Hiking Boots and Sandwiches

August 11th is Mountain Day. I haven't been mountain climbing for decades. I sometimes climb mountains during marathons, but that's different from mountain climbing. As I was wondering when my last climb was, I ended up thinking about hiking boots.

August 11th is Mountain Day. It should have only been a holiday for about ten years, but every time this day comes around, I wonder, wait, what is today again?

My father was a mountain person. When I was around the age of starting elementary school, he often took me along. When he had a day off, he would take out his boots, pack something into a canteen, and take me out. I went. I thought it was something you just did, and the idea of refusing never crossed my mind.

Once, I climbed to the summit with my father.

On the way, I was told to greet the people we passed. I was embarrassed. For me at the time, speaking to a stranger on my own was a huge task. Even so, I tried to say hello as much as I could.

Then, everyone would reply. Hello. Some people would even stop and tell me to keep up the good work. I thought, even as a child, why are the people in the mountains so pleasant?

Every time I said hello, my feet felt a little lighter.

What I remember about that day is the moment I thought, I've arrived. There was nowhere left to climb, I was out of breath, and the wind was cooling my sweat. That was a sense of accomplishment. It is probably my first memory in life of arriving somewhere on my own two feet.

On another day, my mother also came along, and the three of us climbed. It was probably winter. On the way, we took out a portable stove and cooked ramen. Just instant ramen, boiling water on the mountain and throwing in the noodles. It was strangely delicious. My fingers were numb, the area under my nose was wet, and I could feel the path of the broth from my throat to my stomach as it warmed me up.

We didn't go to the summit that day. We ate the ramen and turned back. Thinking about it now, that probably wasn't a mountain meant for climbing.

Eventually, my father said, When you get bigger, I'll buy you hiking boots.
At what age, I asked.
Around seventeen, I suppose, my father said.

Seventeen. It was a distant number to me at the time. I remembered that age as the year I would get hiking boots.

And then, I turned seventeen.

My father was no longer climbing mountains. It seems his doctor had forbidden it. Naturally, he didn't remember the talk about hiking boots.

Instead, my father had become a sea person. However, he was also forbidden from diving. No mountains, no diving. What remained was fishing. My father became absorbed in fishing. The mountain gear was put away, and fishing rods and a cooler box began to stand in the entryway.

And I became the person in charge of making bento for the days my father went fishing.

The bento was a sandwich. My father specified it.

I don't really understand this. My father is not someone who usually eats much bread. But only on fishing days, he would request sandwiches. It seems my father thought his daughter's specialty was sandwiches.

I have no such awareness. I don't remember ever saying it was my specialty. I think something I made once somewhere just became fixed in his mind. It seems a person's specialty dish is decided without the person themselves knowing.

The fillings are ham, egg, cucumber, and tomato. It's almost always these four, and there's no real variety. I don't cut off the crusts. I've never been asked to, either.

My father leaves at three or four in the morning. I wake up before that, line up the bread, and put the fillings in. I hand him the sandwiches at the door, see him off, and then, of course, I go back to sleep.

In other words, I went from being the one who climbs to the one who makes the sandwiches. I had absolutely no awareness of that myself.

The catch depended on the day. Some days were big hauls. Other days, when I felt a pull and thought I had a big one, it turned out to be small once I reeled it in. I don't think fish shrink, but that's how it was in my father's mind.

I still don't own any hiking boots. Nowadays, I climb mountains in running shoes.

Instead, it has become a thing that I am good at making sandwiches.

And I still greet strangers. When I participate in a maranic event, "good work" is exchanged every time we pass each other. Even on days that aren't events, when I'm just running or walking, a "hello" comes out naturally when I pass someone.

I didn't get the boots, but the "hello" part remained. Well, I suppose that's just how things go.

#Essay #MountainDay #Hiking #Fishing #Sandwich #Maranic #Manga #Ramen