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Cameron Dueck

I squint into the fog, my eyes streaming in the cold wind that whips over the mountain.
Did that rock just move? I give the bell hanging from my backpack a shake, wipe the tears from my eyes and look again at the dark shape 50 metres away. Jingle jingle. Nothing stirs; indeed, it is a rock and not a bear.
We continue up the mountainside while keeping an eye out for movement.
My partner and I are in the middle of a multi-day, 50km summer trek through Daisetsuzan National Park, in the mountainous centre of Japan’s northernmost main island of Hokkaido. Like the weather, bears are an ever-present danger.

Daisetsuzan, which translates as “great snowy mountains”, is the largest national park in Japan and boasts 16 peaks higher than 2,000 metres, several of which are included in Japan’s 100 Famous Peaks (the Hyakumeizan) ranking – a bucket list for many hikers.
We are attempting a section of the Daisetsuzan Traverse, which snakes along the north-south spine of the mountain range, the route cutting across exposed alpine meadows and craggy peaks, all under an expansive sky.
“If you wish to know the height of a mountain, climb Mount Fuji. If you wish to know the scale of a mountain, climb the Daisetsuzan Mountain Range,” wrote Japanese poet Keigetsu Omachi, who traversed the range in 1921.
Black bears are common in much of Japan, but, as an added challenge, Hokkaido is home to Japan’s only population of brown bears, which can weigh more than 300kg. Numbers of both species have risen in recent decades, with the population of brown bears having more than doubled over the past 30 years to an estimated 11,700 in 2020. A record 219 people were victims of bear attacks, six of them fatal, in Japan in the year to March 2024, according to the environment ministry. Like most hikers, we carry bells and pepper spray as protection.

Our trek begins with a ride on a ropeway gondola part of the way up Asahidake, the highest peak in Hokkaido, at 2,291 metres. It feels like cheating but we are off to a late start after a long bus trip from Otaru to reach the base of the mountain and our packs are heavy, filled with food and gear for at least four days of adventure.
Our starting jitters are amplified by a warning posted at the trail head, at the base of the mountain: the streams are dry at our first planned campsite. We buy an extra three litres of water from a cafe at the gondola station, making our loads even heavier.
The steep 700-metre climb to the peak of Asahidake is popular with day trippers, despite the rotten-egg stench emanating from geothermal vents that boil beside the trail, occasionally engulfing us in clouds of steam. As we pant and strain under our loads, tourists in trainers skip gaily past, carrying nothing more than a snack.

We reach the peak and then plunge down the backside of the mountain, away from the tourists and into the wilderness of Daisetsuzan. The descent is even steeper than the climb, down a trackless slope covered in loose sand and shale. We sidestep and skid our way down to a wide, windy valley that contains a designated campsite: rings of rocks to protect our tent and a toilet shack.
A dirty grey snowfield clings to the side of the mountain, but there isn’t enough melting snow to fill the creek that runs by the campsite, making us grateful for the extra water we are carrying.
Strict rules to preserve the fragile alpine environment include prohibitions against washing dishes in streams and burying human waste. While some campsites and huts include drop toilets, many offer only a privacy shelter where hikers defecate into plastic bags that they then must carry out themselves.

Darkness falls soon after we have our tent set up, and we pull on our warmest layers before dining on packets of rehydrated rice. Unsure of where we’ll find the next water supply, we resist the temptation of a hot cocoa.
The next morning dawns clear and crisp, and we eat a cold breakfast – again to conserve water. We set off surrounded by volcanic mountains, many of which belch steam and yellow sulphur.
It is near midday before we finally cross a small muddy stream from which I am able to filter enough water to refill our empty bottles.
We climb up and over the 2,230-metre peak of Hakuundake and stop at the refuge hut to cook up lunch on our camp stove and quench our thirst at a nearby spring. The bright-red hut offers a stunning view of the ridge line that will take us south.

The sun is warm on our faces as we shoulder our packs and follow the trail through scrubby rowan trees, with their bright-red berries. Although much of the trail is too high for the large spruce and fir trees that carpet the valleys below, the meadows are green with Siberian dwarf pine, thick mosses and low bushes dotted with tart lingonberries. The white flowers of the Aleutian avens, an alpine shrub known as chinguruma in Japanese, are turning into pale, feather-like seed pods.
The Chubetsudake refuge hut is wrapped in mist when we arrive late in the afternoon, stumbling through the door to surprise a lone hiker, who is cocooned in his sleeping bag. The hut, like most in the park, is a simple wooden structure without electricity, water or furniture.
We spread our sleeping mats out on the wood floor and hang our socks up to dry. After filling our water bottles in the rocky ravine next to the hut, we retreat inside for an early night.

