Monday, August 31--Salvation

Early last week, even before the expected consequences of our climb became reality, I’d decided to skip my normal 6:00 a.m. swimming this morning. So I slept a couple hours later than usual and woke to dark, gloomy skies and rain slapping against the windows. Not a big fan of rainy days when I have places to go and things to do, I was even more depressed knowing that today’s schedule meant walking to the train station for this afternoon’s lesson in Tokyo. On a good day, it’s a 15-minute hike down a steep hill, but factoring in my post-Fuji pace and the wind-whipped rain, I was figuring today’s trek could potentially be a full, miserable hour.

Someone was taking pity on me. When I checked my email before hauling myself off to the shower, I found a note canceling my morning lesson due to the typhoon. Typhoon? Really? Not just a rainy day? Didn’t seem that bad out, but I certainly was not going to argue. I could only hope that the folks in Tokyo would also rather be safe than sorry. After a few anxious hours of endlessly refreshing my email inbox, hope vanishing as I watched the rain outside the window diminish to a drizzle, I finally got word that the afternoon’s lesson was canceled. Hallelujah!! Thank you Mother Nature! Since two groups had now used the typhoon as an excuse, I only felt slightly guilty when I emailed my final student of the day and told her I was canceling the evening's lesson due to the weather. Ahh, a full day's reprieve before I have to hobble out into the world.

Sunday, August 30--Has anybody seen my walker?

Just as I suspected, even my complete exhaustion could not guarantee a good night’s sleep. I woke myself up at least a dozen times last night whimpering in pain as I tried to roll over. Apparently, I have muscles that were not mentioned in my anatomy classes, and every single one of them is screaming, and I mean SCREAMING. If that weren’t bad enough, despite my many Band-aids, the sheets kept bumping against my “Fuji toes.” The bottoms of both big toes have fat, juicy, quarter-sized blisters, and the nails of the toes next door are both damaged. The one on the left is all purple and bruised, and the one on the right lifts up like a car hood. Friends had warned us that toenails would suffer on the descent, so I had followed their suggestion and trimmed mine as short as I dared. Guess I should have been more daring and trimmed them to the quick.

So, needless to say, today has not been such a productive day. I’m proud to say I did manage to get down the stairs for breakfast, and back up again for a hot shower. Jim, who is just a little sore, has found my condition to be quite hilarious, and if it wouldn’t take me five minutes to cross the room, I’d clobber him with a pillow. To be fair, when he’s not doubled over laughing or mimicking my groaning, robotic gait, he has been quite considerate about bringing me things so I don’t have to get up so often. In the hopes that movement would help to work out some of the soreness, I even gamely agreed when he asked if I wanted to meet Pat and Angela for dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant, even though it meant negotiating three flights of stairs between the parking lot and our booth, both going and coming. At this point, I really don’t see much improvement, and I hope I haven’t aggravated the problem…from experience the second day after strenuous exercise is usually even worse than the first, so getting to tomorrow’s lessons could be an exercise in sheer determination.

Saturday, August 29--Mt. Fuji, Part Two

The hut operators provide a 2:30 a.m. wakeup call each day so hikers can heave themselves up the rest of the mountain in time to see the sunrise. However, between the hard bunk, the banging of the bathroom door outside, the arrival of new guests, and the endless parade of overnight hikers stomping past the hut, sleep proved elusive for most of us. We finally gave up the charade a little after 1 a.m. and after waking Aaron from a sound sleep, we bundled up in layers, laced up our boots, strapped on our headlamps, and slipped out into the cold to merge with the masses headed up the trail. The climb was rockier and steeper than the day before, and the path was narrower, usually with just enough room for two people to walk side by side. The crowd actually worked to my advantage; it was like bumper to bumper rush hour traffic on I-95, so we were forced to stop every few meters. I could catch my breath without slowing anyone down. The trail got narrower still, forcing us to go single file in some sections. All of the switchbacks made it seem like we were in line for a ride at some particularly sadistic theme park. This was especially frustrating for Jim, who had energy to spare and desperately wanted to pass the large Japanese tour groups clogging up the path. I simply enjoyed the chance to breathe and look back down the hill at the endless undulating snake of headlamps bobbing in the dark. As time continued to tick away, the increasing strength of the frigid wind and the first hints of brightening skies in the east added an urgency to our efforts to reach the top.

