Tsushima: Pinnacle for Cycling
By Mark Dake
Contributing writer
Tsushima Island is so far under the radar, many Koreans have only a fleeting awareness of it. Let's hope the status quo continues. If the secret gets out that this Japanese island is more beautiful and infinitely quieter than Jeju Island ― the favorite vacation getaway of Koreans ― they may start inundating Tsushima instead.
That wouldn't be good for outdoor enthusiasts like me and my Korean friend, Kim Heju, who spent five marvelous days in early August cycling Tsushima's low, steep mountains along empty roads winding through thick forests of tall, straight cedar trees, and by 915 kilometers of rugged coastline. In Asia, I've ridden my bike in China, Thailand, Inner Mongolia, Saipan and Korea. Tsushima is the pinnacle.
The island is 75 kilometers long, averages just 10 kilometers across and is closer to Korea ― 50 kilometers south of Busan ― than to the Japanese mainland, 150 kilometers off. In the sixth century, Tsushima became a province of Japan; during the 14th and 15th centuries, Japanese pirates used it as a base, and in 1950, South Koreans took refuge on it during the Korean War.
Only about 37,000 Japanese ― mainly fishermen ― live dispersed through lovely, tiny, coastal hamlets and inland villages. A mere handful of minute, quiet Japanese cars ply the main north-south road, and ferries carrying Koreans from Busan, and Japanese from Fukuoka, bring people, not cars. Japan being Japan, everything is neat and organized; even the telephone lines seem to have been surgically strung up.
Heju and I began our trip in Seoul, cramming our bikes into my small car and driving overnight through rain, arriving at Busan International Ferry Terminal for the 10:30 a.m. sailing of the 370-seat Sea Flower II. (Tickets cost 150,000 won, return). In the Korean Strait the ferry was tossed by tall, long swells ― rollers ― causing myself and a few more passengers to be seasick.
``The water between Korea and Tsushima is usually choppy," explained the woman behind the snack bar. ``It's because two currents meet here."
The Kuroshio Current brings warm tropical water northwards from South China, flowing at a powerful 3-4 kilometers per hour, interspersing with the churning, cooler Tsushima Current originating in the cold, deep East Sea. More than two nauseating hours later, at the small northern port town of Hitakatsu, we formed a long line slowly snaking into the adjoining austere immigration office. Next to us were about six Korean women aged from their 40s to 50s and their male guide, outfitted in hi-tech gear and wheeling superlative cycling machines.
``Are the bikes expensive?" we asked.
``Ten million won ($9,000) apiece," a biker replied. With their $1,000 cycle garments, each lady was worth a cool $10,000. I admired their pluck, but the space-age hardware seemed overblown.
Immigration officers photographed and electronically fingerprinted us, then, outside, a cheerful fishermen in his 60s, named Tachibana, was waiting to drive us to his home 4 kilometers north in the tiny fishing village of Izumi. Heju's Japanese-speaking acquaintance in Korea had phoned various Tsushima motels and the Tachibana homestay was the cheapest at 4,000 yen (about 50,000 won) per person, per night for one room.
The Tachibana's home ― he and his wife speak Japanese only ― was typical of Tsushima: well-kept, wooden with traditional sloping Korean-style hanok roofs. We stayed in one of three adjacent rooms with traditional wood sliding doors of white paper and wall-to-wall floor matting.
That afternoon, we hiked ― Heju's bike inner tube valve had broken ― 2-and-a-half kilometers up a quiet road, over a low mountain of dense, lush rain forest, (90 percent of the island is mountainous with natural vegetation) and expansive vistas of the sea, descending to a large bay containing the small, sandy Miuda Beach occupied by just a few people. Far offshore, large whitecaps rolled over shallow reefs. The air was a balmy 25 degrees Celsius, the sea, 22. We spent a few hours on the beach then headed home, where we cooked dinner in the Tachibana kitchen with the noodles, rice, cans of tuna, bread, ham and cheese we had brought from Korea.
The following morning the Tachibanas bestowed one of a myriad of acts of kindness; he had driven into Hitakatsu to buy a new inner tube. We cycled back to Miuda Beach where Heju opted to stay for the day. I continued southwards past the deserted, lovely half-moon Nishitomari Beach; through Hitakatsu with its one small supermarket and several sundry shops, past the elementary school, where little future Ichiro Suzukis took batting, throwing and fielding practice; along east coast Route 39 to the tiny cove of Hamagasu, its elementary school baseball team practicing on a large field, and finally, back home. All day, hawks of meter-long wingspan glided close overhead in stiff, fresh breezes.
I logged just 30 kilometers, deceptive, because the winding road had some long ascents, and I frequently halted to take photos. Pedaling in solitude, a sole car passing just every 10 or 15 minutes, was idyllic. You won't experience that in Korea with its 17 million vehicles.
Heju and I cycled the next day and in Hitakatsu, stopped at a lone moored yacht named ``Otpada," its Russian crew on a venture to explore some of the 17 Russian warships sunk by the Japanese in the 1905 Battle of Tsushima. Past Hamagasu, Heju turned for home while I continued southwards, passing narrow, pretty isolated coves kilometers inland. I turned off a paved side road, through deep, dark, silent cedars, leading to Mogi Beach and the town of Kin. I returned home at dusk, notching a slightly improved 45 kilometers.
The next day we visited Izuhara ― the island's main port 50 kilometers south as the crow flies, but probably closer to 90 kilometers along curving, up-and-down Route 382 dynamited through mountains. Too far for a one-day cycle, we took the 8:40 a.m. bus ― the first of three daily ― rarely exceeding 50 kilometers per hour and taking two and a half hours. Except for the odd small town, the landscape was a series of steep, rainforest-clad low mountains.
Izuhara was sandwiched between mountains on a main street containing several large gambling halls and big supermarkets and some small restaurants and motels. Heju and I bused it a few kilometers northwards to Katsumigaura Beach, not far from the small airport, where several tour buses with Koreans had stopped. We stayed the afternoon, swimming in the 24-degree water, then caught the last bus at 7:55 p.m. to Hitakatsu, arriving at 10 p.m., faithful Tachibana waiting to drive us home.
Ironically, our most enjoyable cycle was on the last day, heading north along remote, deserted coastline affording fantastic vistas. In two hours we passed just one person and saw less than four cars on the road ― this was how cycling was meant to be. Across the straight I could see Busan; Tachibana and his friends had paddled a large kayak from there to Tsushima in 1989.
Hitakatsu and the north is isolated, much quieter than Izuhara, owing to ferries from Fukuoka and Busan docking just a few times weekly, while in Izuhara, they land five times a day, and flights from Japan, eight times daily.
As we departed Tsushima, the kindly Tachibanas gave us gifts of bath robes. I'd recommend their homestay, and cycling Tsushima, in a New York minute.