Voices, a cough, footsteps on timber... oh yes, I am in a hut. Was that all a dream? I open my eyes and look around. This is a sugoi (terrific) timber cabin, my clothes are decorating the ladders to the top mezzanine, the contents of my pack are lined up against the wall, a dim light is diffusing through the closed and fogged window. Black.

Sheesh! What time is it, I twist my arm out of the sleeping bag and look at my watch (I love looking at my watch, it is such a beautiful thing). Relax, it is only 8am. I must have fallen asleep again. I exhale. Yes, my breath makes fog... what did I expect? Fire? I test my legs - they are still attached and seem to move when I ask them to. I grab the elastic dongle thing on the zipper and open my sleeping bag to test the air. Yep, its cold... what did I expect? Fire? Ok, I think my brain is working slowly this morning. I keep repeating myself to myself.

I stumble out of my sleeping bag and stand in the cold, reluctant to see if my clothes have dried. They haven't. What a surprise. I think my socks have frozen. They are cold and like cardboard. I think I deserve a dry pair. I fish around in my pack and pull on some nice woolly DRY socks. Now I feel better and can face pulling on the rest of my clothes, as needy of a wash as they are. My boots will wait. I can't wear them inside the hut anyway... this is Japan! I put them by the door and pull on clean K-mart sandals brought along just for the purpose.

A peep out the window. The forest is awake, but the sun has not yet penetrated the valley. Everything is a pale white green. I slide open the hut door which overlooks a large porch with timber chairs and benches. Great! Since last night's dinner was granola, breakfast has to be noodles and vegetables. I am starving. The stove boils the water in a flash and soon I am standing with my hands wrapped around a hot mug of tea whilst the noodles, dried mushrooms and carrots soak up the boiling water. Aaaahhhh. Even noodles taste delicious. I am feeling pretty genki despite yesterday's ordeal. I am taking this morning slowly and will not check the map to see how far I have to walk until after I've eaten.

The sun is clipping the tree tops now. Soon I will be warm. I think it will be a glorious morning. As I stand with my cup, listening to the hiss of the stove a voice drifts through the forest. Then another, and another. A group of about ten people start waltzing past the porch one at a time. "Ohayo gozaimasu!", "Ohayo gozaimasu", "Ohayo gozaimasu!" I smile as a thirty-something year old man, a sixty something year old man, a seventy something year old man, a thirty-something year old woman, a young couple in their twenties, and a couple of others whose faces I can't bring to mind saunter by me armed to the teeth with cameras and tripods.

One of them stops and asks me if I'm alone. The question now seems quite natural... maybe that's just what you ask to be polite? "Hai", I smile... "Kino, Miyanoura-dake ni ikimashita" (Yesterday I went to Miyanoura-dake). After some to-ing and fro-ing we understand each other. He and his friends have walked from the carpark at Tozanguchi (mountaineering entrance) which is a few kilometers from the hut. I am surprised they are on this trail. The old guy might be fit but I think Miyanoura-dake might be a bit much. None of them is dressed appropriately to walk far. Puzzled, I let them keep on down the path as I sip my tea. I don't have the language skills to explain my thoughts.

They don't seem to get very far. As I finish up my noodles there are still voices from about thirty meters away. The forest is so heavy though I can't see what they are all doing in there. I leave them to their activities and wander around in my sandals. The stream behind the hut here is marvelous! Despite the icy cold water and the similarly chill air I strip off and make a poor attempt at washing (Yes, I am careful not to get soap in the stream). I wonder what I look like, some kind of wild beast raised in the forest by the trees?

The sun flashes briefly into the stream bed. The snow shines, the moss glows, the water sparkles. This whole island is just so delicious. Dressed once more and feeling fresh and awake I wander down the path towards the voices and stomp to the middle of the timber and iron bridge.

On the floor at the far end of the bridge, the thirty-something year old man is crouched over his Macintosh G3 Powerbook... what a sight! The things are following me everywhere :-) The sixty-something year old man is looking over his shoulder at the screen and muttering "oooh" and "ahhhh". I smile and say hello. They look up and grin. The others are perched in the trees with tripods and cameras. I turn and look out at the water...

...which quite takes my breath away. Honestly, how can an island like this be SO BEAUTIFUL. It defies description. "Sugoi!" The two guys at the bridge-head laugh at my delight. The water is sliding slowly across a wide sandy flat. In sections where it is deepest it is halfway between intense emerald green and cobalt blue. The sun is back-lighting the trees so that their edges glow vivid green as the moss with which they are covered collects its rays. Twisted branches and roots, mossy rocks, dark earth, a few patches of snow nestled in hollowed timber and on the shady side of stones. Icicles dangle in the water from over-hanging branches like crystal wind-chimes dangling in a liquid breeze... but the sound is made by the flow of fluid, not by the bells. Nobody could make a garden this intricate if they spent their whole lives trying. Perhaps this is why the Zen gardens focus on simplicity. In the face of such complexity, it seems a silly proposition to attempt to reproduce such wonder in a space behind a house, in front of a palace, in an alley or a courtyard. Yakushima might be the only place in the world where such gardens grow.