Nearly two and a half hours after leaving the “hotel,” we finally passed through the torii gate marking the shrine perched on the summit of Mt. Fuji. Victory!! All around us were hordes of people milling about, stomping frozen feet, slurping Cup Noodles, and prepping their cameras to catch the perfect shot of the sun’s first peek above the horizon. All I cared about was finding the person who could brand an authentic sunrise stamp into my stick, thereby confirming that I had in fact completed this monumental undertaking. I stood in line behind scores of other people with Fuji sticks, not to get a brand, but a disappointing series of kanji characters made by whacking a henna-covered stamp into the side of my stick with a hammer (an admittedly much faster process than branding, which I can kind of understand given the ever-growing line of customers). It left a wet impression that I was warned not to touch (despite the fact that it was placed precisely where I’d been gripping the stick for the entire climb), and looked nothing like the sunrise brand I could have purchased down by the 7^th station. Arrggghhh!!

Being fairly drained by the bitter cold winds buffeting us on top of Mt. Fuji, we chose not to take the hour-long walk around the crater rim, therefore missing the actual highest point (directly opposite where we were standing), the weather station, souvenir shops, and Japan’s highest post office. In fact, after a short consultation in which Aaron with his fancy camera was the only dissenting vote, we decided that goraiko, the coming of the light, would be just as impressive from the descending trail as from the summit. So at 4:55 a.m., thirteen minutes shy of the official sunrise, Jim and I got our picture taken at the summit, then turned around and made for the exit.

Initially, I was grateful that the descending trail was not the same as the ascending trail—I was not looking forward to scrambling down all those viciously sharp rocks I had just climbed up. The trail started out as a wide, gently sloping path blanketed in thick volcanic dust. Messy but soft, and the easiest way to proceed was just to jog down. I stopped to get pictures of the sunrise along the way, keeping Jim in my sights ahead of me and Aaron behind me. Before long, the dusty trail became littered with lava rocks, much like you’d find in the bottom of a barbecue grill or lining flower beds (shocking to find lava rocks on a volcano, I know) and jogging became less of a viable option. A few rocks scattered half-buried in the dust turned quickly into endless mounds of unstable, shifting, rolling, sliding deathtraps, just waiting for an unsuspecting hiker to make a misstep. Well, before long I did, and down I went, landing flat on my back, my surgically repaired knee bent so my foot touched my butt for the first time in two years, and my camera catching most of my weight on the right side. After verifying that no limbs were broken, I tucked the now useless camera in my backpack, slurped a calming drink of water from the rapidly dwindling supply in my Camelback, and cautiously made my way down around the next bend where I found Jim waiting. After learning of my fall, he stayed closer to me on the increasingly steep zigzagging descent. Physically, I had to stop way more often than he would have liked, because my legs just weren’t going to hold me up another step. I ate peanuts, beef jerky, and M&Ms, hoping to get enough of a protein/sugar rush to calm the uncontrollable shaking in my legs. An hour or so into the descent, with nothing in front of us but an infinite number of switchbacks covered in treacherous rocks, and an increasingly warm sun blazing overhead, I had drunk all of my water (no one told us there would be nowhere to buy water on the downhill side, or I would have gladly paid $6 a bottle to restock before leaving Fujisan Hotel). Two more falls marked the end of my emotional stamina, and I had to take yet another break on the side of the trail, crying miserably.

Getting no sympathy from Jim, and noticing that he was becoming increasingly upset with my frequent stops, I urged him to just go on down the hill and meet me at the bottom. He refused, and since Fuji showed no signs of an imminent eruption to put a fiery end to my misery, I was left with no alternative but to suck it up and try to manage a steadier pace. I can’t say the speed improved much over the next hour, but despite some graceless, lunging slips, there were no more falls, which slightly improved my emotional state. After a call from Patrick (yes, DOCOMO cell phones work on Fuji), who had already reached the bottom and was waiting with Pat and Angela at the 5^th station, we determined that we were about an hour from being done with this whole mess. Increasingly thirsty and trembly, each downward step was sheer agony, and the Fuji stick was finally put to good use. With Jim supporting me on one side, and the Fuji stick on the other, we made it to the point where the ascending and descending trails merge, and scenery began to look familiar—almost there. We passed the horses we’d seen on the way up (I refused to pay $120 to ride one the rest of the way down), where we received another call from Patrick wondering where we were. Apparently still about 30 minutes away, so I begged him to please buy us bottled water and Aquarius to have the second we walked off the trail. He also mentioned that Aaron had made it to the bottom. Really? He didn’t pass us. Hmm. Unfortunately, he had taken the wrong fork in the descending trail, and ended up on the other side of the mountain. Not wanting to embark on a three hour drive to pick him up, Pat told him to find the train station, and we’d see him at home.

