this rate I won't reach Shin-Aomori until lunchtime. No wonder Google Maps said I'd reach Fukuoka at midnight tonight...

Statue of an Ainu man in Sapporo Station.

5:48 p.m. As I suspected—and I should have known—one cannot trust Google Maps in matters of foreign rail timetables. The fact that the earliest departure for Hakodate is 7:00 is the fatal flaw in my plan. The farthest I can go today is Shin (New) Yamaguchi. Granted, that's only 40 minutes from Hakata, but even so...here is my schedule. 

     Sapporo → Hakodate
     (7:00)           (10:31)                 Super-Hokuto 2

     Hakodate → Shin-Aomori
     (11:19)           (1:29 p.m.)        Hakucho 28

     Shin-Aomori → Tokyo
     (1:42)                (5:08)           Hayate 36

     Tokyo → Shin-Osaka
     (5:33)       (8:26)                       Hikari 523

     Shin-Osaka → Okayama     
     (8:40)                (9:52)            Kodama 765

     Okayama → Shin-Yamaguchi
     (9:55)             (11:48)              Kodama 767

Darn, lots of transfers. And I really don't like that I have only three minutes at Okayama to transfer. What if my train's delayed? Ah well—part of the adventure of it all, I guess. Just like where I'll sleep—or if I'll sleep at all—in Yamaguchi until the next morning's ride to Fukuoka. At least it'll be warmer down there. 

10:40 a.m. Just alighted at Hakodate, at the very extreme southern tip of Hokkaido. Started to snow heavily as we arrived; first snow I've seen (falling) all day. Dawn over the outskirts of Sapporo as we pulled out, with the sky blue all the way to the horizon and the pink and purple clouds reflecting onto the huddled buildings caked and glazed with snow, was the prettiest thing I've seen in a while. When the sun lifted itself above the clouds, I even saw a sun dog. As we got up to speed, a fine spray of snow flew from our passing, and when two trains met there was a veritable explosion of white dust, pure and clean as...well, driven snow. This island is a skier's paradise—not too cold but laden with tons upon tons of fine white powder. Incredible. 

I now have 35 minutes in this bleak, chairless, freezing station until the Super Hakucho for Shin-Aomori leaves. Think I'll eat some of my snacks. 

What I would have sworn was an active volcano just south of Sapporo.

The Super-Hokuto 2 in Hakodate Station.  

The platforms at Hakodate. Snowing like the dickens. 

Bleak, cheerless, chairless Hakodate Station. 

The Hakucho 28, ready to leave. 

11:13 a.m. Sitting on the train and waiting to get going. Feeling a powerful sense of melancholy which I can't account for, which began last night. The trip nearing its conclusion? The gray skies? Missing Miss H (and knowing that I won't see her until late tomorrow night)? Approaching the climax of Dan Simmons's The Terror, and knowing that his book puts my own paltry, puerile manuscript to shame? Musing that I'll be 28 this year and have the creeping sense that I've accomplished nil in all that time? The persistent feeling that I'm not really traveling, just picking first-world countries and cities on a map and booking tickets on line? The tallboy of Sapporo Gold I just cracked open? 

All of them, probably. This is going to be an unpleasant introspective two-hour ride to Honshu, I can tell. Oh well. Let's hope some more sightseeing out the window and a bit of music will put me to rights. 

1:45 p.m. Back in the land of bullet trains. I have a comfy, spacious seat and a porthole to myself again. But confound the Hokkaido JR! We were seven minutes late pulling into Shin-Aomori. I made the Hayate 36 with literally a minute to spare. Not cool. The Hakucho from Hakodate came to a complete, inexplicable stop TWICE during the two-hour run. Rrrgh. Makes me mad. At least I have a huge, delicious, green Hokkaido apple to console me. 

2:05 p.m. Dang, that was a tasty apple. 

The skies are clearing—we went through some blinding snowstorms on the last stretch to Aomori. There's a lot less snow down here, though I've seen snow-devils whirling and dancing in empty fields. I hope it stays clear through Honshu—and I hope I'm on the right side of the Osaka train so I can finally see Mt. Fuji (speaking of apples, heh heh). I didn't see it the last time I came this way. 

I am SO going to miss my connection at Osaka—no, I mean Okayama. I'm calling it right now. 

