As some of you know, I am now back in Minnesota. On September 16th, I met the day that I dreaded--my last day in Sapporo. I had spent the past week trying and failing many times to pack all of my belongings and take apart the room that had become my home. After the first attempt, I panicked, found a night bus to the peninsula of Shiretoko (the most uninhabited part of Japan) on the eastern side of Hokkaido, and fled. It left at 12:30AM, drove through the night, and I arrived with a vague plan to climb the mountain known as Rausu dake. I arrived at about 6AM, to learn--as I had roughly anticipated--that there were scant buses into the Shiretoko national park. To my great fortune, two French travelers had also disembarked with me, and after asking them if they knew of any buses and learning that they were simply going to hoof it (about 3 miles), they invited me along! I spent the rest of the day hiking along the roadside, seeing a bear within the first few hours, reaching the mountain hut, helping the two French travelers translate, climbing Rausu with them, spending the night with them, and hiking part of the next morning with them. Although I had planned on traveling alone, it was really a welcome and wonderful experience to hike with them. They were so friendly! I hope that our paths will cross again. My mind was often clouded by my dread about my upcoming departure from Japan, but for a time in Shiretoko I found calm. I swell with gratitude every time I think of the beautiful land of Ainu Mosir (Hokkaido). I was only in Shiretoko for one night and two days, so I could not do the entire traverse of the mountains. Coming back into the town of Rausu in the afternoon, I managed to catch the last boat tour. I was left in awe. I had not realized how high and incredible the cliffs around the coast were, or the deep admiration I held for the ocean as we glided through the waves. I was honored to see another bear and her cub eating salmon. I could have cried, gazing out at the rocks and trees--dwarfed by the the magnitude of the cliffs--and the seabirds swirling in the skies above each precipice. I thought to myself, what need have we of fantasy? This world is more fantastical than even the most creative human imagination could ever conjure. I am so grateful to live in this world, on this earth.

In my last days, I bid farewell to my lab and Koike-sensei. Saying goodbye to Koike-sensei was perhaps the most difficult thing I had to do. Afterwards, when I was alone and biking back, I immediately broke into tears. Koike-sensei has acted with such generosity towards me. I think of him much like a father! He has taught me, helped me, and supported me selflessly. I have learned so much from him and his dedication and hard work will always inspire me. I desperately hope that I will have the chance to meet him and the many lovely lab members and post-doc students who helped me.  I hope in some way I can return his kindness in the future. I also said goodbye to the wonderful professor Jeff Gayman, whose trust, kindness, and continued assistance opened so many doors for me to meet and learn from Ainu communities. I owe him greatly for this gift. The last few months that I was in Hokkaido were absolutely brightened by these experiences. I will always send my strength to the many Ainu people working hard to find ways to revive and protect their culture. Iyairaykere. Iyairaykere. Iyairaykere. ('Thank you'). Lastly, over my last few days the Hokkaido University track and field members gave me so much joy and so many smiles. The middle distance/distance girls took me out to a desserts buffet for lunch, and then a couple days later a group of sprinters took me to a cake buffet! Needless to say, I had quite a few sweets over my last week. I was absolutely touched. I appreciate it so much. I am generally a shy and quiet person, and so I am often surprised by such warm acts of friendship. On my very last day in Sapporo, it poured all day. I frantically wrapped up my last bits of packing, mailed my last packages, tied up my last ends. My fellow Fulbrighter Becca and my friend Kotaro ate Hara (tofu flour) donuts with me one last time, and then I went to the train gates at 6:30PM...where half of the track and field team was waiting for me!!! I laughed and smiled talking with them all, then they all bought 100yen tickets and came out to the platform with me!!!!! I was shocked! Before the train arrived, we all circled up, arms interlaced over shoulders, and they sang the school song to me. When they finished, eyes turned to me, and I did my best to string together the heartfelt thank you, friendship, and deep gratitude I felt for them all without breaking into tears. A few tears slipped out, and my voice wavered, but I was surprised by my own ability over my last days to hold together. I will never ever forget their kindness. They turned the day I had dreaded most into one of my dearest memories.

Once the train doors closed, the tears began, but they were tears of both happiness and sorrow. At the airport as I sat waiting for my (2 hour delayed) flight, tears fell unabashedly down my face. Because of a typhoon, my flight was extremely late and I finally reached Tokyo around 1AM. Then waited in a literal 2 hour line for a taxi (since it was so late that there was no other form of transportation) to a hotel were I slept a few hours (from 3:30 AM~6:30AM). On the morning of September 17th, I ate my last Japanese breakfast, ran for my last time in Japan in the same place I had run for the first time 1 year before, went to the Fulbright office to say goodbye and thank you, then to Meiji Jingu shrine to give thanks once more. Although my last day in Sapporo had been grey and a downpour--of course brightened by the kindness of others but wet nonetheless!--my very last day in Japan, in Tokyo, was beautiful sunshine. I am grateful to whatever forces conspired to grant that gift. I closed my phone account, and then caught a train to Narita airport. I gazed lovingly out the window at the landscape and cityscape of Japan. I tried to soak in every minute, like the last rays of warm sunshine. At Narita, I picked up my bags, checked them, and went through security with my banjo and backpack, with a deep, deep breath. I was saying goodbye to my home all over again. And it was more painful than before.

On the flight, I was very lucky (thanks to the help of the Japanese airport worker who checked me in for my flight at the kiosk) to have a window seat AND no one sitting next to me! My luck ran out when there was an announcement that there were mechanical problems with the plane's navigation system and after more than an hour of sitting and waiting on the plan as they tried to correct it, we all had to disembark, wait for a NEW plan for another hour or so, and then re-board. At least I still had two seats to myself. My flight had been scheduled to leave at 3:50PM but it was about 7PM by the time we finally started towards the runway. I remember that the sun was setting. I took another deep breath. And then I was in the sky. I watched the lights of Japan's coast until they disappeared. Then steeled myself against my sadness and tried to keep my head held high. I will be happy forever, for that one year in Japan.

While flying, I became more and more encouraged by the thoughts of seeing my family and friends. 12 hours later, gliding over the familiar cityscape of Minneapolis, it felt as if I had hardly left. It felt as if I was waking from a long dream. My family met me at the airport, and I was genuinely happy to see them. But I think I will never be the same, and my heart will always feel torn in two when I think of Japan, and Hokkaido. And it is always on my mind. There is not a day that my thoughts do not wander through the mountains and forests of Hokkaido, the streets of my neighborhood, the Shinkawa river widening out towards the ocean, the climb up Teine and Moiwa mountain , the agriculture building and mainstreet of the university, the shrines and temples of Honshuu, the bright, beautiful sidewalks of Tokyo, the hills of Nara, the cedars of Koya, the trains and stations, and many other places I was fortunate to see. There is not a day that I do not remember.

Now, I am in Minnesota again. And I am certainly glad to see the familiar fields and the city of Minneapolis, to run again around the lakes and to see family and friends. In particular, I am happy to see my dad again. I am struggling to course my future from here. I am planning to reapply to graduate school for forest sciences, but I continue to feel naive and lost when it comes to choosing a program. I also need desperately to find work here in Minnesota, as my student loan payments are a constant worry. BUT, there may be some hope for some excitement and a new chance to learn this year even after the disappointment of not being able to start my graduate school plans at Yale. It is still not certain, but I may be written into a grant by an amazingly generous and kind professor in Australia, where I will be able to help with a climate change research experiment for a few months! I am so indebted to the professor for working with me to create this opportunity. Even if it does not come to fruition, I am so grateful to him!

     I find it impossible to express the full depth of my gratitude for the year I have experienced. As I look back at the person I was at the beginning of my adventure, and now consider myself again, I am overwhelmed by the growth I have made. I think that perhaps the clearest evidence of this transformation is in the very fact that, when I first arrived, I counted the days until I would return home. Now, I wish they were beyond count, for I have found a home in Japan that I do not wish to leave. This is something shocking to me--not because I did not expect to enjoy Japan, but because I have always been in love with Minnesota. It was unfathomable to me that any place could match my own birthplace in my heart. Yet I have been proven wrong. Now faced with returning to the United States, I find myself undergoing the same painful parting as when I first stepped onto the airplane all those months ago waving goodbye to my family. To quote Shakespeare, parting is indeed “such sweet sorrow.”

    I will take some time to look back at all that has occurred for me over these 12 months. When I landed in Japan, it was the first time I had ever left the United States. It was the first time I would ever live more than an hours drive from my family. It was my first international flight. It was my first time traveling alone, period.  It was the first time using my passport and my first time crossing an ocean. It was a host of firsts. I can so clearly remember my fear as I sat, nearly unmoving, for 13 hours on my flight. I joke that I never succumbed to jet lag (which is true!) primarily because I was so petrified. Arriving at Narita, I had little idea of how to even take a bus or train by myself let alone navigate one of the largest cities in the world. I was overwhelmed, and secretly terrified--and likely outwardly more than I wished to show. Yet I found comfort in deep breaths. In the assurance that new experiences are good experiences, and that I should welcome the incredible opportunity to find my own strength. I often compared myself to characters in my favorite Tolkien novels, in the Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit. By and large, I was a hobbit out of my element. Like the character Sam in the Lord of the Rings, I was the farthest I’d ever been from home and in my naivety was bound for all sorts of mishaps. Like the character Bilbo in the Hobbit, I had been quite unexpectedly swept onto the road from my doorstep--questioning my own strength, stumbling along, longing for the comforts of my home, yet all the while harboring a spirit waiting to be awakened. A spirit that craved adventure. And now it has been so powerfully awakened! As with any adventure, no character emerges unchanged. I, too, have been profoundly changed.

My first months remained defined by my uncertainty and adjustment to the newness of being on my own and across the world. I absorbed everything with fresh, wide eyes. I remember becoming lost daily, being caught in downpours, and being pushed and pulled and frustrated by all sorts of complicated processes of settling in. Yet I was lucky to be welcomed into my lab, and I could never have asked for a better advisor than Professor Takayoshi Koike. I had feared I would have trouble finding a chance to visit the forests outside of Sapporo, and I need not have worried so. Professor Koike almost always found opportunities to take me along, or to involve me. Still, finding my footing as far as my own research took a lot of time and patience. As is the experience for many Fulbright Fellows, the course of my research proposal transformed over the year. It is subject to change, and alteration, and requires flexibility. I had originally intended to study the decline of mountain birch. However, I gradually discovered that there would be little contribution I could make to this research. It was well underway in the hands of a graduate student, and while I may study and assist as need be, if I wished to conduct more independent investigation it would need to be different than planned. Yet again I am grateful for Professor Koike, as he recognized my enthusiasm and promptly decided I should research elevated CO2 and seedling regeneration in shade conditions. In the end, this project turns out to be far more fitting to my larger goal of studying successional patterns due to global warming. The decline of mountain birch appears to be most closely related to anthropogenic industrial emissions of ozone, whereas seedling regeneration in this context involves multiple layers with regard to forest sustainability and succession and CO2. However, soon after seeing this glimmer of hope--this much-desired sense of direction--, the snows began. The beech, oak, and maple seedlings I had tenderly planted were soon buried beneath literal meters of snow. Thus began the long winter, and the long wait. Of course, I had Japanese language courses, HUSTEP science courses, and lectures from Professor Koike, and a host of incredible cultural experiences to productively occupy my time. Still, I felt anxious and that I was not accomplishing my research. Looking back, I do wish that I could have done more research during this time.

     On the other hand, I also realize that over the winter I learned an incredible amount. The opportunity to prepare myself before jumping head first into my experiment has probably been what has kept me to date from drowning in the complexity of that same research. It also gave me a chance to expand myself, and to participate in activities like the Hokkaido University track and field club. Among the decisions I am most grateful for during this year, joining the track club I hold very dear. Not only did it give me a way to continue running, to keep me mentally and physically healthy, but I met some truly wonderful people and found myself gradually integrated into the everyday life of Japanese students. The observations and interactions I made during this time--the chance to compare sports, teamwork, hierarchy, friendships in the U.S. and Japan--have been invaluable. They have made me more flexible, and more open and accepting to different strategies. They have reminded me again of the need for patience, and that there are many ways of achieving goals, many methods, many philosophies. They have shown me passion and dedication towards these goals transcend cultures. And of course, how could I ever forget the group of middle-aged men and women urban bee keepers who have adopted me? The members of the Sappachi Sapporo urban honey bee keepers, and their hives of honey bees on top of a tall pachinko building downtown, have brought me so many smiles and so much kindness. In particular one older lady, Takushima-san, who single handedly organized the entire group to come cheer for me at the Hokkaido marathon waving signs with my name surrounded by hearts.

     Slowly, as the grip of winter lessened and the ice began to melt, so too did my research pick up pace. Now, at the end of the summer and the growing season, it is at a furious, almost unstoppable race! I find I have no time for anything but research, in fact. After my week long boot camp with the Li-Cors machines measuring photosynthesis, I had the profound realization of just how complex my research had become. I took a step back and looked at myself, carrying around an expensive infrared gas analysis machine and realized, “my goodness, I look like I know what I’m doing.” Of course, I still have little idea of what I’m doing! But the confidence I received from even attempting these measurements, and from being trusted to do so, hit me like a welcome if intimidating, wave. I feel as though I will have such a huge head start over masters students when I pursue my degree in forest sciences. Not only have I been introduced to the processes, I have done them, and done them independently.

I believe comparisons to the faces of the seasons here in Hokkaido rather accurately reflect the progression of my own experiences. The winter was long, cold, and hard but also perilously beautiful. The spring was messy and slow to start. Then, suddenly, the land overflowed with splendor. In the past three months alone I have seen everything coalesce. I have been graced by more incredible experiences than I could have asked for in a lifetime, and no small amount of serendipity.