Remember I mentioned when we started our climb yesterday that we were initially going downhill? I thought going back up that section would really suck on the return trip, hikers being tired and all. Never in my life have I been so glad to walk uphill. The gradual incline took the pressure off the screaming muscles in my thighs and calves, my toes were no longer jammed up against the inside of my boots, and as I saw the corner of the 5^th station buildings peeking over the treetops ahead of us, I was able to hobble faster to the end of this miserable journey. We passed dozens of people who were just starting out, looking fresh and clean, and as excited as we had been yesterday—I figured seeing my bedraggled condition would discourage some of them, but they continued happily on their way. Finally catching sight of Patrick walking toward us with dewy bottles of water in his hands brought a fresh round of tears, this time a combination of exhaustion, gratitude, relief, pain, and even a bit of elation at having conquered Mt. Fuji. After a short rest and guzzling two bottles of much-needed liquid, the five remaining members of our party struck out for the parking lot and the waiting van which would carry us off that blasted mountain. Save for a revitalizing stop at McDonalds, the ride home was decidedly more quiet than yesterday’s journey.

Back at home, we rolled out of the van and went inside to face the menacing staircase separating us from the hot shower that we hoped would soothe aching muscles and wash off the gritty film of volcanic dust. Afterwards, a nap and cocktail of Advil and Tylenol didn’t do much to ease the soreness, so I endured an agonizing climb back down the stairs to soak in the tub. Still not finding much relief, I resigned myself to another night with little rest.

Before succumbing to sleep, Jim and I rehashed our Fuji adventure once again--the good, the bad, and the ugly. Despite the agony, I am happy (or will be) that I did not miss the opportunity to climb Mt. Fuji while we were in Japan. I don't think I'll be tackling Everest, and I have certainly abandoned our hare-brained, pre-climb scheme to go back to Fuji next year and start from the very bottom. If they ever offer cable car or helicopter rides down from the summit, I might be convinced to climb Mt. Fuji again (after all, I never did get my coveted sunrise stamp), but the devil will be wearing a fur-lined parka before I ever agree to walk/slide/fall back down that hellacious pile of rock.

Friday, August 28--Mt. Fuji, Part One

Having been told to expect a three- to four-hour, traffic-snarled drive, we left home in a rented van at 4 a.m. this morning. Only having had about three hours of sleep, all six of us should have been groggy and grumpy, yet there was lots of joking and excited chatter as we drove through the brightening dawn towards Mt. Fuji. Even with stops to capture photos of our destination looming in the distance, we made the trip in under two hours. The drive from the base of the mountain to the 5^th station, the traditional starting point for climbers, which we were warned would be bumper to bumper, was actually deserted. This meant when we encountered a giant eighth note painted in the middle of the asphalt, we were free to drive the recommended 50 km per hour over the grooved pavement to hear a lovely tune created by the van’s tires.

At last we were directed to park in a fairly empty lot where everyone piled out of the van, slathered on sunscreen, and slung on backpacks. A 10-minute, slightly uphill walk brought us to the famed 5^th station of the Kawaguchiko Route, where we took advantage of the foul-smelling, but possibly only, Western-style toilet on the mountain before heading into the gift shop to purchase the requisite Fuji stick. This stick is an octagonal wooden staff, probably worth about $2, but sold for $15. I chose one capped by a flag printed with a map of the trail we were about to climb, but opted not to grab one with bells attached (said to scare away evil spirits along the trail, but more likely to drive the hiker carrying the stick completely insane). The purpose of this stick is not so much to assist climbers over volcanic rocks as it is to offer proof of the journey. At various huts (rest stops) along the trail, the stick can be marked with a red-hot brand for about $3 a pop, with the goal (or at least my goal) being the coveted sunrise stamp at the summit. I know all this because Jim has a branded stick (with bells!?) from his first ascent of Fuji-san. Since that stick is currently in storage, he decided to purchase a regular aluminum hiking pole from a sporting goods store for this second climb. After safely tucking my Fuji-map flag in my backpack so it wouldn’t be ruined by sweaty hands and blowing volcanic dust, I gathered with the rest of the group for a pre-climb photo taken by an obliging Japanese climber. Looking at the photo in the display window of my camera, we are all smiling, the sky is blue, life couldn’t be better….