2:36 p.m. Morioka is a very pretty place when it isn't snowing. Blue snow-covered hills and cloud shadows. 

3:30 p.m. Gathering a boatload of passengers at Sendai. Last time I got a JR Pass they gave me a map with it. I expected it this time, but they didn't give me one, and I neglected to bring any. I'd love to be able to track our progress. We're more than halfway according to my watch, at least—though we did sit pointlessly in Morioka for 10 minutes or so. Hoo boy...well, the snow is all gone. No slush, even—just moist earth and wet pavement. I wonder what the weather will be like in Kyushu. 

4:49 p.m. Between Omiya and Ueno. We'll be at Tokyo Station in 20 minutes. Shades of night are falling fast; it'll probably be too dark to see Mt. Fuji. I've been traveling for 10 hours and have another 7 to go. 

6:13 p.m. Okay, I think I've got it figured out. If by some miracle I make my transfer at Okayama, all well and good. I'll moon around Shin-Yamaguchi Station all night and take the first train to Hakata in the morning. 

If (as I suspect) I don't make it, no biggie. I have ¥27,000 ($250-$260) left, which should cover a night bus—or train, if there is one. Or I might just say to hell with it and moon around Okayama. It's just one hour between there and Shin-Yamaguchi, and the ticket agent in Sapporo told me it's just 40 minutes more to Hakata. I could catch the 7:00 train from there and be in Hakata by a quarter to nine. When I get to Okayama, I'll have a look at the timetables. 

I have a really unhealthy lifestyle, you know? All I do is sit—and read, or write, or play computer games, or ride trains. No wonder I'm fat and blind (well, overweight and eyestrained). 

7:55 p.m. Just finished The Terror by Dan Simmons. If anything it's shown me what marvelous fruit an exhaustively researched and (as one ecstatic critic put it) "fully textured" historical novel can bear. Subsequently I've begun to believe that my own attempt at a historical novel, Mugunghwa (and perhaps Book One of my magnum opus, Revival, which is a historical/science fiction adventure tale) may be woefully under-researched, under-developed and inadequate. What'd make me feel better is if I had my computer with me so I could start making a list of written resources I've used (and need to look up as well), and begin tweaking both manuscripts again. The Tokaido-Sanyo Shinkansen has wi-fi, but I don't have my laptop. Shazbot. 

One more stop and then it's Shin-Osaka. That stop, incidentally, is Kyoto—one of my favorite cities in Japan. Sure is a shame I can't stop and play in it while I'm here. 

Okay, enough melancholy. I have my work cut out for me when I get back. For now let's just focus on getting to Okayama—and Shin-Yamaguchi, if possible. 

8:41 p.m. It's frustrating knowing that the train I'm in is sitting on the same rails that would take me all the way to Hakata—but can't, not tonight. What's also frustrating is that the train left the station five minutes late (either because it was tardy in arriving here or the cleaners took too long or both). That leaves me one measly minute to transfer at Okayama. 

Yeah. Right. It ain't happening, not unless the Kodama 767 at Okayama is also late in departing. Time will tell. 

9:09 p.m. Nishi-Akashi. Why are we just sitting here?!!

9:14 p.m. Finally moving. Jesus. That was easily 10-15 minutes. This didn't happen the last time I was here. Is Japan crumbling? Nah. A country shouldn't be judged by whether its trains run on time. Not solely, anyway. 

Young couple across from me are dozing together. Her head's canted at a 90° angle to rest on the dude's bony shoulder. Both are dressed in identical shades of gray, black, and white—NE Asian thing, couples dressing to match; the Koreans do it all the time, much to Miss H's disgust and my amusement. These two got on at Osaka. As I've wondered so many times while traveling on planes, boats, or trains—who are they? What were they doing and where are they heading?

9:55 p.m. I really can't believe it. I made it. The Kodama 765 pulled into Okayama at 9:53, and the 767 was right across the platform waiting for me. I jumped on without even looking to see what number it was—only reassuring myself with a tentative peek out the still-open door. I am Shin-Yamaguchi bound. 

Gotta hand it to Japan Rail. I had to admit I doubted 'em there for a minute. This is like a novel where the author looks like he's going to kill off your favorite character in the most contrived and ignominious way possible, only to save 'em at the last minute and have them execute a bold and brilliant counterattack which eviscerates the threat. 

