Up the mountainside we scrambled, through trees and undergrowth, through the stages of our age and youth, through Hell and damnation, until we reached a rocky trench leading (incongruously) to a high stone wall, some 50 feet above us.
Then it happened.
As if at some tacit signal, our feet slid out from under us on the loose surface of the slope and suddenly we weren't standing but hanging, clinging with our fingertips to the rocks and roots, with our feet scrabbling vainly for purchase and the insistent tug of gravity like a piano chained to our ankles.
The indirect route we had taken up the mountainside had disguised how steep the incline was, but the prospect of a direct descent to the bottom and the consequent date with intensive care, from which we were separated only by the the thickness of a handful of grass, brought the gradient sickeningly into focus.
To say that my whole life flashed before my eyes would be a complete exaggeration. I was, however, treated to a brief showing of the moment 20 minutes earlier when I, like an idiot, had said Hey, why don't we take a shortcut?
REWIND...
To give the above some context: Mike (flatmate) and I had ended up with the same day off after some form of shift-swap tomfoolery, so I suggested that we make the most of the day with a trip to Mino. This was to be the first in a series of stupid suggestions, which were to end up bordering on insanity.
My reasons for visiting Mino were quite straightforward: one of my students had told me that there are Monkeys in Mino which have learnt to operate Japan's semi-ubiquitous vending machines. If that isn't the most amazingly cool thing of all time... well, just tell me what is.
So, in high spirits and armed with Mike's trusty camera, we boarded the train for the promised land of consumer Monkeys.
This sign was the first thing I spotted when we emerged from Mino station. For those of you not familiar with katakana, it says "mentaru kurinikku," or "mental clinic." My kind of town.
Unshaken by the prospect of wandering nutters, Mike and I started our trek up the mountain (upon the summit of which, the fiscally-competent Monkeys are reputed to dwell.) This photo of Mike in a clearing is the last available picture of us not being incredibly stupid.
It wasn't too long before yours truly got bored of following the gently sloping and clearly delineated paths which wound in a spiral round the mountain, reasoning that it would much quicker to scramble uphill through the trees. Mike agreed. This is when it all started to go a bit pear-shaped.
We quickly discovered that the earth on the slope was very loose indeed, which afforded us a bit of amusement, until the rather scary moment detailed above (on account of which, I'm looking a bit grubby and shaken in this picture.) After that, we decided to proceed a bit more cautiously. The scenery was enlivened by this random patch of snow, a lot of rubbish and an inordinate amount of tennis balls.We were a little puzzled by the latter, but it all became clear when we blundered into a hotel complex uphill, complete with- you guessed it- a number of tennis courts. We weren't sure if we were trespassing, so, in the spirit of espionage, we took a few photos of the place, then continued our trek uphill. After a further half-hour of slip-shod tomfoolery, we eventually stumbled across another path. This provided us with the opportunity to proceed with a bit more decorum and sanity.
Eschewing this entirely, we decided to carry on with our off-road antics, convinced that a bit more perseverance would bring us face-to-face with the incredible coin-op Monkeys.
We were relaxing on the path and preparing for our next instalment of idiocy with a few swigs of Pocari Sweat (disturbingly named Japanese sports drink,) when Mike realised that he'd dropped his wallet, which had the equivalent of about 200 dollars in it.
Bugger.
After a few moments of quite inventive profanity (I believe I managed a 30-second sentence composed entirely of the "F" word) we realised that we would have to sacrifice our chances of finding intelligent Monkeys and retrace our steps downhill to try and find the errant accessory.
Descending the mountain side proved even more hazardous than the upward journey. Very steep, very slippery and not a lot of fun, until we hit upon the fool-proof idea of aiming for trees and sliding downhill into them on our backsides. A little uncomfortable, but good fun and relatively safe, although Mike did knock over one 12-foot tree which was, apparently, dead.
Eventually, we found our way back to the point where we'd had our original near-death experience. Mike was searching a little way uphill from me, when I heard a sudden exclamation of surprise. I looked up hopefully. "Check it out!" he beamed, holding aloft a rather battered-looking beverage can. "Nova Coffee!"
I was just considering how best to dispose of Mike's body after I'd finished killing him, when something a few feet downhill caught my eye. Give me a W, I thought, scrambling down towards it; give me an A, I picked up the wallet, nestled in a patch of leaves. Give me an L...
I flipped it open to reveal a familiar face beaming on a Japanese ID card. Nice one, I thought. Mike thought so too, judging by his reaction.
After this, our only thoughts were of getting back to Osaka, cleaning up the various cuts and grazes that we'd accumulated from our ill-advised antics and getting a good square meal. It was only when we returned to the clearing at the foot of the mountain that I spotted this sign warning us about giant angry wasps which I found a little worrying, given the number of dead trees and other potential hiding places we'd clambered over.
When I pointed this out to Mike, he shrugged non-commitally."I guess it's a good job they're not in season," he said. I was inclined to agree, having had a little more excitement than I'd bargained for out of the whole trip.Reunited with his wallet, Mike was in quite high spirits, notwithstanding the nasty cut on his hand which was showing definite potential for infection. A nice footnote to the story (other than the prodigious amount of food consumed at the local Yakiniku buffet) is that I got home aafter work a few days later to find a couple of bottles of whisky awaiting me as a "thankyou" present for my wallet-finding prowess.
As for the Monkeys of Mino: they may have eluded me on this occasion, but I shall return. And next time I'll try to be a bit more sensible.
