The Race for Yari

Elina, ever the diligent one, had been chained to the glow of her laptop, trimming her Hayduke film into something palatable for Banff’s austere judges. I, happily unencumbered by such deadlines, preferred a simpler response to obligation: avoidance. When faced with the tyranny of commitments, there is only one respectable course: flight. So I insisted, gently but persistently, that she exchange the claustrophobia of editing suites for the ungovernable air of the mountains. After all, the only reliable cure for seriousness is altitude.

The plan, while not flawless, was more than serviceable. Trains booked, connections mapped, a timetable that held together better than most of my ideas. We reached Matsumoto late in the evening and switched to a smaller local line, only to be deposited at a station that felt like the end of the world. Twenty kilometres still separated us from the trailhead. After phoning through two different taxi companies, one finally agreed to send a driver. At that point it was no longer about planning, but persistence.

I gave the driver our destination, Nakabusa Onsen, and he regarded me with a mixture of surprise and mild exasperation, clearly questioning the wisdom of ferrying two strangers into the mountains at such an hour. By 1 a.m., we were on twisting mountain roads, part adventure, part folly, heading for the trailhead where our climb would begin.

By 1:30 a.m. we arrived at the trailhead and began our nocturnal ascent. Normally, Nakabusa is a popular back door into the Northern Alps, but that night there was no one else, just us and the quiet of the mountains. The climb felt surprisingly easy in the cool, pre-dawn air, with no sun to sap our energy. By 4 a.m., Enzansō appeared like Laputa itself, floating above a sea of clouds, campers stretching, fumbling with stoves, and brewing sachets of powdered coffee. The sky slowly bled tangerine and aubergine, the first light draping the ridge in a hush of improbable colour.

The ridge opened beneath our feet, and we set off running, giddy with the kind of joy that only comes from being entirely unobserved and entirely alive. Ahead, a group of schoolboys screamed “YABA-!” - they had spotted, before we did, the sun spilling over a sea of clouds, a simple, breathtaking blaze of gold.

Daitenjo was dispatched with far less drama than in my previous incarnation as a weaker, lazier self. Coffee, sipped while looking over a white bed of clouds, revived our spirits. Elina disappeared to the toilet and re-emerged to the ululations of a diminutive Japanese woman, a shrill devotee whose joy derived from having encountered her YouTube messiah. Elina bore this with saintly resignation. Were it me, I’d have demanded royalties.

We pressed on. The Omote Ginza revealed itself as both ridge and runway for our preening. Idle talk and little staged photoshoots designed to flatter us in the best light. The air was thin, but our vanity thick. Together we paused along the ridge, marveling at the sheer, unspoiled excellence of the Alps around us. By the time we reached Nishidake, Elina was chatting with some Koreans about their backpacks while I lingered, enjoying a Coke.

Then began the ladders, the scrambling. We passed hikers one by one, a reassuring proof that Yamap’s “map time” is for the plebeians. Eventually, the altitude began to kick in, forcing more frequent breathers, which served as useful reminders to reapply sun cream and take on some food. Hyutte Yarigatake rewarded us with a photograph opportunity and the quiet admiration of the hiker taking our picture, impressed that we had covered so much ground despite having not slept a wink. A wrong turn, quickly set right by our photographer, quickly brought us back down to earth before we took possession of our campsite beneath Yari, king of the Alps, spear of the gods, or at least a very pointy rock.

Lunch was curry at 3,000 metres, a dish elevated by altitude and fatigue. I nearly face-planted into it, which would at least have spared me the indignity of working out how to pitch my new tent. I was a bit lost and needed Elina’s guidance. Thankfully, she is far more experienced at this sort of thing.

Evening: golden light, golden clouds, golden chatter. Sleep, for me, was impossible. The wind declared war on my shelter, Sufjan Stevens proved useless artillery, and my decision to omit a sleeping bag, imitating the fastpacking ascetics of TJAR, proved far less ascetic than mortifying. Thus, at 1:15 a.m., broken and sleepless, I connived with Elina to pack up and resume movement. Sleep is bourgeois. Forward motion is revolutionary.

The approach to Yarigatakesansō was a tense prelude: scrambling in pitch black, helmets on, poles stashed, every foothold a question. We paused at the sanso, joining the first stirrings of lodgers, watching the horizon and calculating the perfect moment to begin the final ascent. Anticipation thickened the air; even in the cold, even in the dark, it was intoxicating. Then came the scramble itself, a theatre of anxiety: chains, ladders, the vertigo of imagined abysses. We summited first, absurdly alone, wind-lashed, darkness-bound, at 3,180 metres. I briefly wished to vomit from the malign cocktail of fatigue, altitude and awe. Elina, sturdier, insisted we endure until sunrise. We did, and were rewarded with the standard cosmic ombré. The sublime is always better when one has had to endure, to struggle, and to push through the challenge.

Down again, then coffee: the true sacrament of mountain ascetics. We debated Hotaka, but deferred. Prudence, or cowardice, depending on one’s temperament. Instead, a long descent towards Kamikochi: scree, river, shade, ice cream, the whole arcadian inventory.

Except for Elina’s ankle. It ballooned into an organ-like thing, grotesque and oddly artistic. She wished to continue running on it, naturally, because she is both stoic and deranged. I vetoed this, thereby asserting the sole authority of common sense I had exercised in two days.

Thus the final approach was at funeral pace, but compensated by the Azusa River’s impression of being painted that very morning. Ice cream at Tokusawa, civility at Konashidaira Onsen, a bus back to the lowlands, civilisation.

We had been the first to summit Yari on 17 August 2025. A worthless accolade, but ours nonetheless. Last year had been smooth enough, though I was simply following Carlos and being looked after, struggling in my own way. This year, I had planned the entire trip and was fully responsible for its execution, and, having grown into a more experienced mountain runner, I managed it without undue struggle. I pretended this was due to my competence. In reality, it was because I had with me someone vastly more experienced, who happened to indulge me. Which is, in essence, the story of most “great adventures”: one fool, one adult, and the mountains, which forgive neither.