"Nirvana? that's the place where the powers that be and their friends hang out." - Zonker Harris, Doonesbury
Webster's offers two definitions of nirvana. The first is a Buddhist state of existence that requires the extinction of desire and individual consciousness - something most of us will never achieve in case you were wondering, downing 18 beers at the family picnic does effectively obliterate your consciousness and desire, but it doesn't count - I already checked). The second is "a place or state of oblivion to care, pain, or external reality." On a trip to the island of Hokkaido, I found that ample doses of twisty mountain roads, hot springs, Japanese hospitality, raw fish, and Sapporo's finest lager make the second definition accessible even to a beer-loving motorcycle bum.
My first inkling that nirvana can be found in Japan came at a sushi bar in Sapporo. The modern neon-lit city of just under 2 million souls is best known for the annual Snow Festival, distinctive butter ramen, Genghis Khan barbecues, and as the host city for the 1972 Winter Olympics. Peter Peil, Ken Stephen and myself found out little slice of sushi heaven after an afternoon walk around Sapporo's gardens and shops and an evening baseball game at the sparkling 40,000-seat Sapporo Dome.
The game ended about nine, and we took the subway back into the Sapporo's Susukino District with the goal of finding a traditional sushi meal and sampling some of the area's infamous night life. We chose a little place with a few empty seats at the sushi bar and a menu that featured pictures of the offerings (vital, considering our Japanese language skills were acquired listening to Styxs albums at high school beer parties).
We sat down and pointed at the beer taps and the pictures on the menu that looked interesting and soon were enjoying full glasses of biru while Tomoshi, the sushi bar's crisply dressed young Japanese owner, sliced off slabs of raw fish, rolled them around rice, and served them up.
A bright-eyed young woman a few chairs down took great amusement in our fumbling with the menu and started to call out suggestions for our next order.
"Kampai!" she said, eyes flashing.
We tried Hawaiian yellowtail, which was incredible, and all the rest of her suggestions, including a round of saki poured generously in glass tumblers. Her name was Machiko, and she eventually joined us for a round (or two, or maybe three...). during an evening that got a bit hazy, we managed to learn she was out with her brother and friends, and that she lived "just a short ten-minute cab ride" away.
The following morning, as I sat at breakfast at the hotel trying to make some sensible notes despite a pounding headache, Phil Freeman dropped a freshly-printed sticker from his tour company on my notebook and plopped into a chair nearby. We caught up for a few minutes, and then Akiko Morikaway walked into the lobby. Akiko would be driving the chase car on the trip, and the smiling young woman laughed when Phil explained by plight.
"Nombe!" she exclaimed (which means "drunk").
So my Japanese language lessons began. I suppose it's only fitting that this was the first word I learned.
I was brought to this part of the world by Freeman, who owns MotoQuest Tours (formerly Alaska Rider Tours) and hold the bubious honor of once starring in an Italian Dunkin' Donuts commercial. Freeman came to the Japanese Island of Hokkaido in 1996 to teach English and to ski the island's world-class powder. When the snow melted, Freeman bought an XR250 and discovered a passion for motorcycling that led him to start a tour company when he returned to his native Alaska. That was 1998, and Freeman's Alaska-based touring company did well enough to keep him stocked with beer and travel money.
In 2005, Peter Peil and I were on our vision quest, riding the Dalton Highway in Alaska. We rented KLRs from Freeman in Alaska. While standing in the warm July sunshine outside Freeman's shop in Anchorage, Freeman told Peil and I he was interested in gathering a few friends to do a scouting ride for a tour in Hokkaido. He described a land of rider houses, hot springs and beer machines.
Anyplace that sells beer from machines holds a lot of curb appeal to Peil and me, and we agree to go on the spot. Just shy of one year later, we found ourselves gathering in Sapporo for an off-the-cuff tour of Hokkaido with Freeman. The plan was to ride as many great roads as possible, and stay in the cheap, plentiful rider houses along the way. Phil would develop a tour afterwards that he would offer to customers.
Scouting rides are the best tours out there, as far as I'm concerned. The unpredictable is bound to happen. I've slept on beaches and been stranded in one-horse towns in the middle of nowhere without gas on adventures, and those are some of my favorite travel memories. The element of the unknown is what makes traveling worthwhile.
Freeman gathered a crew that would be happy to explore the island and wouldn't fuss when things didn't go percisely as planned. Peil recruited his riding buddy Ken Stephen, a Scot with a bad case of motorcycle wanderlust and a penchant for spontaneous nudity, and Freeman enlisted two of his regular customers, Dee and Kyle Johnnson, a father-son team wired loosely enough to deal with our no-plan itinerary.
So the trip was a homecoming for Freeman, and a lark for the rest of us. The idea was to do it pretty much without any charted destinations, a vagabond tour with the goals of riding mountain roads, soaking in hot springs, drinking beer from machines and sleeping on the cheap at the island's rider houses (which are best described as hostels for motorcyclists).
