I'll give you one reason.
I’d been itching to get out and climb Mt. Hachibuse for weeks. Then suddenly the day came. The sun was a bright centerpiece in the sparkling sky; immediate responsibilities, both parental and professional, were nil; the car keys were just sitting there.
My wife yelled in my general direction as I was pulling out of the driveway; something about one of the kids and a piano lesson. “One of my kids takes piano lessons?” I mused as I sped along Route 63, winding along the foot of the mountain range that culminates in this curious, non-descript peak I was rushing toward.
Honestly, I don’t know why I wanted to climb Hachibuse-yama. Of all the countless mountains around here it is nowhere near the highest. It is nothing you could call dramatic. There’s a road that takes you within a half mile of the top. Hachibuse means ‘prostrating bowl’ for Pete’s sake.
|If I'm careful what could possibly go wrong?|
If you decide to hike, the trail (the shorter one, for those of us with a wife who needs the car later) meanders through the woods until, halfway up the mountain, it spits you out onto the road. As if suddenly aware that it wasn’t supposed to playing in the street, the trail dips back into the woods. Then as if it were one of my kids it forgets it isn’t supposed to be playing in the street and runs out onto the pavement once again. At this point the trail turns into a squirrel in a panic, running into and out of and into and out of traffic’s way until it finally dies like road kill at the blacktop’s edge.
From there it’s a twenty-minute walk along the rocky shoulder, up to the parking lot where the smart people start walking.