Just a thought, but it is possible that the polite-to-a-fault Japanese designed uphill journeys to be as winding as possible so that passengers on both sides of their respective modes of transport can take turns marveling at the breathtaking mountains and wispy clouds. Though the truth has probably more to do with gradients and engine power instead.

At this juncture all that I expected was a leisurely stroll in the clouds and assumed that all the busloads of pensioners were going up for the same purpose. Once the bus stopped in an open parking lot kissed by passing whiffs of clouds in Kirifuri Highlands and grandpas and grannies fell over themselves to get out, I could only follow them in ascending a hill to get to a quaint flying chair station in Kisugedaira Plateau.

This old-world mode of transport works like a cable-car system except that large pulley wheels are positioned only at each of the four stations. The seats, sans safety belts, are clamped onto a cable running from station to station and passengers have to stand in specifically marked-out positions to mount the continuously running line of seats.

The attraction of this uphill ride is the cheerful field of star-shaped yellow Kisuge flowers adorning the grassy slope. With each passing station, the ride felt more and more surreal as the cool mountain air dipped in temperature and wispy clouds fogged visibility to create a celestial landscape. As I cycled through the final ascent, kicking the odd overgrown weed and blossom along the way whilst looking wistfully into the distance across the sloping Kisuge field, I thought that I had died and gone to heaven. It was a place that drew spontaneous smiles, a place that made me feel happy without knowing why.

The fourth station brought me to a large observatory plateau overlooking two mountains whose kanji names I couldn't quite pronounce. It is a little celebrated fact of life that guys will feel compelled to climb any mountains or sacred shrines whenever you plonk them at the foot of one (though maybe not waterfalls). So with an inexplicable surge of stimulus, I continued with the rest of the mountain (Aka-something) ascent on foot, following a beaten footpath precariously close to a steep sideward plunge into the abyss below.

In retrospect it was a pretty dumb thing to do, going on a climb without any idea of how long it would take, and with my raincoat and food bars chucked away in a locker back at the train station. Still the lack of preparation only made the rocky, muddy and slippery climb all the more memorable I suppose.

Visibility was still excellent on most of the ascent, and I could console myself with the pretext of admiring the breathtaking scenery as I stopped every 100m or so, panting heavily, to catch my breath. The literally translated Queen Bee Mountain behind me was still clearly visible at this point, as were the pockets of Japanese families scattered across it at various altitudes, with the exuberant screams of little girls momentarily taking my mind off the hardy dragonflies buzzing around me. After encountering a young chap accompanying his grandmother making the downhill descent, and exchanging yet another hearty "konnichiwa", I would climb the remainder of the ascent alone as it got markedly more windy and cloudy.

Two clusters of rock formations overlooking the mountain cliff along the way made for great look-out points, and the sensation of thick clouds driven by gusty winds charging up the mountain face seemed beyond belief. With visibility down to 10m, it took a lot of conviction and determination to carry on without the end in sight as the trail got increasingly camouflaged by overgrowth and my enthusiasm got slowly gnawed away by self-doubt. Many times the climb seemed to be cumulating to an end only for the thick cloud cover to give way to another stretch the further I went.

Finally, on a narrow pebble-strewn trail, the hike ended. Considering the effort needed to get so far, there was only an innocuous sign stabbed in the midst of a thick growth of tall grass, with an arrow pointing to the right inscribed with the name of the mountain, and another directed in the opposite direction reading "Nikko". For massive understatements this was perhaps the grandest of all. As a special reward there was also a wooden rectangle painted in a diagonal divide of red and yellow nailed onto one of the many trees growing on the sloping mountain face. I suppose this would be an apt time to throw in the line about the journey being more meaningful than the destination.

If the climb was an uphill slog then the descent was suitably more pleasant as I was able to survey the glorious untainted landscape whilst swatting colorful bugs off my bag, in between sidestepping exotic wriggly orange millipedes (they looked like one anyway). I would have lingered longer if it wasn't for the fact that the earlier signs of impending rain had already developed into a steady drizzle that threatened to turn my descent into a slide down slippery mud.

Had lunch down at the third pulley station where I gratefully slurped down a hot bowl of ramen in a charming wooden hut, with electric heaters wrapped around by wire gauze taking the place of the traditional fireplace. Bought a transparent polyvinyl raincoat to take me down the flying seat ride, with nary a soul in sight. Remembering the tired and passionless faces passing me by on my earlier ride up, I broke into smiles again, kicking my only pair of soaked shoes in the rain-washed air, just glad to be where I was at that current point in time.

Still, this surreal experience would not have been possible without purchasing the tickets for the flying seats first. Even in heaven, one had to pay his dues to get to the top.