As we started out, I was puzzled by the downward slope of the first twenty minutes of hiking. I thought we were climbing up Mt. Fuji? When the path finally became a noticeable, but not unpleasant, incline we passed by some tired but sturdy looking horses and guides offering $120 rides up the trail. I was lulled into thinking if a horse could go up this trail with a rider on its back, then it should be no problem for me. Fast forward about four hours…The moderate incline has become increasingly steep and I have been climbing as fast as my aching legs will carry me, yet strangely I find myself alone. The rest of the group has deserted me. The gazelles, Patrick, Pat, and Angela, left me in the dust within the first hour. Jim stayed by my side for a (little) while longer, then started hiking ahead and waiting for me to catch up at the next hut. Eventually, between the frequent pauses to catch my breath (not really winded from the altitude, just the hard work) and stops to purchase brands for my stick, he gave up and just went on ahead. Aaron was nearby for a longer time, as he was stopping often to take pictures. At some point, I also fell significantly behind him. I was left leap-frogging up the mountain with a Japanese family hiking with their young son, all of us being passed at regular intervals by boisterous twenty-somethings and determined senior citizens.

The Kawaguchiko Route up Mt. Fuji started at an elevation of 2305 m. The path was an interminable series of switchbacks, zigzagging up the mountain. Some sections were wide and covered in soft dust, while other areas were steep, treacherous piles of volcanic boulders that required the help of both hands (notice I did not say Fuji stick) to scale. In some places where the lava from the last eruption cooled too steep and smooth to find a foothold, steps had been carved in the rock. What I didn’t understand was why the rise on each step was between 18 and 24 inches high—that’s a quad-challenging stretch for American-size legs, and must be exceptionally frustrating for the more vertically challenged Japanese. At various points along the trail were randomly spaced “huts” where hikers could rest, purchase drinks and snacks (the price increased with the altitude, but my $2 banana was absolutely delicious), use the toilet for a dollar, and get stamps on their sticks. Our goal for the day was the Fujisan Hotel at the 8^th station and 3360 m—and though that was only three stations past our start point, it did not mean my hike was over when I reached the third hut. There were random collections of two to eight huts between each station, and it quickly became depressing trying to figure out how many more huts I needed to pass to reach my goal. No matter how much I climbed, anytime I looked up I only saw more mountain. I finally took some Tylenol to ease the burning in my legs, then just put my head down, put one foot in front of the other, and plodded towards the next hut and its unique stamp—I’m not sure what I would have done without the incentive of filling up my hiking stick with those stamps. I was so determined to have a complete set of stamps (well, minus the one from the unmanned 6^th station), in order, that I was outraged when I found out one of the huts around the 7^th station was selling the sunrise stamp, and refused to get it because it wouldn’t be authentic unless it was burned into my stick on the summit.

Finally, after about seven and a half hours, I saw a tiny figure waving to me from high above, at what I could only hope was the Fujisan Hotel. It still took another twenty minutes of dragging myself uphill to recognize the figure as Jim. As I stopped once again to catch my breath, he made his way down the path to escort me the last few meters (consisting of about twenty of those monstrous, quad-punishing lava steps). To my bewilderment, I found myself choking back tears, I guess a result of the tremendous physical and emotional relief of knowing I was finally there.

The Fujisan Hotel was actually nothing more than a large uninsulated wooden shed, with a U-shaped two-tiered bunk layout able to accommodate at least two hundred people stacked like cordwood, but it looked like the Ritz to me. I gladly climbed to my assigned sleeping bag on the top tier bunk, stowed my backpack on a hook, swallowed two more tablets of what would become a long, alternating regimen of Advil and Tylenol, and eased back for a well-deserved rest. Soon dinner was served on a low Japanese table, and I climbed down to my cushion on the floor where I attacked the curry, rice, and hamburger patty with abandon. I was ready to plow through the miniature hot dogs as well, but the first fish-flavored bite brought me sputtering to a halt. After enjoying a $4 hot chocolate served in a 4-ounce Dixie cup, we played some Uno and eavesdropped on the tales of the other hikers who had straggled in. When our tired legs couldn’t stand sitting on the hard floor any longer, we climbed back up to the bunk, stowed the bento breakfasts that were included in our lodging fees, and settled in to get some rest. As I struggled to find a comfortable position for my aching body on the hard bunk, I consoled myself with the fact that I had climbed 1471 vertical meters, and only had 416 to go….

