Philosophy 2
A skill is built hour by hour engaged in focused practice guided by a purpose. There is no other way.
Philosophies for Learning the Guitar at 60: Purpose-driven Practice
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Philosophies for Learning the Guitar at 60: Begin
Begin. This first step may seem too obvious. It’s not. We Baby Boomers have known about guitars most of our lives. We were playing air guitars by the time we were eight. Maybe like me, you’ve owned a guitar in the past and even taken a couple of lessons. And then quit. For some reason you’ve put off getting serious about learning to play a guitar for 50 years or more. Part of your journey might be understanding what has blocked you in the past – what was in the way.
It wasn’t lack of time. I think it’s important to accept this. Yes, throughout our adult life most of us must make a living. But no one’s work is all-consuming unless one chooses it to be so. And that’s the operative word here: choice. For whatever reasons, learning the guitar wasn’t made a priority. And so instead of becoming guitar players, we devoted our free time to reading novels and newspapers, clubs and memberships, and on and off commitments (or perhaps sustained commitments) to fitness and sundry other hobbies. There have been social events and Sunday drives, certain time-consuming rituals that probably deserve more reflection than we’ve given them (maintaining a lawn, for example), and TV. Hours and hours of TV.
So what was my story? Well, this is a piece of it.
There was a piano in our home. My mother played. A little. I don’t know what prompted her to enroll us in lessons when I was eight and my younger sister was seven. Something like vaguely defined social expectations, I would imagine.
At the conclusion of our first lesson with Ms. Zilhaver, an older woman who periodically stepped away with coughing fits for a few puffs on a cigarette, we were instructed to practice for half-an-hour each day. I did so with alacrity. The following week I reported back to Ms. Zilhaver, prepared for my second lesson. She seemed impressed. I was given additional pieces of music to work on. And so it went for the next few weeks. Making good progress, there were times when I found myself still at the piano well after the prescribed 30-minute period was up.
My sister came to it more slowly. She put in her time, but not without a fair amount of her usual fidgeting and not a minute more than was necessary. After a few weeks, she was still working on music I’d finished.
That’s when my mother intervened.
I can’t tell you her motivations. I can only guess. She was a feminist with a Gibraltar-sized chip on her shoulder and a mission to prove the superiority of women. And girls. Maybe the answers lie in there somewhere. Maybe they lie elsewhere. I don’t know.
In any event, one Saturday afternoon when she thought I was outside playing, I happened to overhear her end of a phone conversation with Ms. Zilhaver. In the future, Ms. Zilhaver was not to advance me further than my sister. If I got ahead, I was to be held back till my sister caught up. It sounded like there was some push-back from the piano teacher, but as many others have discovered, there was no arguing with my mother.
When she got off the phone, I asked her – with some desperation – why she was giving these orders. The only response I got was a scolding for “eavesdropping.” (I wasn’t. I just happened to be in the house). When I pressed, I was answered with the familiar Nadine Donachy “We’re not going to have this conversation.”
Nonetheless, for the next few days I continued practicing as before. At the following lesson, I performed a piece well. In the past, it would have been starred and I would have been assigned a new piece. Not this time. “Let’s just keep working on these same pieces for awhile,” Ms. Zilhaver said.
At that point, I was done with it.
I spent the next eight years in piano limbo. I did not practice. I did not advance. But I was forbidden from quitting. Thus, I suppose, my mother had her evidence of the inferiority of boys, and I had developed a perfectly rotten relationship with learning music.
Fifty-three years of water under the bridge later, it feels freeing to have thought this through. And now, to paraphrase Jimmy Buffet, I’m not going to think about it too long. I’ve got a guitar that wants to be played.
Learning to Play the Guitar at 60: La Grande Expérience (or Is it even Possible?)
It has been said that a guitar sounds good even when it is dropped. I suppose that depends on whether or not the guitar is in tune – and perhaps who is doing the dropping. It is also said that one is never to old to learn to play the guitar, a statement that seems to hinge to some extent on what is meant by the word “play.”
