The Distant Mountain

There is a fascination with mountainous regions that I think most people share. While on the West Highland Line towards Fort William I noticed many passengers taking innumerable photos of the landscape that surrounded us. Beautiful peaks capped with snow, deep lochs, cold mist, and brilliant sunshine. It was landscape straight from a postcard.

I have encountered similar reactions on other journeys through mountain regions, whether they are in the UK, Europe, or Japan. People are drawn to the scenery in all its stark glory, with the awe-inspiring sight of snow-capped peaks a source of discussion and wonderment. But what often stands out when observing these reactions is that the vast majority do not appear to be hikers or climbers, and in the case of the Fort William train, were dressed in a way that suggested they didn’t spend much time in (genuinely) cold conditions. This distinction between mountain users, and others isn’t necessarily obvious (unless you are walking through a mountain town in full climbing kit), but it exists, nonetheless. And it plays an important role in the mystique of mountainous regions, their distance, both literally, and figuratively from a broader population, and the hold that they have over a collective imagination, even when many might never consider actively exploring them.

Mountains are (potentially) dangerous, geographically removed, often towering above the urban sprawl of (many) modern cities, with those who spend a lot of time in these landscapes often viewed as somewhat wild, and perhaps have an element of natural power about. Indeed, anyone who has ever encountered groups of new or casual hikers when in the mountains can see a sense of awe about the way they look at, and interact with the landscape, coupled with the space and respect that many (perhaps unintentionally) give those who clearly spend a significant portion of their lives exploring such spaces. But that makes those who interact with such spaces on a regular basis potentially dangerous and unknowable, they do not quite conform to the norms of the urban every day, even if that is where they may spend much of their time.

A common theme, which emerges in conversations with other climbers and walkers, is that mountains offer respite, or relief, some talk about a sense of liberation, if only temporary, from societal pressures. As an acquaintance put it, climbing mountains gives them time to think and to be away from the pressures of urban life. Other comments encountered in discussion with mountain users range from the individual’s appearance, wearing clothing appropriate to the physical nature of the landscape, bringing a sense of freedom in bodily movement, to a general release from the everyday burden of expectations, which is often (but not always) work related.

People focus on mountains as they are commonly deemed to be the most permanent, majestic, and awe-inspiring features in a landscape, that captures the collective imagination. And as Veronica della Dora suggests, their hard stone transcends human temporariness, as an absolute mode of being (Dora, 2016; 8). Indeed, a common refrain when dealing with the instabilities of mountain regions is that ‘the mountain will always be there’, suggesting that while a particular journey or challenge has not been completed in the moment, it can be finished at another point in time. In the West, mountains have helped to shape our perception of wilderness and the sacred, with the history of mountains and mountain use also being the history of our relationship with the natural and the supernatural Other’ (Dora, 2016; 8).

But why the supernatural Other? While mountains have long been the focus of religious veneration, much of that has either been lost, or slipped into distant memory. It can be easy to dismiss talk of the supernatural, or the spiritual as ‘hippy nonsense’, or laughed at for the same reason, but there is an unknowable, complex quality to mountain regions that can be difficult to properly explain or articulate. This Otherness, remoteness, and discomfort, but also sense of freedom that can accompany such places is of central importance to their use and significance. Our understanding of ‘wilderness’ as a concept is very much informed by the relative distance from the urban that mountainous regions offer. Even in Europe, with its high level of development, and infrastructure in the mountains, one can still feel remote and removed from the world below, as you traverse high ridgelines, and move across snow and glaciated terrain.

This ‘strangeness of terrain’ often inspires in the mind an ‘attitude of reverence and adoration’, elevating geological features and geographic space to that of the ‘sacred realm’ (MacCulloh, 1930; 863). As Ichiro Hori (1966) suggests, we might say that ‘mountains in their very nature have some measure of holiness’, or as Rudolf Otto (1946), might say, the terms ‘holy’, or ‘numinous’ have the elements of ‘mysterium tremendum and fascinosum’ (awe-inspiring and evocative mystery) (Otto, 1946; 5-40; quoted in Hori, 1966; 3). And mountains are still sacred, perhaps not in an overtly religious sense, but talk to any dedicated mountain user, and the mountains are treated with veneration and respect. They are ambivalent spaces, beautiful, awe-inspiring, but also fickle, scary, and dangerous; a place to be enjoyed, but also respected in equal measure.

