EPTI finished each of the remaining days of the blog before posting this. Everything is 100% done, formatted, and ready to publish. I'm going to post once a day for the next six days. I sincerely hope you enjoy the blog, regardless of how long it took me to complete it.
I had an ambitious itinerary planned for the next day. I was going to take a train to Kotohira, plow through the lengthy hike to the top Mount Zōzu, visit the Shintō shrines scattered along the mountain path, feast on Shikoku's famous udon, take another train to Takematsu, find a hotel, wander the famed gardens of Ritsurin Koen, and sample the local nightlife. It was a lot to cram into a single day, but I'd arisen early. By this point in my trip, I was maybe a little too comfortable with the Japanese rail system. Trains ran so frequently! Surely I wouldn't have any problem making my way between destinations.
Three hours later, I found myself occupying one of only three seats in the tiniest train station I had ever seen. To call this place a station would have been overstating its very existence. It was a stop, a speed bump—a pigeon-sized blip amongst C-130s on the radar system that is the vast Japanese rail network. Long grass ran as far as the eye could see in one direction, terminating at some undeveloped hills in the other. I couldn't see any buildings. Three schoolchildren stared at me with looks of total bewilderment on their young faces. What was I even doing here?
I didn't have an answer to that question. Somehow, I had boarded the wrong train during my changeover in Tadotsu, riding it south nearly to Mino before realizing my mistake. I had then disembarked at a random station in order to turn around. When I had boarded the wrong train a week prior in Osaka, I had disembarked, walked ten feet, and been on a train back to my previous destination in 30 seconds flat; the flow of trains had been continuous. On Shikoku, however, things moved... a little... more... slowly. No trains were bound for Tadotsu for over an hour. The schoolchildren continued to glance in my direction from time to time. Even Tommy Lee Jones, his face present on a nearby vending machine, seemed confused by my present circumstance.
![[image loading]](http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2118/35/36/64200053/n64200053_30594293_9999.jpg)
Oh Tommy.
When I set foot in Kotohira nearly two hours later, I was a man on a mission. This goddam train and goddam inconvenience was not going to ruin my goddam day, not a goddam chance. I stashed my backpack in a coin locker and set off at a brisk pace towards the shrine.
Near the base of the mountain, however, I noticed two young men busily producing udon noodles behind a large pane of glass. A glance inside the restaurant revealed dozens of people happily slurping away. I was sold. The hike could wait. Lonely Planet had recommended I purchase a particular variety of udon noodles while in Shikoku, so I took a stab at the pronunciation.
"No soup noodles," said the waitress. "Noodles. No soup. OK?"
"Hai," I nodded.
"Use soy sauce. Please wait eight minutes," she said, scurrying off towards the kitchen. I noted the time on a nearby clock. I already loved this place. The interior was an eclectic mix of well-worm wood furnishings. Though the tables and chairs appeared to be from the same maker, none were identical. The outside doors were flung wide open, inviting in the mild breeze. Exactly eight minutes later, my udon arrived.
Served chilled with scallions and dried bonito flakes, these noodles were heaven. I drizzled a bit of soy sauce on them, looked to the waitress to ensure that my actions were acceptable, and dug in. The noodles had a slightly chewy texture and a delicate flavor—absolutely perfect. It makes me a little sad to think that I will probably never have noodles of that quality again. Had I not been about to embark on a hike, I would have ordered seconds without hesitation.
![[image loading]](http://photos-e.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2118/35/36/64200053/n64200053_30594228_7292.jpg)
The start of the hike.
![[image loading]](http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2118/35/36/64200053/n64200053_30594229_7534.jpg)
Another shot.
![[image loading]](http://photos-h.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2118/35/36/64200053/n64200053_30594231_8020.jpg)
Stairs.
As much as I would like to say I savored the atmospheric hike up to Kampira-san, the reality is that I plowed through that mountain. I blew past older couples, most of whom were in elegant attire and carrying long walking sticks. I overtook younger couples, too, who tended to favored casual clothing and carried huge, impractical digital cameras around their necks. I took the steep steps two at a time and stopped only to snap photos and mop the accumulation of sweat from my forehead. Near the summit, I passed a trio of young, fit Japanese men and two French guys who were smoking cigarettes on the side of the trail and complaining about the lack of water. I was on a mission.
Just a couple hundred meters from the top—I did not find out how close I was until later—a wasp began to buzz around my head. Trying to evade it, I ran smack into an enormous spider web and its two-inch-wide, vibrant green occupant. As I was shaking the web off of me, doing what I am sure was a very entertaining dance in the process, I noticed a six-inch-long, golden lizard near my feet.
![[image loading]](http://photos-b.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2118/35/36/64200053/n64200053_30594233_8539.jpg)
Lizard!
At that point, I decided to turn around. I passed the Japanese trio and French duo during my descent. Both parties asked if I had reached the summit. I answered "hai" and "oui," respectively, but not because I felt the need to impress them with my speed. Rather, I didn't want to explain that I ran like a little girl at the sight of two insects and a salamander.
![[image loading]](http://photos-c.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2118/35/36/64200053/n64200053_30594234_8784.jpg)
After the hike.
On the walk back to the train station, I heard a squeal of delight. I looked up. A young boy wearing only his underwear was regarding me from a second story balcony. The boy squealed again and hid behind a curtain, but his legs were still visible beneath it. I stopped for a moment. The boy slowly peeked his head out from behind the curtain. I waved to him. His face lit up with a huge grin, and he waved back fervently. I started walking again. I could hear the boy yelling into his house, "Papa! Papa!"