Our riding adventure began at Thunder Sounds, a large dealership in Sapporo that rented us brand-new Kawasaki's for the trip. We were the first Westerners to rent from them, and they did everything but roll out the red carpet. The manager videotaped the entire event, from signing the paperwork to our first ride out of town, and even escorted us through the Sapporo traffic and to Highway 276, a two-lane highway running eat into the wilds of Hokkaido.
We rolled through the surprisingly bucolic farmland outside of Sapporo, passing small farms, rice fields, and long streams of military vehicles on the highway. After a few hours of riding, Freeman pulled off the two-lane road into a convenience store with a bright orange sign reading "Seicomart".
"Lunchtime!" he said, beaming excitedly.
I shot a look at Peil, both of us concerned about Phil's excitement level about a convenience store, and he shrugged. We followed Freeman into the store and over to a large cooler stocked with pre-packaged sushi, noodles, rice cakes, dumplings, ramen, pastries, boiled eggs, and mixed-item meals. The attendant could heat the dish for you in a microwave, and another display case kept canned drinks warm. You could also buy everything from magazines and aspirin to whiskey and fireworks - one-stop shopping at its finest.
The food was not bad and you could get a decent lunch for about 500 yen (five bucks). Seicomart lunches became a regular stop for our crew, and Pete and Ken soon shared Phil's enthusiasm for the express marts.
Filled with hot food, we set back out on 276 and turned north into the mountains at Yubari, headed north on 452 to Furano. We started exploring Hokkaido's mountainous region around Asahi-dake, a good portion of which is encompassed by Daisetsuzan National Park. The large park is encircled by a twisting road that winds through its steep terrain. With well-kept pavement, an abundance of 10-mile-per-hour hairpins, and snow still clinging to the higher regions' foliage in June, the route was perfect for getting familiar with my rented W400 (not enough power, but light enough to make up for it with entertaining corner speeds).
We spent our first night near Tokachidake. Akiko found us a place that offered a bunk for about $20 per person, a shared kitchen, and large indoor and outdoor onsen (Japanese hot spring baths) to soak in. You could also hike down the mountain a bit to an outdoor hot spring pooling in the rocks.
The baths are one of the joys of Hokkaido. The experience starts with a long shower sitting on a plastic bucket under a low head, followed by a soak in hot sulfur-smelling water.
The next day, we took in more of Hokkaido's great mountain roads and wound to the north past Daisetsuzan National Park. That night, we got our first taste of Japan's rider houses in Ashoro at a place called Osaka-ya-shokudo. This one was a converted residence with a kitchen, two small dining rooms downstairs, and several open sleeping rooms on the second floor.
Etsuko Kishiyama, the female half of the husband-wife team who own the house, quickly let us know that she ran a tight ship when we walked in, pointing sharply to the slippers on the floor when I started up the stairs without removing my shoes.
Shoes are taken off to enter Japanese dining and sleeping areas. In some cases, slippers are provided to wear in these areas. When going to the bathroom, another set of slippers should be worn. The largest slippers we saw were about size seven, meaning our crew spent the trip tottering precariously around restaurants and homes in tiny, decorative slippers. Some of the more Americanized restaurants (Mister Donut, for example) waived this custom, but it was strictly enforced in Etsuko's rider house.
After a scolding from Etsuko, I wedged my size ten feet into a pair of size six flower print slippers and lurched upstairs carrying my bag, riding gear, and a sleeping bag. Japanese bedrooms are generally empty, simple rooms with tatami floors (woven mats). Sleeping pads are generally provided, and are rolled up at night and stored in closets. Etsuko's home was strictly a bring-your-own bedding affair, and we hauled in sleeping bags and pads for the night.
After stowing riding gear and staking out spots on the mat for our bags, we headed downstairs for a cold beer and a meal. Another Japanese trait is cleanliness, and we were on the skanky side after a long day riding in wet weather.
"We're goin to have a beer, and then go to the hot spring for a bath, " Freeman told etsuko (in Japanese).
Etsuko pursed her lips and frowned.
"No, I think you should go to the hot spring."
"No, we're going to have a beer and then go to the hot spring, " Freeman replied firmly.
Etsuko shot us the look mothers reserve for disobedient children, but we ended up drinking and eating and never did make the hot spring. She made it clear she wasn't terribly impressed, but warmed up a bit after making jokes with Freeman about the shocking shade of red on my sunburned nose.
While we sat downstairs and ate Japanese barbecue, Akiko was upstairs talking with Isago Yoshihiro, a truck driver and motorcyclist who lived just south of Kushiro, a few days' travel away. As our night would down from eating to drinking all of the house's tap brew (which earned more disapproving looks from Etsuko), Akiko came down and informed us that Isago would like us to stay with him and his family on our way back to Sapporo. We happily agreed.