The concept of ‘wilderness’ invokes a sense of wonder and displacement, existing ‘out there’ beyond the boundaries of the urban. Remote, beautiful, otherworldly, and scary; wilderness is therefore ‘psychological as much as it is geographical’, a state of mind and state of being (Dora, 2016; 8). Mountains represent a complex, and often contradictory existence, regions that repulse and attract, cause fear, but also desire. They are a form of wilderness, a comparatively wild space that largely defies our attempts at control and order.

Even the infrastructure that does exist in places like the Alps, and the central mountains of Japan sits in a precarious place. Rockfalls, avalanches, changes in glaciers and other factors can affect whether it survives, or needs to be moved/reinforced. Over time they have been progressively ‘domesticated’ with trails, ropeways, and lodges, but even today they attract ‘seekers of spiritual quietness and extreme emotions alike’, alongside those simply seeking a break from the everyday over a weekend or holiday (Dora, 2016; 9).

Mountains, like the sacred, are ‘usually perceived as wholly Other’, ‘floating above the clouds, materializing out of the mist, mountains appear to belong to a world utterly different from the one we know’ (Bernbaum, 1998; XV, quoted in Dora, 2016; 9). Which, I think, goes a long way to explain their clear draw to many of us, who perhaps seek some respite from the stresses of urban living, or who do not feel that they belong in an urban environment, and who need space to roam and explore. Sentiments that in recent years has resulted in a rise in people choosing to hike and explore these regions, resulting in areas of overcrowding, but they are specific nodes in a complex landscape, and there is invariably space for those who seek out a quieter existence.

We still attempt to control and domesticate, often through the creation of lists – the 4000ers of the Alps, the Wainwrights, the Munros, the Hyakumeizan, etc – to give order to an (often) chaotic space. Mountain climbing is, however, not simply, and exclusively, about collecting peaks (as one might collect stamps, baseball cards, or comics), even as various lists of ‘famous’ mountains exist, thus promoting an element of ‘Peak Bagging’, to use an English phrase. As Nan Shepherd (1977) has stated, ‘This may be fun, but is sterile […] to reduce to the level of a game what is essentially an experience’ (Shepherd, 1977; 4). To reduce a complex and evocative landscape to a mere ‘checklist’ results in a sterile space alienated from its inherent multiplicity. Major trails in the Northern Alps of Japan, or the European Alps (or indeed in any major mountain region) invariably involve climbing famous mountains that are part of one list or another, but to many these are mere signposts, markers in a complex landscape, giving a sense of scale, time, and distance.

One couple I met in the Hakuba region of Japan recounted a journey they made during the summer, following the Omote Ginza route in the Northern Alps (one of the most popular traverses). This route starts at the trailhead for Tsubakurodake, it then follows the ridgeline south, before turning west towards Yarigatake, one of the peaks that all serious mountain users in Japan want to climb, and finally descending into Kamikochi valley where it ends. There are variations of the route that involve climbing additional significant peaks like Jonendake, but all have Tsubakurodake, Kamikochi, and Yarigatake as major foci within the landscape. One comment that stood out came from the woman who mentioned how little she found herself thinking about the stresses associated with daily life. She talked about having a stressful period in which she was switching jobs after her previous company had made her redundant (with a brief comment suggesting that the company in question had primarily got rid of its female staff), and as such this hike was a chance to unwind (specifically using the Japanese English ‘Rirakkusu’).

Both agreed that this feeling was one of the reasons that they kept returning to the mountains. It allowed them a necessary distance, even if only temporary.  They talked about the value of their multi-day hikes, focussing exclusively on the mountains, and although thoughts of their urban lives meandered in and out of consciousness, they felt present in the moment, enjoying the landscape, and the sense of freedom that it provided. This distance (both physical and emotional) is an important factor within broader mountain activities. Furthermore, while they were traversing one of the most famous routes in the Northern Alps, their focus was not on collecting peaks, but on the journey and the landscape itself.

Indeed, upon inquiring about how many of the Hyakumeizan they had climbed they did not know, but assumed it was quite a few as they had been climbing mountains for many years. A sentiment that others share, spending less time thinking about specific numbers of mountains, and more about the journeys that are undertaken. Indeed, as an acquaintance once put to me, the number of mountains climbed should be the result of an interest or dedication to exploring mountain spaces, not the main goal. Something I firmly agree with – you climb lots of mountains because you like climbing mountains – to focus exclusively on filling out a list arguably misses out on other factors, such as physical and emotional freedom, or a broader sense of adventure. Saying all of this, lists have their place, as interest means of keeping track of use, or as a goal for those who perhaps need a more focussed approach to space.