A cold rain is falling when we awake at dawn. Even so, the stream beside the hut has run dry overnight, leaving us to once again ration our water supplies.
I download a weather forecast on my satellite device, which predicts heavy rain and wind in the coming day. We decide on a short hike, and to take refuge in a hut instead of camping, as planned.
Research has given us a respect for the unpredictable weather in these mountains. Most people attempt this trek in July or August, but even in the peak of summer, the storms can be deadly. In July 2009, a group of 15 hikers led by three guides was trekking the same route we are on. The weather deteriorated and the hikers were soaked by the end of the second day. The hut they stayed in was crowded, so they were unable to dry their gear. The weather continued to worsen, but they foolishly left the safety of the hut to complete their route. Eight members of the group died of hypothermia on the trail, and two other hikers died on nearby peaks soon after.
The threat of bad weather drives us forward – to a large pile of fresh droppings, dotted with bright-red berries, in the middle of the trail. The droppings are undisturbed by the rain, suggesting that the bear that deposited them passed by recently.
The animal remains elusive but we are sodden by the time we arrive at the Hisagonuma refuge, located beside a little mountain lake. The hut is empty when we arrive, so we strip down for a frigid wash – without soap, to keep the lake pure – and then settle down to wait for the storm.

The wind picks up and it begins to rain before three university students show up. We share our weather forecast with them and they, too, decide to wait in the hut.
That night the hut shudders in the wind while rain hammers at the roof. We take inventory of our food, rationing supplies to last an extra day, and pass the time reading by the light of our headlamps and drinking tea.
The storm continues the next day, and except for short trips outside for water or to wash – picking our way over slippery rocks to the edge of the lake, which is creeping ever higher – or to use the drop toilet, we remain huddled in our sleeping bags, giving our aching legs a rest.
Late that afternoon, with the storm still raging, two hikers stumble into the hut, soaking wet and wide-eyed after a 10km dash from another refuge. I admire their courage, but am content in our more cautious approach.
Soon, the storm begins to abate, and a brilliant rainbow arches over the lake.

The wind is still strong the following morning, but the skies are clearing as we leave the hut just after dawn for a long final day of walking.
It turns out to be the hardest day as the trail takes us up and down massive rockfalls where we have to clamber over boulders the size of refrigerators. But with the effort come beautiful views over the peaks, with dirty patches of snow clinging to the mountainsides and clear-blue lakes that sparkle in the valleys.
In the afternoon, we begin the long, knee-pounding 10km descent from Mount Tomuraushi. The trail leads us through thick birch and spruce forest, and we snack on late-season blueberries that have grown fat and sweet in the summer sun.
With all of our food eaten, our packs are lighter than they were at the start, but our hearts are full as we hike the last few kilometres, the tinkle of our bear bells echoing through the forest.


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A hike through stormy Daisetsuzan, Hokkaido: Japan’s largest national park

The writer Cameron Dueck trekking past a lake in Daisetsuzan National Park. Photo: Fiona Ching

The flowers of the Aleutian avens turn into white featherlike seed pods in late summer. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Obstacles towards the end of the trek include boulders the size of refrigerators. Photo: Cameron Dueck

The Hisagonuma refuge hut, located next to a small alpine lake. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Lingonberries provide a bright pop of colour in the landscape. Photo: Cameron Dueck

Hiking the ridgeline of the national park. Photo: Fiona Ching

The trails of the Daisetsuzan National Park are rugged and exposed. Photo: Fiona Ching

Dueck standing atop a ridgeline in Daisetsuzan National Park. Photo: Fiona Ching

A rainbow appears after a storm that kept the author shelter-bound in the park. Photo: Fiona Ching

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Travel

The ‘great snowy mountains’ are a must for many hikers, but the fickle weather poses a threat for even the most accomplished


The ‘great snowy mountains’ are a must for many hikers, but the fickle weather poses a threat for even the most accomplished.


A hike through stormy Daisetsuzan, Hokkaido: Japan’s largest national park

.css-1c6uqr6{color:inherit;font-weight:inherit;font-size:inherit;font-family:inherit;line-height:inherit;overflow-wrap:break-word;}The ‘great snowy mountains’ are a must for many hikers, but the fickle weather poses a threat for even the most accomplished

The ‘great snowy mountains’ are a must for many hikers, but the fickle weather poses a threat for even the most accomplished