An Unexpected Afternoon at Hayakawaone Hut

Not the Quiet Afternoon I Had Planned

Exhausted from a gruelling morning traversing the three peaks of Mt. Houou, I arrived at Hayakawaone Hut on the second day of a three-day hike, ready for a quiet, solitary lunch. What I got instead was an afternoon far more memorable than I’d planned.

I’d set off early from my previous campsite, around 4:30 am, to make the most of the forecast. At Mt. Jizo, I had a brief chat with a fellow hiker—a woman I’d encounter again later on the hike. From Mt. Jizo onwards, though, I didn’t see another soul—most hikers descend via Houou Hut, whereas the trail to Hayakawaone Hut requires tackling the daunting Mt. Takane. After clearing that peak, it’s a solid two hours before reaching the hut.

Once at the hut, my first priority was to check whether the mizuba, the hut’s water source, was running—thankfully, it was. With water in hand, I returned to the campsite and spotted a cosy spot tucked to the side, offering some protection from the elements.

I was halfway through stuffing cheese and tuna into a pita when the rain started. It was light at first but soon intensified. When it became clear there was no end in sight, I swiftly stuffed my gear into my plastic pack liner and bolted to a small wooden emergency shelter with a corrugated plastic door. Fortunately, it was unlocked. Inside, I spotted a Macpac backpack, likely left by someone summiting nearby Mt. Asayomine.

With the rain now steady, there was little to do but brew up a cup of coffee and enjoy the calm—sipping slowly while watching the rain fall from the comfort of this dry hideaway.

Enter the Macpac hiker. About an hour later, she returned—a nurse from Nagano, a bit startled to find me settled beside her pack. I quickly explained that I’d just taken refuge from the rain and would move along as soon as it cleared. She was a little shy at first but warmed up quickly—especially after cracking open a room-temperature 500 ml can of Asahi Super Dry, which she’d hauled uphill for three hours from Hiragawara, a nearby trailhead. For those unacquainted with Japanese hiking culture, this might sound over the top—but for your average local hiker, an end-of-day beer is practically a ritual. By the time I reached the bus stop before midday the next day, four middle-aged women were already there, each happily knocking back a cold beer.

Soon after, another soaked hiker stumbled in—he’d crossed over from Mt. Kaikoma. After peeling off his drenched rain gear, he too slipped into the shelter and joined our conversation. Another Nagano native. In most settings, cramming three strangers into a three-tatami space (about 5 square metres) might be a recipe for awkwardness—but the shared love of the mountains dissolved any tension. The conversation flowed freely, peppered with questions about our respective routes and past adventures.

Then came the bedraggled one. About three hours after I’d arrived, I heard voices outside. Two more hikers turned up, and at first I assumed they were companions—but it soon became clear they weren’t. One was your archetypal Japanese hiker: fully kitted out in wet-weather gear. The other was… not. Soaked to the bone, wearing only light-fabric hiking pants and a long-sleeved shirt, he looked like a drowned rat—and to top it off, was inexplicably wearing a workman’s hard hat. No rain gear in sight.

He made a beeline for the adjacent mountain hut, which was locked, yanking at the sliding door as if to break it. We watched in disbelief. His eyes were glazed, his hands shaking. Eventually, he shuffled over to our shelter, shivering, and explained—in a mix of Japanese and English—that he had a reservation.

“I have a reservation!” he repeated in English, his voice strained and high-pitched, visibly agitated. He tried calling someone but couldn’t get a signal. I suggested he walk back a few minutes for better reception.

The second Nagano hiker beside me reckoned he’d simply gotten the wrong hut. It certainly seemed that way—while some huts have an unlocked annexe for emergencies, accessing the main building without the caretaker present is highly unusual.

Fifteen minutes later, we spotted him heading back down the trail. I said something like “mada genki” (‘he’s still holding up’), which drew a laugh, though truthfully it wasn’t funny—this guy was teetering on the edge of hypothermia. The longer he took, the more we worried he might have taken a turn for the worse. Eventually, we watched him return, fiddle with the combination lock on a nearby shed, pull out a key, and let himself into the hut. It was surreal. Our best guess: he’d managed to get the hut keeper on the phone and talked his way into getting the code. We didn’t see him again until he quietly slipped away just before daybreak the next morning, as I was boiling water and getting breakfast sorted.

Amusingly, we later overheard him in animated conversation with a newly arrived hiker—who, judging by the tone, had probably mistaken him for the hut caretaker. You can only imagine the confusion.

By late afternoon, the rain eased enough for us to set up our tents. There were even hints of blue sky—a hopeful sign of good weather. And sure enough, the next day dawned clear and fine.

One final quirk of Hayakawaone Hut: when the manager isn’t in attendance, you pay the 1,000 yen camping fee (or 2,000 yen for the emergency hut) by slipping your notes into—of all things—a beer can. As safe as houses, it seems.

This quirky system, however, was surpassed by the check-in antics from the previous evening at Minami-Omuro-goya, another mountain hut. There, instead of the usual slip of paper, you’re handed a whiteboard to write down your details—presumably to be transcribed into the camp ledger later. Unorthodox, to say the least.

In the end, what I expected to be a quiet afternoon of tea-sipping and idle daydreaming turned into something quite different. I’d figured a weekday in the relatively quiet pocket of the Southern Alps would leave me with the place to myself. Instead, I got a full house, some great company—and a reminder that in the Japanese mountains, even the most routine afternoons can take surprising turns.