A long-harbored frustration concerning a lack of opportunities to become involved with Ainu communities was at last eased by meeting a Hokkaido University education professor originally from the United States. Because of his initial introduction, I have now had the chance of a lifetime to visit the Ainu-led Chikoronai reforestation project in Nibutani. I was overjoyed to find out about this project, and I am still unbelieving that I was able to visit not just once but twice. If only I had more time, there is so much to learn from this project. I find that my “scientific” research is only of any use if it is in a broad conversation with communities, with culture, and with history. There is little point in toiling away studying leaves or photosynthetic rates--compiling reams of data and numbers--if that “science” is kept so sequestered from the overlapping, connecting, cris-crossing web that is the world. It is a failure of many scientists and scientific institutions that they believe “science” can be made to stand alone outside of this web. The information, perhaps, can stand but there will never be “knowledge” without broader communication and recognition of the beautiful and varied expressions of the earth. This has been made all the more clear to me over the course of this year. For I have witnessed, on occasion, this very same self-centered, arrogant science and wish to have no part in it. I have also witnessed passionate researchers and environmentalists, who I wish to join. I wish to help change the way research is conducted--indeed, to abandon the concept of “research” in favor of the wonderful humility of “conversation” and “learning.” My chances to visit the Ainu community of Nibutani, to meet individuals and receive their endless kindness, and to learn has absolutely defined this last part of my Fulbright year. I shudder at the image that exchange students form of Ainu communities and the history of colonization of this land based solely on the museum displays and perfunctory, cursory introductions provided in lectures or tourism advertisements. This image is hollow and ingenuine compared to the actuality of present day Ainu.

Lastly, I should speak of my experiences directly with the land. For in this growing love, I have also found the most drive and dedication. When I first arrived in Japan, I was not connected in an ecological sense to the land, the plants, the creatures, the soil that make up these islands. They were unfamiliar to me, and I regarded them with curiosity. I had yet to take root. As the year passed, this land became as dear to me as my birthplace. The overflowing green of Hokkaido’s growing season has ensnared me, never to let go. It is always on my mind. As I study, as I perform measurements for my experiment, when I fall asleep at night, and when I wake in the morning, my first thoughts fall to the land. To gaze upon the mountains and varied landscape of Hokkaido is to walk in waking dream. It is far from pristine--no land on earth is “pristine” and we should rejoice in the interconnectedness of human beings and other organisms and the stuff of this earth. It tells an unfortunate story of destruction in the name of mindless development. There are many scars. Yet despite these scars of development and industry, Hokkaido appears so incredibly strong and verdant. There is much to be done to heal the land. But curiously, it is in the negligence of the land that I find some hope. Perhaps, left to its own devices, and vary delicate, tentative human responses, it can recover immensely. As a result of the profound love I have found for Hokkaido and for Japan as a whole, I am now devoted to the protection of this earth with such passion that I will never give up. Because of the experience that Fulbright have given me, I am a great leap closer to doing so. I will never, ever forget the grace that has been this year. This year, for perhaps the first time in my life, I have found true happiness, wonder, and strength in myself. That is a gift beyond all riches. 

My most recent July15th-August 15th report for Fulbright (but quite extensive in some parts, which you might all appreciate more or less than the Fulbright commission):

As with last month, this month's report also picks up just where the other left off. In fact, the morning after I submitted my report last month I took off on bike again. This time, however, my goal was to finally visit the Chikoronai reforestation project I mentioned previously. The project was started by an Ainu man, Koichi Kaizawa, with the goal of restoring the original temperate deciduous forest that had been replaced by pine plantations. Of particular importance is an elm species (Ulmnus laciniata) called “ohyou.” As explained before, I had met Kaizawa-san's son at an Ainu music concert in the town of Nibutani, and asked about coming to visit the reforestation project. I wanted, if possible, to come help in whatever way would be useful, in return for the opportunity to learn more about the project. Since that time, I had communicated with his son through the rather tenuous method of facebook, which he had informed me was his preferred method of contact. The weekend before, it had been vague whether or not he had received his father's permission for me to come help. In fact, scarce minutes before I had been about to set out on bike from Sapporo to the forest—after hearing neither a confirmation or a decline—I at last heard back. It turned out that he had not had a chance to ask his father (though the story I was initially told was that they wouldn't be doing any weeding that weekend and would contact me when they planned to.) Kaizawa's son, Taichi, is a very cheerful, friendly man but tends to take his time in responding to messages. Looking at a calendar, I realized that my weekends were quickly running out. If I was going to go visit, it would need to be soon or never. I am very fortunate and happy to say that since then, I have indeed been able to visit. It is one of the more ridiculous and entertaining adventures I have had—as well as one of the most meaningful--and so while a few of you have heard pieces of the story, I think it worthwhile to share. Not wanting to bother Taichi-san, but also feeling that it was something very important to me to visit if there was any possibility whatsoever, I asked later that week if the coming weekend might not be too much trouble. I did this in the guise of a “bike trip”, stating that I would be passing through Nibutani (instead of the truth, that I was specifically biking TO Nibutani). Although Taichi had generally seemed optimistic about my visiting when I met him in person, his lack of concrete communication with me made arranging such a visit complicated and fraught with uncertainty. I was constantly unsure if I was causing inconvenience with my request. I figured there may be less pressure if I construed my request in terms of something less specific, such as a bike trip—it gave plenty of leeway for the Kaizawas to decline if they were too busy, or to accept without having to keep me around very long. Having sent my question, thanks to facebook's technology I was aware that it had been read, but awaited a response. By Sunday morning, I still had not been told yes or no. Since I had construed the request in terms of a bike trip, I decided to go anyways. This was a nerve-wracking step, knowing the potential inconvenience and intrusion I could cause if unwelcome, and also the fact that it is an approximate 110km bike ride. I did not even know if anyone would be home, much less happy to see me. Koichi Kaizawa, the founder, was initially described to me as gruff and somewhat unfriendly (at least to those who are not on his good side). This made me all the more apprehensive. Nonetheless, I packed a small daypack and, as I said it would be a bike trip, I decided I should tie my sleeping bag to my bike. Not just to stick with the story, but also in case I was turned away and had to sleep outside that night. I set out, and it was a blustery, harsh headwind from the start. Combined with my apprehension, the first part of the bike was not particularly enjoyable. It is an irksome tangle of streets, unaware pedestrians, dangerously inept bikers, and busy traffic to escape the frustrating net that is the city of Sapporo, and during this part I contemplated many times if I should turn back. Finally, reaching the city limits, I decided stubbornly (and probably foolishly) to continue even though I now felt a heavy pull to turn back. But I had found the road, and I stuck to it. If nothing else, good exercise, I decided! The farther I biked from the city, the more open the land became. Nonetheless, I was biking into complete mystery as far as how things would work out. In Minnesota, I would consider it extremely rude to show up (mostly unannounced) to someone's home. I had no way of knowing if Taichi-san had said anything to his father. I had no way of knowing my reception. I focused on the fields and farms around me, the trees and skyline, the battle against the wind, and the transformations of the road. The skies were grey, but finally about 2/3 of the way the atmosphere started to feel more cheerful. The sun peaked out, and the land became more green with tumbling forests, little homes, streams, and fences tucked into the countryside. I checked once more to see if I had received any response to my message. Nothing. It was now about 11:30AM, and I estimated when I might arrive. I sent one last-ditch message saying that I had left Sapporo on my bike trip and would be passing through Nibutani in a couple hours. The land became rolling, covered with green tumbles of forest. I saw road signs that I was nearing Nibutani, I was also not certain of the precise location of the reforestation site. Pedaling along, I passed a tiny sign that I thought said 'chikoronai.' I saw a fenced field, with a few people out pulling weeds. I continued on, feeling that perhaps this had been it, but too nervous to stop. I came into Nibutani proper and asked an older lady in a shop if she knew of the forest or Kaizawa-san. She confirmed that I had passed it. Back-tracking, I hopped off my bike and walked nervously up the drive. No one had seen me or heard me and I paused, standing next to my bike in worry. After a few moments, and still no one had looked up from their work, I figured it would be better for me to announce myself than for someone to turn and be shocked to find a bedraggled foreigner watching them. Timidly, I called 'sumimasen,' my mind racing to think what my next step should be. Koichi Kaizawa stood up and turned around, giving me what I can only describe as the clearest angry, exasperated expression of “Oh jeez.” I gulped as he approached. His glare was harsh and I fumbled to think of some way to explain my presence. “I was just wondering...I was just biking through...I was hoping I could see the forest?” I stuttered. He scoffed. “No. We are working until 5pm. I can't show you the forest until then,” followed by a blunt. “Dou suru?” I floundered. “Oh, I see, ah...Well, can I work?” I asked a little shakily. Luckily, shortly after Koichi Kaizawa had come over to talk to me, the others in the field had gradually made their way over. Coming down from the dirt path was Koichi-san's wife with a bag of snacks. It seemed that I had arrived only minutes before they were going to take a break from working. Koichi-san walked aggitatedly over to his car and sat down. I could hear him mumble something about being a “meiwaku.” I cringed. Just at that moment, his son Taichi-san had approached and said lightheartedly, “Oh! Hi Jamie! You came! Sorry I didn't respond to your message.” He turned to his father and said with a laugh “what do you mean 'meiwaku.' That's not true.” The other workers were Koichi-san's daughters and family members. We began to talk, and I explained that I had biked there. Everyone was impressed—even, I think, Koichi-san. Gradually, the air became less tense. I even caught a smile or two on Koichi-san's face, and got him to laugh. His wife had brought icecream cones and insisted that if I was going to help work, I had to eat an icecream cone. They asked curiously about where I'm from, how long it had taken to bike, if I was tired, etc. Although I was tired, I didn't want to be turned away from helping work. I said oh no, I'm just fine. They asked where I had planned to stay. I gestured to my sleeping bag, “someplace along the road, a bus stop, in the forest,” I explained bashfully. “I like sleeping outdoors.” Everyone balked. Koichi-san's wife said offhandedly, “well, if she works, what about the log house?” The Kaizawas have a log house on their land, that guests sometimes stay in. Secretly, I had know this, and had hoped very much that things would go smoothly enough that I would be invited to stay. Although Taichi-san had said they would not be doing any weeding or such work, it was clear that was precisely what they had been working on. So for the next few hours I crouched in the dust and dirt and pulled weeds, then collected rocks to remove from the field. My legs were not too happy, I was sunburned, and now my legs were covered in dirt. But I was in a state of disbelief at the incredible turn of events. I had not been chased away. Here I was, weeding just as I had hoped. What was more, there was an Ainu language lesson that night, and Taichi-san had asked me if I was interested in attending. Both he and his mother were going. I was shocked, of course I would like to attend! At last, 5pm rolled around and the field work was finished. I climbed into the back of the truck with one of the daughters and we went back to their house. When I took of my shoes to come inside to wash up, my socks and feet were black with dirt. The daughter literally hosed of my legs in the bathroom! Then, Koichi-san himself pulled up outside the house in his truck. He was waiting to give me a tour of the forest! Taichi-san loaned me a pair of his shoes (many times too large) since mine were muddy and soggy. I couldn't believe it! I got into the truck with Koichi-san and he drove along the bumpy, dirt road. “You see,” he said. “It would be impossible to bike through here.” I agreed, still unbelieving at the situation. We passed through many fences, some of them electric. “The deer,” said Koichi-san. The deer eat the seedlings and strip the trees. He was in a light mood, and although I'm rather shy, I tried to keep a conversation. Reaching the peak of the path, Koichi-san parked and pointed across the forest showing me the boundaries. Shika deer yelped in the trees, and Koichi-san in good humor would shout “urusai” back at them. I spoke of my own hopes to help with reforestation projects, and my hopes to protect the earth. I explained that in Minnesota, the forests are beautiful, but nothing like here. In Hokkaido, everything is so lush. There is so much biodiversity, I said. When we got back to the house and he parked the car I said “if I were to live in such a place, I would be happy for the rest of my life!” Koichi-san especially laughed at this. I think, maybe, I got on his good side. A much better place to be. He asked me jokingly if I was going to learn to speak Ainu at the class. I said I would do my best! I was rushed into the next car, and Koichi-san's wife handed a homemade bento to me and told me to eat up! We had to hurry to make it by 6pm. Although the language lesson was far more advanced than what I could understand, and quite linguistically technical, I was still in awe at the situation. I listened attentively to the language recordings, tried to follow along to the text of songs, to follow the grammar questions. I was very touched to be welcomed into the small group of adults that had gathered. The songs and reading were punctuated by light conversation and tangents—including a discussion on Ainu name meanings and some current names, followed by questions about the origin of my own name, etc. I was somewhat dazed by the end, the many hours of biking and hot sun catching up to me. Afterward, returning to their house, Koichi-san asked me if I could now speak Ainu. I said not yet! Koichi-san's wife invited me to take a bath. Of course, I wanted to, but I knew that it was a Japanese bathroom and that everyone would be sharing the bath in turn. I had already caused such an intrusion, I didn't want to make everyone wait to take their baths. I said if I could just shower off quickly that would be more than enough. After showering, Taichi-san showed me to the log cabin down the ways from the house. Inside it was quite spacious, with many futons and blankets and an open fire pit in the center. He said I could sleep any where I liked and use the futons and blankets. I had told everyone, upon arrival, that I would be continuing on to Furano the next day as part of my “route” for the “bike trip.” I was not sure if I would follow through with that initially made-up plan, but in any case had said I would be getting an early start. And to my own surprise, waking up the next day at 4AM as I had said I would, instead of taking the logical route and heading towards the Tomakomai station in hopes of catching the train or bus back to Sapporo, I set out upon the long road to Furano—through the Hidaka mountain pass. The beautiful colors of the sunrise and the empty, open road before me were too tempting. Koichi-san had warned me that it was all up hill, and I would learn that was no understatement. The upward climbs were long and grinding, but the soaring flight down the mountain roads was exhilarating. I kept pace with the cars as I zoomed down. The land of Japan and of Hokkaido is so lush and beautiful to me that despite the difficulty of the bike ride, it was heavenly. I saw volcanos and blue, misty mountains hovering in the distance as the morning mists broke. I saw great jagged rocks tumbling into rivers, small farm houses and boarded homes that somehow survived the winter snows. When I arrived in Furano around 11AM, I was tired, but headed to see the lavender and flower fields. Whether it is the sheer beauty of the fields, the Daisetsuzan mountains on the horizon, or my general exhaustion I am not sure, but I found the scenery absolutely mesmerizing.  There have been many moments in Japan where I have had to double check to see if I am not dreaming. After wandering around the flowers, eating lavender icecream, I was lucky to convince a bus driver to let me take my bike along and I was on my way back to Sapporo after my 200+ km (slightly unexpected) “bike trip.” Needless to say, I promptly fell asleep on the bus. I could not believe the good fortune I had. I could not believe how absolutely kind the Kaizawas had been to me, despite my sudden arrival by bike. I'm sure they thought I was insane! But, I think just maybe, I made an okay impression despite my general ridiculousness. I will never forget the kindness that was shown me. In any case, I hope you will excuse the length of the story, but for a number of reasons I felt it a necessary story to share--it highlights so many of the aspects of Japan that I love and that have defined my year and growth. There is a freedom in Hokkaido’s countryside (and perhaps throughout Japan’s countryside) that I have not felt before. It is a freedom both in the land and in the relative safety and kindness of the people. Of course there are risks, but it is only here in Hokkaido that I have met no trouble sleeping outside under the stars. I have been met by curiosity, but not harassment. And while the freedom of the land of which I speak is not lacking in great disturbance and a history of ecological destruction by human hands, it is a freedom in that now the land has been largely ignored. It is a freedom born of negligence. Many of the forests are marked by scars of plantation, building, or abandoned plantations. The original species and compositions of the forests and rivers and mountains are largely disrupted. Whatever “pristine nature” tourists come to Hokkaido in search of is non-existent. But unlike in the United States, where national parks isolate and divide up the land--placing fences and boundaries and limitations, tinkering ceaselessly--the forests here seem comparatively left alone. This is a result of lack of young foresters, lack of domestic timber market, and general abandonment. And while there are disadvantages to such abandonment, at the same time it causes a natural flow between houses, farmlands, and cities and less developed (or abandoned) spaces left to their own forces. Such a fluidity as I have not seen in the United States. As I have been told numerous times in my lectures, rural areas of Hokkaido are losing population quickly as people concentrate themselves in large cities like Sapporo and Obihiro. One professor gave an entire lecture mourning this “terrible” turn of events--his reason being that without small towns and farms, we would lose the managed picturesque, comfortable beauty of agriculture and farmland. He compared the superiority of this tidiness and comfort to the disdainful inferiority of the patch of  “weeds”, shrubs, and trees left unkempt outside the window of our classroom. However, to me, I harbor a secret hope. A hope that, as small towns continue to shrink, as land prices plummet, thus will the land be allowed to recover and perhaps, slowly, return to the hands of people like Kaizawa-san.