For much of my adult life, I have owned a guitar. My Poco, my grandmother, gifted me the money for my first one when I was 18. I took a couple of lessons, didn’t get far and allowed it to collect dust over the next couple of years until I enlisted in the U. S. Navy whereupon I sold it. My father opined that I should “accept the fact” that I was bereft of “any musical talent.” He’d made similar pronouncements at the outset of other ventures. To this day he cannot believe – will not accept – that I got into the college I got into, let alone that I graduated from it. His assessments always stung, but they generally proved to be nothing to go by. The fact is, I had never practiced much on any sort of musical instrument. So a hypothesis as to whether or not I had – or have – aptitude for such a thing has remained untested.
After leaving the navy I purchased a new guitar, another inexpensive but serviceable steel string acoustic. Like its predecessor, it remained tuned and otherwise barely touched until some years later when it was stolen from my vehicle during a cross country move.
A third guitar, a Fender DG 8S replaced that one. Like the two previous guitars it has a solid spruce wood top, retails for a modest price and gets decent reviews as a “beginner” guitar. It has come with me on successive moves from Astoria, Oregon to Sacramento, California, to two Eskimo villages in the Alaskan Arctic, to Mongolia and back to Alaska where it has resided on a stand in the corner of our living room. All the while it has been regularly dusted, generally kept in tune, and otherwise neglected. Thus, over the course of 32 years of on and off guitar ownership, I learned to play the C Major scale, the chords C, D, G and F (OK, I couldn’t really play the F chord), and, imperfectly, the first four very simple songs in Mel Bay’s Modern Guitar Method Grade 1, peaking with Sparkling Stella, aka Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star on page 11. Page 12 remained beyond me. I could barely read music and I never spent enough time with even the simple songs I “knew” to master them in any meaningful way. Evolving from a halting rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle to the blues-folk music I dreamed of playing seemed an impossible journey.
I suppose some of these old tapes and a few more were in my head this past New Year’s Eve when, with a beer in my belly and another in my fist, I found myself admiring the glow of decorative holiday lights reflecting on the polished spruce of my guitar. I had been putting together a compilation of goals for the coming year: run a half-marathon, send out at least five articles for publication, improve my fly-casting, etc. when a new thought suddenly presented itself.
Wouldn’t it be a neat trick to finally learn to play the guitar at the age of 60?
On January 1, I picked up the Fender and began practicing. It made my fingertips hurt – a stage I’d experienced in the past and had never gotten through. This time I stayed with it. Sixty-two days later, on March 3, I reached a small milestone: my first 100 hours of meaningful, purpose-driven practice – more practice… far more… than in the previous 59 years of my life combined on any musical instrument. The fingertips of my left hand now bear thickly calloused pads which are impervious to the steel strings’ bite. Both hands have developed newfound strength and dexterity and I’m gradually getting the hang of the patting-your-head-while-rubbing-your-stomach gymnastics necessary in guitar playing.
Meanwhile I’ve scoured the Internet searching for examples of people who picked up a guitar for (essentially) the first time in their 7th decade and went on to acquire any sort of meaningful mastery of it. The search results have not been encouraging.
I was unable to find even one such instance. Yes, there were examples of people who had played well in their younger days, set the instrument aside, and then returned to it later in life. But that’s an entirely different matter than starting virtually from scratch.
What I did find were repetitions of advice and “encouragement” which I found to be quite patronizing. One trope begins “Many of my older students…” Really? Well then pray, share with us an example in this day and age of Youtube videos.
Even more condescending is the repeated assurance that “Older students can derive great benefits from learning to play the guitar.” Articles written under this thesis generally go on to reveal that by “benefits” the author is referring to the kinds of advantages one might as readily derive from a walk in fresh air followed by a rousing game of Scrabble. In this vein, a 2016 Washington Post Article concludes with one such older student declaring, “My cats have stopped yowling, which I take as a good sign.” Really? That’s where the bar is set?
I like walking and I like Scrabble, but I’m not looking for “benefits;” I want to learn to play the guitar, and I want to know if, as I close in on 60, I may have waited too long.
I have read again and again that one is “never too old to learn to play the guitar.” Yet, there comes a point when one is too old to achieve meaningful mastery of new, complex skills. Memory, finger dexterity, hand speed and the ability to create new connections in one’s brain all deteriorate. I expected there to be research-based guidance and exemplars regarding this matter. The only worthwhile bit of information I’ve turned up is that others are asking this same question to little avail.
