Maps

Maps

by Tokuhiko Kise



I’ve always liked maps.

Back in elementary school, when I was into bass fishing, I would open my Osaka prefecture atlas and discover that the Sennan area was full of ponds. I’d head out early in the morning by train to check them out.

When I wanted to go into the nearby mountains, I’d stop by Asahiya Bookstore in Tennoji—pretty much my main source of information at the time. In a corner of the store, there was a drawer packed with large A1-sized topographic maps—1:25,000, 1:50,000. Looking through them to find the area I wanted to visit was half the fun. I’d even learned from a book that there was a proper way to fold them. Once I figured it out, I’d fold them with satisfaction, proud of myself. But with use, they would tear.

Then came the “unbreakable maps” in Shobunsha’s Yama to Kogen series—like the Kongō/Iwawaki edition. They were revolutionary. One even said, “If you get caught in a sudden rain, feel free to use this as an umbrella.” I thought that was great.

I liked feeling like someone who could read slope lines and routes from contour lines.

At sixteen, I got my motorcycle license, and my world expanded all at once. I went out nearly every week. With a tent and a sleeping bag, I could stay anywhere. During the summer break of my second year in high school, I finally made it to Hokkaido—a place I’d always dreamed of visiting.

I’d look at a map to decide my route. It always came with a dose of imagination. I’d rely on memory and a sense of direction, then just start riding. While on the road, I kept paying attention, adjusting as I went. Sometimes I’d think, “Wait—this doesn’t feel right,” and stop to check the map. If someone happened to be nearby, I’d walk up and ask them. Cheerfully. Casually. Before I knew it, I’d end up chatting and learning some local information too.

That was true in America, in Europe as well. Before GPS, paper maps were all I had.

Once in Germany, I asked a group of road workers for directions. Five of them gathered to help, explaining everything in German, really giving it their all. At the end, one of them asked if I’d understood. I hadn’t—at all—so I gestured that I was totally lost. We all burst out laughing. In the end, a passing police car escorted me to my destination.

I have a lot of memories like that.

And I liked all of them.

It was that same curiosity and drive, unchanged since those days, that I believe has shaped who I am today.