I wander over to look at the Macintosh screen. Its filled with green... moss, trees, close-ups long-shots. The two men proudly show me their photos. The digital camera does a good job, and the results are instantaneous. Hi-tech Polaroid. I'll have to wait yet more weeks before I see my photos... and I know I will be disappointed. There is not a chance in a million a flat sheet of glossy paper the size of a large leaf will capture the sugi which tower over the bridge, the way the light glistens on the sheet of water. It won't even attempt to capture the smell of the forest which by now has diffused right through me so that the can of hot coffee the kindly sixty-something year old passes me smells sickly sweet and unnatural (it is, but it is also most welcome).

One of the women appears from the trees with her camera. Somebody pulls out a kind of instant-assembling shelter so that she can change from her nice bright orange and yellow cotton pants into something more comfortable. Who knows why this girl dressed as she did to come here in the first place? Was she expecting a concrete path? She smiles sweetly at my query regarding the funny tent. I point at the trees and laugh saying she might change behind one of them. Everybody grins. She thinks I might look good wearing her bright pants. Maybe, but my pants smell of the earth, hers smell of washing detergent. Somebody asks about my sandals. Have I been walking for four days in sandals? I laugh and explain. "Ah, so, so, so".

The sixty-something year old who gave me the coffee starts telling me about Yakushima's magic. The thirty-something year old knows a little English and translates bits and pieces for me so that I know what is being said. We stand on the bridge and admire the view as the sun rises further. People here are very patient with foreigners.

I run back to the hut and grab a little kangaroo stick pin to give to the guy who gave me the coffee. "Kore wa, Kangaroo desu ka?", "Hai, Kangaroo desu, to boomerang desu", "Domo arrigato gozaimasu", he pins the gold badge to his lapel with a smile. I head back to the hut and start packing away my things. Inspection of the map does not reveal a path in the direction of the photographers approach. I can see no mention of Tozanguchi but the sign clearly indicates the direction and these folks haven't walked far. There is another path which leads further South but I was told by the man at the petrol station at the start of my trip that this path was in poor condition and at times very difficult to follow. Having seen the condition of the path so far, I'm reluctant to try my luck solo on the South section and head towards Tozanguchi instead. I can guess where it comes out on the map, even though the path itself is not documented.

Due drops on the moss sparkle as the sun finds space in the canopy to dance with the kodama who are always just out of sight... disappearing as I turn to look at them, laughing and playing behind my back, a game all forest sprites enjoy. This morning the weather is truly perfect. The puddles in the mud reflect the patches of blue above me as once again I jump criss-crossed roots and clamber over tree limbs, under massive fallen trunks (where I have to crouch low to avoid catching my pack), always beneath the watchful sugi sentinels basking in the sun.

Tozanguchi is not far. The track finishes abruptly at a small car park. The photographer's van and another car are parked here. In typical Japanese style, the carpark has numerous maps of the trails here, all saying the same thing, in various states of disrepair. I mark the location on my GPS and wander down the road towards Yakusugi-land where a bus comes twice a day to drop off the tourists.

The road winds down the valley and gives superb views of the surrounding mountains. The hills rise steeply on either side, giant cedars loom overhead, the haze is noticeable here and the sun glows more dimly.

A couple of women in (of all things) a taxi drive up the road in the opposite direction. "Well... I guess they have to get around somehow... and they wouldn't want to ladder their stockings on a stray branch", I think to myself. They are probably taking a ride up to see a couple of Yakusugi which line the road. A short time later the taxi and its passengers head past me going back down the hill... they must have just gawked out the window and driven back again. Maybe they got out of the car and risked having the damp air ruin their hair whilst they had the taxi driver snap a photo of them standing before a tree. I wish I was less cynical.

A young guy in a car drives past me up the hill. I return his smile and wave as I trudge happily down the road photographing the moss and streams, the huge over-hanging trees and the distant hills. The humidity increases as I descend. The bursts of sun become less frequent. A haze settles in the sky, flattening the light.

A brilliant yellow beast is parked by the roadside. It is loaded with felled cedar trunks. Two be-helmeted, be-chainsaw-ed men watch my approach from the side of the road. They don't appear very busy. They have been dissecting a dead cedar by the roadside. Apparently the wood contains preservative substances in its sap which prevent the trees from rotting for some three hundred years after they topple. Hence a fallen tree may be removed for building materials. I wonder if this is a good idea. Surely the ecosystem depends on these toppled giants for nutrients, however long it takes? At least the extraction is only occurring by the bitumen and not in the majority of the forest. I hope this is where it ends... something to contemplate as I continue along the road. The yellow of the truck warns of a deadly sting.

The young man in the car which passed me earlier is back. He pulls up and gestures for me to come over. I smile and wander over to the driver's-side door.

Another chapter in this adventure is beginning.