And so, what began on the evening of December 31, 2018 as a somewhat whimsical challenge to myself has morphed into La Grande Expérience – The Great Experiment. Starting with little or no previous experience:
Can a sexagenarian reasonably expect to achieve any sort of meaningful mastery of the guitar? Or must one concede that by that age, windows have closed and the best to be hoped for are vaguely defined “benefits?”
I will conclude for now with that question. I have left open what I mean by “meaningful mastery.” Nor have I said anything about my own progress over these past 62 days. I leave those subjects to future installments under this heading.
For now, I offer a thought and a question. Perhaps two questions. First, the thought.
If you are an older person – approaching or past 60 – and you have taken up or are considering taking up a new endeavor, I say whole heartedly, Go for it! I will cross the threshold of 60 in less than four months. In recent years I’ve added a number of new skills to my life: sailing, bike trekking, photography and birding to name a few. I’ve greatly expanded my skills as a home chef, brought to hand my first salmon caught on a fly (and many more thereafter), engaged in my first ever cross country skiing, made more progress with a foreign language in a few months than I had in all the years of high school and college classes combined and am presently in training to complete my first half-marathon in 10 years. All of these disciplines have added depth and joy to my life. It hardly matters that there are no prospective Olympic medals, National Geographic assignments or recognition as the next Lee Wulff in the offing. It feels good to be strong, to be opening new doors and to have the capacity to immerse myself in new worlds.
That being said…
Have you… or do you know of someone who has… achieved a reasonable degree of proficiency on the guitar (or other instrument) having picked it up as a beginner in their 60th year or later?
And this: drawing perhaps from your own experience, what advice do you feel might be offered to others who wish to acquire a new skill?
All Quiet at The Lake
Dawn, late February, Chignik Lake, Alaska
It has been a winter unlike our previous two at Chignik Lake – quiet, even by the quiet standards we’ve become accustomed to. Pine Siskins, dozens of them, have taken over the White Spruce Grove. A raucous lot, it may be that they’ve driven off most other birds. In any event, the Dark-eyed Juncos and other sparrows of past years have been all but absent, and we’ve not seen a sign of Golden-crowned Kinglets, Redpolls or wrens. There’ve been fewer, far fewer, ducks on the lake this year as well. Perhaps this unusually warm Alaskan winter has given waterfowl other open water to choose from. And while we did spot our first ever winter-white Short-tailed Ermine as well as a pure white Collared Lemming awhile back, otherwise wildlife has been scarce, a very occasional fox, otter or seal notwithstanding.
A friend has been setting a net and catching a few Sockeyes. Mirror bright, free of sea lice and small at just 22 inches or so, they are almost undoubtedly representatives of a resident lacustrine population – kokanees that never migrate out to sea but spend their lifecycle in the lake. One such fish is on the dinner menu for this evening. I will poach it whole in a broth of clam juice, lemon and saffron. The broth in turn will serve as the base for a salmon bisque.
As quiet as it has been, Barbra and I remain as busy as ever. There are unending lists of new recipes and baking, many thousands of photographs from previous adventures to edit, Barbra’s duties as a teacher to attend to, literature to read and study and future adventures to plan for. We’re looking forward to slightly warmer weather when we can more comfortably work on our fly-casting. We’re both on pace to be in shape to run a half-marathon this summer – our first in 10 years. Meanwhile, I’ve been putting in full days and then some between putting together articles for magazines and my new interest, learning to play an acoustic steel string guitar. The quiet provides a pleasant backdrop for these activities.
Only three months till Sockeyes begin returning to the Chignik River. Biologists are forecasting a strong run. It’s raining on the Lake this morning, but there’s new snow on the mountains. A neighbor reports hearing our owls make “strange noises” lately. Spring is coming.
Thick-billed Crow’s Lucky Day
Got ‘em!
A few days ago we were in Rausu, Hokkaido at a bed and breakfast where Blakiston’s Fish Owls can be seen. From head to toe and wing tip to wing tip, these are the world’s largest owls – and one of the rarest. We had hoped to get a look and maybe some photographs.
In the stream that flows in front of the property, the minshiku owners have created a small pool which they keep stocked with trout. Most nights this time of year a breeding pair of fish owls take turns showing up at the pool to forage for themselves and their chicks. We got some nice photos of both the female and the male owl which we’ll include in an article at a later date.