Thursday, August 27--Don't wanna be a fool

An old Japanese saying goes, “A wise man climbs Mt. Fuji once. Only a fool does it twice.” (The axiom does not mention women because they were forbidden to climb it until 1868.) Given a choice, I’d always prefer to be wise than a fool, so we have made plans to hike to the 12,388-foot summit on this, the last official weekend of the 2009 climbing season. Hoping to beat at least some of the crowd, Jim, Pat, Angela, Aaron, and Patrick all took a day off from work so we can climb most of the way tomorrow, spend the night on the mountain, then see the sunrise and descend on Saturday (when, we hope, the majority of the foot traffic will be headed up).

A little background info on Mt. Fuji. This nearly symmetrical volcanic cone is the tallest peak in Japan at 3776 meters (12,388 ft), on a circular base 126 km (78.5 miles) in circumference. It is only open for climbing during July and August, because that is when the weather is the least forbidding (although we are still prepared for the possibility of gale-force winds, torrential downpours, icy fog, and freezing temperatures at the top). The mountain has always been considered sacred among the Japanese, especially to those who practice Shintoism, yet only about 1% of the population ever climbs to the summit. (Guess that means many of the 200,000 people who climb each year are crazy gaijin [foreigners] like us.) Fuji-san is a dormant volcano, which last erupted in 1707, spreading 4-6 inches of ash over Tokyo, some 60 miles away as the crow flies.

We’ve talked to many people who have made it to the top of Mt. Fuji and lived to tell the tale (in fact, Jim is one of them, although I didn’t want to broadcast that too widely since this weekend’s trip will officially land him in the “fool” category). I’ve been critically comparing their physical fitness levels to my own so-so status, factoring in my always unpredictable rheumatoid arthritis, weighing the stability of my surgically-repaired knee, and praying my determination to say, “I did it” will outweigh any physical shortcomings I may have. I’m excited and nervous at the same time, and almost have that giddy night-before-Christmas feeling of anticipation.

The whole gang is coming over for a carb-loading spaghetti dinner this evening, and we’ll discuss final preparations for our adventure—what clothes we’re taking, how much water to bring, what snacks will travel well. After dinner, Jim and I will charge the camera, raid the pantry for granola bars, beef jerky, peanuts, and M&Ms, lay out our clothes, load up the essential gear in our backpacks, then try to catch a couple hours sleep before our early morning departure.

Wednesday, August 26--Seriously, you want me to eat that?

Two of Jim’s most outgoing and sociable office mates are leaving Japan this week, so they arranged a farewell dinner for themselves at the Officers’ Club. Somehow they convinced the management and chefs to offer an Escoffier Dinner smack dab in the middle of the week, on the condition that enough of their coworkers made reservations to make the endeavor worthwhile for the chefs. These sorts of things are normally reserved for the weekend, since each course is paired with a suitable wine, which could make getting up for work the next day difficult for some people. (Normally, I would fall into this category, but since I am the designated driver this evening, the point is moot.)

For those of you not familiar with this type of meal, “Escoffier” is French for “gross things people wouldn’t normally eat if we called them by their English names.” The chefs prepare elaborate dishes of amazingly tiny proportions, combining ingredients that are aisles apart in the grocery store for a very good reason. In the past, Escoffier dinners at the O Club have been chock full of seafood, making them an automatic pass for Jim. Tonight’s menu was light on seafood, but ingredients in four of the seven courses still worried me. Amazingly, Mikey’s words of advice from the Life cereal commercials were very appropriate this evening—“Try it, you’ll like it!”

I like salmon, but am not a big fan of smoked salmon, so I had my doubts about the appetizer, a “satiny-smooth mixture” of smoked salmon and gelled consommé. The taste was not bad; the texture was a bit weird, and probably not something I’d order again on my own. You can’t go wrong with the second course, a salad, unless of course you add foie gras to it. In my book, there is nothing you can do to liver—blend it up and mold it in a pretty shape, add exotic spices, give it a fancy French name—that will make it palatable. I wasn’t holding out much hope for the soup course, either, a chilled watermelon soup garnished with goat cheese and basil. Never in a million years would I have thought to mix those three items together, but the combination was surprisingly delicious, and something I probably would order again.