Wild Landscape

A key aspect to these journeys is the way landscape and its uses are linked to conceptualisations of identity and belonging. The means through which we approach their use – sport, tools, speed, specific routes – all plays a role in these formations. To be a fast mountaineer/mountain runner is different from a hiker, or a climber. All are using the same spaces, but via different means, and with different goals in mind. Here I am drawn to some of the ideas of Melanie Tebbutt in her exploration of manly identity and its links to Derbyshire’s Dark Peak during the Victorian and Edwardian periods (1837-1901/1902-1910). And although such discussions have to be treated in their historical context (we are no longer in the Victorian/Edwardian periods…), there remain certain themes that still appear to inform identity, use, and belonging. Specific the belief that the frequent intense physical and emotional relationship with the upland environment was very different from the passive contemplation of scenic views often associated with ‘elite consumption’ (Tebbutt, 2006; 1127). We could spend time in nice hotels/spas in the mountains, enjoying the scenery, but that would be a passive enjoyment, lacking in direct interaction with the mountains and valleys that surround us.

Think about the differences between an influencer who visits specific scenic spaces, and those who climb, hike, and run. The types of photos and video, and their locations will be very different, and be associated with entirely different attitudes towards ‘nature’, a highly nebulous concept that can almost mean anything to anyone. This is, of course, an overly simplistic differentiation, as there is a lot of overlap between different groups. However, more broadly we see this distinction between those who are actively engaged in exploring mountainous terrain, and those who focus on a specific type of photography/videography in a ‘natural’ setting. And although Tebbutt is specifically discussing male identities within a specific historical period, those same themes appear within discussions of mountain use, and its importance in the creation of a form of ‘mountain identity’.

Now, Dark Peak is something of a British curiosity, the highest and wildest part of the Peak District in Northern England, which at 500-600m above sea level seems almost quaint to anyone familiar with alpine terrain thousands of metres above. However, this eroded remnant of a volcanic massif is important to this discussion, in part because its role in the formations of an ‘uplands identity’ illuminates certain attitudes that are still visible today. It is positioned as the wild uplands where men could prove themselves in a harsh and demanding environment (Matless, 1998). To this broader discussion of identity and landscape, it was considered a place for physical interaction rather than contemplation. Landscape as a realm of interaction, an experiential space, rather than somewhere for philosophical musings (Miller, 1882; 207-229). A semi-mythical space where ‘hard men would pit their wits against the elements, and in the consciousness of the period, often won’ (Tebbutt, 2006; 1127).

To any contemporary hiker, climber, or runner this attitude would seem laughable, especially to those, who, as mentioned, have experience in alpine terrain. And yet, if we take a step back from the specific geographical context, and look at the ideas that surrounded its use, there are clear similarities with (certain) contemporary approaches to mountains, and their uses. Mountains are easier to visit than ever before, either via car or public transport; (relatively) comfortable lodges have appeared across the Alps, and the mountains of Japan, and trails are mapped and, depending on their position, looked after. There are also numerous ropeways and ski resorts that can take you from the valley floor directly into the alpine, bypassing (often) long and arduous climbs. Mountains are accessible, and via these forms of transport we can now visit numerous peaks and ranges in relatively quick succession. When we are out running, hiking, or climbing, there is little of the wilderness of our imaginations left, assuming it ever existed in the first place. And yet, mountains remain a special place where people can pit themselves against the elements, removed from what some might consider a claustrophobic domesticity found in the urban landscape below.

Mountains remain physically, emotionally, and conceptually separate from the urban, places where a sense of freedom can be found, if only briefly, alongside mental and physical challenges that may otherwise be absent from our daily lives. Albert Smith (1995) points out that ‘mountaineering and athleticism cultivated manliness’ in Victorian Britain, a diverse concept which included ‘elements of physical vigour or health, patriotic or military qualities, traditions of chivalry or honour, and moral or spiritual codes of conduct’ (Smith, 1995; 321) (See Giroud, 1981; Vance, 1985; and Hyam, 1990 for further details on this subject). Now, if we replace ‘manliness’ with ‘mental and physical toughness’, or the newer ‘resilience’, we encounter a continuation of this attitude. Conspicuously, ‘military qualities’, alongside traditions of chivalry and honour have remained, or been reimagined in recent years with the increase in ex-military personnel creating mountain specific brands and groups with mountain use at their centre. Perhaps less-so in mainland Europe, but quite conspicuous in the UK.

