I had heard how difficult it was to get a camping permit for Havasupai, so when a friend invited me to join him after someone in their group dropped out, I immediately jumped at the chance! Thanks to his last-minute invitation, I was able to make this long-dreamed trip happen.

The entire adventure was divided into three segments, and hence three days: the hike from the Havasupai trailhead into the tribal village, a back-and-forth hike from Supai Village to the Confluence, and finally, the climb back from the campsite to the original trailhead.

Initially, we planned for a four-day, three-night leisurely trip to leave plenty room for a relaxing day exploring the waterfalls, the streams, and the “世外桃源” village (a paradise hidden from the world). However, plans changed, and we ended up tackling a very packed three-day, two-night trip, hiking a rough total of 40 miles!

Was it worth it? Absolutely. The scenery, the village, and the physical challenge proved this trip to be one of the most rewarding adventures of my life.

Preparation

I hadn’t been backpacking in quite some time, so I pulled all my gear out of storage, made an extensive packing list, and shared it with my friend so we could distribute the load. Since we’d be camping in the desert, I particularly bought a three-season tent that rarely gets used back home in the damp Pacific Northwest.

I heard that mobile service along the trail would be very limited, and was quite excited about this. It reminded me of my old 4D3N Juan de Fuca backpacking trip. I was ready to unplug and immerse myself in the experience.

Day 1: The Hike into Supai Village

We arrived at the Havasupai trailhead around noon. The parking lot was nearly full, but we were super lucky to find a spot right next to the trailhead sign. Nearby, a group of dogs lounged lazily in the shade of a locked hut, which I later learned was the office for helicopter rides into the village. Clearly, the dogs were surprised by our arrival during the hottest part of the day. They approached us curiously, watching as we unpacked our gear. Their welcome earned them some water from us. With that, we finished packing up and prepared to hit the trail.

The trail began at the canyon’s edge. As soon as I stood here, I was mesmerized by the view. A narrow, dusty trail carved its way down the steep cliffside, disappearing into the vast, rugged expanse below. The arid landscape was a stark contrast to the lush green forests of the Pacific Northwest back home. Here, the ground was dry and reddish-brown, with sparse spots of vegetation. Looking afar, the round bushes looked like black pepper dots shaken and scattered across a giant oak table.

We began the descent.

Hiking downhill was relatively easy. Occasionally, we’d hear the sound of a helicopter echoing through the canyon. Other than that, it was peacefully quiet - we encountered very few hikers along the way. As we stepped into the immense canyon, we realized that what we thought was the bottom was actually a plateau—like descending stairs, there were more and deeper valleys below.

The scenery shifted as we went further. The once open, rocky landscape transformed into narrower sections, enclosed by towering cliffs that grew higher and higher with every step. The air became cooler, adding a hint of refresh to the dry heat of the canyon.

Eventually, after the final turn, the dusty red and yellow rocks were replaced by lush greenery - we were getting close to the village. Then, we spotted it — a fast-flowing stream of crystal clear water. This was the most exciting moment of the day. The sight of the rushing water made everything feel alive. The stream, flowing through a narrow canal, was our first glimpse of Supai Village. As we followed the stream, houses began to appear, along with fields and fences. In the distance, I spotted the iconic rock column that marks the village entrance.

Just then, my phone buzzed with notifications, pulling me back into the modern world. I spotted a satellite dish perched on the roof of a weathered little blue house, equipped with a conspicuous AC unit, sitting in the middle of a crop field. My friend and I couldn’t help but laugh. We had expected a remote, untouched village, but modern technology had already made its mark on every corner — a surprise, yet I should have already expected.

We wandered through the village, passing a few more houses, moving around the helicopter pad, a school, government buildings, a souvenir shop, a surprisingly large café, a post office, a church, and a grocery store. A sign stood nearby, pointing the way to a hotel - the Havasupai Lodge. Locals were going about their day — some riding tractors or bikes, others chatting in the shade.

Finally, we left the village, made a left, and followed the trail along the stream. We were approaching the campsite.

The sound of rushing water again appeared and grew louder. Some smaller waterfalls appeared along the way. Then, after crossing an unfinished bridge and rounding a few bends, we arrived at Havasu Falls.

It was breathtaking.

I immediately understood why this remote, hard-to-reach place had become so famous and widely talked about. I stood midway along a cliffside trail. On one side, towering brown rocks blocked the sky, while on the other, below, the waterfall shimmered like a silver ribbon as it cascaded into a turquoise pool. With the water crashing down, the mist rose as the water pounded into the pool below, creating a dreamlike atmosphere. Though I had seen photos of this iconic spot, nothing compared to standing there in person.