Therefore, not only was I incredibly fortunate to visit the Chikoronai reforestation project and meet with Kaizawa-san, who I respect greatly, but I also had yet another chance to fall in love with the land here. I have learned more from my adventures climbing mountains, wandering, and observing the flow of the land than I have from any text book. I have become so familiar with the plants and ecosystems from this gift of adventure. Besides this knowledge, it has instilled in me a determination to protect these lands. When I first arrived, I had such a goal. But now it is tempered by love, and therefore all the more powerful. I feel physical pain in my heart to think of leaving this land, and for that I am so grateful. It means I will not give up until I have seen the environmental changes that must take place. It means that I will work that much harder to see the spread of reforestation projects like Chikoronai. In fact, I have given some thought to studying for my masters at Hokkaido University. My advisor, Koike-sensei, has enthusiastically been providing me information. There is nothing certain, and I know that I must return home to Minnesota to sort out the chaos of my family (and of course to see them!), to sort out my financial situation, and to reconsider universities in the United States, I feel a distinct pull to stay. Indeed, more than a pull, but a surge in my chest to remain in Hokkaido.

The next week, I casually mentioned the topic of gas exchange measurements to one of the post-doc students—wondering when, if, and how I should do begin them since Koike-sensei had brought it up a few times regarding my experiment. The post-doc student pulled out a calendar, and it happened that the Li-Cors gas exchange equipment would only be available that immediate week! I was suddenly looking at starting said measurements the very next day! It was shocking and a little overwhelming, but secretly exciting since these would be some of my most complex measurements. And a very complex machine, but one that is ubiquitous through ecological research. Therefore, it was a priceless (if harrowing) experience to learn the process. Another post-doc student helped me assemble two of the four machines early the next morning. There were many cords, buttons, desiccant tubes, etc. I felt immediately that I was in over my head. I carried my small notebook with me, furiously writing down notes from Mao-san’s explanation. In total, there were four Li-Cors available to use. Even for those experienced with using them, running four machines at once is very difficult. But I said I’d give it a try. I also only had one week to use them, and if I had any hope of finishing, I would need to use all four. Using the Li-Cors, I needed to take three different measurements (Aci curves, light curves, and photosynthetic induction). These are all related to photosynthetic processes and light use efficiency. Each measurement required approximately one hour. I needed to perform each measurement for each seedling species for each treatment plot. This came to a total of 36 leaves. With 1 hour per measurement, 3 measurements per leaf, and 36 leaves…my head spun. That meant 108 hours worth of measurements crammed into one week. More troubling still, the machines each needed about 2 hours to warm up and calibrate. So for about a week, I woke up between 5 and 6am, threw on some light work clothes to withstand the heat, and lugged the heavy Li-Cors machines out from the storage sheds. Following the complex set of instructions I had scribbled in my notes, I sometimes successfully and sometimes very unsuccessfully calibrated the machines and began measurements until the sun set. Then, chased by mosquitos, I would turn off all the switches, empty the high-pressure CO2 capsules, and tidy everything up. I had to repeat numerous measurements--losing many hours of work-- encountering just about every issue or trouble with the machines that the post-grad students had encountered in all their years. The only advantage to this, as Mao-san noted, was that now I know how to deal with just as many technical problems as she does. But I steadily grew more comfortable with the machines. The chance to become familiar with the Li-Cors machines, and to be trusted (unwisely!) to use all four of them independently was incredible. I have no doubt it will help me immensely in the future--the ability to use these machines has given me a huge leg up even over those already in masters or PhD programs. I joked with others that the result of being unable to take measurements during the winter was that all my measurements were condensed into the shortest amount of time possible. Such is the nature of my life, however--from one extreme to another, it feels. Some days, in order to still manage to go running, I would press start on the machine, zoom out of the nursery and around campus in a race against the measurements. However, the my regret is that, since I had no choice of scheduling when to do the measurements and since it was decided so suddenly, it interfered with the plans I had with Jim and Becca. Jim had come to Hokkaido to visit, and I could scarcely see him or leave the experimental nursery! They even came to visit me briefly in the experimental nursery, to witness my frazzled state as I tried to follow along Mao-san’s instructions. I felt so disappointed even as I recognized the importance of focusing on my measurements. I was lucky to have a chance to eat soup curry at my favorite restaurant with them one evening. I arrived still in my work clothes after coming straight from the nursery. However, I had a wonderful time speaking with Jim and Becca. I was also lucky to escape one morning to bike with Jim to the nearby Mt. Teine, in order to show him the route. It was a pleasure to get to chat with him as we struggled up the long uphill of the road in the early morning. Since completing the gas exchange measurements, I have also collected samples for xanthophyll (sun protection molecules) content testing and the arduous process of using the ancient nitrogen/carbon analysis machine. As my luck always has it, the machine broke many times--something that I was assured “rarely” happens much less multiple times. But now I have a ridiculous amount of data.

At the same time as the chaos of my gas exchange measurements, I was also meant to be studying for my Japanese final exam. Pacing through the nursery, I often carried a sheet of vocabulary in my hand that I scarcely had a chance to look at. I woke up the morning of my 8:30AM final covered in vocabulary sheets, the day after finally finishing my measurements. Not hopeful, I arrived at the classroom. My dear friend and classmate and I shared a glance of commiseration. But to my surprise, when I looked down at the long exam, I realized I knew almost all the vocabulary. There were some kanji and words I was forced to skip, and a few sentences I could not remember, but in the end it went very smoothly! I was pleasantly surprised, and it boosted my confidence. Thus marked the end of my classes. Scarce minutes after finishing the exam, my professor and a few of my lab mates picked me up in a van outside of the International Student Center. My professor was bringing us on a two day trip to see the northern limit of beech forests in Hokkaido. The area around Kuromatsunai, south of Sapporo, experiences mist, fog, and frequent precipitation. As a result, there are expansive beech forests, which cannot survive farther north. I never know what exactly to expect with my advisor, since he has a tendency not to divulge details (any details at all). After a few hours of driving, we arrived at a beech forest that had been conserved even during the wars, when the government wanted to use the valuable beech wood for building planes. After that, we stopped at a famous tofu shop, where you can sample more than 30 types of tofu for free. It was delicious. That night, we stayed at a ryokan called “Shizen no Ie.” I had to laugh at the name--quite typical. Each room was named after a tree species. That evening, before dinner, I was lucky to have time to run through the short trails around the inn. They were only a few kilometers long, but went through small patches of forest, garden, and cross country ski trails. For one of the first times, I ran around as a child. It was misty, grey, and raining lightly and I was the only one out on the trails. I sprinted here, zoomed down a hill there, hopped along rocks here, skipped up stairs there. I surprised a group of foxes who barked angrily at me. The next day, we went to visit the “Beech Forest Museum.”

The next week was more somber, as I learned that a dear professor had suddenly and unexpectedly passed away from complications due to leukemia. This was the very first thing I learned when I awoke that morning. I was shocked. The professor was loved by all his students and colleagues at my college. We all knew of his illness, but he seemed so resilient and cheerful at all times. He taught courses on environmental history, and had a great impact on my own development as a historian, as a researcher, and as a person. I still do not know what my college will do without him. It is an immense loss. I had collected so many stories to share with him about Japan. In fact, he was one of the professors who wrote my recommendations for Yale and masters programs. I wanted to see him in person when I returned. I floundered with what to do. In the end, I took off from my dorm on my bike in the direction of a mountain called Hakkenzan, about an hour and a half away. Feeling that I must do something, I climbed the small mountain purposely and placed white cranes along the way. It will still be a shock to return to St. Olaf College to visit, and to meet the reality of his passing. But I found comfort and peace in imagining how much my professor would have enjoyed the beautiful landscape of Hokkaido, as I watched it in the wind and mist atop the jagged Hakkenzan peaks.

The following week, I was lucky to tag along on a pre-conference tour for “Indigenous Geography.” As the name suggests, these are researchers (some indigenous and some not) who focus on the incorporate of indigenous knowledge and worldview in some way involved with geography, environmentalism, resource use, education, etc. Needless to say, an incredible opportunity for me. I realized, hearing the conversations around me, how amazing it felt to be surrounded by people who thought similarly to myself--who were, indeed, far more experienced than myself, and who had been working for many, many years. I was officially brought along as an assistant (and translator when I could manage it) thanks to the professor, Jeff Gayman, who had brought me to Nibutani the month before and also a tip from Becca. While the tour unfortunately only traveled around the area of Noboribetsu and Shinsapporo, the goal was to introduce the researchers to a number of important Ainu sites. And among them was Chikoronai! I surprised Kaizawa-san with a hello, as I peaked out from under the brim of my hat when he walked by. He blinked, recognized me, and gave a humorous greeting. I had also brought a painting for him and his wife--of the forests--as thank you for their previous hospitality. While the tour primarily involved getting on and off a large bus, it was highlighted by numerous lessons in Ainu language by Kiku-san, an Ainu woman and singer who accompanied the tour and who I have met on a number of previous occasions. Another highlight was watching the absolute magnetic pull of the ocean on the three Maori researchers on the tour--before I could untie one shoe, they were stripped to their boxers in the waves. I have often contemplated the ocean while here in Japan. Growing up smack in the middle of a continent, I have very limited experience with the ocean. I am accustomed to lakes--and when I stare out across the ocean, I fully expect the opposite shore to be nearby. The waves seem intimidating to me, and its expanse equally incomprehensible. But for those raised along the coast, such as these researchers, I can only imagine the welcoming sight of the ocean. Recently, my curiosity for the ocean has begun to grow and I have felt tentative tugs--from the cries of gulls, to the scent in the air--to seek it out. On the last day, a handful of the researchers gave short presentations. This was extremely influential for me. To hear these researchers speak of methods such as Maori ecological health meters, of native forestry practices, of land rights advocacy, and the legitimacy of indigenous knowledge (indeed, indigenous science!) was both refreshing and hugely encouraging. And throughout, there was a surprise guest. An elderly Ainu man, Ogawa-san, sat smiling in the back as Professor Gayman translated the presentations to Japanese. Ogawa-san is one of the most respected leaders. He is leading a lawsuit against Hokkaido University for the return of Ainu remains and other objects dug up from hundreds of graves and sites. He gave a powerful and emotional speech, carrying a large banner proclaiming that he would never quit in his demand. His eyes glittered when , upon asking the group of researchers to raise their hands if they believed these stolen bones and objects must be returned following international regulations for repatriation of remains, everyone immediately raised their hands. Afterwards, I stayed behind with Professor Gayman to help him to the train station and eat onigiri together as we waited.

 The next week, after being cooped up in a bus for so long, I made an ambitious decision. Last fall I had hoped to bike from Sapporo to the nearby town of Otaru (just about 22 miles or ~40km away). But, for reasons you will soon understand, I decided I should try my hand at running there. I mapped out a run, took a deep breath, and set out at a slow and conservation pace. The first half of the route was all flat, and no trouble. However, after about two hours of running, the road began to climb and did not stop climbing for the next hour. That was unexpected, and combined with not bringing any water with me, left me feeling tired by the end. But I made it, in about 3 hours and 50 minutes, a little bit shocked that I had done it. I'm a sprinter/middle distance runner, if you remember. In the past, I grumbled greatly over long distances. I suspect some of my bike trips have assisted me. Or the seaweed. Eating seaweed everyday is bound to do something to you. Who knows. A slow pace to be sure, but a huge confidence boost. And why, you might ask, would I do such a thing (besides my general stubbornness and foolishness)?  It is top secret! You will know soon enough. Don't try guessing yet.

