Melissa Kirsch’s Saturday morning column Outside Chance in The New York Times, captures the crisp atmosphere of a New York autumn evening, where a self-proclaimed indoor person is coaxed into savoring the simple, lingering joy of the outdoors. She reflects on Emily Brontë's poetry while walking home in the October chill, ultimately balancing her natural inclination for staying inside with the discovery of her true self through the fresh autumn air.
I was probably fifty years old at the time when, just like Melissa, I found myself so deeply moved by the beauty of fall that I felt an irresistible urge—an inner voice beckoning me outside. Shouldering a massive backpack, I hopped onto the subway and broke free from New York City. I joined a hardcore group called the Argonauts, led by a man named Jason, and set off on a backpacking journey to traverse the Appalachian Mountains. It was my rigorous training for the second half of my life, a rite of passage as I crossed the midway point.
When it comes to the Appalachian Mountains, Japanese geography education teaches them as one of the fundamental landforms of the United States, contrasting the Rocky Mountains in the West (a younger orogenic belt) with the Appalachian Mountains in the East (an older orogenic belt). This majestic range spans approximately 2,200 miles as a continuous trail, stretching from Mount Katahdin in Maine all the way to Springer Mountain in Georgia, winding through fourteen states.
The very first time I walked it was back in my twenties. It was then that I encountered “thru-hikers”—the resilient backpackers who attempt to conquer the entire distance in a single, continuous journey, usually taking about half a year to finish. I was completely captivated by them: their lean, efficient strides, their weathered physiques, and the pure aura of nature that radiated from their very presence.
As for us "section hikers"—those who cannot afford to take a half-year break all at once, but instead spend years chipping away at specific sections with the ultimate goal of completing the trail over several seasons (though, of course, one week was my absolute limit)—we utilized weekends and long holidays. We hiked through the sections from Maine to Pennsylvania, embarking on trips lasting anywhere from two to five days. We covered ten to fifteen miles a day, conquering relentless ascents and descents with elevation changes ranging from 1,500 to 3,000 feet.
While I stopped to retie my shoelaces, everyone else would forge ahead and vanish into the distance. I am a slow walker. One young man from Green Point, Brooklyn, even while carrying a heavy axe, moved faster than my running pace. He would reach the destination campground before anyone else, gather firewood, chop it down to size with that heavy axe, and build the fire. One evening, he was roasting sausages he had brought over the campfire, and noticing me staring intently with my mouth half-open in desire, he asked, "Want some?”
According to the ethical code of hiking, you must never accept someone else’s food. We carry exactly the amount of food and water we need on our backs, and the weight of that pack is always meticulously calculated to match our physical strength. Therefore, the golden rule is that you must never beg or pressure others for food. In the end, though, I took it anyway.
From those mountains whose natural aura captivated me, my feet led me next to the seas of Japan. The summer of this year, I visited the coastal waters of Suzu City in the Noto Peninsula. The organizer, Nao Mikami, is a traveling chef whose mission is to share and pass down food culture through the natural world. She had been volunteering on the Noto Peninsula, a region deeply scarred by earthquakes and typhoons. Over the course of two days, we entered the rich waters alongside local ama (traditional free-divers) and a seaweed expert. We gathered food provided by nature, witnessed the places wounded by the disasters, and listened closely to the voices of the people living there.
Ms. Mikami says: "I believe that understanding something in your head is completely different from understanding it through your body. That is why if you want to think about the ocean, you must get into the ocean. If you want to think about an earthquake, you must walk through the affected land and listen to the stories of the people who live there." Following her words, we participants entered the sea—seeing, tasting, hearing, and touching the seaweed and shellfish. The earthquake had altered the landscape drastically; areas that were once deep underwater were now exposed as raw, barren rocks. There were also mountains that had collapsed. Yet, while accepting these profound changes, the people continued to live their lives.
Grounded in Ms. Mikami’s deep expertise in food and society, I felt the true weight of her practical capability. She examines the vital connections that form between people and their food culture when they confront the outside chance of a major disaster or sudden emergency. Through her initiatives, she asks a fundamental question: how can these human bonds be transformed into a source of strength and resilience? Inspired by her inquiry, we, too, can deepen our understanding and continue to learn.
I was truly amazed to see how everyone who met there empathized with one another, chatting with bright smiles as if they had been friends for years. The new encounters Ms. Mikami nurtured have successfully forged deep bonds. These connections are now expanding into a vibrant range of activities, including the seaweed cafe, miso-making, rice farming, ama diver training, and even a guesthouse project.
As I look at their wonderful activities with admiration, I reflect what about myself?
“Is there anything I can do to be of service to society?” I ask myself—questioning my work and, ultimately, my life. It is a question that repeats itself, always and forever.
To exist within the category of an "artist" means living an incredibly abstract and somewhat mysterious profession. Since I receive financial compensation for it, I have no reason to reject the title. Yet, my actions seem to appear unnatural and ambiguous to others. In an environment where I am expected to explain myself against silent, or sometimes direct, questioning—“You went to the mountains, you went to the sea... is that just for fun?”—I still feel a small ache and frustration.
It is a profession that inherently has no finish line; it is not something where simply burning with passion is enough. Must I measure the meaning and place of my daily life by the yardstick of society? Day after day, it feels as though I am entrusting my future to an "outside chance," as if waiting for a miracle. I even think of this as the destiny of being an artist. Yet, I inevitably return to Melissa's column. When I think of it, my vision suddenly clears. Her column presents two ways of being that are deceptively similar yet completely different: the "Outdoorsy" (those who brave harsh nature) and the "Outsidey" (those who simply want to be outside, breathing the comfortable air). Just like the young man who dashed through the Appalachians, or like Ms. Mikami who shows overwhelming practical strength in Noto, the outside chance of us becoming tough mountaineers or society-shifting survivalists (the Outdoorsy) is extremely low. However, anyone can grasp a simple "chance to be outside"—without special equipment, pressure, or a goal named “achievement."
We don’t head for the mountains or the sea to show off our social achievements. We do it to step back from a world driven by goal-setting and the pursuit of efficiency—to stand as “Outsidey” and simply surrender ourselves to the rhythms of nature.
The cool touch of the autumn breeze, the scent of fallen leaves, or a beautiful sunset—what truly matters is being genuinely and deeply moved by the changes unfolding right before our eyes.
In that very time—which appears to others as nothing but ambiguous play—and within those subtle movements of the heart, true energy wells up from the depths of our being. The peace of mind that comes from finding beauty in the workings of nature gently nurtures a perspective that values the small daily changes and the things around us.
To capture those subtle reactions, gently offer them back to the world, and project them from my own perspective into that of others—I now quietly believe that this is my modest “mission” in life as an artist living in an uncertain future with no finish line.
Thank you for reading my newsletter November, 2026
My monthly scarf is Maple Leaves in the Wind.
The big silver maple is still standing strong in front of my house, dropping countless leaves.
Cleaning up the leaves again today. I captured those fallen leaves in the design of this scarf.
-Yuh Okano
November, 2026
