Spring Break on the high road to Beppu

American college students raise hell for Spring Break. Japanese let off steam by cycle touring. This comes from past experience best forgotten and now having joined a gang from Yokohama University cycling the Aso National Park region.

I met up with them around noon after first atoning for yesterday's failure on Mt. Aso itself (See Jan's account of 03.24, and keep in mind that to anyone from the land of windmills a gale is just a refreshing breeze). My plan called for a day-and-a-half ride to the port city of Beppu, taking the scenic, less traveled Highway 11 over 1360 meter Mimato Pass. I would treat myself to over-nighting in a luxurious mountain spa, then reach Beppu in time for tomorrow afternoon's ferry to Uwajima on Shikoku Island, there to reconnect with Mike and Jan.

Shortly after turning onto Rt. 11, and just before the climb begins, I spotted the riders stopped at a road stand. Mike and I had seen several such groups, fully packed down on high-end mountain bikes, but they were mostly going the other direction, so interaction was limited to a cheerful wave and "Gambatte," (roughly translated as, "Go for it.") Not ready for a break, I Gambattayed and continued on, but paused shortly thereafter to check the map. Some of them passed by, and I fought to catch up. They were spread-out in three packs of about four each. No chance of catching the leaders, but I could manage the stragglers. Soon they stopped to regroup, and welcomed me aboard. Ogi Suketata, the fastest of the fast, made the overture. He speaks good English, perfected during a stint at Penn State University in the US. He is originally from Kyushu, and likes to return to the area whenever possible. This time he brought several friends along, all going my way to a campground a few km over the pass.

Riding in a pack with a tailwind made a molehill out of the mountain. Many cars, especially those containing teenage girls, yelled enthusiastic Gambattes. Scenery was wide-open spaces and unforested mountains. Scorched earth and plummets of steam from hot springs left no doubt we were in volcano country. The stark beauty was more like the US west than classic Chinese or Japanese landscape painting.

We made frequent stops, a godsend in allowing me to keep pace. Lunch was at a café halfway up. It was an attractive log building, the kind you'd expect in Switzerland, with spacious grounds and a cold stream. Recorded music filled the air: Japanese artists interpreting traditional favorites such as "Colorado Rocky Mountain High." The students were well-stocked with food and utensils, and most opted for a picnic on the lawn. But, perhaps because-in true Asian style-they couldn't allow me to eat alone, three of them led me inside, shared a table, and translated the menu.

Pace picked up after lunch, but rests became more frequent. I was the tortoise in a field of hares. Breathlessly catching up to Ogi as they were about to stop before the final and steepest six km, I said I'd just plod on. They would undoubtedly pass me, but if not, I'd wait on top. It was a long, cold and windy wait. Twenty-somethings still have something to learn about pacing themselves. Showing up 45 minutes later, Ogi admitted they had totally bonked.

With the gang of students on Mimato Pass

click on the image to view the photograph

We descended to the village near their campground. A haven for Japanese city-dwellers who like to rough it by having their onzen (hot-spring-fed bath) outdoors. Several opulent resort-hotels about, and, for one night, hang the cost. With true Japanese efficiency, the village had a tourist information center. Ogi accompanied me to the desk and told the man I wanted Marriott luxury for a Motel 6 price. He made a perfunctory call and announced there wasn't a room within miles. My plans had neglected one minor detail. It was Saturday, the one day of the week vacation spots aren't begging for customers.

But Ogi remembered the campground had bungalows, He whipped out his cell phone and learned there was a vacancy. Then followed the day's, if not the trip's, best entertainment: Two Japanese men kowtowing and exchanging homilies it's hard to imagine either believed. I could understand enough to glean that Ogi was making it sound like the bungalows were the agent's idea, and generously thanking him for it. The man was saying how delighted he was to have helped. Each sentence punctuated with a bow. Stereotype culture at its best. My own response would have been, "Thanks for nothing, asshole." But I can have fits of unpleasantness, most un-Japanese.

A bungalow at Green Valley Campground isn't quite the same as one at, say, Aspen, Colorado. For the equivalent of $40 I would have maybe twice the area of my tent, but less than double the headroom. Nothing in the way of furnishings, and no source of light or badly-needed heat. But I would have a solid wooden roof, walls and floor, much less likely than my tent to get blown away. I took it.

Green Valley, five up-and-down, cold-and-windy kilometers from the village has no amenities other than the ubiquitous drink-dispensing machines. The girl in charge pointed in a vague direction, and I eventually stumbled on a small food store within a kilometer. As an experienced unsupported cycle-tourist, it wasn't my first unlit supper of bread and canned sardines. I snuggled into the sleeping bag, still wearing every long-sleeved garment I'd brought along. About now, Mike and Jan would be checked into a warm hotel and getting warmer with sake and tempura. Did I wish I was with them? Of course. Would I have given up today's experience for it? Get real.

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