I awake after a relatively restful night. My tent is pitched in a pine and fir forest on the slopes above Yudanaka (most famous for the monkeys which spend their days contemplatively bathing in the hot springs which bubble from subterranean depths in a picturesque valley near here). The forest is icy, but under the shelter of the trees, and in this niche, the air is not intolerable. I seem to have pitched my tent beside a fungus farm...

Around me, countless forearm-sized logs have been laid out in neat rows in the moss. Springing from the sides are an incredible diversity of mushrooms, toadstools and other fungii I don't recognize. Actually, in truth, even the fungus I think I recognize is probably not at all what I know.

The monkeys are sitting about in the hot pools just as I anticipated. Such is the wonder of technology that I knew what to expect, having seen this scene in "Baraka" several times. Nevertheless, there is still something quite disarming about the faces of these creatures. I'd swear they knew more about life than any human who has ever lived. They examine their fingernails, check each other for parasites, squabble occasionally and paddle tranquilly as the steam and snow drifts about the air above the onsen.

Donning my pack once more, I trudge back the way I had come (keeping firm hold of my plastic bag) and then along the road further into the hills. I stick my thumb out and a young man pulls up in response. He goes out of his way to drop me at the trail head I was aiming for... saving me many hours of painful bitumen travel. The clear weather has been hidden at this altitude. Beneath me at the trail head are countless ski slopes, above me are yet more mountains and ominous clouds.

The woods about me are heavy with white paste. The snow lies thickly on the firs and bamboo grass. I am wading through it up to my knees. The going is slow, but as I leave the road and climb into the hills I feel quite rested. It is as if the weight of civilization were being left at the trail head. Here in Japan, civilization can indeed be an oppressive burden to bear.

About me the afternoon sun is waning. The trees form a white and dark green patchwork about me, a magical wonderland I have never experienced in my home country, nor anywhere else for that matter. The snow of the track is smooth and clean, it's like wading through a field of ice cream. In places where the steep mountain slopes give way to small re-entrants, tracks of Japanese deer, monkeys and bear (I thought they'd all be asleep by now!) dot across the path and vanish into the milky trees.

This is not serious avalanche territory. It is well forested for the most part. Snowballs have tumbled onto the track from the forest. They roll themselves up like Danish pastries into little snail shells and make dainty lines across my way.

Mountain sides across the valley are softly textured with the branches of deciduous trees. They make delicate brush strokes against the near-vertical mountain sides which I will have to try to capture on film should I come back this way.

The sun has well and truly retired. I drop my pack by an ancient marker stone which towers some nine or so feet above me and have a look around. The lake is gorgeous in the diffuse moonlight. It is a white sheet filling the spaces between mountains, as if somebody had laid a mat out for a giant cat to curl up on.

I pitch my tent in a cleared area in front of the lake. It is exposed to the sky but away from the snow-laden trees whose branches crack under the weight with which they have been loaded. Dinner (which is remarkably similar to breakfast) is welcomed.

I take one last glance out of my tent door before I retire for the night... lazy snow flakes are meandering their way towards the earth. I am in for an eventful night!