The campsite wasn’t far. We found a spot close to a water station, surrounded by other campers. The area was bustling, including a lively group of 30 kids from the Bay Area on a luxurous summer camp trip. Despite the commotion, the fresh air, rustling leaves, and gentle sounds of the nearby stream made for a surprisingly peaceful end to the day. After setting up our tent and enjoying a quick dinner, we crawled into our sleeping bags, excited for the adventure that awaited us the next morning.

There were so many archived photos and words in my temp folder, a work in progress. Yet, I decided to post this short one just to share some photos taken during the trip and mark the start of the year 2025.

Mount Shuksan was definitely on my list, though I never thought I’d head there so early in mid-January. This January was extraordinarily dry. Seattle had an unusually long stretch of winter sun—roughly two weeks—and the dry days continued until almost the end of the month. As long as the weather was good, and invited by friends, I took another alpine start on the weekend of the 18th.

When we arrived at the parking lot, the local staff of Mt. Baker Ski Area had just started to arrive. Then the morning golden hour began. It was the alpineglow. It was probably one of the most pinkish and orange skies I had ever seen. Sadly, at that time, we were touring on routes surrounded by trees. By the time we entered an open area, the sky was already too bright.

The entire route toward Mount Shuksan first required a descent into the valley. But the downward path was just too sketchy—rock-hard ice covered the frozen earth, and the steep slope was scattered with loose figs. Eventually, we struggled for too long here before finally making it down to the valley.

The snow coverage was definitely not good—there were holes and stones everywhere. Since I was only expecting an outdoor workout, I wasn’t surprised by the conditions. With some further climbing, our group eventually ended up at the top of a waterfall and, later, at the bottom of the White Salmon Glacier.

The view was stunning, but since the entire bowl was in the mountain’s shade, it was extra cold. We didn’t stay long and tried to enjoy a bit of skiing and riding before facing our final struggle—climbing back up the slope we had descended earlier. Looking back, I saw the ski resort basking in the sunshine. People were gliding down, warm and relaxed. For a moment, I couldn’t help but question why I was up here shivering instead of down there, enjoying the ride.

Still, I was glad I came. For one, I got some exercise; I also met new friends; and as a bonus, I took some pictures for a friend, which ended up being used by the Seattle Arc’teryx Instagram account!

Now, as I prepare for a series of worldwide trips, I’ll definitely boost my energy to update this space more!

Plus, on the ride back, we captured a perfect view of Twin Sisters Mountain from State Route 9 during the golden hour. A pity my camera lens was only 105mm.

The recently concluded Asian trip brought back all my childhood memories of the summer heat: the extreme temperatures, the humid air, and the cloudless sky with sunlight beaming directly down. Having lived in Seattle for 10 years, I had almost forgotten what my childhood summers were like and how I managed to endure them for 18 years!

The moment I stepped off the plane at KIX, I immediately felt a familiar sensation, akin to arriving in Hawaii, Singapore, or New Orleans—the hot and humid air. But once I left the airport, I realized I was wrong. This heat was actually different—buried deep in my memories, nearly forgotten. It was pure and relentless, offering no mercy. There was no sea breeze, no air movement from nearby hills. The air felt heavy and stagnant, making it hard to breathe. Even as I inhaled deeply, the surrounding air seemed reluctant to flow in and replenish the hollow I had just emptied. The airflow within my body, if not hotter, matched my body temperature. Exhaling offered no relief—no heat escaped, no moisture evaporated.

I wasn’t sure if I had made the right decision. I had rented a bike for a two-day trip from Osaka, passing through Kyoto to Lake Biwa 琵琶湖, and then back. Ever since leaving Hangzhou and Shanghai years ago, I hadn’t ridden a bike in such weather. This was also my first time cycling such a long route in Asia.

The route began at the Road Bike Rental Japan shop in Osaka and followed the Yodogawa River 淀川 and other smaller rivers toward Arashiyama 嵐山. The bike trail was well-maintained, offering two options: riding along the high bank or the lower path at the bank’s foot. On one side were sports fields filled with students training for soccer or baseball, and on the other was a lush green slope. Suddenly, the scenes I had seen in anime came to life: the vivid greens, blues, and yellows, the deafening cicadas chirping from bushes and trees offering no shade, and the succession of bridges casting fleeting shadows where I could pause, sip water, and catch my breath.