In addition to the owls, minks – a species introduced from America – are occasional nighttime visitors to the pool. In wintertime, bears follow spawning salmon up the stream. One afternoon I was watching the pool, camera in lap, when a Thick-billed Crow landed in a nearby tree. I knew right away what he had in mind, so I focused on the pool and waited. What I wasn’t prepared for was the short work he made of catching this trout.
Knee Deep in Trout and Char (somewhere in Hokkaido)
Iwana (Dolly Varden Char) are one of Hokkaido’s most celebrated cold-water fish.
I have an incurable habit of looking into water for fish. It doesn’t matter what kind of water. At the beach I check the translucent prisms of waves for whatever might be cruising the surf. Coming upon pools on rivers during hikes I make efforts to position myself so that I’m looking into shade rather than glare so that I can maybe catch a glimpse of something with fins. I’ll even check out coin fountains in the off chance that a carp or even a goldfish might be swimming around. But bridges on quiet country roads crossing pretty little trout streams are especially inviting. There’s almost always a pool below the bridge, and if the water has a population of trout, there are often a few of them hanging out right there. No matter how hard-fished the water might be, it’s worth a look.
Yamame could literally be translated as “Mountain Girl” – a lovely name for a lovely fish. More commonly the stream-dwelling form of this species is called “Cherry Trout.” Similar to Cutthroat and Rainbow Trout of the Pacific Northwest, (to which yamame are related), some go to sea where they attain sizes measured in pounds and return to their natal rivers to spawn bright as polished chrome – Cherry Salmon.
And so there we were, mid-afternoon, straddling our bikes and leaning over the the concrete side of a bridge on a quiet road running through a mix of forest and farmland somewhere in Hokkaido. The water was perfectly clear, but the trout and char are so adeptly camouflaged to match the stony bottoms of these streams that unless one moves they are all but impossible to pick out.
One moved. As it rose to take something off the surface I could even see its spots. A char of some type. I hadn’t done any fishing yet in Hokkaido. This fish was telling me it was time I did.
I didn’t expect the fish to be large and they weren’t. But in the space of about two hours I covered a couple hundred yards of this silvery mountain stream and caught two dozen or so fish About half of them were iwana. The others were yamame. A few came to a parachute Adams – my favorite dry fly searching pattern. A lot more came to a pheasant tail nymph – my favorite nymph. A couple of overly eager types tried to eat the pea-sized orange strike indicator I was using.
A younger version of myself would have kept a few of these fish for the frying pan. But these days I fish for trout in part to simply confirm that they are present, and I wanted these fish to remain present. So Barbra took a couple of photos and I released everything to continue living out their lives in this silvery piece of water and light somewhere in Hokkaido.
There wasn’t a single human footprint along the banks, much less a path. Knee deep in a cold mountain stream full of trout and char – sitting on top of the world, legs hanging free.
Tunnels of Love – Light at the end of the Tunnel – Tunnel Vision: A Bicyclist’s Point of View
A kind snow tunnel – not too long, plenty of light, and just enough shoulder.
There is something about tunnels, sometimes dark and scary, sometimes magical and transformative.
When I was very young, my family drove around in a Volkswagen Beetle. I remember enjoying the magic of the immediate darkness of tunnels. The dark would be simultaneously met with the crackle of static on the radio as we lost reception. Then the heartbeat of yellow lights would blink into the windows from the dim tunnel lighting providing a rhythm to accompany the radio static. With a jolt from this world, the Beetle would be blasted back into the light and back into normal. It was fascinating to my young imagination.
Some welcome! Eighteen meters tall (almost 60 feet), the demon of Noboribetsu would be the perfect host to some of the tunnels we traversed.
Fast forward to our current bike trek in Hokkaido. Our ride has brought a whole new stream of consciousness to the tunnel. In recent years, hadn’t given much thought to these marvels of modern engineering, the exception being the time I drove our pickup while towing our fishing vessel Gillie through the unnervingly narrow tunnel that leads to the town of Whittier, Alaska. Steering wheel gripped tightly in my hands, I could feel the boat trailer sashaying back and forth on the slick railroad tracks that transversed the abyss. But that is another story.
The first “real” tunnel seemed long, but at just over a mile, it turned out to be merely average.
