11th March 2011 is a day that scars the soul of Japan.  An 9.0 earthquake hit their Eastern sea board generating a 25m Tsunami. Sanriku Coast felt the brunt. ‘Ria bay‘ formations with long inlets and narrow bays exacerbating the devastation.  Whole towns wiped out in minutes. 1000’s dead and injured.  And then the rebuilding began. 25m walls lacing every inlet. Coastal land and valleys being raised by 30m with soil stolen from the surrounding mountains.  Construction on an epic scale. (Click here for before and after satellite images ).

But before we reached the Sanriku Coast, the sun finally came out in Typhoon-tastique Hokkaido…

‘Came out’ is perhaps an overstatement but there was definitely a few dry afternoons on Lake Toya.  The sole campers on the deserted shores, we swam before breakfast and dried our kit when clouds permitted.  It’s always tricky to put into words the sense of beauty behind the scenes we witness.  These caldera lakes have continued to be amongst the most ethereal.  Toya is graced by a crown of active Volcanoes with a glimmering jewel of a forested island at her centre. The misty mornings, fracturing sun and mirror like waters were a heavenly canvas to capture some memories.

Parting company we began our last descent through Hokkaido and our journey to the central lakes of Northern Japan.  Rolling South in the shadow of sky-scraping coastal volcanoes was a fitting send off from this small, energy rich island. And as the weather continued to turn we lit of first campfire the night before boarding our ferry from Hakodate.

Meeting the Shimokita Peninsula of the mainland we bedded down in a free fishermans campsite in Oma town.  Starting early we’d climb to the centre of this headland, and with the rain back the onsens that awaited were a welcome motivation. Unfortunately the typhoons were still scuppering our way with the roads ahead closed.  It was back to the wet windy coast then to reach the town of Mutsu for a couple of days R&R.

In all of the East Asian countries Japan has probably proved the biggest challenge in terms of communication.  English is hardly spoken (and we’re still working on our Japanese).  So after a few hand gestures in Metsu campsite we understood that there was no camping allowed, only log cabins.  They seemed reasonably priced and being tired and wet we threw in the towel and bedded down. Only to wake up with a full campsite behind our hut! As is often the way here, there was something definitely lost in translation.

With a break from the tent we hit the peddles again with verve.  Starting our taste of the northern lakes that evening, arriving on the banks of Ogawara.  Perhaps not the best start.  A working fishing lake, fed mainly by agricultural run off it reminded us (in smell and sight) of the more rugged scenes of SE Asia. 

Onwards we climbed the mystical Oirasi Gorge to lake number two, Towado.  A glimmering caldera basin formed by three erupted and collapsed volcanoes.  The Japanese aren’t keen swimmers but Brian and I find it hard to see water and not jump in. Especially when it’s as clear as glass.  Beyond the prying eyes and no-swimming signs we washed away the days cycle and set up camp in the bosom of the cocooning Oak forest.

When we first arrived to Japan we wrote of the feeling of being in a bubble. Stoked perhaps by the language barrier and a reserve of the people.  The nature too seems to embody a surreal quality of separateness.  Water uncomprehendingly clear, meeting horizons of perfect blues and greens all wrapped in a world of ordered lines and ever changing skies.

Bike troubles kept us in Towado an extra night. The daily ritual of tent life’s unpacking and packing means kit is often left behind.  Forgetting the bike pump is a bad as it gets.  Trying to find the right adaptor for our inner tubes = exhausting!  Road worthy tires back we climbed up and out of Towado for a 1000m pass into the next valley and lakeside stop of Tazawa.

Presuming things couldn’t get better, Tazawa provided the cherry toppings with a white sand beach and budget friendly cafes fringing it’s emerald waters. We were even treated to a sensationally surreal Japanese sunset .  Clouds from the outer reaches of the Tornado which hit further South became harbingers of burning fire at days end.  A spectacle we were told that only happens twice a year.

Campfires, sunsets, BBQ’s, chilly swims in lakes followed by snuggling down in the tent at night have kept our souls full over the last few weeks.  Sad to leave the lakes behind but intrigued to see the Sanriku Coast.  It was a spring like day as we peddled through the beautiful Tono Valley to join the ocean again.

The coastline is as wondrous as we’ve come to expect.  Sheer black cliffs and headlands, shaded in pine trees with sapphire water rumbling and sparkling beyond.

The ‘ria’ inlets where towns used to sit have been a very sobering backdrop.  It will be 10-15 years before work is completed where it’s needed most.  We’ve heard stories that iterate again the importance of being present in the here and now of our lives.  Not knowing what will happen and when, the thought seems to be to keep your cups of love and kindness overflowing 24-7.  We’ll leave you with one of the many stories we’ve read of the events that created the scars of 11th March 2011.  Keep your eyes and hearts open for those silver linings 🙂

Till next time

Tommy & Brian

x

“As usual, I left for work in a rush without saying a word to my parents.

On that day, I was working in Miyako-city, about 60km north of my hometown, Ōtsuchi.

It began like every other boring work day. And then it happened. The ground started shaking. It shook so hard that you couldn’t stand and kept on shaking. When it finally stopped, I feared a tsunami and drove up the hill, even before I heard the warnings. I phoned my parents but there was no signal. After many hours, I reached my uncle’s house. Listening to the radio, I realised returning to Ōtsuchi was impossible, so I spent the long night awake there, my mind racing, unable to focus on any one thought: fear of losing my family, denial and hope for my family’s survival.

The road to Ōtsuchi remained impassable. Four days later, I heard rumour that people were fleeing Ōtsuchi using an old mountain path. I left in search of my family. After hours of walking through the forest, imagining that somehow Ōtsuchi had been spared, I arrived in the town. In an instant, my hope was shattered and the worst was before my eyes. There was nothing, absolutely nothing left but endless piles of rubble.

The rest is a blur. I remember passing where my house used to be but wasn’t anymore. I made it to an elementary school nearby.

I found my mother. Alive. She screamed when she saw me. I felt my knees weaken with relief and then her words stiffened my body: “I can’t find your father”.

Exactly one month later, I found my father. Finally. After I’d opened hundreds of other body bags searching for him. A part of me said, “Finally”. Then my heart went numb. Frozen, after holding on to that hope that he might be alive, for so long.

That was five years ago now. I lost hope, but now I live with hope in the same town that stole my hope.

In these three years, I met my partner, Mio, who came to Ōtsuchi on a rescue team, and married her. Life plays a game on you like that. If there was no tsunami, I wouldn’t have gone through that devastation, but I would never have met my wife.

Ōtsuchi lost 10% of its population. Everyone here lost someone they love. Some people, lost everyone.

If I could give you one gift from this disaster, it would be to make each day count. Love the ones you love. We’re sad because the ones we love are gone. We’re sad because we can’t talk to them anymore. We’ll never be sure if they knew how much we loved them.

So, if you hear our story, and it inspires you to tell your loved ones how much you love them, every day – to say “Good morning”, “Goodbye” and “Goodnight”, it will be a requiem for the ones we have lost, so our journeys will not have been in vain.”