‘Resilience Training’ has become an increasingly common phrase within the discourse around mountain activities – at least in the UK – something that simultaneously describes a physical state, as much as a mental one. To be ‘resilient’ is to be physically tough, and be able to deal with a wide variety of weather and conditions, but also be mentally strong, to cope with whatever issues that one might encounter. For the most part ‘resilience’ as it is most often used in contemporary discourse often appears to be a reinterpretation of the Victorian ‘manliness’, at least in as much as it is primarily used by male trainers/coaches in relation to difficult weather and conditions. One must be a ‘hard man’ who can pit themselves against the elements and the landscape to return refreshed and reinvigorated. There are of course subtilties to this discourse, and rarely is it quite so overt, but the continued use of such language and iconography in relation to these landscapes is fascinating.

In this we see how the central themes mentioned by Albert Smith are still very much a part of contemporary use. A reimagining, or ‘rebranding’ if you will of traditions of honour and chivalry to contemporary use. We still see discussions of ‘pure’ style in alpinism, an ambiguous notion that has much to do with feeling as it is the physical way in which one climbs. With moral and spiritual codes of conduct that allow us to do justice to a landscape that retains some of its wild qualities, even as infrastructure is built to ease access, and open up valleys and peaks that would otherwise be (more) remote. There is much to be said about this discussion, not least because talking about a ‘pure style’ suggests the existence of an ‘impure style’. The existence of such language suggests a moral code of mountain use, and that via a specific approach one is being honourable, and has style, which, by extension suggests that others who may not use the same approach lack said style. ‘Style’ being both a description of how one approaches a climb, but also how one dresses and equips for the task at hand. This is perhaps an argument of semantics, a discussion of language and words, and yet, what people say – and don’t say – matters a great deal. The language of use tells us a lot about how people perceive their environment, and those who use it. As such I find the discussion of ‘style’ fascinating, especially as it is at the heart of mountain use, but that is a discussion for another time.

The way we talk about, and conceptualise these landscapes and the activities that take us there is important, as it illustrates their position in relation to the urban and everyday. That the language (or perhaps attitudes) of the Victorian and Edwardian periods is still in use, albeit in modified form, suggests a continued vision of a wild, distant landscape, where one goes to develop physical, mental, and moral skills, qualities that may be perceived as lacking elsewhere. As mountainous regions become increasingly easy to access, with more developments in infrastructure helping to ease one’s passage from valley to summit, the physicality of these spaces remains essential to their conceptualisation. The journeys have to be out ‘There’, away from an understanding of domesticity and comfort. The presence of infrastructure – lodges, roads, public transport, ropeways – has to be ignored for this to occur, with photos and discussions presenting a wilder, more remote space than exists in reality. There is friction here, between various groups, approaches, styles, and attitudes. It is often under the surface, or barely visible, only to appear in moments of heightened tension, such as an accident, or other type of disaster.

A Natural Resource

In this discussion we see how landscape has remained an important resource, one that is essential to concepts of identity and belonging, alongside attitudes towards the mountains themselves. I talk about ‘resources’ because that is what it is, a social and cultural resource that is central to modern mountain sports and everything that surrounds them. Without this resource any discussion (whether it is semantic or otherwise) regarding ‘styles’, or the role of outdoor spaces in the development of strong mentalities and physical skills would not exist. Mountain spaces are as much a cultural resource as a physical one. Physically we see the infrastructure created, and then further developed to aid in our exploration of these spaces. The recently opened Mer de Glace gondola was created to facilitate access to a shrinking glacier for example. There are also innumerable other ropeways, train, bus, and other services all aiding in accessing such regions. But the physical only goes so far, and without the cultural, these regions would have likely remained distant backwaters, dark, and (seemingly) devoid of life. It is the cultural imagination, and mountains place within it that allows these other projects to exist. They are a place of adventure, endurance; somewhere to test yourself, perhaps discover something new and exciting, or to remove yourself from the noises below.