The first entrée, and the fourth worrisome dish, was quail with soba noodles and asparagus. I've only seen quail on the hoof in my grandparents' yard, never on a dinner plate, and I was taken aback by just how small a bird it is under those feathers. It should have been served with a scalpel and forceps, because trying to get the meat off tiny fragile little quail bones with a traditional knife and fork caused unspeakable carnage. Maybe it was meant to be eaten with your fingers, but that just seemed wrong for what could have been a meal served in a five-star restaurant. Guess I’ll have to see what Google says about quail-eating-etiquette.

A palate cleanser of mikan (Japanese tangerine) sorbet was served next, and I gladly would have eaten a bucket of it. Not only because it was so refreshing and delicious, but because every course so far had been so small. I realize that you can’t have full American-size servings of every dish when you are eating a seven-course meal, but with only two courses to go, I was planning a McDonald’s drive-thru run.

Just from the description on the menu, the second entrée initially held the most promise for me as most likely to be liked. The seared beef tenderloin with shiitake lived up to my expectations, and I even got to snitch the uneaten mushrooms from Jim’s plate. However, with about three bites to go, everything we had eaten so far finally caught up with me, and I began scaling down my McDonald’s order. And by the time I finished my dessert of grilled pound cake covered with vanilla yogurt and fresh peaches, I hadn’t room for even a single Chicken McNugget.

As a culinary adventure, this was certainly a memorable night. As a farewell dinner, it left a little to be desired since there was no time between courses to mingle with the guests of honor. Nevertheless, thank you Adam and Brenda for the opportunity to expand my gastronomic repertoire. Your willingness to try new things, and your encouragement for others to join you in such adventures will be missed!

Monday, August 17--Hindsight is 20/20

Dragging out our trip until the last possible moment seemed like a good idea at the time. Since we’d been in Japan a year, we wanted to spend as much time as possible with friends and family, not knowing when our next trip home will be. Kind of rethinking that decision this morning as we drag ourselves through the normal Monday routine. Even though we left the States on Saturday, we didn’t get back to our house in Japan until late yesterday evening. The few hours we had before bedtime were filled with trying not to step on the cat (who was sure we had abandoned her forever) weaving around our feet, unpacking suitcases and doing laundry, taking stock of the grocery situation, and laying out clean clothes and other paraphernalia for work this morning. No time for overcoming jet lag or easing back into the daily routine. Will remember today’s unpleasantness when planning the next trip…

Thursday-Tuesday, August 6-11--This is the life for me

So much to do on this visit to the States. After two weeks of somewhat frenetic activity, including cross-country visits to friends and relatives, doctor’s appointments, a class for Jim, and marathon shopping for me, we spent five gloriously relaxing days in the cool mountains of North Carolina. With not a single obligation, no schedule, and only spotty internet service, we were able to enjoy some much-needed down time.

If you ever need a place to get away from it all—traffic, phone calls, summer heat and humidity, kitchen duty, whatever—I highly recommend the Cataloochee Ranch in Maggie Valley, NC. For 75 years, the Alexander family has welcomed guests to the ranch and treated them like family—at least one member of the family sits down with guests as the host at every meal. We rented one of the ranch’s twelve cabins, The Pond House, named for its proximity to the trout pond (whose residents were intentionally well-fed to dampen their enthusiasm for baited fishhooks), and only a short walk from the main ranch house and its home-cooked meals.

Our days started with a huge country breakfast of eggs, meat, oatmeal, biscuits and fruit. Then we headed out on whatever adventure we had chosen for the day—hiking, horseback riding, a ride on the Great Smokey Mountains Railroad, a trip down the mountain into town (don’t waste your time or money visiting “Ghost Town in the Sky”—its days as a B-grade Wild West-themed amusement park are numbered). Then back to the ranch for an afternoon nap before a just-like-Grandma-used-to-make dinner. After dinner, there was usually a campfire where we could enjoy the cool evening air and chat with other guests, some of whom had been coming to the ranch every summer for thirty years or more.

I dread this morning’s final mountain descent, and the ensuing return to the real world, where the humidity is high, the temperatures are higher, the dentist awaits, a 14-hour flight back to Japan looms on the calendar, and there are no good smells coming from the kitchen.