Our introduction to the tunnel by bicycle happened the very first day of our Hokkaido trek. It was a kind introduction as the tunnel was of the type designed to keep the heavy winter snowfalls off the road. Wrapped tight to a mountain pass, the tunnel’s outside wall featured a series of openings where sunlight poured in, giving the space a comfortable, open feeling. Moreover, there was a large enough shoulder to ensure safe passage even for our somewhat Rubinesque, trailer-towing bikes. Though several hundred meters in length, this first light-filled tunnel with its wide sidewalk was a breeze.
Our first “real” tunnel – dank, dark, cold, long and narrow – came later. We hugged the shoulder, our safety lights blinking, pedaling as fast as possible, worried that approaching vehicles wouldn’t see us in time. The amplified roar of oncoming traffic echoed and mixed with the odor of mold, grease, diesel and exhaust fumes and in that dark tube we experienced the paradox of simultaneously feeling that we we traveling very fast while making little progress. Jack found the energy in his legs to pull ahead, even while pulling the trailer. My nerves must have been apparent as a kind driver slowed behind me and escorted me to daylight.
At this point, I can’t believe how many tunnels we’ve gone through. The best tunnels have been the snow tunnels. They rank high because of the natural light and their relative brevity. On rare occasions, we’ve traveled through tunnels with a sidewalk separated by a safety railing. But even these tunnels can’t muffle the brain-rattling sounds of roaring trucks and screaming motorcycles, and there’s always the sense that you’ve got to concentrate on maintaining an unerringly straight course lest you pin yourself to some protrusion jutting out from the soot-stained tunnel wall.
One day, we had a relatively short ride from Yoichi to Otaru along Hokkaido’s southwest coast. The map showed tunnels…lots of tunnels…between the two towns and in fact the ride felt almost like a constant tunnel as even when we weren’t physically inside a tube we were psychologically preparing for one. This day featured our worst tunnel experience.
As usual, we were swallowed into the tunnel in question just as we had been swallowed into the semi-darkness and wet chill of previous tunnels. We rode on a sidewalk, which was just wide enough to handle our bike’s girth with panniers and the trailer. But perhaps a kilometer into the dimness and utterly without warning, the sidewalk shrunk to half its size. The next thing I knew, Jack’s front panniers hit the railings and he screeched to a stop. Escaping with a bloodied knuckle and a mouthful of expletives, we survived the tunnel by crowding into the flanks of our bikes and walking the remainder of the way, our shins absorbing a few pedal bites in the process, the experience bringing fresh gratitude for the light at the end of the tunnel!
After a wonderful two-days in the city of Otaru, we steeled our nerves for the ride up the coast. The ride would be beautiful. But there would be tunnels. Lots and some really long ones. Rattled from the most recent tunnel experience, at the first one we encountered we opted to push our bikes through on the very narrow sidewalk. Just wide enough to accommodate our bikes in this fashion, the sidewalk seemed to have been installed for maintenance workers rather than pedestrians. Our plan was for me to follow Jack closely and shout a warning if the outside trailer wheel got too close to the edge of the walk. Using this strategy was maybe safer, but it seemed like it took forever.
As we traveled up the coast, traffic grew lighter. We couldn’t stomach another long walk through another dark and deafening tunnel and the one we were now facing was truly a beast – two nearly adjoining tunnels spanning almost four miles. It was time to shore up our confidence and place some faith our fellow drivers. We strapped on headlamps and, as I was in the rear position, I added a couple of blinking lights to my rig and off we went.
Translation? Tunnel after tunnel after tunnel after tunnel!”
At some point, I had adopted a strategy of singing in the tunnels in order to drown out the deafening noises and to distract myself from my own nerves. I didn’t just sing. I sang at the top of my lungs. This turned out to work pretty well – once Jack didn’t take my singing noises as anguished cries for help. And so for most of four miles I belted out any song that came to mind.
Time to take in some sunshine, enjoy lunch, and scan for birds.
Once we had finally put the beast behind us, we pulled off the road for a rest and a celebratory lunch. Apparently you can burn some serious calories pedaling like a dervish while simultaneously singing at the top of your lungs!
Tinged with the unknown and eliciting perhaps mixed emotions of safety and danger, tunnels remain fascinating to me. For a little while, they take you out of the world in which you’ve been residing, close in around you, carry you along in a way that demands a kind of trust… and then deliver you to some newly lighted world on the other side.
A happy bear eating salmon at one end and light at the other. A perfect tunnel.