This past week has been defined by an unbelievable amount of data from my experiment and measurements. Most of it is so dense and complex, I have little hope of fully understanding it. In fact, I have been feeling so overwhelmed and intimidated by the prospect of analyzing it. I know that I am not experienced enough, and lack the analytical brain that would be so useful in such a situation. For you see, I am no scientist by nature. My brain is not wired for math or formulas, as hard as I might try. It is always a battle. So far it has been an absolute slog through long scrolls of numbers, complicated acronyms, and lengthy scientific explanations in Japanese. But I will do my best! I have been trying to write up my research paper, but so far cannot proceed beyond the introduction due to the fact that I do not have all of my results, and that I must wait for when the post-grad students have time to spare from their own research. I will not give up, though! And it has been such a valuable experience despite the frustration.  My advisor also praised my introduction, which has given me great encouragement.

Lastly, this week I was finally able to climb Mt. Youtei. Mt. Youtei is known as the “Fuji of Hokkaido,” although it stands only 1,898m. It emerges abruptly from the flat agricultural fields at its feet, and is surrounded by the ski area of Niseko. It has been cloudy and rainy for the past few weeks, but I did not wish to waste a free day, and despite a thunderstorm I attempted to hop a train to the nearest station to the mountain. What should have been a simple 2 ½ hour train commute turned into a 5 ½ hour mess. Within 30 minutes of boarding the train, it came to a stop and did not move for nearly an hour. There were intermittent announces about a delay from the lightning of the storm. Indeed, it had begun to pour just as I reached the station. There were small flashes of lightning outside the window, and while I would consider it a weak storm, it was the first I’ve seen with any lightning this summer. Japan does not appear to have many thunderstorms like in the United States. After nearly an hour wait, we were shuttled onto a bus. The train stop lights had been taken out by lightning! The news arrived. Finally, after all the delay, I ended up in Kutchan. Then caught a bus to a stop in the middle of nowhere, and walked for about 30 minutes on the country roads with Youtei looming before me. The very second I reached the trailhead, it began to pour. Pour, in fact, would be an understatement. It was a torrential downpour. Water flowed like a river down the narrow mountain trail. I proceeded nonetheless, becoming absolutely drenched. A cloud had settled on the mountain, and everything was grey, cold, and misty. All the descending hikers attempted to dissuade me, since it was noon when I had finally started my hike, and they said there would be no way for me to make it up and down the mountain. I ignored them, for which I am thankful. When I made it to the top, I was still soaking and quite cold from the wind. But that same wind cut small gaps in the clouds so I could glimpse the landscape far below. Ah, it was beautiful. I felt proud and accomplished, and hopped happily along the volcanic rocks, skirting around the crater--it is an active stratovolcano. It was only 3:30pm when I reached the summit. All those other hikers had said it would take me at least 5 hours! It took me barely 3 1/2. There was plenty of time to climb down. But I decided to sleep in the hut on the mountain anyways, in order to watch the sunrise. That night, although I had no idea while climbing, was actually the peak night of the perseid meteor shower. Because I was still damp, the night was cold and hard. I shivered and slept little--there was frost on the window in the morning, and although I had brought a light jacket against the chill, I had no sleeping bag. With the other hikers who were sleeping at the hut, I watched shooting stars flash across the sky. In the morning, I woke up around 4AM to start my hike down, graced by the sunrise across the clouds and mountains below. I strolled happily along, whistling back and forth with the birds, and walking light-footed among the painted clouds of dawn--laid as they were like a mantle across the surrounding mountains. The struggles of the day before were well worth it.

Now, I am back to Sapporo, and back to the grind of my experiment. It will take a lot of work for me to finish--and some of my measurements cannot be completed until perhaps the week before I leave Japan--but I will try my best. I do not wish to leave Japan. I do not wish to go home, but now that my flights are arranged, there is nothing that can be done. Resignation has set in--it is bitter at times, but always joyful knowing how much I have come to love my time here in Japan. The gift that has been this year has changed my life. Although it must end for now, how can I not be content in that incredible gift? It has been a dream for me. There have been struggles, but they have been sweetened at every turn. I look at the person I have become, I close my eyes and picture all that I have seen, all that I have learned, and I cannot contain my gratitude. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you to everyone who has helped me to this point.

I have gotten so behind that I must now resort to posting my Fulbright monthly report in lieu of what I would normally write about as an entry. It briefly covers the period between June 15th and July 15th:

    This month has flown past faster than any of the others. It has been pervaded by many of the same anxieties as the last, but just as many priceless experiences. I have at last had a chance to participate in more Ainu-related events and discussions. This has been long in coming, and I am so grateful that the chance arose at all. I have been making steady progress on my experiment, as well. I have now been given even more independence and control of the experiment. Indeed, I think it is entirely under my responsibility now. This is daunting and exciting. I worry that I will miss a step, and of course often must ask for help to learn procedures. Still, I have found that my knowledge is increasing quickly, and every week I learn a new skill--how to measure chlorophyll with a SPAD hand-held reader, how to measure N content with an Agriexpert, how to use an extremely expensive Nitrogen-Carbon Analyzer, and perhaps most often, how to punch holes in leaves.

Before discussing any of that, however, I should start precisely where my last report finished. This is because the very day I submitted my report, I was preparing to embark on what would become a memorable journey. A journey north, to Wakkanai. By bike! I departed on a Friday afternoon after seminar, and arrived 199 miles later on early Sunday morning. It rained and misted the entire trip, but it is so close to my heart. Just remembering the beautiful, varied landscape as we skirted along the coast of Hokkaido--through cliffs, through forests, through tunnels, wetlands, fishing towns, ocean, farmland--brings me a swell of joy. This was one of my most intimate experiences with the lands of Hokkaido. I was able to watch them shift every mile. I feel that I have come to know the lands here so well. They are dear to me. We biked as far as we could during daylight, and at sunset settled our sleeping bags on the floor of tiny, rural bus shelters. Some of these could barely fit two people, but we were lucky to stumble upon at least somewhat clean shelters--aside from the thousands of ants covering the floor (and us) the first night. One of my regrets while in Hokkaido has been that my lab, as kind and helpful as they are, has never taken me up on my sincere offer to be sent to the forests to accomplish jobs that others might decline. I have no trouble being sent to roam the woods, to hike long distances, or sleeping outside on the ground. These research activities, fairly common in my experiences in the United States, appear to be rare in Japan. Instead of tents, my lab has always stayed in hotels or ryokan. This bike trip fulfilled part of my desire. After reaching Wakkanai, I did something rather spontaneous. My friend needed to return to Sapporo that day, but I did not have a class that Monday. I was left with the option of staying behind, by myself, and exploring the two nearby islands. This possibility had been on my mind the entire trip. Although I was extremely nervous to be left all by myself, I took a deep breath, and bid farewell to my friend as she boarded a bus back to Sapporo. I bought a ticket for the ferry to the island of Rishiri and arrived in late afternoon. I had no idea of where anything was, and had no idea where I would spend the night. All I knew was that I would like to try to climb the mountain, and that there was possibly a campsite.

I debarked from the ferry, got on my bike, and promptly realized I had no idea which road to take even if it was an island. I turned back to the ferry station and asked which way to the Rishiri trail head, and if perchance the campsite was nearby. My questions were answered, but the Japanese couple certainly appeared to doubt my sanity. They would not be the last to look me up and down doubtfully. I was lucky to find an onsen on the way to wash up, then climbed up the long, winding, steep road just as it was coming close to sunset. Sure enough, the office was closed. But there was a small group of older, Japanese campers roasting dinner on a grill. I asked them about the office, and as it was closed, if it was ok if I slept there anyways. They said I should go ahead and set up my tent, to which I replied that I had no tent, and I planned to sleep on one of the benches. Either they hid their surprise well, or they weren’t surprised at all, because they let me do so quite naturally (although they did offer me blankets numerous times, and to come to their tents if I became cold). I ate some snacks for dinner, rolled my sleeping bag onto the bench, and crawled inside. The trees were swaying in the strong wind around me. The sky was becoming deep blue. The air was pleasantly cool. I watched one by one as stars appeared. Compared to the bus stations, my bench was a luxury. I slept well and woke up at 3:45am with the sunrise. I packed everything up, tied it to my bike, ate a bite for breakfast, and then set about climbing the mountain. The older campers were already up and preparing as well. I had been warned that it is a long, difficult climb. Two “tough” men had told me it had taken them four hours to climb up the 1,700m peak. The wind that had grown over the night, however, was downright blustery by morning. It would become stronger and stronger as I climbed, and eventually became enveloped in a cloud. My fast pace surprised even myself, and I was set to summit in just over three hours. I came to approximately 1,500m, but the wind was strong enough it could push me over, the rain was cold, the rocks became jagged and slick, and I was by myself. The last 200m was a sheer upwards climb, and looking out around me I could see no more than 10m ahead. I could see nothing of the view, and another 200m up I knew it would be the same case. So, valuing my safety, I began the climb back down. I managed to get back down by just after 10am. I had expected the climb to take up most of the day, and thus had set out early. Although I had not made it to the absolute top, I had come close, and in great time.

Chilly and wet, even though the weather back on the ground was pleasant, I stopped at the onsen again. Then I caught the ferry to the next island, Rebun, in what would become dreary rain. Undoubtedly, I am an “ame onna.” I only had a few hours here, and not long enough to venture to any of the main sights. I biked, somewhat lonesome and deflated from my adventure, along the coast. Then, coming back to the ferry terminal to buy my ticket back to Wakkanai, I was barraged by nearly every old Japanese lady I had been forced to meet along the way. I say “forced” because at times there were literally lines of old ladies forming (sneakily) to come up and ask me the same string of questions, some making a bee-line over to me: where are you from? (Minnesota) Your Japanese is so good! (Not so good) Oh, what are you studying? Oh! You are traveling alone! I had been trying to find an omiyage for my lab, and was forced to flee because I was truly pursued by person after person. Now, I appreciate friendliness and curiosity, but this had reached a limit. In one day, I had explained 14 different times the exact same story of what I was doing in Japan. However, as we all lined up to exit the ferry as it approached Wakkanai, I was absolutely touched by the kindness of these ladies. A group of three came up to me, talking a few more moments, wished me luck, and proceeded to give me their own possessions. They each took the charms and various key chains from their bags and gave them to me. One gave me her handmade coin purse. I was at a loss for words by their kindness. I had done nothing to deserve their gifts. I thanked them many times, but I could not fully express the gratitude and surprise I felt. Parting with them, one more lady who had surreptitiously taken a picture with me on the ferry the day before, also handed me a keychain and a pack of gum! I could not believe it. At midnight, I caught a night bus back to Sapporo, thus ending one more among many of the incredible journeys I have had in Japan.

The following weekend, I was also able to attend an Ainu music festival in Nibutani. This would be my first visit to Nibutani, a district of the town of Biratori with a very active Ainu population. I was nervous, because I was going with a professor who I had only recently met, and I did not know anyone from Nibutani. But I was also excited. The band that performed, Ainu Art Project, left me in awe. Their combination of traditional aspects of culture with contemporary rock music and style was incredible. I watched in elation as very young children danced to the music--proudly incorporating traditional dance moves that they saw adults use. As the songs intensified, an elderly man named Kazonobu picked up an empty plastic water bottle and began clapping with it. He ushered more and more of the audience and friends in front of the stage to dance. The professor I had come with went out as well. And soon enough, I had been ushered down as well! It was one of the few times I have ever felt comfortable dancing. The elderly men said to me, encouragingly, “good or bad dancing, there is no such thing!” Much of the dances were synchronized in a circle, and I tried to follow everyone else’s movements. I felt so welcomed, and so happy to see such smiling faces. To see pride and joy and strength. I was also lucky to, briefly, meet Kaizawa-san’s son, who hopefully will be able to invite me to visit the Chikoronai reforestation project I mentioned in my previous report.

The adventures continued the next day. Hearing that it would be a “supermoon” that night, I decided impulsively that the best place to view the moon would be from a nearby mountain. In the afternoon, I set out with a friend to bike to the mountain--about 40 minutes away. We made it up to the top just as the sun was beginning to set. We were graced by the setting sun and the rising moon simultaneously above the forests, mountains, ocean, and the twinkling cityscape of Sapporo spread out before us. We slept on the platform of a ski lift, protruding from the mountainside like a dock into the sea. The night air was cool, but pleasant, and I closed my eyes with a smile on my lips. The round moon brightened the night, and I could open my eyes to watch it progress across the heavens. In the morning, we woke up before 4am, ate waffles and Minnesota maple syrup that I had packed as a surprise, and climbed back down. Later that day--after a 8am nap!--I was given the chance to act as a TA along, with a couple labmates, in my advisor’s lecture. This felt like a sudden amount of responsibility--in fact, my professor has a tendency not to explain beyond “please attend this lecture at this time,” so I was not aware, when I entered the room, that I would be asked to lead a group of students in discussion about ecological effects of nitrogen deposition. In Japanese. I did my best, frazzled though I was to be so trusted by my advisor.

For my “Agriculture in Hokkaido” course, I have found, the lectures are unfortunately lacking. However, in the past weeks they have picked up. This is mostly because the professors have brought us to their experimental fields! One week, I was able to see the biogas chambers attached to the Hokudai barn.  Another, I was able to see experiments on cover crop usage. Then I was given heaps of asparagus from one professors experiment after a lecture on vegetable production in Hokkaido. Still another, I was able to stroll through the berry production fields and pick any haskap, raspberries, currants, silverberries, gooseberries that I wanted to try--at my own risk, since some were quite sour!

Additionally, I have continued to volunteer at the urban beekeeping group here in Sapporo. I am so grateful to all the members for greeting me so happily each week. This past week, I actually felt very useful this time around. I am learning how to help, and was for once put in charge of cranking the machine that spins the honeycombs and catching bees that got into the stairwell. A new volunteer visited, and I was even jokingly called a senpai! The entire experience has been such a wonderful way for me to interact and make friendships outside of Hokudai, and outside the “university” age group. For my efforts, besides a bright smile I also receive the gift of a jar of honey! Honey that I have watched and helped to harvest. And, I am excited to say, I have now competed in a track and field competition in Japan. In fact, I won the “open” 800m! I was glowing with joy a full week after this competition. This was a dream come true for me. It is the first time I felt fully accepted into the team. I even ran on the Hokudai 4x400m relay, wearing a green Hokudai jersey! Which we won handily! This was the true highlight of the meet, because there was no longer any difference between me and the other Hokudai runners. We were a relay. We were a team. I was not just some unattached runner; I was their teammate. I have gained so much from participation in this club--linguistically, physically, and mentally. I have become stronger and more confident. in each respect.

