A Very British Traverse

On the same weekend that two British trail runners were tearing through Chamonix in pursuit of the sport’s most coveted crown, two far lesser-known compatriots were setting out on their own ambitious venture in Chino, Nagano. At 48 kilometers and 4,000 meters of elevation gain, the grand traverse of Yatsugatake is no Tour de Mont Blanc, but then again, Tom Evans and Josh Wade weren’t lugging their tents and rations.

The beginning climb up to Tateshina was… fine. A forgettable warm-up of big, stable boulders that let us dispatch the first seven hundred meters without fuss. The summit itself was a volcanic graveyard, a wasteland of broken rock perhaps fifty meters across. Impressive, yes, but I was already itching to get onto the main ridgeline.

Hannie just below the Tateshina summit.

The descent delivered the slowest traffic jam I’ve ever seen in the mountains. What we first assumed was frail hikers struggling turned out to be two groups parked squarely in the trail, chatting. After too long in their dust we snapped, slipped past, and danced through the bottleneck, drawing laughter and envy from the other stranded climbers.

From there we ran steady towards Okawarahyutte. At one o’clock I declared a celebratory cup noodle and coke stop, smugly telling Hannie we had only four hours left. She responded with a look that said everything and nothing, mostly: idiot. She was right. I had wildly over-estimated how fast we’d reach todays goal, Honzawa Onsen.

The rest of the day stretched long. Endless climbs, mossy forests, hidden ponds, the occasional deer sizing us up. Conversation flowed - stories, debates, bad jokes. Hannie crushed the ascents, I led the descents, and together we made a surprisingly effective team.

By the time we reached Higashitengudake and began the punishing five hundred meter drop to our campsite, daylight was long gone. Loose rock, fading legs, and only headlamps for sight. My ankle rolled half a dozen times. Never disastrous, but each twist added another layer of pain. We staggered into Honzawa Onsen camp at nine, exactly when Hannie had predicted.

The weather was a gift: calm, cool, thirteen degrees. The camp was crowded but we found two slots. My Durston tent went up in soft earth for the first time - no rocks, no improvisation. After my humiliation at Yari two weeks earlier, I was smug beyond reason.

Then came the real reward. Honzawa Onsen: the highest outdoor bath in Japan at 2,150m. Down a short path, half-hidden in a rocky valley, flanked by alpine trees. The pool was bigger than I’d imagined - room for ten - but tonight it was just us. We stripped, eased in, and yelped. It was scalding, but once settled on the ledge overlooking the stream, it was pure magic. Above us the sky cracked open with stars, a dome so dense it was almost menacing.

Last week I wrote about the role of onsens in Japanese trail culture, but this one eclipsed everything. After 2,400 meters of climbing, legs battered, ankle throbbing, skin scratched raw, and still only halfway through, sinking into boiling mineral water beneath that sky felt absurdly perfect. We reveled in the strangeness of it all. Alone, sore, grinning, with the universe for company.

Morning came fast. I woke to the sound of Hannie deflating her mat. We packed quick, in and out like thieves. The day began cruelly: a 400-meter climb straight out of camp. I trudged, whining about coffee. Miraculously, minutes later we stumbled into Yamabikoso, already open. Hannie ducked inside and reappeared with two steaming coffees in delicate china cups and saucers. We sipped greedily, laughing at ourselves: two Brits, mid-traverse of one of Japan’s most technical ranges, clinging to some faint whiff of home ritual.

Pre-sunrise coffee

Sunrise broke. The crowd hushed. The ridge turned gold. This, whatever anyone says, is the real reason we climb mountains.

We hit Iodake, then Yokodake, then onward to Akadake. The ridge was technical and clogged with weekend climbers, ladders and chains bottlenecking the flow. Yet in the runnable stretches we flew past, drawing the odd comment of admiration from hikers. Progress was uneven, but spirits stayed high. Fuji flashed briefly through cloud, the Alps stretched opposite across the Hokuto Valley. At Akadake, Yatsugatake’s highest point, we looked back: Tateshina, where we’d started, now just a small peak in the distance. Coffee in hand, we felt the miles.

Last push up to Akadake. Our first summit, Tateshina, can be seen behind the clouds on the left.

From there we pushed onto Gongendake, the part I loathe. Tedious terrain: tricky but not thrilling, slow but not inspiring. Still, it was the quickest way down to the Michi no Eki, and the thought of Jinchan waiting with beer and pizza pulled us onward. Hannie surged ahead, the metronome I needed through my caffiene withdrawal. The longest ladder in the world was our last cruel joke before Gongendake finally gave way to descent.

Hannie leading the way to Gongendake

Near Seinengoya, my ankle finally gave out. One bad twist and I collapsed onto a bank. It was inevitable, after the abuse of the night before. I hobbled to the hut, taped it up, swallowed painkillers and caffeine pills, and, in the British way, simply carried on.

The pills kicked in, right on cue. Energy surged. We flowed down the trail, even pausing to salute the infamous “penis tree,” before bombing the last three kilometers, a dream chute of soft earth and steep gradients. My ankle forgot itself; joy took over.

Hannie and the infamous “penis tree”

At last: road. Four kilometers of shuffle to the Michi no Eki. Jinchan was waiting to take our order, and soon I was staring at a Diablo pizza and a frosty beer. After eating, I collapsed onto the table, destroyed, while Hannie and Jinchan knattered away. Jinchan found the contrast between us amusing, and she was right. Hannie had been a machine the whole trip, steady and unflinching, her calm determination quietly inspiring.

That was likely my last Yatsugatake adventure this year. What was my dependable training ground last year only saw me once this year, but crossing it end to end made up for lost time. Next year, the routes will have to get stranger. Hannie and I are already scheming.