Agehachou – Asian Swallowtail Butterfly
Almost surreal in it irredescence, this agehachou is one of the many stunning butterflies we’ve encountered on our Hokkaido bike trek.
We’re not lepidopterists, but it would be all but impossible not to notice the incredible beauty and diversity of the moths and butterflies – not to mention the amazing variety of caterpillars – we’ve been encountering on our bike trek around Hokkaido, Japan. If you find them early enough in the morning when they’re still warming up, you can sometimes sneak a decent photo. This agehachou (Asian swallowtail) is among the more stunning butterflies we’ve found, but it seems that all butterflies are beautiful. As the summer progresses and flowers change, different species are emerging. Today the paths were filled with nearly iridescent black caterpillars, leaving us wondering what form they’ll take as adults.
The Many Tastes of Hokkaido – Kita no Lamp-tei Restaurant in Shiraoi
Our waiter’s recommendation: a platter of seafood ready for the tabletop grill featuring some of Shiraoi’s regional summertime specialties. From 12:00: King Crab legs, ocean-fresh salmon, Sailfin Poacher, Willow Leaf Smelt, Thornyhead Rockfish, Surf Clam, Sea Scallop, center, flounder. (Viewer discretion is advised regarding the food photographs that follow.)
When the only two people in Shiraoi we asked for an evening restaurant recommendation immediately suggested the same place even while in the same breath acknowledging that it was too far to reach in a bike trip, our interest was definitely piqued. The first person we asked was our server at Shiraoi’s Kinpen Cafe where we were having a delicious casual seafood lunch and the other was a guide at the local tourist information agency – people who were likely to know where the best food was being served. We lamented the fact that we probably wouldn’t connect with the Kita no Rampu-tei (Northern Lamp) restaurant and resigned ourselves to our standard “Plan B” – ride until we come upon something. That particular night, we grabbed an assortment of sushi and other items at a local supermarket and took them back to our campground for dinner. (And by the way, if you’ve never had supermarket sushi in Japan, don’t be tempted to compare it to the generally not-very-good fare offered in American supermarkets. Supermarket sushi in Japan is superb.)
An excellent choice for casual dining – and a good place to get additional dining recommendations – Kinpen Cafe, Shiraoi.
We broke camp late the following morning at Poroto Campground, hopped on our bikes and headed southwest along the coast toward the city of Noboribetsu.
Frogs, woodpeckers, deer and other wildlife added a nice touch to the quiet, well-maintained campground at Poroto Lake in Shiraoi.
Taking an especially leisurely pace even by our standards, we paused for a while to talk with fishermen trying their luck for flounder and greenling along a harbor wall, had a picnic lunch along another sea wall and stopped frequently to check out African Stonechats and other songbirds which seemed to be everywhere. By the time we’d covered a few miles, the sun was coming down and we were ready for dinner.
There were some nice fish being caught along this harbor wall. The main target was greenling with flounder showing up in good numbers as well.
Longtime admirers of the beautiful, hand-blown glass floats Japanese fishermen used to buoy their nets in the pre-plastic era, an attractive display of large floats hanging from a building drew our attention. We spent a good bit of time photographing the floats before we realized that the building they were attached to was a restaurant, and a bit of time after that before I stepped back and attempted to decipher the name of the place.
北のランプ亭.
“Hey! Kita no Lamp!” I called out to Barbra. “This is the place those people recommended!”
“Oh, wow! What are the odds? Let’s see if we can get a table!” She replied.
We found out later that Kita no Lamp is the top rated of the area’s 80-some restaurants and that it can be tough to get into without a reservation. Still early in the tourist season and late on a mid-week night to boost, luckily we were able to get a table. I don’t know the bar an establishment has to clear to earn Michelin recognition, but what followed was easily one of the best restaurant experiences either one of us have ever had.
Our waiter first presented this pair of ama-ebi (Northern Deepwater Prawn) live, then took them to the kitchen where they were prepared for the table.
Many years ago as a student of things Japanese, I read several dismissive accounts of Japanese cuisine. “Bland” was a term that cropped up more than once. This was before the sushi revolution swept the world, a revolution that was followed by a growing appreciation of the seasonality of foods, the subtleties of different types of noodles, and before terms such as “umami” had become part of the world-wide culinary lexicon. In fact, when I found myself stationed in Japan as a United States Navy sailor, I couldn’t understand what those writers were talking about. Japanese food is amazing.