My Japanese classes are also continuing as usual. The vocabulary that we have been learning is actually quite useful, and this makes studying for tests especially rewarding. Nevertheless, I have found that, because of the limited options I was left with due to the poor scheduling (simultaneous scheduling, that is) of the courses, I am not forced to study as often as I was last semester. This is freeing, in many ways, but I also feel that structured learning is important. Yet I feel lucky that most days now I am speaking far more Japanese than English simply do to the activities I am participating in, and an increasing confidence. Through volunteering, through clubs, and increasingly through my lab, I am speaking Japanese just as naturally as English. I am sure that my conversations are littered with grammatical errors, but they are very fluid ones at least! Reflecting at the end of each day, I am sometimes surprised to realize suddenly that I have actually been communicating in only Japanese all day long!

Lastly, for my experiment, I am really beginning to accumulate results. Interpreting them will be the next, and more difficult, step. I ran into a slight hitch last week when I realized in shock that a few of my seedlings had gone missing, however! I finally needed to do individual seedling measurements, only to realize I could not find them. Luckily, there should still be enough from the remaining seedlings to create accurate results. But at the time, it was discouraging! I also had to re-run a full five hours of sample analysis after it was revealed that the machine had made a mistake halfway through the cycle. This was equally discouraging, but a good way to become even more familiar with the equipment. Next week, I will hopefully be acquiring a new skill. Since my seedlings are growing under a limited light environment, we would like to measure the intensity and length of “sun flecks.” These are momentary patches of light as a result of sudden openings in the canopy, primarily caused by wind. I will be setting six more sensors, but also attempting a method using photography to map the canopy. So I will finish on that note of excitement. Although I often find myself slipping into sadness or reflection about the short time that I have in Japan, I also find myself smiling at the many memories I have collected. I worry that I have nothing concrete to return to in Minnesota--as yet, no job, no school. I have rough plans, and it makes me anxious to have so little settled. So I am grateful for the everyday joys and excitements--for this amazing opportunity to learn.
Additionally, I have continued to volunteer at the urban beekeeping group here in Sapporo. I am so grateful to all the members for greeting me so happily each week. This past week, I actually felt very useful this time around. I am learning how to help, and was for once put in charge of cranking the machine that spins the honeycombs and catching bees that got into the stairwell. A new volunteer visited, and I was even jokingly called a senpai! The entire experience has been such a wonderful way for me to interact and make friendships outside of Hokudai, and outside the “university” age group. For my efforts, besides a bright smile I also receive the gift of a jar of honey! Honey that I have watched and helped to harvest. And, I am excited to say, I have now competed in a track and field competition in Japan. In fact, I won the “open” 800m! I was glowing with joy a full week after this competition. This was a dream come true for me. It is the first time I felt fully accepted into the team. I even ran on the Hokudai 4x400m relay, wearing a green Hokudai jersey! Which we won handily! This was the true highlight of the meet, because there was no longer any difference between me and the other Hokudai runners. We were a relay. We were a team. I was not just some unattached runner; I was their teammate. I have gained so much from participation in this club--linguistically, physically, and mentally. I have become stronger and more confident. in each respect.




My Japanese classes are also continuing as usual. The vocabulary that we have been learning is actually quite useful, and this makes studying for tests especially rewarding. Nevertheless, I have found that, because of the limited options I was left with due to the poor scheduling (simultaneous scheduling, that is) of the courses, I am not forced to study as often as I was last semester. This is freeing, in many ways, but I also feel that structured learning is important. Yet I feel lucky that most days now I am speaking far more Japanese than English simply do to the activities I am participating in, and an increasing confidence. Through volunteering, through clubs, and increasingly through my lab, I am speaking Japanese just as naturally as English. I am sure that my conversations are littered with grammatical errors, but they are very fluid ones at least! Reflecting at the end of each day, I am sometimes surprised to realize suddenly that I have actually been communicating in only Japanese all day long!

Lastly, for my experiment, I am really beginning to accumulate results. Interpreting them will be the next, and more difficult, step. I ran into a slight hitch last week when I realized in shock that a few of my seedlings had gone missing, however! I finally needed to do individual seedling measurements, only to realize I could not find them. Luckily, there should still be enough from the remaining seedlings to create accurate results. But at the time, it was discouraging! I also had to re-run a full five hours of sample analysis after it was revealed that the machine had made a mistake halfway through the cycle. This was equally discouraging, but a good way to become even more familiar with the equipment. Next week, I will hopefully be acquiring a new skill. Since my seedlings are growing under a limited light environment, we would like to measure the intensity and length of “sun flecks.” These are momentary patches of light as a result of sudden openings in the canopy, primarily caused by wind. I will be setting six more sensors, but also attempting a method using photography to map the canopy. So I will finish on that note of excitement. Although I often find myself slipping into sadness or reflection about the short time that I have in Japan, I also find myself smiling at the many memories I have collected. I worry that I have nothing concrete to return to in Minnesota--as yet, no job, no school. I have rough plans, and it makes me anxious to have so little settled. So I am grateful for the everyday joys and excitements--for this amazing opportunity to learn.

Some may know that a few weeks ago, a friend and I biked from Sapporo to Wakkanai, the northernmost point of Japan. I've been working to write down my memories from that trip. Here's what I've started! It is quite long, largely unedited, and perhaps boring if you do not like lengthy descriptions of road:

We began on a grey and rainy day in June. Our goal: bike from Sapporo to Wakkanai. Sapporo, the largest city on Japan’s island of Hokkaido and of course where I have been living for the past 10 or so months, and Wakkanai is 199 miles to the north. The northernmost point of Hokkaido, and of Japan. I woke up that day to the grey skies and rain after two weeks of seemless, sunny weather and frowned. But we had decided, in the end, to go no matter what the weather. I showered, and began organizing the possessions I would bring into various piles. Then packing everything into multiple plastic bags. I take no chances with rain--I’ve been caught too many times in the rain to underestimate it. Time seemed to fly by, and at 11 o’clock I rushed out the door to meet a friend for lunch, then anxiously attended my 12 o’clock lab seminar. I hurried back to my dorm to throw everything into my backpack, give my room one last scan, double check my list, and run out the door. I strapped my sleeping bag to my bike, glanced dubiously at my tires, and held my breath. Then I was off to meet my friend, and we would be off.

At about 1:00pm, I pulled up in front of my friends dorm. The rain had stopped, although there was plenty of moisture in the air. She was outside putting the last touches on her bike. We filled up the side bags, and gave a nod. Yes, we were going. No matter what. We knew there might not be another chance. Magali, my friend and classmate at Hokkaido University from Switzerland, started her odometer, I re-fastened my sleeping bag, tightened my backpack, and we mounted our bikes. We briefly discussed which route we should take out of Sapporo, then agreed upon following the Shinkawa river trail. Most streets and roads in Sapporo are busy and noisy, but at least the trail along the river provided a slight barrier against the traffic. And off we went, passing through the dorm gates, and towards the trail. The tall, green plants along the trail were laden with water. As we zoomed along, the leaves smacked loudly against our shoulders. We chatted animatedly as we peddled, enthusiastic if not secretly harboring our nervousness. The route was simple enough--follow the coast line north. But route aside, most was unknown. We came to the end of Shinkawa-Dori--the farthest I have biked from my dorm here. Then we turned right along the zooming road. We were headed out of the city. There was no turning back now. We continued to talk happily as we rode, leaving Sapporo farther and farther behind. We were now along the Ishikari bay. The road was flat for some time, and we paused at a bridge over the Ishikari River for a drink of water and a look at the horizon. Far off ahead, I could see a line of hazy mountains. I wondered briefly when the road would begin that climb. We were aware always of the ocean to our left, though it could not always be seen.

Hokkaido in spring and summer is lush green, any direction you can look. Although the road was busy with noisy traffic, there were plants and grey, cloudy skies all around us. Sure enough, the road did begin to climb up hills. Our first hill on the trip, in fact, and a reminder to me that it would be tougher than a line on a map to reach our destination. I have a poor relationship with hills when it comes to biking. To me, the difficulty of an agonizingly slow trudge uphill makes little sense when I can smoothly walk at the same pace. But everyone seems to want to keep biking, regardless of what makes most sense. Secretly, as we pushed up the hill, I wanted to get off and simply walk up the hill but in the company of others, I tend to yield to their actions. Nonetheless, nearing the top, we both agreed to walk for a short ways and take a sip of water. A gathering of mosquitos formed quickly around me in the humid air, surrounded by fields and green. This made me wonder what the night would bring. Soon we were on our way again. The road curved, and climbed, up and down. Sometimes we came close to the ocean, and could see coastal towns and fishing towns. We soon saw dark tunnels ahead, with orange torch-like lights along the walls. Inside, these smelled dank and the roar of cars and large trucks amplified around us. The first had a small sidewalk along the edge, but for the rest we were left to cling to the shoulder of the road as cars blew past us. Some were short, and some were as long as 2,000m. As the afternoon wore away into evening, we came down a hill and into a town. Here we stepped into a tiny grocery store--having no luck there finding an easy meal to take with us--then crossed the street to the Seico Mart convenience store. After buying our dinners (bento sushi for Magali and bento soba for me) we continued. The hills were a trouble for me, and I began to grow wary of the strength of my legs. I had lost more strength than I realized, I thought, as I trudged up the hills. It seemed odd to me that my legs should expire so quickly. We had gone just over 30 or 40km. Magali was able to go far faster than I through the tunnels, and I lagged behind greatly. The road diverged more from the ocean, and into tall, rich, tree-covered hills. The day was winding down. Large snails crept their way across the wet, shining road beneath us. One met its crackling fate beneath Magali’s tire. Outside of one particularly long tunnel, I asked Magali if we could rest a moment and have a bite to eat. I was still puzzled as to the weakness of my legs--push on the pedals though I might, I could make them go no faster. I thought, perhaps, after 3 hours of biking that I needed to eat something to recover energy. We had a bite of an energy bar and some water then decided to go as long as we could until it began to get dark. We kept our eyes open for potential bus shelters. But for a great stretch, we saw none. I believe we had entered a Hokkaido Wildlife Conservation area. There was little around us but masses of green on either side, and black road ahead. We could hear loud frogs and insects in the vegetation, and birds. I felt frustrated, nonetheless, that I could not push my legs faster, and that I continued to lag behind despite my efforts. I thought surely it must be that I should have stopped to eat a little more. I was reduced to quite the crawl, much like the snails that I swerved around on the shoulder of the road.

The light lessened, and the scent of a cool evening after the rain was strong. Climbing up more hills, with my bike gear nearly as low as it could go, Magali exclaimed that there was a bus stop ahead! There was one very small one, tucked into the trees, and another slightly larger one down the hill. We came to the larger one and parked our bikes. Magali, have far more energy than me left, scouted back up the hill to take a look at the smaller one. Then down a side road to see what was around us. But we were truly in the middle of nowhere, still surrounded by dense green forest on either side. We pushed open the sliding doors of the wooden building. I almost expected a raccoon or small animal to leap out, but it was dark and empty. Empty, that is, except for the hundreds of tiny ants trailing across the floor. Alas! That was the floor we would sleep on! But, true to Japanese sensibilities, there was a small broom tucked. I swept away at the floor. But the ants were persistent and we resigned ourselves to becoming covered in them during the night. We laid down the bike bag for Magali’s bike, and the plastic bags from my sleeping bag. We tucked our bikes away in the tall grass and plants, behind a road rail. The evening darkened, and it was about 7:30PM. Settling our bags on the benches and taking off our wet shoes, we took out our dinners. Talking happily--though perhaps each still harboring some questions as to the legality of our sleeping situation--, we enjoyed our dinners after our ride. I took a look at the bus schedule, guessing that the first would come around 5am and that we should try to be on our way by that time. We had come about 60km. Not a very fast speed, as I calculated. Mostly due to my sluggishness, I thought, as I ate my soba noodles, soy sauce, and wasabi. I had inarizushi as well, and Magali had brought banana bread for dessert. A good meal, made better by the miles. We changed out of our damp clothes--we had about one set of riding clothes, and one set of sleeping clothes, brushed our teeth, rolled out our sleeping bags, and crawled in. We awaited the moment when we would become covered in ants. On the other side of the wooden doors, large trucks zoomed now and again down the otherwise quiet, remote road. These seemed to rattle the shelter. At first, laying on the hard floor was no trouble, and would not have been so uncomfortable if I had not been so nervous to come out of my plastic sleeping bag cover (a ward for the ants). I had images of black trails of tiny ants overtaking my legs, and although it was stuffy inside of the bag, I preferred that to ants. I do not think that either of us slept much, though perhaps for short stretches. We were also wary of anyone appearing at the bus shelter in the night, and having to groggily explain ourselves in Japanese. Perhaps it is more accurate to say that we slept with one eye open. During the night, every so often I could feel a tickle traveling across my skin--sure enough, it would be a little ant. They especially liked to travel across my forehead, and I pulled a few from my hair. But not so many as I had expected, and slowly they relented. The bus shelter was small, but large enough for us both to lay down without feeling cramped. There were glass windows, and plants (name this plant?) waved against the windows like faces. It began to rain some time during the night. I checked my watch many times before the sunrise. Then, around 3:20am, the skies became very slowly a dark blue. By about 3:30am, slightly more blue. And then, a sound that woke us both up. We became tense. It was the hum of a motorbike pulling up in the gravel in front of the shelter. We laid motionless in our sleeping bags, but with one eye slitted towards the door. The door slid open, there was a pause, then a pile of newspapers were tossed onto the floor near my head. The door slid shut, and the motor bike drove away. We breathed heavily in relief, catching each others eye and laughing nervously. Then Magali looked towards the door and said “there’s someone else!”

