Mount Akagi and Lake Onuma Climb Prefectural Route 4, and a lake awaits at the top of the mountain

Prefectural Route 4 climbs through one bend after another. I ease off the throttle just before each one and look toward the exit; the bike leans into the turn, then lifts itself upright. Whenever it all comes together, I find myself murmuring, “Yes,” inside my helmet. One morning in late May, I rode up from Tokyo for the day on my blue-and-white bike. The air grew cooler with every climb, and I kept thinking how glad I was that I'd zipped up my riding jacket.

I parked my bike in a car park on the east shore of Lake Onuma and took off my helmet. Across the lake, mountains just beginning to leaf out stretched into the distance. Their shape must have been the same when I saw them in autumn, but now every leaf seemed lighter. The sky was so clear that I wished I'd planned to head home later. I'd only just arrived, and already I was worrying about the drive back. Talk about getting ahead of myself.

The surface of the lake flashed for a moment. I grabbed my phone, thinking, “I want to catch that.” The lake and mountains would have fit in the frame, but all I wanted to save was that one glint. I pointed the camera at the bright patch and took a single shot. If I took too many, I thought, I might not remember which one caught that moment.

I put my phone away and walked down to the shore. Tiny waves flickered between the stones. When I'd come in autumn, fallen leaves had bobbed on the water, but today there wasn't a single leaf floating there. Even what's on the surface changes with the seasons. I crouched and dipped my fingertips in; the water was much colder than I'd expected, and I pulled them right back out. In May, it still feels like winter beneath the lake's surface.

After the lake, I walked over to nearby Kakumanbuchi Marsh. I warmed up as I walked, so I tied my jacket around my waist. The boardwalk was rebuilt in autumn 2024, and there are no steps between the entrance and the observation deck, so it's easy to walk in boots. The boards tapped beneath my feet, and young leaves, still soft-looking, peeked through the grass. I'd heard the loop takes about 30 minutes, so today I decided to spend more time standing still at the observation deck than walking around.

I listened closely from the deck. Somewhere, a bird was singing. I tucked my hair behind my ear and searched the treetops for it, but never caught a glimpse. The quiet here felt different from the openness by the lake; it wrapped around me. When I come by myself, I can stop as long as I like without worrying about anyone else. I found myself thinking, to no one in particular, “It's not as if I don't have friends I could invite,” then watched for a while as the marsh grass leaned in the same direction whenever the wind came through.

On my way back from the boardwalk, I spotted yaki-manju grilling outside a lakeside shop. Why does the smell of sweet miso browning over a flame have to be so irresistible? I thought the view alone had made me happy, but the moment I caught that smell, my stomach suddenly had a lot to say. I took a skewer and had a bite. The outside was fragrant, the inside soft and fluffy. I discreetly wiped the miso at the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand.

As I walked back to my bike, I remembered hearing that Mitsuba-tsutsuji and Shiro-yashio azaleas bloom around Lake Konuma, to the southeast, at the end of May. I'll save that for my next day trip. Before putting on my helmet, I looked again at the photo I'd taken by the lake. That exact moment when the surface flashed was right there in the picture. I rode down Prefectural Route 4 a little more slowly than I'd climbed it. Every bend took me a little farther from the lake, and somehow I wished I could stay.