Ikura (salmon roe) served with slivers of nori and a smidgeon of wasabi atop a bowl of steaming hot rice kept the meal moving forward.
Hokkaido in particular merits food destination status, and while seafood reigns supreme on this island surrounded by cold, clean Pacific seas, there is tender, flavorful beef, pork, lamb and fresh fruits and vegetables that rival the best to be found anywhere. Indeed, much of the food will be minimally seasoned. With the very best ingredients served fresh and at their peak, a light hand with seasoning is ideal.
We had been told that we absolutely must try Shiraoi beef. In fact, a fellow camper at Poroto shared a couple of expertly grilled pieces with us, leaving us wanting more of this incredibly flavorful, fatty, soft beef. Here a steak shares a plate with local pork belly, sausages, marinated chicken, pumpkin, mushrooms and asparagus which was at the peak of perfection during our time in Shiraoi.
And so, relatively early in our summer in Hokkaido and comfortably seated at one the island’s top restaurants, we followed our waiter’s recommendations, ordered too much food, savored every last bit of it, and, with the owner’s permission, ended up pitching our tent on the restaurant’s property and spending the night there.
At this time of year, virtually all of Hokkaido features creamy, fresh-from the ocean Sea Urchin. Here a bowl is served along with salmon sashimi.
While researching this trip, we kept coming across photos of grilled scallops. Our first encounter with this delicacy was served with a thick pat of rich Hokkaido butter. It was fun grilling these shellfish right at our table. When the butter is melted and not a second longer, the clams and scallops are ready. Add a splash of soy sauce… or not.
Northern Lamp’s decor harkened back to earlier times – classic posters, vintage sake jugs, period lamps and lanterns, and seafaring themed relics.
Each table featured a grill which the wait staff filled with hot wood coals when customers were seated.
These sailors may have been assigned to guard the sake jugs behind them, but they seemed to be more interested in the feast we were working on.
We finished the meal with a small scoop of lemon sorbet – and with some effort got up from the table and set up camp. The following morning we woke to the sun rising over the back deck of Kita no Lamp Restaurant.
Yagishiri Island Hokkaido – Power of a Storm
Barbra and a young friend cheese it up for the camera at Yagishiri’s ferry port.
A cool ocean breeze drifted in across the Sea of Japan and the sun was shining brightly as we set up our tent on Yagishiri Island. Brilliant orange-yellow Day Lillies speckled the green, gently rolling countryside around us. It was easy to imagine the Suffolk sheep the island is known for tucking their black faces into tufts of rich grass and quietly grazing a few hillsides away.
Yagishiri is home to Suffolk Sheep. Brought over from Scotland, they grow cute and tasty on the island’s lush grass.
The campsite was ideal. Our tent was nestled into a flat between hills and protected from coastal gusts by a small building. The campsite featured cold running water, an immaculate restroom, and even an outdoor shower.
We stowed our bike bags beneath the tent’s fly and headed down an inviting pathway to what the map boasted as a swimming beach. Although the sun was high in the sky, I wasn’t prepared to take a chilly Sea of Japan swim. I noticed that the beach was covered with countless tiny treasures – blue, green and amber beach glass polished smooth, crab husks, miniature clam shells, dried sea urchin shells- some with their spines still attached, and colorful small rocks with interesting patterns. Larger flat rocks offered perfect surfaces on which to create found art displays with favorite finds from the beach. What a lovely, relaxing way to spend part of an afternoon.
Yagishiri-to (Yagishiri Island) is a short ferry ride from the town of Haboro on Hokkaido. There is one main road that follows the island’s perimeter which is only 12 kilometers (just over seven miles). After exploring the beach and with our bike bags stowed at the campsite, we hopped onto our now feather-light bikes and went out to discover the rest of the island.
As the sun moved in and out from behind a few gathering clouds, I couldn’t help but smile. When I was young, my family traveled a good bit. During those trips, I fantasized about having my bike with me so I could explore those places at a bike’s pace – slow enough to catch all the details around me but fast enough to actually get somewhere. It’s exercise up the hills, the coast back down a pleasantly earned reward.
Off in the distance we began to hear the rumble of thunder. We had nearly reached the opposite side of the island from our camp. Looking out to sea, we tried to discern which way the thunder was coming from. Toward the sea, the clouds were thin and light. Looking toward Hokkaido’s mainland, the clouds were thick with rain.