The door slowly slid open again, and a short old lady, arrayed in rain gear and a rain bonnet peeked inside. At first, I thought she was asking to come inside and we hurriedly cleared away our bags from part of the bench. Then I understood that she was, in fact, asking about the newspapers. I looked beside me, picked up the bundle, and handed them to her. She rambled on gently as she packed them into her bag, not seeming surprised at all to find us there, and continuing on as old Japanese ladies do about many things at once. I caught something about her having a son, about waking up early everyday to make the long walk, and what good exercise it was, sorry for waking us up when we were sleeping, and perhaps something about how she shouldn’t actually be taking the newspapers. But I was unsure. All this before 3:35am. When she left, Magali and I stared at each other. We began to laugh--we had not expected that at all! And not more than a few moments later, we heard the large motor of a truck pull up. What now!? The door slid open, and a man stood at the threshold. He also did not appear particularly surprised to find us. He asked about the newspapers and I told him that an old lady had only just moments before come and taken them. He said “indeed”, and I could not judge if it was good or bad that the lady had taken them-- I began to guess that perhaps it was a frequent occurrence that she took the papers! Or that perhaps this was her son? He said goodbye and shut the door. By now, it had become completely bright out. For a few more short minutes we decided to rest, then pack up before anyone else could surprise us in the middle of nowhere. During the night, the rain had become quite heavy, and it persisted though more lightly than before. I suggested we wait a short time, but Magali pointed out that we might as well move on and that we would get wet no matter what. We rolled up our bags, I combed my hair and brushed my teeth, we pulled on our biking clothes and raincoats, then sat and ate a clif bar for an early breakfast. We strapped everything onto the bikes, and were on the road again by 4:30am.

The skies were still grey, and the surroundings misty. On either side, there was green shrouded by fog. Coming up a hill, we were treated by a spectacular race downhill, opening into a view of paddy fields amidst the forests. I always had to hold my hat onto my head during such flying downhills. We road some ways, before rolling into a small town just before 5:30am. Here we stopped to grab something more for breakfast from a conbini. I bought an ume (pickled plum) onigiri, matcha milk, and anpan that I would save for later. Everything was dreary looking, and like many of the places we passed, quiet and empty. There was a campsite across the street (empty as well) and we crossed, parked our bikes, and sat under a wooden shelter with sinks. There were no campers. As we were leaving, an older man pulled up in front of the roped off path to the campsite. It seemed he was preparing to cut the grass. We got back on our bikes, and were on our way. Apparently, Magali told me as we rode, the construction workers who had also stopped at the conbini while we were there noticed us and were chuckling. I suppose for them we did appear odd. Two foreigners in the middle of nowhere, in the far north of Japan, at dawn, on bikes, clinging to the edge of the road in the light rain. Throughout the next stretch, we continued to pass through long tunnels under the cliffs. Neither of us enjoyed these tunnels. And each time we finished one, another awaited--growing longer each time. The first ones we had entered were around 1500m, but by the end we had finished some more than 3000m long. We clung tight to the shoulder as traffic, even early in the morning, wailed past us. I remember steeling myself, and pushing hard to pedal. Magali was always gaining a big lead through these tunnels, and I still felt so slow. I wondered why I could not match her pace, and why my sluggish pace still felt so grueling. With each growing howl of approaching traffic, I thought surely this time I would be struck--like a bug onto a windshield. Fortunately, no such catastrophe occurred. After long stretches through the tunnels, there would be a little sign on the wall revealing the remaining meters before, and the meters behind. These were often discouraging! I began to think of the meters in terms of track and field races. How long should it take me if I were racing? Not very long after the conbini, there were cones in the road and it became clear that we were entering a long string of construction. Traffic was often reduced to oneway, one lane traffic. Although the roads were not overwhelmingly busy, there were many trucks. We were ushered into the lanes, and I felt out of place with trucks ahead and trucks bearing down behind us. The construction workers who ushered us along gave us varying looks--from amusement, chants of encouragement, smiles, perplexion, or no expression at all. In fact, we passed the very same workers who had chuckled at us before. I believe they said “gambatte!” as we road by. Another older man chanted something encouragingly. But, still others simply waved us on like the cars. It was somewhat frustrating to deal with stopping and going every so many miles.

 Around the Cape Ofuyu area, though there was still construction, there were waterfalls against the stone cliffs. I would have liked to stop and look at these more! There were some tunnels with pillars that formed windows out to the sea spread out to our left. These tunnels were far more enjoyable. They gave us shelter from the light but ever persistent mist of rain, but did not submit us to the dank, dark, and orange glow of their longer brethren. The sea and grey clouds, the rocks, the waves, and the cliffs. The colors of Hokkaido are a subtle, varied, and beautiful palette. Combinations you do not expect, and that you will not have witnessed before. That I have never seen before and will never see again! Deep black, brown rock, like wet earth. Green, rich, vines and plant the hue of damp moss, clinging to steep cliff. All tumbling, in time, down to the sea. And the horizon, that unending line. What lay beyond? The far off coast of Russia? We continued the in and out game of tunnels, emerging from the dark into new places with new and towering cliffs that we had unknowingly traveled beneath. I remember thinking, looking out to the sea on my left hand and the land on my right, what use is fantasy when this world exists before our very eyes?

Pushing onwards, the road on either side became green. We were pulling a little ways from the coast, which had hung just beneath our pedals. We entered more tunnels and I could feel the slow, long incline even if I could not see it. It was subtle. But we were beginning the start of a climb. This would, in fact, become the most difficult climb of our journey though we were not aware of its beginning. Looking at a map in the days preceeding our trip, we had noted the elevation. There were some spots with ups and downs, but just about the 1/3 mark there was a daunting climb. The road, after all, passed in this area by the feet of two mountains. Luckily not over the mountains themselves! We had both been wondering when we would hit it. My legs had already been tired in the more flat tunnels. Now, as we entered a particularly long tunnel, it was like pedaling against a wall. I crept slowly, slowly, slowly along in the dark tunnel. Moving as a snail would up a similar elevation. Yes, I thought to myself, we must be climbing. This tunnel was perhaps around 4,000 or 5,000m long. So, as subtle as the incline was, it was also endless. And we had no advantage of the sights around us to know our progress. Was this the worst? Or was there more ahead? Push, push, push on the pedals. I remember feeling as though I was not moving at all. I promised my legs--make it through the tunnel, and you can stop. Make it through the tunnel. Surely that will be the top. I was biking in front of Magali for this longest tunnel--perhaps to keep me in sight!--and I felt that I was undoubtedly moving too slow even as I wished to go fast to finish the tunnel. We could not stop, no matter what, inside the tunnels. Finally emerging, I felt as though my bike could topple over from moving so slow. There were tree tops all around us, and we could guess that we were high up. Guess, because we were still shrouded in mist. We could not see beyond the green around us. We could feel it. There was more hill still in front of us, part of which crossed a bridge. I turned to Magali, hoping to fulfill my promise to my legs. She advised strongly that we not stop on the bridge. My legs were not pleased, and I said I would try my best to keep moving. Barely passing the end of one bridge, it was clear that there would be more ahead. I hopped off my bike, or risk falling off. I needed to walk a ways, to finish the climb and let my legs stretch. I felt silly and out of shape to be having so much trouble. I knew it was a difficult climb, but everything seemed strange and more difficult than it should have been. What should have been a striking view of the ocean and the heights about us was still all mist. We tried to imagine the beautiful view. We came to another tunnel, not so long as the previous, and with a sigh I got back on my bike. No walking through the tunnels, after all. But finally, finally, finally we had the worst behind us. Coming to the top, the road began slowly to descend. We even passed through a tunnel on the way down--thankful, with the descent speeding us onwards. Down, down, down we went. Looking back, we could see some of the mountain we had laboriously scaled. This feels far more rewarding--to look back, to look up at what you have done! We glided into the area of Mashike. Still mist and grey skies. We were along the sea again. Along the strip of roadside nearest the sea was a quiet campground. Here there was a wooden shelter for sinks, a parked car, and two large tents. We had been talking loudly and animatedly out on the wet and empty roads. I realized as we rolled past the tents that it was still before 7am. We had come many miles, and had been biking for three hours, and had two breakfasts already. But, as I thought suddenly the people in the tents were probably still sound asleep!  We lowered our voices! There was a building with bathrooms next to the campsite and we stopped to eat a piece of a Japanese energy bar (“Calorie Mate”), use the bathroom, drink some water, and fill up the water bottles.

As we continued, it seemed that we had indeed left the hills and climbs behind us. The road began to open along the coast and to flatten. The skies remained grey, but with the peculiar tint of the sea and all its quiet palette. We passed through small coastal towns, with boats and docks. With small houses and the interesting array of color choices for rooftops, and oddly unsymmetrical and unpredictable shapes of Japanese architecture. Although the roads were flatter than before, I found myself slowing. This was frustrating to me--why should it still be so difficult against the pedals over flat road? We were coming closer and closer to Rumoi, which is just under the half way point. I watched the road signs anxiously, and the km passed by slowly.

We came to the sign marking the outer limits of the city of Rumoi, which was sparse, but there was a sign that the city proper was some 7 or 10km ahead. I began to grow even more frustrated at this point. Surely I could not be in such poor shape that a mere 150km or so spread over decent time should trouble me. I remember clunking over a curb particularly hard and worrying fleetingly if such impact had done anything to my tire. I kept on, but very shortly thereafter and just as we reached the very cusp of the city proper, I felt an unfamiliar rhythm to my wheels. A pat, pat, pat. I turned to Magali and asked her if she felt the same. Perhaps it was the surface. She seemed puzzled. I looked down to my tire--as I had feared. Flat. Since departure, I had worried that there was not enough air in my tires. They seemed soft to the touch, though they held air. I had bought a pump the day before, assured by the salesman at the bike shop that it would fit to my brand of bike, and we had tried to harden the tires the night before, and just before starting that morning. But they had remained “soft.” All the while the front tire had seemed most problematic to me, but in the end it was the back tire that deflated. Rather suddenly as well. Clearly, there was a puncture. We tried futilely to pump air into it--realizing furthermore that the pump was useless even on sound tires since it did not line up with the hole.  I think that both of us were feeling frustrated. Magali is quite the patient person, and had hid her probable dissatisfaction with my slow pace well. But I could sense it. Now, we were slowed to a walk. We tried to strategize as to what we should do. In the United States, gas stations often have an air pump. In Japan, not so often. I thought that perhaps a conbini would have one. We crossed the highway, and I went in to ask. The ladies behind the counter did a lot of puzzling, scratching heads, and talking--but in the end said very little of use. They pulled out a map of the city and pointed out a possible bike shop, circling it, but then not actually giving me the map. After perhaps 10 minutes of listening to their suggestions, and nodding that “oh, ok, I think I can find the place,” I went back outside to Magali. She asked what they had said. I replied “a lot, and nothing at all. But apparently there is a bike shop in town.” I gestured in the general forward direction. “Someplace this way, and then to the right, and then…” We started walking in that direction, but again I felt that I was causing a burden and that any moment Magali would wish to leave me behind. Fortunately, she is a far stouter character than that. She put up with my indecisiveness. Recognizing that probably the directions told to me by the ladies at the conbini were of imprecise use, she said we should stop into the tiny grocery store across the street. Inside, it truly was a tiny space. No one was at the counter, so we called “sumimasen.” A middle-aged, somewhat dazed looking man came out. We explained that we were searching for a bike shop. He went back, and then came out to the desk with the same map the ladies had used, only more wrinkled. Without saying anything at all, he used a pen to draw the route--perhaps a 10 minute walk. I asked if we could keep the map, and he nodded. We followed the route down the street, then turned down a hill. Towards the right, sure enough, there was a bike shop. It looked more like a garage inside, filled with bikes and tools and worn. We went in, and I explained that my tire had gone flat and there was likely a hole. I asked if there was a way to check, and how much it might cost. Neither I nor Magali properly understood the man’s explanation. It sounded to us that it would be some 1500 yen ($15) per tire to check, and then more to patch. But there was no way around it. We agreed, and asked how long it would take. Perhaps half an hour. I watched as the man wheeled my bike away. The sun had finally broken from behind the clouds. We decided to wait outside the shop and eat a snack, and peel off some of our rain gear. In the sun, it felt hot as opposed to clammy. I even put on a layer of sunscreen. I had packed my favorite Japanese snack--kinako nejiri, or compressed soybean flour twisted into small blocks. We shared this, drank some water, and discussed our plight. Magali rightly pointed out that we had the most fortunate misfortune in this case. The tire had gone flat very literally as we entered the city--the largest city on our route by far, and one of few guaranteed to have a bike shop as opposed to the tiny, sleepy towns we might have passed elsewhere. And indeed, there were many stretches of road without any towns or buildings in sight for 30 (and in some cases 40) km in between. The tire had gone flat enough that we would have been walking for certain, and that would have been trouble indeed. The man came back shortly and announced the prognosis--there was a small hole in the tube of the back tire. A few minutes later he came back to inform us that, in fact, there were two holes! When he brought the bike back out, the tires had been newly filled with air. I pinched them, and they were hard, like they had been in the fall when I first bought the bike. During the first leg of our ride, they would give under pressure. We began to realize that my tires had been partially flat for the entire ride. And by comparison to the feel of the newly filled tires, quite flat. I had suspected that they desperately needed air the whole while, and had thrown constant nervous looks downwards--leaning off my bike to try to glance the wheels. But I had not realized the extent. The handed the bike back to us, and I could feel that he suspected us of being mildly incompetent. That unspoken look of question, doubt, and possible concern for our future wellbeing. I have come to greatly resent this look, so often gifted me by the people I have met on adventures here in Japan. I am led to wonder, now and again, if there is not a touch of sexism as well in this questioning. As two young women on a bike trip, out in the middle of nowhere Japan. But I could not argue that I seemed a fool to have biked so far with such flat tires. Though I would point out that there had been little option once we set out, and that I had tried my best as we left to fill them--I have yet to find a pump in Japan that actually lines up with the tires, though I have searched and asked. We went inside and I took out my wallet, expecting to have to pay the assumed price for checking both tires and patching two holes. However, lo and behold, the price in total was only about 1500yen. I was puzzled, but certainly pleased. Whether Magali and I had misunderstood the price before, or whether the man was being kind I do not know. We thanked him, but he was not rid of us yet. As we had waited, we decided that we should also ask if he had a recommendation for a ramen shop. He looked at us slightly unknowing, then went into a backroom. It almost sounded as though he was making a phone call--we reflected later that he had actually called to ask for a suggestion, not knowing one himself but not wishing to say so. He came back and told us there was one near to the Rumoi station. This was convenient for us, because we needed to find road 232 which would continue north. The road appeared to be near to the station. We went outside, he gave the tires another nervous check, glanced at us again in doubtfulness, then even hastily checked Magali’s bike tires. This confirmed our suspicions that he thought we were incompetent. But at least the tires were fixed, and he had been kind enough for his doubt. Another Japanese person left in concern for my safety.

