The Bosporus Star

Late in the afternoon, the trail became less steep, finally flattening out at an odd indentation formed at the commencement of several ridges just beneath the summit of Asahi.
It was near dark when we arrived at the koya, a sturdy shed built on the sheltered plateau. We paid for a night’s stay which entitled us to a hot meal of rice and fish which had been hauled by foot to this elevation 2,152 meters above sea level. Too tired to socialize with any of the other climbers, we ate quickly and rolled out the grungy, but billowy futon on the hard floor where we were overtaken by an overpowering fatigue.

The next morning we woke at dawn, refreshed but famished. We devoured a breakfast of roast salmon, seaweed and egg along with bowl after bowl of the most delicious rice I would taste, ever, anywhere. Even the tea seemed like some rarefied beverage.
— I had amazing dreams, said Cara.
— It was like how you sleep after a day of manual labor, I noted.
— Or the way you sleep through a hard morning rain, added Oe.
Outside a helicopter had landed. A climber had become sick and was being flown off the mountain. There were a few tents about, but most of the climbers had already departed.
We started into a rocky moraine carved by the passing of some ancient glacier.
It was a short walk to the peak where we stopped for photographs. From here we would be ridge-walking. For much of the early morning we made good time, following a high trail affording sweeping views of the north and south sides of the ridge. The sun was intense, but there was little wind. After the night’s rest and having adapted to the altitude and the physical stress, we traveled confidently although with cautious respect, the ascents and descents between Asahi and Shiro-uma. Before and behind us, the summits had become ambiguous. We were endlessly aiming for some high point which would turn out to be a disappointing non-locus upon arrival. What seemed to be a peak was most often the top of a saddle beyond which appeared a higher summit.
Then, descending a ravine, I caught my foot in a crevice, twisting my ankle. There was no break and no blood, but I knew it would get worse, especially without ice to mitigate swelling. We slowed considerably as I picked my way along the trail.
I was limping badly when we arrived at an Elysian meadow dotted with tiny, red flowers. Endo led me to a small grotto where I removed my shoe and sock and soaked my ankle in a clear, frigid spring. My ankle had swelled like a water balloon. We unpacked and ate the bentos from the koya: flavorful yakitori on skewers, potato salad, deep fried fish, konyaku, pickled carrots and rice. Oe also passed out rations of granola mixed with chocolate chips to bolster us for what would be the toughest climb to come.
With regrets, we departed our lost horizon which would have made the perfect campsite were we carrying tents and sleeping bags and not so pressed for time.
Half an hour up the ridge Endo stopped.
— It’s best to get out the rain gear, he said in understated Japanese.
I looked into the sky which was clear except for a few patches of cloud.
I didn’t doubt Endo’s instincts, but asked him exactly what signs I was missing.
— Smell, he said.
An isle of dark cloud appeared above us just where the slope turned steepest. Protected by the rain gear, we breached the clouds at an appalling angle. Soon we entered a grinding corridor of muscular distress, chilled by a drizzling fog. Cut off from the scenic views and the trail future or past, we became focused on the absolute now of each step.
The rain came in gusts, forcing us to a crawl. Although the our gear kept us dry, we had no shelter from the winds and the cold rain which battered us from all sides. Forced to constantly recommit our weight just to stay upright, we were quickly becoming fatigued. Endo ordered a halt, and we huddled, dug into the mountain for over twenty minutes before the winds and the rains diminished. Then, without warning, the storm blew off and we were left walking along dry rock.
Still we had a way to go and it was already 3:00. Oe re-wrapped my ankle as tight as I cold bear.
— They’re coming, said Endo.
Oe took out his binoculars and scanned the trail below.
— One woman, three men, he said. – They’re really moving. They’ve spotted us as well, I’m sure.
— Well, we have the high ground, said Oe. – We could easily make a stand on one of these outcroppings.
— We could crush them with boulders, suggested Cara.
— We can’t assume hostile intent, I said.
— Yeah, well they’re not here for the love of the mountains, said Cara.