What I find interesting is that while the cultural significance of mountains is what arguably plays into their continued use, and what drives me to go out running and climbing, it is their physical use as a resource which is as important, as it is often overlooked. Here I will turn to an example from Japan. In her discussion of Meiji period (1868-1912) ideologues Karen Wigen discusses how they had an idea for landscape as a place for the creation of a nation and a national image. This is hardly unique to Japan, with certain mountains coming to symbolise specific countries, even if many of them also serve as borders between one country and another. in this the exploitation of natural resources has often been far more opaque, and destructive. To return to Japan (for that is one area of my expertise), since the Meiji period, Japan’s national park system has tended towards prioritising tourism and natural resource development over conservation and protection (See Oyadomari, 1985; Knight, 2004, 2007, 2010; McCormack, 2001; Kingston, 2005). This is, however, far from unique to Japan, and if we look at the history of national parks across Europe, or America (for example), we see how their creation happened (relatively) recently, in many cases in response to growing tourism in the area.

Mark Patrick McGuire (2013) in his discussion of the Japanese governments use of UNESCO status on areas of landscape argues that, while Japan has twenty-nine national parks, they only cover 5.9 percent of its total land (far less than most other countries with significant mountain landscapes), and are not protected from ‘environmentally detrimental development’, or human activity (McGuire, 2013; 334). Gavan McCormack (2001) points out that the passage of the 1987 Resort Law deliberately encouraged development of tourist facilities in national parks in order to provide affordable leisure space for office workers that did not interfere with other financially viable areas of the landscape (primarily the timber industry) (McCormack, 2001; 87-88). McCormack (2001) goes on to suggest that this law evoked a ‘perceived need for relaxation and communion with the natural order’, thus creating a ‘bubble of speculation and corruption’, as landscape was flattened and sculpted to create ski resorts, golf courses, and resorts, with many remaining unfinished and abandoned when the Bubble Economy burst in the 90s (McCormack, 2001; 88).

I have personally seen abandoned onsen built high on mountain sides with no visible access, and ski resorts that have been swallowed up by the undergrowth, as they appear to have been built without any clear consideration given to population centres and access. Around major resorts one often encounters smaller ski areas that were built to take advantage of potential increased tourism, only to be left to rust and collapse.  One can also regularly encounter disintegrating mountain lodges – built with little understanding of the landscape and its uses, existing between more famous lodges in no-man’s land – these buildings are invariably in a state of total collapse, rotten rooves, and smashed windows.

Even close to Tokyo on the slopes of the Kumotorisan range. When climbing up the northern ridge – a trail that starts in Mitsumine-jinja in Saitama Prefecture – one passes half a dozen rotten buildings, old lodges that were clearly built to serve what was considered a popular hiking trail. However, the only lodges that remain on this range are just below the summits of Kumotorisan, and Nanatsuichi, a subsidiary summit further along the south ridge. This results in the northern trail, which gets far less foot traffic, being somewhat eerie and unnerving, as you pass these buildings collapsing into the forest. Piles of rotten wood, smashed glass, and in some cases old and disintegrating futons, a testament to thoughts behind their construction, and the time they have been left to rot.

As McGuire (2013) goes on to point out, scholars such as Oyamodori, McCormack, and Knight have highlighted how ‘national park land is inadequately protected from unsustainably managed tourism, hunting, real estate development, natural resource exploitation, and introduced species’. And that ‘even where appropriately robust legislation is in place, overburdened and underfinanced park staff without proper training in wilderness or wildlife conservation cannot perform assigned research and conservation tasks and instead devote their time to mitigating damage caused by park visitors’ (McGuire, 2013; 333-334). A landscape is first exploited for natural resources, but once it becomes symbolic of a nation, or national identity, it is preserved for tourist purposes.

Japan might seem a world away from the Lake District, Snowdonia, or the Alps, and yet, many of those same problems exist elsewhere. As outdoor sports become increasingly popular – arguably they have always been popular, but the number of people out hiking and climbing seems to have grown exponentially in recent years – landscapes are worn down. Queues along the Snowdon summit ridge is a very British example, as hundreds of people walk up the Llanberis trail for a summit shot, without ever entirely exploring the landscape. As national parks, or perhaps it is better to talk about National Landscapes become an increasingly important source for tourism, they also get worn down. A natural resource treated as eternal, that is nevertheless fragile, and ephemeral. Landscape infrastructure has to be changed and adapted to the current demands. Trails are paved over to try and save them from catastrophic erosion, and what might have once been relatively quiet summits and ridges are now over-crowded and noisy. In many respects, Snowdon, despite being a perfect example of this, is an unfair one. As it has had a summit railway since 1896, but it is also far from unique in its issues with overcrowding. It is just that such issues might appear in a different guise, or on a different scale.

