A wave of disappointment washed over me during my recent visit to Japan’s stunning Alps in Nagano. And it wasn’t because the mountains themselves were anything less than magnificent. They were gorgeous, a welcome cool reprieve from Japan’s summer humidity.
No, the disappointment stemmed from something far deeper: a struggle within myself, questions about my ability to navigate life in a different culture.
It was a familiar feeling, one that instantly brought to mind the daily challenges many of my international students face as they pursue an education far from home.
- “Why can’t I grasp the nuance of what they’re saying?”
- “Why does this simple explanation take me so long to understand?”
- “How am I still making so many mistakes with basic travel arrangements?”
- “Shouldn’t this be easier for me, given all my past experiences?”
I’ve heard similar questions from my students. This time, I was asking them myself.
Arriving Unprepared
Hiking in the Japan Alps is no casual stroll, especially if you’re aiming for a summit. My son had recently conquered one, and I’d admired his triumphant photo beside the peak’s sign. He’d done it in a single day, up and back.
The moment I arrived, I felt like an outsider. Sure, I had my hiking boots, but my everyday backpack looked puny next to their specialized, efficient gear. I didn’t own a helmet, and honestly, I had no idea why they did.
Then there were the small bells, jingling on backpacks as hikers passed. What on earth were those for?
My first day’s hike began at the bus terminal, nestled at the mountains’ base. It’s a testament to Japan’s commitment to preserving this pristine national park because only buses and taxis are allowed, keeping regular traffic out.
For the first hour, the trail was shaded and pleasant, mostly flat. Then came the fork: a gentle loop along the river back to the bus terminal, or the challenging ascent towards a summit.
Given it was already mid-afternoon, I opted for the river loop, figuring an early start tomorrow would allow for a proper climb. Even on mostly flat ground, 2.5 hours had my legs and feet protesting.
After the bus ride down, I returned to my car, ate a quiet dinner, and prepared for an early night, hoping to conquer a summit in the morning.
The Impossible Ascent
The next morning, back at the terminal, I consulted the information desk. I picked a hike from the map that seemed manageable for a day trip.
The receptionist mentioned some summits take days to conquer, and that hikers must register their entry for safety, a critical step, especially in remote areas where accidents can happen.
An hour in, I reached the trailhead. I paused, took a long drink of water, re-examined my map, and began the ascent. I chose each step carefully, trying to avoid slips on loose rocks or roots.
But this wasn’t a hike; it was like climbing an endless, uneven staircase, paved with tree roots and shifting stones. Less than a kilometer up, my body screamed a stark realization: I was nowhere near fit enough for this.
And with every labored step forward, the thought gnawed at me: I’d have to make every one of these difficult steps back down.
My pack might as well have been filled with rocks, my breath came in ragged gasps. This journey, today, felt impossible. Defeated, I turned back, hoping a nearby easier trail might offer a chance at success.
At this new trailhead, I took a moment to read the extensive sign detailing expectations in Japanese for Japan Alps hikers. One line stopped me cold: “Trail leads to an active volcano.”
There was the helmet reminder again, for “unexpected rock slides or volcanic eruptions.” And, yes, the online registration requirement. Every sentence on the Japanese sign hammered home the undeniable truth: I was about to embark on a journey for which I lacked both experience and essential equipment.
I took a deep, shaky breath, the morning’s efforts finally catching up to me. It was nearly lunchtime, and my meager snacks wouldn’t cut it for this kind of exertion.
With a heavy sigh, I turned around again, making my way back to the bus terminal. There, over a solitary lunch, the feeling of defeat settled deep in my bones.
Lessons from the Mountain
Every misstep, every moment of self-doubt on that mountain trail, brought me back to my students. So many arrive in the classroom well-prepared, eager to begin their own ascent towards educational summits.
They step into a system designed to support them at every stage, a system that helps them build their “climbing muscles” over time.
And year after year, I’ve watched countless students reach their peak, graduating with degrees they’re incredibly proud of. Seeing their success fills me with the same deep pride I feel looking at my son’s photo atop his own hard-won summit.
This week, I dedicate this post to you.
My unexpected lessons from the Japan Alps (complete with disappointment, realization, and eventual understanding) are for all of us facing a challenging path.
Perhaps you’re one of my students, mid-journey, battling challenges that feel incredibly hard. Please, don’t give up. Remember, every “impossible” step forward builds strength.
Or perhaps you’re a graduate, having reached a summit and now eyeing the next peak. Your past accomplishments are powerful, but new journeys always bring new obstacles.
To my colleagues, whose tireless support lifts these climbers: your dedication often goes unseen, but please know you play a vital role in supporting them and in building the systems that help them succeed.
And if you’re standing at the base of your own “impossible” mountain, feeling that familiar pang of disappointment as I did, know this: it’s okay to pause, to reassess, even to turn back and find a different path. The real victory isn’t always reaching the first summit you aimed for, but in the courage to keep moving forward, equipped with new self-awareness.
What’s one small step you can take this week to re-equip yourself for your next climb? Share your thoughts, or simply reply if this story resonated with you. Building that connection is how we all keep moving forward, together.