— At our present pace, they’re going to catch us way before the koya, said Oe, ominously.
— They’re about an hour behind, said Endo.
We watched the party of four vanish in a depression.
— I’ll stay and see what they want, I offered.
This didn’t seem to register.
— Otherwise we have no chance to make the koya before dark.
Endo, who was conversing with Oe, dropped his pack and started down the mountain.
— Be back soon, he said.
I called after him, but he was already gone.
— I will lead you! cried Oe, grabbing Endo’s pack.
— This is crazy! What’s he going to do?
— He’s just going to check it out. We should get moving.
I shouldered my pack and we started off again.
— Don’t worry, said Oe. – He said not to worry.
Late in the afternoon the trail began to sharply ascend. There were no further sightings of the pursuit. We kept expecting to turn and see Endo making his way toward us, but he as well seemed to have vanished from the mountain. We lapsed into total silence, conserving our energies along a Sisyphean tilt of mountain. Ahead of us we could see a pack of climbers silhouetted against the sun. They were moving slowly, and before long we could make them out: five young men, crewcut and carrying heavy packs, chanting a martial chorus as they plodded along. As we closed we could see what was slowing them down: an overweight youth, who had collapsed a short ways behind the others who waited for him to catch up.
Oe led us past with barely a glance at the group who had gathered around the fat boy. One youth in a white headband stood silently over the fat boy. This was exactly one of Mishima’s boys of the Bund: ramrod posture, delicate features, with a touch of cruelty in the alignment of the nose and mouth. As I passed he began to yell:
— Straighen up! Try harder! You are hurting us all!
Then he slapped the fat boy and kicked him as he struggled to adjust his glasses.
— I’m sorry! he pleaded.
Oe looked over his shoulder with a blank expression. But I caught his eye and he immediately strode back to the gang of boys.
— What are you doing? he said in condescending, parental Japanese. – Stop it!
The leader of the boys hesitated, calculating the authority of this intruder.
— This is not related to you, he said, choosing a defiant, mildly disrespectful level of formality. The other boys anxiously crowded close.
Oe thrust out his chest.
— It is certainly my concern, he said, muttering gutturally, some words about the Japanese fascist military leaders of World War II as well as the historical ignorance and lemming-like mentality of modern Japanese youth.
— You are not my teacher, said the leader of the boys with an insulting chhh that caused Oe to spasm.
— Omae wa, kussateiru ketsu no ana daroo..., barked Oe. More than the message (“you are the hole of the stinky anus, probably...”), it was Oe’s brute scowl and glowering octaves which communicated his hostility. The sempai considered a moment, his kōhai watching him for cues.
— Nani itteruno! Bakayarō! he said angrily. The gauntlet was thrown. It wasn’t clear whether the leader was about to bring his whole gang down on us or whether he would fight Oe one-on-one, but I knew we could not afford any injury at this hour.
Then Cara spoke:
— Oe. Cool it.
Cara faced off with the sempai who seemed discomposed by this ambiguously gendered creature, but sensing some commonality—two youths, of a similar kind of extreme beauty, one dark, one angelic, illuminated in the fading mountain light (triggering a flash of future vision: years hence, a disturbing collage dramatizing their fall from that state of physical perfection)—
— Do you speak English? asked Cara.
— I speak a little, replied the leader of the boys with a shy, but unmistakable note of pride.
— Very little, added Oe acerbically.
— Shut up, Oe, said Cara, then turning to the leader of the boys:
— We are from America.
The sempai nodded.
Then, looking him straight in the eye, Cara began speaking in perfect casual but polite Japanese:
— We were worried about your kōhai. To foreigners, as gaijin, this is a matter of morality. You are a strong leader, but you must also be kind, I think. Then in a low voice: You will shame the Japanese before the foreign visitors.–
— ...
— We are sorry, said Cara, with a low bow.
Bewildered, the sempai bowed back as did his cohorts. He respectfully herded his team, including the fat boy, to one side of the path so we could pass.
— Rat-Nazi, said Oe, going by.