give it a few bounces. I mantle up to where the terrain becomes a little easier. The ridgeline leads due north for a few hundred meters before gratefully swinging around to the west. The afternoon sun heats up the north side of the ridge even as the chill wind whisks it away. Thereâs no path here of which to speak. The scant accounts Iâd read of the climb suggested "route-finding was paramount" and you may find faint, sporadic traces of a track. The recent typhoon, however, seemed to have scoured the mountain clean of any human activity, so Iâd have to rely on intuition. After traversing several sections, I spot a shiny brasscolored piton sticking out of the rock. I anchor my rope to it and move out across a thin ledge; I sling a solid rock flake on the other side before traversing back to undo the far anchor. Soloing like this is a slow game. I come upon a short chimney marked by a tattered piece of knotted rope and a rusting piton that moved horrifically in its crack as I tugged on it. I ignored it, took off my pack again and shimmied backwards up the crack. Once at the top it occurred to me I should have cut off the old rope or kicked out the piton, but now I was out of reach of either. By mid-afternoon Iâd reached a spire with a small, flat top with pleasing views of Yari and the surrounding mountains. I decided to call this home for the night. I built a small wall from rocks to keep the bitter wind at bay, huddled behind it and watched the sun dip into the clouds that cloaked the horizon. Yari seemed to fill the sky, demanding my attention. I gazed out along the ridge, trying to make out the lines of the peaks and spires, imagining tomorrowâs route. Finally, the sun disappeared into the Sea of Japan, and a pale half moon rose to throw its light over Yari's flanks. I noticed with alarm frost had already settled on my sleeping bag so I hurriedly tucked it into my bivy sack. I had a notion to make a small fire to warm up with before heading to sleep, but after half an hour of scrabbling around in the dark for firewood, I realized I was getting colder. The mercury hit minus eight as I burrowed into my bag, looking up at stars shooting across the planetarium overhead. Sleep came in dark, dreamless fits. The biting wind made a mockery of my wall, seeping into the small breathing hole in the bivy bag and chilling my cheeks and nose. Around midnight, nature called. I clambered out, shaking like a loon on this little peak. The thermometer read minus 12, and I was more grateful than ever Iâd brought the winter sleeping bag. Abruptly, a red line across the horizon signaled morning, and with it a cloudless sky. I drank a liter of Earl Grey tea, the last of my water, as the sun creeped above distant mountains, throwing beams of copper light over Yari's austere face. The first hour was over easy ground and solid rocks. Next came the first serious down climb, a crumbling tower with loose shale, simple enough but a tiring fight against constantly shifting ground and occasional unnerving rock falls. The thermometer still showed minus 10 on the shaded north side, and the wind ripped in fearsome gusts.
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Back on the ridge, I traversed to the sunward side and basked there for a few minutes, letting the heat come back to my hands. An easy crack led down to a short traverse and then to a chimney topped with aging slings and rope loops. I added one of my own to the collection before rappelling down into a chimney on the other side. The rock here was smooth, white limestone, loose and riddled with cracks. My rope ran out five or so meters from the bottom, and a rising sense of panic started to grip my chest. I forced myself to take slow, deep breaths and considered my options. Climbing down without a rope was out of the question. I laboriously climbed back up to the anchor, traversed over and found a shorter, safer route to the scree below. Across the talus the going was easier, but the windward side of the ridge was like another world, dark and bitterly cold. The far-off peaks of Mt. Tsurugi and Mt. Tateyama lay to the north, already cloaked in snow, glorious in the bright, late autumn sunshine. An icy rime covered much of this side of the mountain. Time and again I had to melt the next foothold with my bare hands, which were now swollen and red with altitude and exertion. The pads of several fingers had split on the cold granite and every sharp edge now seemed to seek out these wounds. Yari was close now, oppressively towering above. At this moment I realized that as much as I love the mountains, they donât think one iota of me. The last gully led me wearily out of the darkness and cold and onto the ridge for the final time. A flat section of ground marked Kitakama-daira where camp remnants lay scattered around. With the end in sight, I moved rapidly over the broken blocks that mark the base of Yari's summit pyramid. A quick traverse to the south side followed by 50 meters of easy climbing up the face led to the base of two chimneys, studded with ancient pitons, rusting, useless and mostly unnecessary.
SUMMER
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