First priority when I hit Yamaguchi at midnight—timetables. Second—a map. I want to see where in flaming hell I am. The western tip of Honshu, I'm guessing. 

So let's see here—setting aside that the Sapporo-Hakodate-Aomori run was by express train and not bullet train, I've nonetheless traveled from central Hokkaido to western Honshu in—what's it been—15 hours? WHY don't we have high-speed rail in the U.S. yet??

No, wait, scratch that. I'm not in western Honshu. Jumpin' Jesus—I haven't even passed Hiroshima yet. That's where I changed trains to go to Hakata when I was here in August. 

Dang. Gotta see if I can find a map in Yamaguchi. 

10:46 p.m. About an hour out of Yamaguchi and thundering toward Hiroshima—I hope. I just finished Paul Theroux's Ghost Train to the Eastern Star. Feelings are too effervescent and profound to describe. All dark outside the train windows. It really is like being a bullet in the barrel of a gun. What'll we hit? I miss Miss H. Need water—or beer. 

11:10 p.m. Brushed and flossed and ditched my trash while we were passing through (and stopping at) Hiroshima. How many times am I going to sneak through this town without stopping and seeing it?

No idea what the weather's like out there—temperature, I mean. People are still wearing long coats. At least there aren't any hats, gloves, scarves, or earmuffs. 

11:34 p.m. Tokuyama—last stop before Shin-Yamaguchi. Some people actually got on. Still no clue about weather—I can tell it's windy and that's that. Heavens—did I really leave Sapporo nearly 17 hours ago??

I hate to stop there, but that's the final note in my journal for February 6th. I'll fill you in on what happened that night after I got off the train at Shin-Yamaguchi tomorrow. I'd also like to add, here and now, that this train trip was the first time I'd ever seen a sun dog, a snow-devil or an active volcano. Oh mama, the places I've gone and the things I've seen...

