Driving along a narrow mountain road in northern Hokkaido, I spotted a piece of wood half-hidden in the bamboo grass along the shoulder, scrawled with “ROTEN →.” I pulled into a space by the roadside and looked in the direction the arrow pointed. All I could see was an animal trail covered in tall brush and grass, disappearing into dense forest beyond.
“Roten” in Japanese meant outdoor bath – an open-air hot spring, not some commercial facility, but a wild spring hidden in the woods. Without any real basis for thinking so, I decided the wooden sign must have been put up by a helpful local or hot spring enthusiast, and I plunged into the forest.
After about ten minutes of hiking, wary of bug bites and wildlife encounters, I caught the smell of sulfur. Soon I came upon a stream about three feet wide. A narrow log had been laid across it. On the far side was a small oval depression, steam rising from the hot spring water pooled inside. Someone must have discovered the thermal water bubbling up through gaps in the rock, dug out the hollow a bit, and arranged stones around the perimeter. I gingerly dipped my hand in – the temperature was just right. I confirmed no one else was around, stripped down, and literally became one with nature as I sank into the water. After soaking until thoroughly warmed, I made my way back to the car in a state of complete contentment. “Hokkaido just hit different.”
The trouble started half a day later. My hands and feet began to itch. The itching escalated rapidly, and before I knew it, red welts had erupted all over my body. My entire body felt swollen and feverish. This was clearly not normal.
I rushed to a pharmacy in a nearby town, where the pharmacist calmly told me, “Over-the-counter medication won’t cut it – you need to see a doctor.” However, the local clinic only had a physician on certain days. “See a doctor” meant the general hospital in a larger town some distance away.
According to my map app and GPS, the nearest general hospital was nearly sixty miles away, in a town facing the Sea of Okhotsk. My whole body was burning up, and breathing was becoming difficult. I had no choice. Anxious but somehow managing to hold onto my reason, I drove toward the hospital.
By the time I arrived, it was already after hours, and the doctor on call specialized in surgery. He examined my skin, let out a long “Hmm,” and said, “Let’s get you on an IV.”
As I lay in bed receiving the drip, the itching and fever seemed to subside. Perhaps it was the relief from my anxiety, but drowsiness washed over me. “This’ll take a while,” the nurse had said, so I figured it was fine to sleep. As I drifted off, I caught fragments of conversation between the doctor and nurse. Words like “hot spring,” “sulfur,” and “rash” reached my ears. Was my condition not particularly unusual? I thought I also heard something like “that outdoor bath deep in the mountains…” but right after that, I fell into a deep sleep.
A few days later, my symptoms had almost cleared up. A different dermatologist told me, “Sulfur dermatitis – basically hot spring burn. From now on, you might want to avoid highly acidic hot springs with a pH below 4.5.”
It was good to learn that my skin was surprisingly delicate and prone to such reactions. At the same time, I came to viscerally understand that Hokkaido’s nature is far more powerful than I’d imagined, utterly indifferent to human convenience. I suppose this is common knowledge for locals.
I doubt I’ll ever return to that wild hot spring. Still, for some reason, I can’t quite let it go, and I’ve been searching map apps and online for the location of that wooden sign and the spring itself. But somehow, I can’t pin it down. Could it be that the sign and the animal trail never existed in the first place? I find myself feeling like I’m at the end of one of those stories where it all turns out to be a dream.
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