We got on our bikes in search of the ramen shop. We had both agreed, in the rain and mist of dawn, that ramen would be a good meal for lunch. My bike already felt smoother beneath me. We approached the station, and saw a small shop with a banner spelling “ra-men.” We parked our bikes, tried to make ourselves look a little less windblown, and went inside. It was small indeed, with only 5 tables crammed inside. In the back, there was a little living room behind a curtain, with a child gate. Peering past the curtain, a tv was visible, a small child, and a man seated on the floor. There was a tv on the shelf, perched just above Magali’s head as well, and playing Japanese dramas. We looked at the menu, and both decided on moyashi ramen (bean sprout topped-ramen). Magali at first ordered something else, but we were informed that it hadn’t been prepared yet. Magali pointed out that this was probably a good sign, since they made the stock themselves. It was a round, middle-aged Japanese lady who took our orders. Very motherly indeed. Apparently, Magali said, ramen is generally considered to be a “man’s” snack. I had not heard this before, but the feel of most barstool ramen shops does seem more of a “man’s” space--and thinking back, I rarely see women come by themselves to ramen shops. The lady brought out two big bowls of ramen, topped with bean sprouts, menma (bamboo shoots), and naruto. It looked and smelled delicious. I must admit that, while in Japan, I have only eaten ramen a handful of times. This has been an oversight on my part, I realized, as I ate the steamy noodles. It is well-loved for a reason. Often, however, the broth contains meat stock and so I am generally discouraged from seeking it out. But when I am lucky, there is soy sauce or miso based soup stock instead (which tastes better anyways!). We finished our meals, and went to the register to pay. After and saying ‘gouchisousama deshita!’ (a customary saying after meals: ‘thanks for the feast!/it was a feast’), the lady asked offhandedly “going to Wakkanai?” It seems that many people stop through Rumoi on their way to Wakkanai by bike.

We went back out and resettled our bikes and bags. It was now the early afternoon. We had lost a couple hours. We glanced at the map to reconnect with 232. After a bit of searching, and a number of large trucks and semis, we found the route. Rumoi is surrounded by green hills, with mountains just in the distance and the coastline within sight. Looking back over my shoulder, the surrounding land seemed idealic. The city, like most Japanese cities, seemed worn around the edges but I imagined it to be a peaceful place to live nearby. We were on our way, with fresh tires, full stomachs, and our first stretch of sunlight. It would not last long, but it was welcome. I marveled at the new speed of my bike. My legs peddled effortlessly. The mystery had been solved--I had not been losing strength, I had been biking for more than 100km with foolishly flat tires. Up part of a mountain, as well! No wonder I had struggled so during the first half. Now, I was flying. Now, it was Magali who would have to keep pace with me! As opposed to our crawl of 15km, we now sped along at 27km/hr. The second half of the trip was before us.

I can distinctly remember a moment in November as a tallied the number of weeks I had before me. This seemed to be such a long time. Full of potential, full of separation. Now, I am coming ever nearer to the end. In fact, I am growing fearful. Fearful that I have fallen in love with a land--come to know its plants, its mountains, its soil, its sky--and will be parted. I am sure I speak for others in this fear. During my first months living in Japan, if I am truthful, I could not understand the frequent claim that those who visit Japan are bound to return. Now, I understand completely. Although I might be sad to acknowledge that there seems so little time left, I am also extremely happy to realize how important my time in Japan has been.

Amidst these feelings this past month, however, there have been so many wonderful experiences and developments. As I described in my last report, my advisor helped me to polish a Japanese version of my research paper on earthworms and buckthorn from the Japan Forest Society. This has now been submitted to the Hoppo Ringyo journal, and will hopefully be accepted. Spring is in full bloom, if not summer. The trees are green and leaves flushed. I have been very happy to participate in field work helping with various experiments as well as my own. The HOBO light sensors have been attached and are recording measurements. On one day in particular, I spent nearly 5 hours sorting larch seedlings and transplanting them to plots. I’ve even come to realize that I recognize a growing number of plant species, both trees and herbaceous, by their Japanese names. This seemed a hopeless task last fall. But I’ve made unexpected progress this spring, watching each plant from sprout to stalk. I’ve even learned a number of edible plants, and cooked them myself. I’m not yet brave enough to try my hand at collecting mushrooms. In my previous report, I mentioned that there may be an opportunity for me to compile my research results into a paper. My advisor continues to encourage me to do so, and I believe it will be possible by the end. This lends me confidence. The winter was long indeed, and I often worried if I would have much in the way of research to offer despite what I had learned.

To compliment the scientific field work that is at last fully underway, I have continued to look for articles and essays to piece together my own thoughts on the status of environmentalism in Japan. Part of this has involved delving deeper into issues involved with TPP (Trans-Pacific Partnership). This has been the topic of some protest here in Japan. It is a trade agreement involving primarily the United States, but also a handful of other countries. TPP would effect a variety of sectors, but the majority of controversy stems from the effect it would have on Japan’s farmers. Few in number, they are surprisingly strong in political clout. If Japan accepts TPP--and Abe as far as I can tell has joined the talks--farmers would lose most of their market because their products would be replaced with agricultural products imported from the United States. Currently, crops such as corn are imported in large amounts from the United States. As far as food production, Japan is only about 40% self-sustainable. Joining TPP could cut this percentage in half. My dream for Japan is to achieve higher self-sustainability, not food dependence on outside sources and certainly not importing food from so far away. Local is undoubtedly better, and the Japanese model of small farms and small fields is far safer, in my opinion, then the monstrous American farming monopoly. Nonetheless, Japanese farmers do also participate in damaging land-use practices. If Japan could encourage more individuals to return to farming, and to implement methods such as suggested by Masanobu Fukuoka in his One-Straw Revolution, I believe that Japan could become a model for other countries. In addition to learning more about TPP, I hope to attend some community meetings, and also to consider that status of Japanese political and environmental mindsets. Unfortunately, apathy tends to be a persistent roadblock for significant change. Just like in the U.S., there is also considerable superficiality when it comes to environmentalism. That is, the appeal of being “green” to avoid guilt, while accomplishing very little. Still, there are passionate groups to be found here and there.

And just this week, I finally saw a glimmer of hope for becoming involved within the Ainu community through the lens of environmentalism. I have been trying for the past few months to become involved, to seek help, advice, discussion, and to offer whatever I can in return. Yet I received no responses to any inquiries and continued to feel lost. On a whim, I contacted a lecturer at Hokkaido University whose name I had found connected to past presentations on indigenous issues. I had little hope that I would receive a response. But I did indeed receive a response and some suggestions for where to look next. In Biratori, there is an ongoing Ainu-led reforestation project called Chikornay ( ‘chikoronai’). Specifically, the Chiornay is being reforested back to a state before larch plantations replaced the original trees. I was overjoyed to learn this. I have contacted the secretary of the project, and unfortunately I just missed out on the annual reforestation event, at the end of May, when many volunteers are welcomed to come assist and learn about the process of reforestation. It is a shame I did not know of this project sooner. However, I can only hope that there will be some way for me to volunteer or help with maintenance of the planted seedlings. Even simply to speak to those involved in the project, I would be happy. I have read a number of articles and essays from their website and from their founder, Koichi Kaizawa. Many of his ideas about land use and culture align closely with my own ideas and hopes for the future. I sorely regret that I did not learn about everything sooner, or have a chance to meet the lecturer who helped point me in the right direction sooner. This week I was able to meet with him and talk for many hours, in particular about the importance of culturally respectful and mindful forest practices. Just as I had hoped in my proposal so long ago, strict scientific research neglects the insight of the many cultures of the world. Native nations, especially, are often overlooked--sometimes purposefully ignored. Land use, environmental degradation and human rights are all linked. In any case, I look forward to the potential opportunities for involvement even if I have only a few months left.

I am also glad to say that I have continued to volunteer with the urban bee-keeping group here in Sapporo of which I spoke last month. My first meeting with the members was so pleasant and joyous, it left me smiling for days. I have since gone to help once a week, first to help prepare the top of the building, and now twice to work with the bees who have made their arrival from Kyushu! On a glorious sunny day, I stood upon the rooftop of a building in downtown Sapporo surrounded by hundreds of buzzing bees. And eating golden honey straight from the combs! The older lady, Takushima-san, is full of energy and kindness. The other ladies also take excellent care of me--sometimes embarrassingly so!--always vigilant to prevent me from being stung. Today I was given a small jar of honey, a handful of honeycomb, and a potted plant just for coming. I feel that I contribute very little as far as work--mostly I feel that I am standing around, hoping to be of help, and staring with fascination at the swarms of bees--but they continue to give me such kind gifts. At the midyear conference, I had wished that I could become involved in some sort of volunteer activity. Now I am so happy with my weekly bee-keeping experiences! Many of the volunteers are passionate about maintaining and increasing the number of plants in urban areas. The greening of cities brings bees and habitat, and I adamantly agree. Besides the chance to meet such kind people, it is an excellent practical application of ecological studies.

Lastly, I am happy to report that my Achilles tendon has healed as far as I can tell on my own. Unfortunately, this came at the expense of all of the training and endurance I had worked hard for all year. I am back to basics, having been prevented from running for longer than in my entire life. It is a frustrating situation, but I am so grateful to have my freedom back. To be able to run, walk, bike, and be active without (significant) pain. The week that I was finally able to slowly jog, I was so ecstatic to at last have my mobility returned that I used every opportunity and spare moment to be active. The weather seemed to clear from grey, rainy skies to bright blue sunshine in coordination with this! I took to waking up as early as I could to hike and climb around Sapporo before classes, always making it back in time with a story and many bruises. In the span of a week, I managed to bike to the ocean (taking up the trail I had attempted long ago in the fall), and hike three different so-called mountains within Sapporo. Among them I even set my sights on the to nearby Mt. Teine, and all by myself clamored up to the top. The trailhead at a beautiful waterfall was itself an adventure to locate by bike--and as I later learned, haunted as well. There was snow starting half way up the climb, and I was arrayed in only running clothes and running shoes. The small number of well-equipped (often over-equipped, if you ask me) hikers that I met along the way undoubtedly questioned my soundness of mind. I fell waist deep into snow, where it was not solid enough. I banged my shins on rocks, and I had to search for light tracks in the snow to re-find the ever disappearing trail. This accomplishment left me with a sense of pride and confidence. Biking to class or arriving at track practices, I could look to the line of mountains in the west and remember the view from above. Meanwhile, when I had climbed up the modest Maruyama, I was rewarded with a similarly enchanting experience. Watching a songbird flit past my head, I held up my hands out of curiosity. To my shock, one by one little songbirds came to land on my fingertips! Although being injured for so long has done its damage, I cannot complain. For I have been richly compensated in the form of such magical experiences.

This month has flown by, punctuated by classes, the start of track competitions, zemi presentations, kind old bee keepers, and my absolute adoration for the green that is steadily returning. I am glad to say that, now at last the sakura are beginning to bloom in Sapporo. This will be the third round of sakura for me! I feel that I have been chasing the seasons across Japan. I can also report that I heard the first rustle of spring leaves this week while walking to class. This is an important occasion for me every year. When leaves first unfurl, they are too small to rustle in the wind. You can never be certain when your ears will finally catch that soft, long-awaited sound. I always stop in my tracks when I hear it, nod my head, and smile. Spring has arrived. And with it, light measurements soon to follow!

Therefore, needless to say, the past month has been filled with many great things. The biggest frustration during this time, unfortunately, is that I managed to injure myself. After returning to Sapporo with high hopes of running in the timidly warming weather and clear sidewalks, my achilles tendon suddenly began to hurt badly enough that I was hard-pressed to climb stairs for a time. It became inflamed and painful. There are not many things that will make me stop running, but this made me stop. For three weeks (longer if I counted accurately) , I have been unable to run and this has been miserable. For me, running is the same as freedom. I ran without fail or fall throughout the icy winter, and I can proudly say that I know most of the Sapporo area from here to the ocean thanks to long runs. Running has introduced me more profoundly to the city; it has brought me to many hidden places I would not have found otherwise, led me to explore, become more confident in once unfamiliar surroundings and myself, to meet a host of wonderful friends on the track team, and has connected me more closely to the land here. My footsteps have tread far over the earth here, leaving their mark on the ground and the earth its mark on me. It is as natural to me as food and drink. Most of the time, it is my method of transportation. I went to a doctor thanks to Becca's kind assistance. But, as I should have guessed, his only recommendation was an unhelpful one: more rest. It does not help that Japan's track competitions started up in perfect timing with the start of my injury. I have been looking forward to the chance to participate in a Japanese track and field competition. I have observed so many cultural subtleties through my participation in the track club, I knew it would be a once in a lifetime opportunity to compete as well. The coach even managed to register me officially, so that I can compete. I feel that it would also form a tighter bond between me and the other runners. It was the final step towards me becoming 100% accepted, even though everyone has welcomed me so kindly. Alas, I have been stuck in the stands. At practices, where I looked forward to training, chatting, and interacting with the members I now feel isolated as I sit and do abs or stretch on my own, unable to run, cheering for the other members as they run the workouts. Nevertheless, I am very grateful to have had the chance at least to observe competitions. My absolute favorite nuance is that, after crossing the finish line, each runner turns and bows before exiting. At practices as well, each runner turns and bows to the track as they leave. I think that this is an important sentiment, and stands out to me every time I witness it. It shows respect to the other members, to the other competitors, to the officials, and to the track itself.

