Mitake

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In my mid-20s, I was lucky enough to land a job at one of the only climbing gyms in Japan at the time. The gym opened in the afternoon, and Mitake was just a 40-minute drive away. I thought, why not train on real rock before work? That’s how the idea of “Morning Mitake” was born.

At the time, there was an unclimbed line that really intrigued me — a traverse from the left that linked into Ninja Gaeshi. A bold, obvious line anyone could see. That was Kani (“Crab”). The traverse itself had been tried before, but I’d never heard of anyone managing the moves where it joined Ninja Gaeshi. Anyone was free to try it, but no one had. I thought, if I could climb this, it would look amazing — and it’d surely be a hard problem. So I decided to give it a shot.

In summer, we’d boulder a bit, then go for a swim in the river before heading to the gym. I’d usually only be at Mitake from around 10 or 11 in the morning, so people would tease me: “That’s not Morning Mitake, it’s Lunchtime Mitake!” Still, I kept going and enjoyed it.

Then in October 1994, I finally completed Kani. The crux sequence where the line joined Ninja Gaeshi was right at the edge of what I could do. It was also unusual at the time because of how many moves it involved — it really demanded endurance. It was without a doubt the hardest climb I’d ever done. I proposed a grade of San-dan [7C+/8A] or 5.14a. The holds have changed since then, so the moves and difficulty are probably different now.

I still remember Ishimori and Nakata were there watching when I sent it. I was so happy.

After 'Kani', I already knew what I wanted to try next. The line started on Ninja Gaeshi, then reached out toward a seductive lip hold that seemed to beckon climbers closer — this would become Mushi (“Bug”). It was a legendary line, said to have been spotted and attempted by the British superstar Jerry Moffatt when he visited Japan in 1984. And yet no one had seriously tried it since.

It wasn’t hard to see why. The first left-hand vertical hold is slick and tiny — enough to make most people give up right there. Still, I kept going. After that hold, I’d try lunging across from a left-hand crimp in a kind of cross move. No good. It didn’t feel possible.

But I couldn’t stop thinking that maybe one day it would be. I started visiting Mitake more often. And really, at that point, that stunning and mysterious line felt like it belonged to me alone. There was no reason not to try.

Then winter — the season when holds stay dry — came to an end. As always, spring brought a mix of urgency and doubt. Around then, I went to Mitake with Takahashi, a tall friend. We were trying to work the upper section, and he pushed me from below so I could stick to the wall. There was this tiny dimple I’d always noticed from the ground — I finally touched it. “This could work.”

He pushed me up again, and this time I grabbed that dimple with my right hand and started the sequence. I launched my left hand for the lip — and stuck it. “It goes!”

I can’t even remember if I went back for one more session or not, but now that I’d found the move, I was so excited to try again.

It was a crisp, sunny day in May 1996. I felt good. I began my usual quiet warm-up. Every move on Mushi was big, but it wasn’t cold, so my body moved well. I matched my right hand to that little dimple. I still had strength. I popped to the lip. My hand stuck. From here, it was unknown territory. But the holds were clear, my body moved naturally — and I climbed it. I stood on top of the boulder.

In Japanese, when someone is obsessed with something, we call them a bug for it — like a “climbing bug.” I wanted climbers to become bugs for climbing, and of course, to move across the rock like insects, freely and playfully. That’s why I named the line Mushi.