Nejire Fairy

 Japan is just as old as everything else.

That might not seem like a controversial statement in any way, but many geologists would disagree. The island of Japan itself was formed, more or less, 23 million years, when a section of the Eurasian continent split off due to the subduction of the Pacific plate underneath the Eurasian plate. Other sections of Japan were uplifted from the ocean floor about 11 million years ago. For comparison's sake, with the exception of Scotland, the Isle of Britain's youngest sections are at least ten times older than this.

And the surface of the island is constantly in flux as well. Being a volcanic chain of islands, the topography is unceasingly shifting and growing. Just recently the official census of islands of Japan nearly doubled -- bringing the total number into the tens of thousands. This is also to say nothing of the almost daily earthquakes on the archipelago, which slide and crack the bedrock. It is not uncommon for a landslide or particularly strong tremor to reveal a previously unseen cave or crevice.

Moreover, as a chain of islands facing the Pacific Ocean, Japan is pummeled by typhoons and tsunamis year after year. Not just the major events either, but the winds and water erode the landscape, knock down trees, and block paths. Actually, this might have an extraneous positive effect on Japan: The changing landscape and ever present danger means that the government of Japan must invest heavily in its park ranger services, a constant struggle with nature. This, coupled with the fact that most of Japan is rugged wilderness, makes it an excellent country to hike in, an activity I am particularly fond of.

Speaking of the rugged wilderness, that is also a somewhat new development. Despite all of its technological and industrial advances, Japan cannot overcome the mountainous geography. Many people are surprised to learn that despite its image of being high-tech and advanced, most of the island is still untouched and undeveloped, due to its difficult terrain. There are paths here that have been unwalked by humans.

In many of those forests and in the foothills of many of those mountains: brand new trees. Yes, here we have more evidence for Japan's "newness". Many of Japan's forests and buildings were destroyed during the war. The government was forced to plant rows of cedar trees just to keep the country stable, which now stand tall and straight in long rows in the Japanese countryside. It is fitting that they look like cemeteries.

I would be remiss if I neglected to mention how fresh the demographics seem to be, as I am an immigrant to this country. I am not alone either, as the number of people migrating to Japan is rapidly increasing, pushing the limits of the cities further and further into the forests and mountains, creeping ever closer to dark interior.

Yes, it is not uncommon to image Japan as a "new" place -- the landscape and topography is new, the trees are new, and even the people are new. And yet, we must never forget that even though this land rose from the ocean waves tens of millions of years ago, those rocks were sitting on the ocean floor for billions of years. They are certainly not new, and have seen the history of the earth and its inhabitants during their long life. They know things that we do not, and I was recently reminded of this fact during a short excursion to Nejire Falls.

Nejire Falls is a medium-sized waterfall cluster in the Okutama area. I don't believe that it's popular as it is not the biggest or most beautiful waterfall in Japan, nor is it particularly easy to get it. That is, though, why hiking to such places appeals to me; I'm looking to be completely alone in nature, far away from other people. I want to be in the places that are isolated and quiet.

The Nejire Falls are themselves interesting. The word "nejire" means "twisting, choking or strangling" in Japanese, which I suppose is in reference to the shape of the falls themselves. They are three short drops that sharply change angles from the previous drop, meaning that the first drop goes left, the second right, and the third returning to the left, in a zig-zagging manner that looks like it is being choked. I had wondered why the name "Nejire Falls" implies that the waterfall is doing the twisting, when it is clearly obviously that the falls themselves have been strangled.

As I approached the trailhead of the hiking path on that day, I knew that I was in for a real treat. First of all, not only was there no paved path or lights or anything like that, but there were no people around. Perfect for solitude. Second, the map posted on a signboard at the trailhead marked Nejire Falls with a cute illustration of a fairy.

Now, it is not uncommon for things to be marked or identified with cute characters in Japan; the city that I live in is represented by a small squirrel with a hat, for example. But what is notable is that the character appears to be harmless. See, in Japan, when you need to keep children away from something, like an important box or document, or a dangerous river or lake, you invent monsters. Do not walk into the woods, child, there is an eight-headed snake who lives there eager to rip your limbs from your body with its eight mouths. Do not open this box, child, there is a human head inside with the power to melt the flesh from your bones and steal your body for itself. Do not approach this river, child, the reptile that lives inside will split you in two from your genitals to your forehead so that it may eat your entrails as your half-bodies float in the dark, bloody water. And so on and so forth.