Classes began gradually for me. Last semester, I felt busy with Japanese language classes and international student science courses. I felt that I was always preparing for a kanji or grammar exam. Due to the Hokudai International Student Center's language programs infinite wisdom, however, the corresponding levels of kanji/vocabulary and grammar were scheduled for the same time slot. I'm not entirely certain of why they would make such a decision. Many of my classmates noticed the scheduling issue at the start of vacation and informed the department. But no change was made, nor any indication of willingness to change—their only advice was that you must choose one or the other. Now, if I were an educational department, it would be my goal to provide an education. So I remain perplexed. That means that myself and everyone else in my level was forced to decide which class to take and which to give up. I ended up choosing kanji/vocabulary, because the teacher tends to provide grammatical explanations along with the vocabulary so it seemed the best of the worst. So far, this decision seems to have been the correct one but I can only wonder if the department is aware that now their class sizes have been halved. Or perhaps that was their goal. Science courses have also begun slowly for me. I currently have Agriculture in Hokkaido, Forest Resources, and my Forest Sciences lab seminar. I am considering joining an environmental studies course, but my experience last semester was that most of these courses contained review. Or they were very simplified, in part because many of the professors attempt to present in English even when the result is mostly confusion. So I am in fact rather satisfied with the smaller course load, and more time that can be devoted to field measurements, reviewing papers, and piecing together a research paper. Professor Koike has hinted that he would like me to synthesize the results into a paper by the end, and indicated that now that I will be in Japan until September, this will give me the perfect amount of time to conclude the experiment neatly. I am hoping this will come to fruition!

After finishing the first lab seminar back, the graduate students and professors were trying to decide on the presenter for the following week. One of the graduate students so graciously suggested that I present my poster on earthworm and buckthorn interactions from the Japan Forest Society. I had been nervous that someone would remember! But nervousness aside, I was also glad for the vote of confidence and the chance to share my old project—as well as talk about Minnesota's forests! I prepared a power point version, with English and Japanese so that the Japanese students and international students could all understand. Doing my best to brush up my Japanese ecology vocabulary, on April 26 I headed to the seminar room. I felt, as I always do before a presentation, as though I were balancing a basin of precious knowledge atop my head—any misstep and it would spill over. But it went perfectly, and I really enjoyed it. I am learning more and more that, shy as I may be, I do like to present. Although I am sure I made many grammatical errors, I completed the entire 45 minute presentation entirely in Japanese doing my best to speak smoothly and naturally. I think that Professor Koike was proud. Afterward, in fact, he asked me if I would be interested in submitting it to a Japanese science journal for publication. I was so surprised! The research itself is very simple and from my work at St. Olaf. However, he pointed out that I had already translated so much of it, and that many Japanese researchers would be interested in reading. I had thought I was at last done with that old project, but it seems I will have one more round with it. I prepared a four page manuscript in Japanese, adding on to what I had done already. I sent it to Professor Koike simply to ask if the format was acceptable, and yet again he helped me to edit the entire manuscript from start to finish. I was so shocked to open up the file he sent back to me (the same day!) with grammatical suggestions and advice for revisions. I cannot emphasize enough how supportive Professor Koike has been for me. He is an extremely busy professor, and yet he goes far out of his way to help me and his other students. He even makes a point of buying specific chocolates, since one of his students works for the company and he wishes to continue supporting him. Based on these revisions, I edited the manuscript again and with any luck, in the next weeks Professor Koike will be submitting it for me. If all goes well, it will be published!

The next week was Golden Week. In retrospect, I wish I had planned a short trip since there was little activity in the lab and many others had done just that. But I found the schedule to be confusing, not to mention that I still had Japanese class. So I was never quite certain when classes would be canceled or not—my method was to show up to the room, half of the time for a class, and half of the time for an empty room. But the time was well-spent in other regards, preparing the aforementioned manuscript, and doing a some more digging on Japan and environmentalism. A somewhat rare character among Japanese farmers at the time, I learned about Mr. Masanobu Fukoka, author of the One-Straw Revolution. I had heard the title before, but never read it. Published in the late 70s, Fukuoka describes a process of no till, no flooding, no pesticide farming that he developed over a period of 30 years at his farm in Shikoku. The book is little known inside Japan—despite growing yields that matched or beat his neighbors, his methods were frowned upon for their disorderly appearance compared to tidy rows of rice—but inspirational to many small farmers and environmentalists elsewhere. I poured through the book in a single day. It is especially curious to me because Fukuoka intertwines philosophy, science (trained as a plant pathologist himself, he finds sciences to be overly glorified), and practical farming. There are many aspects of Japanese culture contained in his farming, although so much of agriculture in Japan—especially in Hokkaido—has regrettably been influenced by American models. In addition to the environmental questions I have continued to pursue, and with growing success as my sources and thoughts coalesce, I remain curious about environmental questions concerning Ainu culture and language. I strongly believe that land, language, and culture are reflections of one another, and as such have made it an important goal to learn more about these possible connections not just within Japanese culture, but necessarily within Ainu culture as well. I hold this to be just as important and valuable as my ecological or scientific research. All spheres of learning are interlaced, and communicate with one another. Culture has much to say about our current global environmental situation, and I want desperately to become more involved in Ainu land and social justice events. Perhaps my main reason for pursuing forest sciences, love of plants aside, is my goal to combine scientific research and credibility with legal action, in particular in the area of resource, land, environmentalism and social justice—especially land reclamation and use. In my home state of Minnesota, there continue to be injustices against the Dakota and Anishinaabe (Ojibwe) nations, whose land is polluted illegally by mining, pipelines, and extractive corporations. Environmental and social justice issues are shadows cast by the same source. Therefore, it remains disappointing for me not to have found a way to participate in any social or environmental justice related possibilities within Ainu communities. I have contacted a professor recently, whose research specialty happens to be connections between language, ecology—with a focus on Ainu language--, but have not yet received a response.

After Golden Week, I experienced one of the happiest days I have had in a very long time. Since October, I have been trying to find a time to meet with a small, local honey production group. They keep bee hives on the top of a building in downtown Sapporo. Becca and I met them at their little stand during the autumn festival long ago, and the older lady at the booth was overjoyed to take our pictures and hear that we were interested in volunteering. At that time, the honey season was winding down. Various times, I had emailed the group to meet with them, but I always ended up busy and there was little group activity during the winter besides. With spring on its way, I was determined to meet with them. The older lady, Takushima-san, had in fact come spontaneously to the agriculture building at Hokudai during the fall to try to find me one day, so adamant was she to meet with me. Alas, I had not been in the lab that day. Not to be defeated so easily, she revealed that she searched through the building holding the picture of me and Becca posed with a jar of honey. Showing this picture, she asked Japanese students who crossed her path if they had seen me (assuming that as a foreigner, they would easily recognize me!). She is quite the character. After emailing the group and fortunately receiving a happy response to meet with me, they told me the address and I went in search of the building. The building itself is old and dusty from the outside, and filled with a mismatch of shops inside. I become very nervous doing such things on my own, and often wish to turn back, but I do not let myself give in. I had trouble locating the building, and had just stepped outside the building itself, when I heard someone call “Jamie-chan!” I looked up, and it was Takushima-san trotting towards me cheerfully. She told me she remembered me perfectly, because she often carried the photograph with her since she was so excited for me to volunteer. I have never been so seamlessly adopted by someone before. It was as though she had known me for years, that we were long friends—she happily brought me inside, introduced me to the three other volunteers who had come to meet me, and chatted with me about her children, her job, and listened curiously about what I had to say. I was especially proud because I managed the whole time in Japanese. Although the bees are still vacationing in Kyushu until the weather warms, Takushima-san said that there will definitely be many opportunities for me to volunteer. After the meeting, Takushima-san and the two other middle-aged ladies invited me to lunch, paid for my lunch, secretly gave me a honeycomb, and filled a bag with snacks for me to take with me. She proudly exclaimed to the others, “tsukamaeta!”, that she had caught me and meaning that I would surely return. The rest of the day, I wore a huge smile. In fact, as I fell asleep that night, it was with a bright grin and a warm heart. Takushima-san is the first person in Japan to call me “Jamie-chan.” I have often hoped that my track teammates or other friends would now and again use the epithet, as insignificant as it may seem. But no one had until that day. I had not realized just what this meant to me: it meant someone had accepted me, that they valued me and saw me as someone with whom formalities could be set aside. Takushima-san let her true personality shine through, charming and bubbly and very much a Japanese obaa-san. In fact, all three of the ladies treated me so kindly. I can be very timid and shy when I become intimidated, but I felt instantly comfortable among them. I had been happy enough at the prospect of volunteering with honey bees, but the potential of such a joyful friendship left me feeling immensely fortunate. I look forward to meeting with them again!

There was more excitement to come. Soon thereafter, I received a phone call from a number I did not recognize. It was a woman calling from the Japan Forestry Society, and informed me that I had won the international student award category for my poster presentation. Of course, I did not understand this at first since everything was in Japanese and took me by surprise. In fact, I was only partly certain that it was an award and not a fee at first. After making her repeat herself so many times, I'm sure she was ready to make it a fee! The next day, Professor Koike had invited me and two labmates on a short trip with him to retrieve a handful of larch seedlings from the Bibai experimental forest. He rented a car, and we made the hour-long trip through the countryside, watching the snowy mountains on the horizon. I was glad for the chance to see another experimental forest, and when we arrived we were given a tour of the grounds and explanation of some of the experiments. In true Japanese fashion, a researcher in business clothes came running out to the field to greet Professor Koike, bow, hand him his business card, and then we all took pictures in a line in front of the trees and plowed dirt rows. It was also an interesting opportunity for me to overhear Professor Koike and the other senior researchers speaking in very casual Japanese together—just like the young Japanese classmates of mine. On the way back to Sapporo, Professor Koike bought us all icecream cones and ageimo at a vegetable market. Then, though I was unable to travel during golden week, this weekend I was able to make a short trip to Tokyo. I accomplished two important items on my list in one day. Together with Veronica, I saw the Alphonse Mucha art exhibit in Roppongi and Kabuki in the evening. It was an fun-packed day. The exhibit was absolutely swarming with people, but the art was just as inspiring as I had always imagined it would be in person. And kabuki was incredible. I have been determined all these months to see kabuki while in Japan, and I feared the chance would slip by. I had never seen any form of Japanese theater in person before, and thus had long dreamed of witnessing something as iconic as kabuki. Not only is it cultural, it is stunning. I am so grateful that I was able to go. I loved the acts, was pleased that I could understand some of the Japanese and some of the puns even without the aid of the headphones, not to mention many of the cultural references, and I enjoyed swimming amidst the sea of kimono-clad old ladies. I took the train with Veronica back to Tsukuba, and the next day I was able to see the beautiful bike paths, greenery, Tsukuba University campus, and a delightful vegetarian lunch before heading back to the Narita airport. Though short, it was by far one of my best trips in Japan, due not just to great art but great company as well. The trees and scenery in Tsukuba were breathtaking to me, and peddling along with Veronica on mama-chari through the sunny weather and lush leaves, I could not have been happier. In fact, the tree-lined streets of Tsukuba reminded me fondly of my home in Minneapolis, painted with the brushstrokes of Japan. The bus trip back to Narita passed through newly planted rice fields and dense backyard gardens. Upon arriving back in Sapporo, Professor Koike emailed me to say that the light sensor equipment had arrived and that soon we could begin to take photosynthesis and light readings. I look forward to this, and today I visited the seedlings we planted in the fall to say good morning from their long sleep. The buds will soon unfurl.

Overall, injuries aside, there have been many fortunate experiences for me this month. It took a great deal for me to move past my decision regarding Yale but I have largely recovered my spirits, and discovered many friendships for which I am so grateful. I have been fortunate to have so many opportunities to present and become more comfortable with research and formalizing such research in Japanese. The exuberance of green and growing plants makes even gray and rainy days more cheerful, and reminded me of how curious I remain about plants, and the remarkable systems of this earth.

Lastly, a peculiar transformation has occurred for me over the months. When I first arrived in Japan, everything was new. Gradually, I adjusted and became comfortable. Yet that comfort and familiarity did not equate something which I associated with myself—that is, I did not notice these cultural subtleties, indeed the landscape of Japan itself, becoming a part of myself even as I observed and interacted. Such experiences had found happy abode in my mind, but had not seeped into my heart. Now, while there is much more for me to learn, aspects of Japan that take decades or a lifetime to truly know, and of course day-to-day frustrations, Japan has become a second home to me. I look upon the land here not just with interest, but with a growing love that strengthens my resolve to protect this earth. Indeed, I no longer merely look upon, but instead feel a part of Japan. The experience of Fulbright has given me that opportunity, and it is a grace I will never forget. 

Tokyo (April 1)> Tokyo Disneyland
Kyoto (April 2-April 4) > Day one: Kiyomizudera, Ginkakuji. Day 2: Fushimi Inari Shrine, Kinkakuji, Day 3: Maddie's birthday, walk along Kamogawa river, Arashiyama bamboo grove, cake buffet for dinner to celebrate.
Nara (April 5) > Toudaiji, Nara deer park, "primordial forest", Wakakusa foothills.

Here are some pictures from the weeks just prior to the Japan Forest Conference (3/27) and during the conference itself. It was held in Morioka, at Iwate University. You can read more about it in the previous post.

On March 20th, I was also able to go to an Ainu instrument workshop at the Hokkaido Art Museum, where I learned to play the Makkuri and the Tonkori. The Makkuri, played by pulling a taut string attached to a piece of wood placed on your lips, was very difficult! But the Tonkori, a stringed instrument, felt very nice to play and perhaps because of my practice on the banjo, it came more naturally. I had found out about the workshop from a flyer at the museum, after going there the previous week to see the Ainu Contemporary Art exhibit. That exhibit, I should mention, was spectacular. There were incredible wood carvings and textiles, primarily.