hats off to (Roy) Harper

I woke for the first time at 2:30 a.m. I know this because I rolled over sluggishly and flipped open my cell phone to check. There was a sort of half-light in the tent. After a moment I realized it was due to the waning moon on the rise overhead. The next time I woke up was 3:30 a.m. The next was probably 4:30, or thereabouts. And so on, and so on. At 6:30 I reckoned I'd about reached my limit. It wasn't that I was uncomfortable, goodness knows. For the first time in my life, I'd actually done a fair job of blowing up my air mattress. It was firm and well-seated. I wasn't cold; between the sweats and the down sleeping bag, I was pretty toasty, even though the night had gotten down to 32 degrees Fahrenheit. This was merely my morning custom: as the sleep chemicals in my brain slowly exhausted themselves, I woke up, dropped back to sleep, woke up, dropped back to sleep, woke up, dropped back to sleep...ad infinitum, sometimes through a dozen cycles. At 6:30 I finally quit on the business and stayed awake, listening to the cars beginning to roll down Center Road a few hundred yards away, the ravens cackling in the trees overhead, and the elderly folks next door (up insanely early, like most elderly folks I know). John was like a rock. He was sleeping on his right side; but neither sound nor movement could I detect. I couldn't even hear him breathe. I'd shared tents with a few people in my time, cabins with a few more, and rooms with a multitude. None of them slept as silently as John did. He's going to make some woman very happy someday, that guy. He also brags that he never needs a midnight glass of water...unless, he adds with a devilish grin, he's doing something that results in a loss of bodily fluids. Right around 7:30, John woke up. By now, the rising sun was lighting the tent with a tender glow. Both of us laid there a moment longer, debating whether it was better to wait 'til things warmed up outside the sleeping bags and then decamp, or simply grin and bear it. Unsurprisingly, I planted my flag in the latter camp. I'm a cryophile, you know. I prefer cooler temperatures. And when I say that I prefer cooler temperatures, I of course mean that, while all of the North Dakotans and Minnesotans were huddling in their warm dorm rooms at North Dakota State University in Fargo, watching the slow-laden blizzard howl past the windows at -44 degrees, I was out taking a stroll through the hip-deep drifts. My ideal temperature range is somewhere between 50 and 65 degrees. Seventies are usually okay, though, 's long as it's breezy. The 40s and 30s are pretty peachy, too. It was only, like, forty-something outside now that the sun was up and coming. So, John and I manned up (or as John prefers to say, we "cowboyed the f___ up"). John got the fire going while I performed a few emergency ablutions: thanks to the condensation inside the tent, my hair had been bent up into the most fantastic shapes imaginable. I could've given Stygimoloch a run for its money. I washed up in the restroom, plastered my hair down, and went back outside to help John. I cut up some canned potatoes while my friend fried sausage and eggs together in a pan. The remainder of our cedar was burning in the fire pit, and that bright yellow ball in the sky was climbing slowly through the pine trees. I made myself some hot chocolate while John sipped some cold orange juice. Then we sat down to our hearty camp breakfast. It was sinfully delicious. As we'd observed the previous night, everything tastes better when it's cooked outdoors. The potatoes may have been canned, but Jimmy Dean has never flunked a sausage yet. I couldn't have asked for a better pick-me-up while out on the road. Except, perhaps, for a gorgeous female hiker who'd somehow misplaced all of her clothes stumbling out of the bushes nearby. Can't win 'em all... All around us, Mather Campsite was coming to life. A dog was barking somewhere to the south. The elderly folks were already packed and ready to go. People were filtering in from nearby campsites to use the restroom. The zoological caucus was out in force, too. As we were cleaning up, John spotted a family of deer poking their way unconcernedly along Juniper Loop, just across the lane from our campsite, nibbling on various herbage as they went. I didn't get very good pictures of this amazing sight (there were two bucks, a doe, and a little fawn) because the batteries in my camera conveniently chose that moment to peter out. As stealthily as possible, I went rifling through my duffel bag for the replacements we'd purchased in Yuma. I managed to find them in time to get a few shots. Following this wildlife encounter, we finished cleaning up; disassembled and repacked the tent; stuffed the sleeping bags into their sacks; and rolled up the pads (not in that order). We loaded everything back into the car, made sure the fire was out (John had used up the last of the lighter fluid earlier by nonchalantly flinging squirts of it onto the hot coals), and took off. We drove back out to Center Road and headed right. After a short distance we came upon the Yavapai Lookout, on the south rim of the Grand Canyon. Anticipation built by the second as we got out of the car, readied our cameras and slowly approached the lookout point. I suddenly realized that I'd never been to the Grand Canyon before. I began to fully appreciate that I was standing just a few yards from a rather impressive crack in the ground. I began to get an idea of what I was in for. Nevertheless, the two of us somehow managed to keep our gait sedate as we approached. And then the thing opened up beneath us like the gaping jaws of some planet-spawned Titan. We gazed in silent, elemental wonder. Or at least, I did. John was taking a couple of deep breaths a few feet behind me. Poor chap's acrophobic. I'm not really sure if I could muster the poetry to describe just what a full-body experience viewing the Grand Canyon truly is. I was and still am gobsmacked. I felt as if the fluid in my eyes had been replaced with electrolysis gel, and my guts had been turned to empty air. It was a religious moment. The sheer size of the canyon, the majesty of its contours, the subtle mysteries of its recesses, the utter incredibility of the sight...all combined to form a tangible blow to the solar plexus. Unable to do much of anything else, we stood behind the short rock wall marking the