Rather than turn back, we decided to continue around the island. We guessed the lighter clouds were coming our way. However, a few minutes later, big splats of rain hit us. Seems we are not meteorologists! Near the top of a hill, we spied a path leading into a small forest which, according to our map, would lead to a shrine. We decided a quick side trip there might give us shelter from a burst of rain. We found the shrine in a state of some disrepair. Tall grass grew around the gate-keeping statues and stone lanterns, and scattered ladders and work tools gave the site the look of a place that was on someone’s to-do list.
Suddenly the clouds ripped open as a torrent of rain poured down. We sat on the dry steps of the shrine enjoying the sounds of rain drumming on the forest canopy while birds chittered complaints in the forest and tree frogs sang in celebration. It was lovely to wait out a squall with no appointments to attend to and no plans for the afternoon. As squalls do, it passed. We got back on our bikes and continued our tour of the island.
A treasure trove of glass floats filled this small fishing boat to the gunwhales.
As we neared the highest elevation on the road, lightning flashed in the distance. This time, it seemed clear the angry cloud mass was heading straight for us. There was no more leisure in this ride; it was time to get back to camp. The flashes and booms were still over ten miles away according to our primitive counting measurement system – one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand… The race was on.
As we neared our campsite, the clouds opened up and once again began to unleash sheets of rain. We hurriedly parked our bikes, grabbed our water bottles and rushed to the tent. As we did, we noticed something strange: the side of the building we were camped by was now open. It seemed magical. We hadn’t noticed any type of opening when we set up the tent. It turns out there was a rolling door, like a garage door. While we were gone exploring, some kind person had come along and opened the building for us. The opening revealed a friendly space with a dry concrete floor, kitchen sinks and stainless steel countertops – a perfect place to duck in out of the rain and cook our dinner!
We positioned our camp chairs near the opening and watched our poor tent get pounded by rain. Soon the thunder and lightening passed directly over us. I’ve always loved watching lightening storms. It was exciting and wild to have the strikes pass close by. We counted them as close as two miles away! Eventually the storm faded across the hills, across the sea and into the distance.
Rain, rain and more rain – waiting for a lull in a series of squalls on Yagishiri-to.
By now it was getting late. Our bellies were full of a hot soba concoction Jack had whipped up and our bodies were warmed by the last sips of peaty, smoky whiskey from a purchase at the Nikka Whiskey distillery. With the rain waning, I t was time for bed.
Our little tent is amazing. It had been thoroughly doused. Yet the fly had held out through the worst of it and our sleeping bags and all of the gear inside the tent was snug and dry. Nestled inside our cocoon, we both quickly drifted to sleep.
Then –
Flash! Crack! Boom! The lightning and thunder came in nearly simultaneous sequence, jolting us awake.
While we had been soundly asleep, another intense squall had crept upon the island. This time the lightning strikes were practically on top of us. Two in a row where there wasn’t time to count to one thousand-one between the nearly blinding flash and the earth-shaking boom had our eyes wide open. A tent previously described as “tough” and “sturdy” now seemed to be but a flimsy piece of nylon separating us from the elements. “Give me your hand!” I demanded of Jack. I grabbed his hand as another Flash! Crack! Boom! pounded down from the heavens. I squeezed my eyes shut but couldn’t keep out the blinding flashes. I plugged my ears to muffle the thunder’s roar. I wondered about people who’d been struck by lightening and had survived. What did that feel like? Were we going to be one of those stories?
“We’re in a low place,” Jack assured me. “We’ll be fine.”
The next blinding flash lit up the tent. This time the roar of thunder came after “one one thousand.” Maybe it was moving away? I still clung to Jack’s hand. Another blinding flash. I buried my head in my sleeping bag and counted – one one thousand. Then, right away, another flash – one one thousand, two one thousand. My heart was still racing. While this squall seemed to be passing, I wondered if another set of storm clouds would move in.
A few minutes passed and another flash came – one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand.
As the thunder and lightning slowly drifted further away, I finally released my grip on Jack’s hand. My heart slowly returned to its normal rate as the drumming of rain on our tent softened. For the remainder of the night it rained and rained, but the thunder and lightning had ceased. The next morning, I woke up wondering where exactly the lightening had struck. A moment later, I felt grateful that I didn’t know.
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