After a day of riding the area near Akan National Park, we rode to Shiretoko, the peninsula on the northeastern end of the island. The name was given it by Hokkaido's native people, the Ainu. Roughly translated, it means "the end of the earth" or "the place where the earth protrudes." Not settled until 1912, the peninsula has a rich, diverse ecology, and hosts more brown bears than permanent residents.
Most of the peninsula comprises Shiretoko National Park, and the road crossing Shiretoko Pass was one of the best rides of the trip. Snow blanketed the higher regions, with green grass breaking through the melting snow and twisted alpine trees. Sika deer roamed tamely on the sides of the road, and the crisp, cold pine-scented air smelled like spring, even in mid-June. The roads appear to have been engineered for motorcycling, with a cadence of curves that twisted the concerns of daily life into a cacophony of downshifts, apexes and ground pegs.
The road across Shiretoko Pass comes out of Rausu, a seaside town only a few miles from the Russian border. The Kuril Islands, taken from the Japanese by the Russians at the end of World War II, are visible across the Nemro Channel. Possession of the islands is still staunchly debated by the local Japanese, who lost fishing rights to some of the richest sea waters in the country. Posted along the coast, we say signs imploring help in returning the islands to their rightful owners despite the fact the lands were lost more than 60 years ago.
After another day riding the coast south of Rausu, we passed through Kushiro and arrived at Isago's home. The day had turned cold and rainy when we arrived, and Isago and his wife, Ikuko, had an EZ-up in their backyard with tow hibachis filled with hot coals warming the air underneath.
they greeted us with cold beers and open arms, helping load our things in their house. Within minutes, the hibachis were covered with large grills, and again we were sitting, cooking BBQ. We were joined by Kimino (Isago's daughter-in-law) and Hoshi, a family friend.
Kimino and Ikuko brought out fresh meats and vegetables and bowls of rice. We grilled lamb, salmon, chicken wings and tofu made from local milk and dipped it into sauce before gobbling it down.
As the final course, Ikuko brought out large orange slices sprinkled with powdered sugar. Stuffed to the gills, we went into town after dinner to clean up at the local public bath house, and arrived back for nightcaps of imojochu (potato whiskey).
Phil declined the drink and went to bed, leaving the rest of us to do our best to converse with the family. We learned that Ikuko's high school son played hockey and Isago was a truck driver and ha radio enthusiast. Dee Johnson was also into ham radios, and the two spent a few minutes happily talking radio tech.
In the morning, Ikuko served us breakfast of cold salmon, pickled radish, rice, soup, coffee, green tea, and juice before we hit the road. Our destination that night was a spacious log cabin in central Hokkaido surrounded by pine forests enshrouded in cedar-scented mist.
A fire in the cabin's cast-iron stove warmed the damp mountain air, and we spent the night playing the card game "Oh Hell" and eating snacks. The cabin felt more Rocky Mountain than Japanese, and I wished for more time to fish and kayak the white waters of the river rushing through the beautiful mountain valley.
The next day, we passed through the bucolic Ishikari plain, a land of rolling pastures and cows reminiscent of my native Wisconsin.
Our last night on the road ended in the ski town of Niseko, a favorite destination with Kiwis and Aussies. We stayed at a small hostel owned by Liam, a 30-ish Kiwi beatnik who bought the place and remodeled it himself. At the pub, we found several groups of Kiwis gathered around tables eating pizza and swapping stories about rafting and hiking the area. This was the only place on the island we saw English-speakers in any quantity.
The next day we rode the Shakotan Peninsula on the west side of Hokkaido, and found the most beautiful coast roads on the trip. Sleepy fishing villages line the shore, back-dropped by green-coated volcanic cliffs. Natural stone pillars rise out of the sea along the route, twisted lumps of rock worn smooth by centuries of waves emanating from the Sea of Japan.
We returned to Sapporo in a downpour and were greeted with another red carpet treatment at Thunder Sounds when we returned the bikes. The manager had set up an EZ-up and most of the neatly uniformed staff came out to greet us as we arrived. He graciously gave us a ride to the hotel in his Mitsubishi four-wheel-drive van, and had a DVD he made for us ready to go.
"You like to see?" he asked.
"Sure, " I said, and he pushed a button the dash of his van and a DVD screen popped up. He inserted the disc, and as he deftly negotiated the Sapporo traffic, we watched his slickly-produced video of our visit to Thunder Sounds.
On our last day on the island, we took our rental car north to the hot spring heaven of Jozankei for a soak and a bit of sightseeing in the sleepy town of Otaru.
At a public bath house near Jozankei, we soaked in steaming stone tubs overlooking a rushing river running underneath a low pine-coated mountainside. Just outside the outdoor stone bath was a porch made of fist-sized rocks and topped by several large concrete chairs. After a long session in the rough tub, I sat on one of the stone chairs. As steam rose from my body, I reflected on two weeks as a stranger in a welcoming land of onsen, twisting mountain roads, Seicomart sushi, and the surprisingly warm hospitality of an inscrutable culture.
I sat and drank the clear mountain air, content to have found my little slice of nirvana.