Friends and acquaintances who work in and around some of Japan’s national parks – either at major ski resorts, mountain lodges, or mountain patrols – talk about spending their time in the summer constantly repairing and replacing what they can on major trails in their immediate vicinity, with little time given to anything beyond. Major work only appears to be carried out once trails are collapsing into the valleys below and are genuinely dangerous. One example of this is found just below Akadake of the Yatsugatake range. There is a series of metal stairs that are corroded and sway back and forth when used. They are due to be replaced, but the process has been delayed for several years, which has resulted in an important set of stairs gradually deteriorating and becoming increasingly dangerous and precarious. It genuinely feels as if they will collapse, so I have been quick to climb or descend when using them, or more generally trying to avoid them altogether.

The concentrated nature of major trails in popular regions like Kamikochi and Tateyama makes conservation difficult. On Tateyama visitors are confined to cobbled trails during the summer in an effort to protect the high-altitude meadow and wetlands. Whereas around Hakuba and Kamikochi green rope and wooden or metal posts are used to demarcate where one can, and cannot stand. Although in all cases, these efforts only extend to an area immediately around major lodges, demarcated as a ’conservation area’, with the landscape beyond left to its own devices. Admittedly, such landscape is precipitous enough that to step off the trail can often mean walking off a cliff, and as such is ill advised.

Those researchers who I have encountered on Tateyama, and other areas of the northern alps are primarily focussed on geological and volcanological research, as there are a number of recently active volcanoes in the area, not to mention active fault zones. However, their research primarily funded by local governments, in part to see how they can safeguard major tourist regions. And whereas there are efforts in the European Alps to study and understand people’s impact on the landscape, I have yet to encounter something similar taking place in the Northern Alps of Japan. Anecdotally, as an acquaintance who works on Tateyama pointed out to me, the continued existence of these highland meadows, and alpine marshland is more a happy coincidence than part of a deliberate plan. The Alpine Route was created to provide infrastructure support in the construction of the Kurobe Dam (1956-1963), with much of the meadowland considered to be too expensive, and time consuming to build on at the time. Resulting in the road leading up onto the plateau winding its way along the side of the mountains rather than straight through the meadow and wetlands. Thus, an area of ‘important biodiversity’ according to the Alpine Route website, exists due to time and financial constraints rather than as a conscious effort to protect fragile upland meadows and rare high-altitude marshlands.

This may appear as a tangent, but it is important to contextualise the ideological landscape of the Japanese Alps, as discussed by Wigen (2005), with the problematic nature of national parks and resource exploitation that often appears to go unnoticed by those who participate in mountain activities. The irony is that this exploitation has resulted in the very access points that are now essential to the exploration of certain particularly prized and impressive upland regions across the Japanese Alps. This discussion is further complicated when we consider that Wigens (2005) central argument is that the Japanese Alps as a defined geographic space were created, not for recreational purposes, but for educational and ideological reasons as a ‘resource for geographical enlightenment’ (Wigen, 2005; 26).

As such, while such geographical enlightenment has in some respects succeeded (perhaps not in the ways ideologue likes Kojima intended), the problems associated with Japan’s’ approach to national parks and the dangers that they pose to the existence of upland regions never features in discussion. With many of the same problems mirrored elsewhere, as national parks and mountain spaces are central to local economies, alongside numerous sub-cultures around various mountain sports, with the dangers posed to them simultaneously in the public consciousness, but also ignored.

While there is an understanding that one must carry back all rubbish created, alongside the importance of remaining on trails (whether it is possible to leave them or not), the complexities and fragility of the landscape is perhaps poorly understood. One could make the argument that the recent boom in mountain activities is one of the few things keeping these regions safe for now. As they represent a means through which local and national government bodies can now promote large areas their regions to domestic and international audiences as part of discovering an ‘Alternate Japan’, or an ‘alternate Europe’. This aspect of mountain use bears further exploration, especially as it is becoming an increasingly important way of marketing these regions  to international tourists, whilst also playing an important role in the most dedicated areas of mountain use.

All these themes are intertwined, playing a role in an ongoing fascinating with mountains and mountainous regions, to myself, and to others. I might think (and write) about some of them more than others, especially regarding language of use, but they are all there informing how individuals and groups interact with these spaces. In part this piece is about highlighting these themes for further discussion, as I think there is much that many people either ignore, or notice, but don’t necessarily think about. It is a discussion more than anything else, because such themes are absolutely central to these landscapes and their many, varied uses.

Sources:

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