Cycling forward felt eternal. I felt as though I were exercising in a Japanese onsen. On one side was a pool of hot water, its steam adding humidity, and on the other, the door to a sauna. People came and went, briefly opening the sauna door, releasing a wave of scorching air that hit me like a wall before dissipating. Occasionally, someone leaving the onsen would open the door to the outside, letting in a brief moment of cooler air. But this relief was fleeting.

I soon understood why the rental shop owner had advised me to stop at every vending machine and convenience store to refill my water bottle and recharge myself. Over the course of two days, I found myself needing to stop and replenish my water nearly every 30 minutes to an hour. I tried almost every sports drink available and hardly needed to use the restroom along the way.

The route from Osaka to Kyoto was highly recommended—except for the season. It perfectly encapsulated rural Japan as depicted in anime, dramas, or movies. The rivers were shallow, flanked by high banks of concrete or grassy slopes. Narrow streets were lined with traditional rural houses, and the intense heat kept most people indoors. Occasionally, middle-aged women rode their mamacharis, with grocery bags tucked into the bike baskets. Children played sports or chatted in the shade under bridges. The houses and fields were small, the crops neatly arranged, and everything was remarkably clean.

All of this vanished when I reached Arashiyama. Suddenly, it felt like stepping into a theme park—crowds overflowed from sidewalks onto the main streets. Overwhelmed, I decided to skip lunch and flee the chaos, heading straight out of the area. I skipped visiting temples and shrines, knowing I could return another time. Instead, I sought refuge in a convenience store to escape the heat, grab a quick meal, and prepare for the second part of my journey: climbing over a hill to reach the shores of Lake Biwa.

The uphill ride was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The heat made it impossible to ride continuously. I had to stop frequently to catch my breath and wait for my heartbeat to stabilize before resuming. The view from Mount Hiei reinvigorated me, though the narrow roads and lack of dedicated bike lanes demanded caution on the downhill stretch. I eventually reached the Biwa Lake round road and rode to a J-Hoppers hostel, eager for rest. While only part of the route followed the lakeshore, that section was more than enough to soothe me. The vast lake and its gentle breeze welcomed me as I arrived.

The hostel had a traditional Japanese-style room clearly aimed at backpackers, particularly foreigners. Young travelers worked and stayed there, experiencing a gap time immersed in Japanese culture. The room was clean, with a fan and air conditioning. A communal restroom and shower sufficed. I enjoyed a simple meal of instant noodles, a refreshing shower, a walk along the lakeside, and a sound sleep to prepare for the next day’s return journey. I planned to start early to ride as much as possible before the temperature soared.

The next morning, as I stepped outside, I felt as though I had re-entered the onsen. It was barely 6 AM. The sun had just risen, but it was already steaming up the moisture from the night, creating a dense, heavy mist. My route crossed the Biwako Bridge and followed the other side of Lake Biwa to Otsu. This segment was much more enjoyable, with dedicated bike lanes and signs for the Biwa Ichigo route, encouraging cyclists to ride clockwise around the lake.

In Uji, I stopped at a matcha museum to pick up souvenirs. But when I resumed my journey back to Osaka, I mistakenly took the wrong route. I found myself climbing another mountain, realizing it too late. As the saying goes, detours often lead to unexpected discoveries — I stumbled upon a renowned ramen restaurant, 俺のラーメンあっぱれ屋, celebrated as one of the best in the Kyoto area.

I waited over an hour for my meal—the longest I’d ever waited for food. Run by a couple, the man handled all the cooking, while the woman managed orders and cleaning. The ramen’s creamy, rich broth, done by a blender, left a strong impression, as did the distinctive white pepper oil. The meal reinvigorated me, and I managed to push through the heat for the final stretch back to Osaka. Drafting behind another cyclist for part of the way helped me conserve energy, though I didn’t get a chance to thank them before they disappeared into the city.

Back at the rental shop, the owner shared his story of settling in Japan and starting his business. It was fascinating to hear about a westerner embracing life in East Asia. His business seemed to be thriving, with new branches opening. I hoped the cycling trend catching on in China would extend to Japan, boosting his success.

Despite the intense heat, I was happy with this first experience of cycling in Japan. I’ve been following a cyclist girl on Strava who lives in Osaka and regularly rides over 100 miles on weekends—it’s mind-blowing. Completing BiwaIchi is now a must-do on my list. Although city cycling wasn’t as smooth as I had hoped—narrow streets and limited bike lanes made it challenging — the Osaka-Kyoto trail was a highlight. I’d love to ride it again with friends, but definitely not in summer. It was far more enjoyable than simply taking the train!