But a fairy? This is an invitation. Which is the type of thing that would make my wife happy. She is always worried about this little solo hiking jaunts that I take. A short fall or a small misstep might twist an ankle, and then I would be left totally alone in the mountains. I remind her that I am an experienced naturalist, but it does me no good. The woods are big, she says. There are many things in them.

The key, as I like to remind her, is in your sense of observation. Someone who isn't paying any attention is definitely in danger of slipping or stumbling across a wild boar or something, but one who is listening closely is never going to be harmed. Case in point, a few kilometers away from the trailhead, I encountered snakes. This was mid-March, a time when the buds are not yet green on the branches and dead leaves still litter the walkways. I was not expecting to meet any reptiles at all, but I heard them first. The rustle of the leaves stopped me in my tracks and I waited. I thought about taking out my phone to take a picture or record a video, but decided against it as the sound of the shutter might frighten them. The snakes, three of them I guessed, also waited for a beat, before moving on, past me towards the entrance of the hiking trail. I was lucky to have heard them as I might have stepped within striking distance if I had not heard the rustling of the leaves. I was reminded of why prey like rabbits and deer rely so heavily on their hearing to avoid danger.

And I was truly alone. The sun was shining and the occasional bird was chirping, but besides that, the trail and forest itself was still and crisp from winter. I took a few pictures on my phone of the taller mountains all around me. The only sound I could hear was the crunch of the dried leaves as I happily walked towards the river that would lead me to the waterfall. I passed several rows of cedar trees.

Rivers, lakes, and streams are the exciting places in a forest. Not only are they beautiful to look at and listen to, but these are places where animals congregate. In short, it is where the action is. Once I started walking along the river, the leaves under my feet were less dry and the sound of the flowing river slowly replaced the crunch of my walking. Just as I wondering whether I might see an animal drinking at the river, I saw the first set of deer bones.

This is really a treat when hiking in Japan. First, because deer are becoming increasingly less common, and second, because of the aforementioned park services, carcasses and bones are typically cleaned up quickly. The first set of deer bones was sun-bleached and charming. Must have been an older male by the size of the antlers and body. Whenever I encounter such a thing in the mountains, I am always tempted to pick up an antler or skull to bring back home for decoration or a memento. I have to remind myself, that no, I cannot carry a deer skull with me on the train ride home. But still, I admired the bones and took a quick picture on my phone before continuing my walk, where I encountered the second set of deer bones. 

Should I say "bones"? Carcass, yes that is more accurate. Picked at by some other animal with a bit of flesh remaining around the face, but empty in the animal's torso. The stench was also less than ideal with noticeable black patches of blood around the edges of the tattered skin hanging off the ribs. The neck had been broken, so the poor creature was left facing upwards. I reminded myself to tread more carefully; if a deer could slip, then I was also at risk of doing so. But I left quickly. The sight of it made me upset.

The entrance to waterfalls in the mountains is always a unique sight. The falls on a mountain slope are created by erosion processes which slowly carve out a section of the mountain over hundreds of thousands of years. Unlike the taller, more famous waterfalls that you may know, these falls form a small canyon through the tall rocks. Walking up to the waterfall is like crossing the threshold of a large gate. The effect on the sunlight is also noticeable as well, since the surrounding rocks are much taller than the low-lying river, much of this canyon is shaded and significantly cooler than outside. Many plants do not survive here, so the terrain becomes darker and rockier as well.

And Nejire Falls was outstanding. Beautiful, twisting falls cutting through a cave of rock. The sharp angles of the water smoothed out the surrounding rock so charmingly, it was like a small amphitheater.  My feet were unsteady now that there were no leaves here, but just wet, smooth, rock. I took out my phone and started taking pictures of the waterfall and the surrounding rock, perfectly eroded. The sound of the waterfall was pounding it my ears and bouncing off the walls.

What a lovely sight, I thought. Snapping as many pictures as I could. I noticed that there was a small opening next to the bottom of the falls, across from me, a little cave. How unique! I wondered what kind of geological process could create this.

It was dark everywhere, but especially dark in the cave. I wanted to know what it was like in there. I took out my phone to zoom in.

I zoomed, but couldn't make anything out clearly. A bit of white something. I stepped closer

Something moved in the cave. I looked to my phone. It had recognized a face in the cave and was now focused on it.

I took the picture, although the waterfall was much too loud for me to hear the sound of the shutter.