canyon rim, staring out and down. John, at least, retained enough of his rational mind to do so in silence. I kept up a steady stream of inane and fatuous commentary. After a few seconds of looking over the massive, primordial formation of rock, sand and sediment, I turned to face John and said, in a voice of faux portent: "Now that, John, is a grand canyon." After a quick tour of the actual lookout station, where the impressive geologic history of the canyon was delineated... ...we took to wandering along the canyon rim, trying to toe the fine line between actually appreciating the miraculous vista with our eyes and taking a suitably large number of photographs. We also toed the line between capturing some heroic poses at the edge of the precipice and falling hundreds of feet to our deaths. This involved much pushing of camera timer buttons and scampering like drunken mountain goats along narrow ridge lines and uneven rocks before the ten seconds were up. Finally, though far from exhausted with our surroundings, we sensed it was time to hit the road. We meandered back to the parking lot and swiftly exited the park, finding ourselves once more among the rolling, scrubby hills of Arizona. After a mere twenty miles, however, we arrived in Valle for the second time. And that was when I finally got my chance to check out that air museum. I may not have mentioned this, but I am an absolute fiend for vintage aircraft. Any old prop-driven airplane, from the Wright Flyer to the Ford Trimotor to the F7F Tigercat, gets me all excited inside, like a kid in a candy store. I especially love World War II-era fighters and bombers. So of course, when we'd passed the museum the day before and I'd seen this sitting out front... ...I knew I had to take a look inside. It was absolutely marvelous, second only to the Grand Canyon. There was a gift shop full of the most magical assortment of books, baseball caps, T-shirts, posters, models, coffee mugs, bumper stickers and badges imaginable; a hangar floor with a gang of my old favorites inside, some of which I'd never seen in person; and outside, some giant classics shining gloriously in the desert sun. Like this MiG, for example... Or this C-54... Or this Grumman Duck, which I'd never seen without amphibious floats... Or the sexiest beast on the lot, the B-26K Invader, which I'd only ever encountered in books and pictures... Or the crown jewel of the museum, this little honey, this shining triumph of aerospace engineering, General Douglas MacArthur's personal transport during the Korean War, a Lockheed C-121 Constellation (coincidentally the same type of aircraft whose engines can be seen flaring to life at the top of this page)... ...the legendary Bataan! Being inside was like a dream. The interior had been lovingly restored to its original form, as MacArthur had actually used it. An old Canadian sailor, Trevor, who'd fought aboard a destroyer during the Allied invasion of Incheon during the Korean War (in which my grandfather, an infantryman, had also participated), showed us through it. Inside were two lavatories; a closet with real uniforms from the period, flight suits and dress uniforms, hanging up for review; a spacious office-cum-living area where MacArthur sat and reviewed ground deployments of his troops from on high; a surprisingly roomy kitchen replete with coffee pots and an electric range, which was an utterly novel concept at the time; a large navigator's compartment, which even had a sectional chart laid out on the desk; and, of course, a knob- and dial-ridden cockpit, which I drooled over. Trevor explained some fascinating trivia to us about the aircraft, and even took some pictures of us: John and myself, in the navigator's compartment... ...and me, standing right by the general's desk. Note the phone, the radio, and the clock with Roman numerals. (We couldn't find his corncob pipe anywhere, though.) All too soon, we were climbing back out of the Connie and back into the sun. We stepped inside the museum again to do a little shopping. I couldn't resist. Planes of Fame was a world-renowned vintage aircraft restoring (and flying) organization, and they had some souvenirs to die for. I managed to limit myself to a deck of cards printed like WWII-era plane-spotter aircraft recognition cards, a Hawaiian shirt coated with fighters and bombers and palm trees, and a ribald bumper sticker for a pilot friend of mine (which read "PILOTS MAKE SMOOTHER APPROACHES"). I paid up, slipped two dollars inside a clear plastic jar labeled "Aircraft Maintenance Fund" and then, after a last goodbye to the lovely old lady behind the counter, we vacated the premises. John, who had acted pretty blasé as we'd toured the museum (except for that MiG), took a few minutes to drool over a Corvette ZR6 in the parking lot. We made a quick stop at the classic car museum right next door (which had everything from Model Ts to old Honda power scooters from the 1960s), and then took off down the highway, bound for home. To say that the remainder of the trip was uneventful would be a gross understatement, even though it consisted of nothing more than us refueling in Williams and driving home on Interstate 40. Between Valle and Williams, we put on Led Zeppelin III, which I'd purchased in Flagstaff. Picture me, in the driver's seat, aviator shades on, my face straight, my insides bouncing up and down like Christmas morning with new music and airplane goodies, my fingers tapping on the steering wheel, the car flying through the sunlight and breeze and golden-green hills; John, in the passenger seat, the log on his lap, baring his soul on paper, the subliminal voice of Robert Plant on "Hats off to (Roy) Harper" ululating out of the Chrysler's speakers. So we traversed AZ-64, refueled in Williams (where John switched again to the driver's seat), got on I-40, and rolled on. Pensive and preoccupied, neither of us said much as we drove by Kingman... ...crossed the border, passed the celestially beautiful Mojave National Preserve... ...and arrived in Barstow just as the sun set. We exited the 40, reunited with our old friend 247 for the drive to my house, and got home right as the last pink light was fading out of the star-lined evening sky. John and I got my stuff out of his car, carried it inside, shook hands, and parted. And that was the end of that road trip. How I felt afterward might best be described by this picture: