Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Oshikawa Shunro

Mysterious Blood—Cowardice and Greed—Bearded General’s Rebuke—Technician’s Gruesome Death—Cunning Boatman—Bon Dance Viewing—Feeble Porters—Mountain Race—Tengu Mask—Tent Fire—Night in the Abandoned Shrine—Summit Earthquake—Porters’ Desertion—Shochu’s Curse—One-Ri Footrace—Disastrous Inn

(1) Denouncing Naps

In this world that demands relentless striving—could there possibly exist such fools lazing about taking naps?! Those whimpering “It’s hot! It’s hot!” represent spinelessness incarnate! Were summer not hot—now that would spell catastrophe! Rice would refuse to grow; fruits would shun ripening; all vitality would drain from creation! Let those who so detest summer’s heat leap into the ocean’s embrace and perish! On our cramped Earth—particularly within this cramped Japan—we drown beneath teeming hordes of worthless humanity! Should indolent weaklings perish en masse—why—the mere culling of these parasites might yet bless our nation!

Our party ardently loved summer.
The hotter it grew, the more our vigor swelled.
"Well then!" we thought, seeking some grand endeavor—thus was born the Honshu Crossing Walking Journey!
Of course, compared to African inland expeditions or polar explorations, ours resembled a flea scampering across a cat's brow. Yet even this remained a thousand—nay ten thousand—times more gratifying than lying slack-jawed in midday lethargy.

Our departure was set for August 10th, with five companions for the time being: the barbarian-style painter Kosugi Misei; General Yoshioka Nobuyoshi, the mustachioed Waseda University cheerleader; Sunday Pictorial’s photographer Kigawa Senkai; this newspaper’s reporter Izawa Isui; and finally myself—fresh from convalescence.
Using abdominal breathing and a mind-body strengthening method derived from experimentation, I had just barely recovered from illness when—burdened by piled-up obligations—I originally intended only to see the group off to Mito, our walking journey’s starting point, and there beg leave. Yet upon reaching Mito, fleeing with an “Oh well!” proved impossible, and thus I ended up being dragged by oxen across Yamizo Mountain’s perilous heights, trudging along all the way to Nasuno Plain where the nine-tailed fox once transformed itself.

(2) Mysterious Blood Tide

The walking journey’s starting point was Mito in Hitachi Province along the Pacific coast as previously mentioned, with the planned destination being Naoetsu in Echigo Province on the Japan Sea coast. Our route would span six provinces: Hitachi, Iwaki, Kōzuke, Shimotsuke, Shinano, and Echigo; cover a distance of approximately 150 ri (600 km); and last about two weeks. We aimed to traverse the most remote mountains possible—places untrodden by human feet—to witness unusual phenomena beyond mere geography and history, thereby attempting an unconventional journey.

However, days before departure from the Eastern Capital (Tokyo), violent storms and torrential rains had battered the region almost daily, with urgent flood reports pouring in from all quarters.
Particularly on the eve of their departure, gale-force winds ripped roof tiles from buildings and torrential rains sent stones tumbling—so ferociously that even downtown areas of the Eastern Capital became inundated. Just as they were imagining how extraordinarily challenging this journey would prove under such conditions, there occurred an incident that defies explanation even now.
This was none other than the events of that very night.

Dansuibō, a familiar contributor to this magazine, braved the storm to visit, and the two of us clacked shogi pieces late into the night. It must have been around midnight or half past when—just as I reached out to snap a lance or knight piece onto the board—the incident occurred.
Suddenly, something cold plopped down onto the center of my index finger.

“Hmm, is the roof leaking?” But upon closer inspection, it wasn’t rainwater.
It was a fresh blood droplet the size of a bean.

“Hey, something’s wrong! Something’s wrong!” Dansuibō stopped moving his shogi piece. Assuming the blood had come from our noses, we examined not just our faces but every inch of our bodies—yet found not the slightest trace of bleeding. Even supposing it had come from one of our noses, there was no logical reason a droplet the size of a bean would plop down onto an index finger protruding forty centimeters in front of the nose’s tip.

“Then it must have fallen from the ceiling.”

“Exactly! Rats must’ve been fighting in the ceiling—the blood dripped down from their injuries,” declared Dansuibō, who went through the trouble of hauling out a table and climbing onto it, while I illuminated the ceiling with my flashlight and scrutinized every inch with hawk-like intensity—yet found not a trace of blood, let alone any water leakage.
The two men could only exchange bewildered looks. “No idea... no idea at all. Well, I suppose the world holds its share of mysteries.”
If the fresh blood hadn’t come from their bodies nor fallen from the ceiling, one could only conclude it had materialized from midair.
Could it be that someone among our friends had died, and this was an omen?
No—such a thing couldn’t be possible. Yet this inexplicable blood at the journey’s outset felt supremely ill-omened; while military campaigns might welcome blood sacrifices, this portent felt distinctly unwelcome. And then this gale!
This deluge!
Given the need to prevent mishaps, Dansuibō—uncharacteristically serious compared to his usual jests—began advising we postpone departure by four or five days. But with a dismissive “Nonsense,” I slept soundly that night and awoke around seven the next morning to find the wind had ceased, though rain still poured down relentlessly.

(3) Flood Devastation

Having heard that the Ueno-departing Mito-bound train was scheduled for 10 AM, we promptly wolfed down breakfast and dashed through the rain to the station—only to find none of our party had yet arrived, while Mr. Koizumi of the Yomiuri Shimbun and Mr. Osawa of the Oratory Society, who should have been seeing us off, had beaten the departure team there.
Before long, Painter Misei’s massive frame lumbered into view, and soon after, General Yoshioka’s bearded face emerged.
Izawa Isui, Kigawa Senkai, and the rest were all bursting with courage—come rain or fire, they paid no heed to such trifles.

When it finally became 10 AM, they purchased their tickets and approached the ticket gate,

“Hold on! Wait!”
“This is not the Mito-bound train.”
“The Mito-bound train departs at 11:55 AM,” announced the station staff.

“Well, well, well.”
“Who was it? Who said the Mito-bound train was at 10 AM—?” The group twisted their agape mouths in investigation, but no one stepped forward as responsible.
Being a carefree bunch to begin with, they hadn’t properly checked the departure timetable and had somehow settled on ten o’clock by some unspoken agreement—in any case, they now had to wait nearly two hours.
Not wanting to idle foolishly, they splashed through the flooded waters of Shinobazu Pond to view the Noryo Exposition, all while observing extra editions whose soul-chilling cries—warning that the entire Eastern Capital might soon be buried underwater—terrified onlookers. At 11:55 AM, they successfully departed from Ueno.

The events from this point until our arrival at Ōgo Station in the Hitachi Mountains had already been briefly documented in the Sunday Pictorial, so I must beg forgiveness from those readers who may find some overlap.

The train journey proved uneventful; Misei had already begun dozing off.

"Hey now! Starting to nap this early won't do!" The Bearded General's gong-like voice first shattered the carriage's uneasy calm.

As the train approached Tone River's iron bridge, the rain intensified further. Below surged floodwaters that had transformed both banks into lakes - turbid currents ravaging fields while several houses teetered on the brink of collapse.
For disaster victims, this proved utterly unbearable.
There stood an old man - bald pate wrapped in a twisted headband - desperately hauling belongings with bloodshot eyes, while a woman further downstream thrashed madly through the murky torrents, kimono hitched up to expose both buttocks and navel.
Had some inflexible constable witnessed this scene, he might have charged them with public indecency even now - but this was no time for modesty; survival itself hung in the balance.
These residents, having endured near-annual catastrophes while suffering under oppressive tax demands, were truly cursed.
Was Heaven itself enraged by the Katsura Cabinet's tyranny? Natural disasters grew more severe with each passing year.
Could any patriot view this situation without profound dismay?

Yet within our speeding train car, a dandyish man—likely some petty official from the Tax Office or Kobayashi Ward Office—gazed with apparent amusement at the plight of women suffering from the floods, then turned toward a thin man with a faint mustache who seemed to be his companion in the adjacent seat,

“How’s this for a verse? ‘In the flood, the white thighs of women—ha ha! How’s that?’” he spewed this vomitous vulgarity, whereupon the gaunt man beside him tilted his head and—

“Ah yes, quite excellent indeed,” he nodded along.
They are troublesome fellows who show no concern for their compatriots’ hardships.
Such a heartless bureaucratic mentality—another proud brainchild of the Katsura Cabinet? Hah!

(4) Strange Puns

Indignation alone could not sustain us forever, so let me recount one of those train-car puns as comic relief.

The departure point for this Honshu Crossing had been contentious from the start—should we begin at Ōarai where Pacific waves crash ashore, or skip that bland twelve-kilometer stretch to Mito? As chief advocate for the Ōarai faction, I pressed my case:

"Why not lodge at Ōarai tonight and attempt some night fishing offshore?" No sooner had I proposed this than Misei-kun arched his eyebrows like a disgruntled temple guardian and—

“Preposterous! Do you think night fishing is possible in this storm? We won’t catch any fish—we’ll just turn into drenched rats until Ōarai becomes a big laugh!” he quipped with full punning force.

I was not to be outdone. “That pun’s an ‘Unmade’ Misei special!”

“Whoa! Here comes another one! Cut out the puns already—Shunro!”

From the side, General Yoshioka Nobuyoshi thrust out his bearded face,

“Anyway, night fishing is dangerous! Dangerous!”
“If our Honshu Crossing becomes an undersea journey, that’d be catastrophic!”

“Nonsense! What danger?”
“Don’t get so Nobuyoshi [nervous]!”

“Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha!” The entire group collapsed in laughter.

Before long, the train arrived in Mito; they threw their luggage into the Taihei Ryokan in front of the station and immediately set out to view Mito Park. The lawn was expansive, the plum trees exuded an elegant charm, and one could imagine how splendid it must be in spring. Since it was already late, they only took a brief look at the famous Kobuntei from the outside. This Kobuntei was where Lord Mito Reikō had suddenly passed away one night; because his demise had been so abrupt, it was rumored at the time to have been the work of assassins under Ii Kamon no Kami.

(5) Utter Cowardice

We decided to abandon the wasted trek to Ōarai and commence our journey from Mito instead.
This was because unless we covered the next day’s journey of fifteen ri to reach Daigo Station in the mountains, it would be extremely difficult to arrive at Yamizo Mountain’s summit as planned the following day.
That night saw great commotion until late with seated sumo and arm wrestling.
Now came three brave souls spurring their own legs from Mito to join our party.
They were Mr. Sugita Kyōsuke and Mr. Kawamata Hideo—public-spirited men from Mito—along with Mr. Tsugawa Gorō, an alumnus of Mito Middle School: a lively trio who all boasted sturdy legs and loved travel more than three square meals a day.

Now, the one in trouble was yours truly. I had originally intended to see the party off here and take my leave tomorrow to return to the capital, having brought no proper travel gear—but with these fresh recruits now rushing to join us, I couldn’t very well disgrace myself by beating a hasty retreat. Moreover, my own legs were itching to leap forth—so to hell with my later duties; I’d handle them even if it meant staying up all night. Thus, I resolved to cross Yamizo Mountain all the way to Nasuno Plain, following along in the party’s wake.

At seven o’clock the following morning—beneath a blazing sun that had replaced days of rain—we departed Mito and advanced along roads flanked by turbid currents surging through Kuji River on our right.
For several ri (~12 km), nothing particularly unusual occurred—only sweat streaming down incessantly.
As we penetrated deeper into the countryside—what left our traveling party utterly aghast was the extreme indolence of this region’s inhabitants.
Was this what Mencius meant by “those without constant means lack constant minds”? While those with even modest property or fields did not seem quite so bad, when it came to the rest—one and all—they might as well have declared outright that they would rather laze about than sweat for a pittance.
No matter which house we peered into, there was scarcely a single home where one or two people weren’t taking a nap.
Men in nothing but loincloths and women in single waistcloths lay spread-eagled, blue lanterns dangling from their noses—their repulsive forms wallowing in indolence were a sight beyond bearing.
Attempting to rouse them, we seized one who had rubbed his bleary eyes and risen,

“It’s hot for everyone,” we said. “Instead of lounging about napping all day, why not make straw sandals or reed mats to sell? Couldn’t you earn even a little money instead of wasting time sleeping?” Whereupon they practically oozed annoyance at the inconvenience.

“In this heat… no decent profit to be made,” they snorted. Their faces hung heavy with apathy and self-abandonment. Yet their greed ran deep. Even for trifling purchases, they demanded exorbitant profits. Truly, no creatures proved harder to redeem than these wretches steeped in cowardice and grasping stubbornness.

(6) The Bearded General’s Rebuke

To provide a small example: it was when we reached the village called Funaoi.
From morning onward, the party had been hauling heavy tents, photographic equipment, food supplies, and knapsacks, trudging several ri while sweat cascaded like waterfalls and their bodies grew somewhat fatigued. Thus, wanting to hire two porters to carry their luggage for the remaining four or five ri to Daigo Station, they raced around the village negotiating—but no one stepped forward to volunteer.

“We’ll pay any amount!” we pressed.

“Then how much?” they demanded greedily.

When we said, “We’ll give one yen per person,”

“Just one yen… in this heat…” they muttered, exchanging glances.

“The foreign sirs last year gave us five ryō each,” they spat out.

“No Japanese fool pays five yen for four ri! We’ll make it one yen fifty sen,” we countered—but they kept muttering indecisively until the Bearded General’s temper exploded with a thunderous roar,

“Shut up!”
“You idiots! I won’t ask you again!”
“Wey! Wey! Wey!” With the General’s distinctive pig-like bellow ringing out, the party shouldered their heavy burdens once more and trudged on step by step by step.

I was not indignant simply because I had been made to shoulder heavy luggage; even though it was said that the lifeblood of a nation lies in the honest and diligent spirit of its local populace, the fact that a portion of these very people were turning toward such cowardly and cunning tendencies remained truly lamentable.
Such tendencies were by no means limited to this region alone—were they not now a malign current swelling across the entire nation?
The reason these local folk—who ought to have been honest and diligent—had been rendered so cowardly and unserious lay in the ill winds of false civilization that had gradually blown even into Japan’s hinterlands, as well as the corrupting influence they had received from those haughty foreigners who occasionally visited this area and those frivolous urbanites.
While this might also have stemmed from their self-abandonment—having fallen into despair that even earning a pittance under harsh tax extortion proved futile—there could be no doubt that the fundamental cause lay in governance failing to achieve propriety: the central government and local administrators, fixated solely on hastening the completion of a frivolous material civilization, had forgotten what constituted the lifeblood of the nation, remaining utterly ignorant of how to bestow upon them even a single iota of grand spiritual influence.
What the nation most lamented was neither poverty nor foreign enemies, neither the absence of grand government offices nor narrow-gauge railways failing to become broad-gauge ones—it was truly the stagnation of countrymen’s spirit and the corruption of public sentiment.
When the corruption of public sentiment reached its extreme, the nation could only meet a disgraceful end in self-destruction.
It was said that our country today was poor and lacking in productive power, but there remained ample room to increase wealth and enhance productive capacity.
From the wretches of the upper classes who prided themselves on living in idle leisure down to the lower-class individuals who—despite scarcely having enough to eat—disliked sweating through honest labor, those who wallowed in sloth while acting as good-for-nothings must have numbered no less than one-third of Japan’s populace at that time.
If only some severe stimulus could have been provided to spur them into effort, there could have been no doubt that Japan’s productive power would also have seen a great increase.
Such matters would likely have been incomprehensible to those foolish politicians who had no regard for developing the people’s strength, but I believed this was an issue that those who truly worried about the nation’s future had to deeply contemplate.
Truly, this must have been an age when either a great statesman like Leonidas needed to emerge or a great religious leader like Nichiren appear—wielding iron-fisted authority and delivering a lion’s roar to awaken the people from their slumber.
Shut away in their nest of petty provincial cliques and obsessed solely with their own advancement, the likes of the Katsura Cabinet could never hope to eternally invigorate Japan’s vitality.

(7) The Cunning Boatman

I had inadvertently begun pontificating, but this was no time for philosophical musings. Exhausted, they dragged their feet as they approached the mountain path. Though the trail itself wasn't particularly steep, days of heavy rain had triggered landslides at multiple points, leaving them perpetually vexed by clattering rocks and soil that periodically tumbled from cliffs above, landing perilously close to their party. Should a three-kilogram boulder strike someone's head with a thunderous crash, they would instantly be hurled into the valley below - guaranteed to be reduced to dust and meet their demise. Ah, Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu! At a ferry landing along the Kuji River, they witnessed massive boulders cascading down from towering cliffs in alarming numbers. Beneath these crags had once stood a mining office until a thunderous landslide reduced it to splinters. One technician who failed to escape had been crushed like a frog, his severed limbs still trapped beneath those colossal rocks - unrecoverable to this day, so they say. Even the indomitable Bearded General cowered at this sight, unleashing his signature shriek like a starved swine.

At this ferry landing occurred something comical.
Though not swollen beyond its banks,the river saw us board its ferry and reach yonder shore,

“Boatman, how much should we pay?” we asked.

“Four sen per person,” declared the soot-blackened boatman with feigned innocence.

“So that’s your steep ferry fare,” we remarked while handing over thirty-two sen for eight people and stepping ashore—only to find a sign on the bank clearly stating one sen per person.

“This bastard’s a swindler!” snapped logistics coordinator Izawa Isui, eyes bulging,

“Isn’t it eight sen for eight people? Return the overcharge!” we pressed, but the boatman clung stubbornly to the money he’d already grasped.

“This here’s a flood—” the boatman stubbornly insisted, but Izawa snapped, “Don’t talk nonsense! Even if the water’s risen two or three shaku, who’d charge quadruple for it?”
“If we let this slide, you’ll keep doing it! Return it!” we demanded, forcibly retrieving twenty sen. The boatman looked resentful,
“Stingy bastards…” he muttered, lips permanently pursed as he watched us depart.
“It’s not that we’re stingy.”
It was precisely because this mountain man got greedy that he ended up receiving such undeserved abuse.

(8) Bon Dance Viewing

From there ascending and descending mountain paths, they had come about one and a half ri ahead of Daigo Station in the mountains when the sun fully set and the seventeenth-night moon appeared over the peaks. Clouds white enough to be painted skimmed across mountain slopes while below in Kuji River golden dragons and silver waves leapt—a vista beyond description that might move even a hack poet to mutter verses—but utterly exhausted travelers couldn’t muster even a groan as they trudged on step by step with occasional half-hearted chants of “Heave-ho! Heave-ho!” In isolated villages throughout these mountains men and women gathered under tonight’s moonlit sky dancing Bon dances with vigor—yet our motley appearance some clad only in fundoshi loincloths others in white Western suits made us resemble from moonlit distance a police patrol causing villagers to halt dancing panic-stricken faces twisted bewilderment watching this night parade of demons pass by.
When we approached one farmhouse here too they clearly stopped their Bon dance startled by our party seven or eight men women standing dumbfounded but upon seeing our outlandish costumes—

“What’s this—ain’t no cops,” snarled a young man, his lion-like nose twitching, whereupon a woman in her thirties wearing a headscarf among them bared her yellow teeth and cackled with laughter,

“If anything white makes you a cop, then my head towel’s a cop too!” Even our exhausted party couldn’t suppress wry chuckles at this quip.

Bon dances, passed down through generations in every village, served as the foremost entertainment for farmers who toiled under sweat-drenched brows—their songs containing nothing more risqué than lines like, “If things were as I wished, I’d take this round chignon and make it a Shimada style again.” Compared to the utterly vulgar ditties sung by insolent Westernized dandies and prostitutes in Tokyo’s central dens of iniquity like Shinbashi and Akasaka, these could hardly be called indecent.
As for those imported dances of theirs—whether they fancy them to be refined pursuits, I cannot say—but their absurd footwork and what passes for lascivious hip movements were several times more idiotic than any Bon dance.
Yet to think that our modern officials and police had become such cold-hearted bastards—prohibiting ancestral Bon dances without hesitation on some pretext of them being barbaric relics, and snatching away one of the few entertainments available to farmers!
There were those who criticized Bon dances as problematic because lewd acts were carried out afterward, but such acts were by no means limited to occurring after Bon dances.
They occurred on the way back from plays as well.
They occurred on the way back from movies.
They occurred during strolls in Hibiya Park.
Those lewd acts should have been regulated through other means.
For police forces unable to sufficiently control illicit prostitution and rape in the heart of the Imperial Capital, and for today’s ministers and bureaucrats having their nose hairs counted by prostitutes in teahouse upstairs, to nitpick about mere Bon dances—such authority they scarcely possessed! What an absurdity.

Around ten o'clock that night, they arrived at Daigo Station.

A solitary station in the mountains, yet the town showed a modest prosperity.
Misei and I engaged in lively conversation with three warriors who had joined us from Mito, while the Bearded General, Kigawa-san, and Isui-san—despite the late hour—set out for a town tour hoisting photography equipment. By chance, they discovered a thriving Bon dance at the town’s edge. This time spared the worry of being mistaken for policemen, the Bearded General negotiated with a young man resembling the dance leader and successfully captured two or three frames of the peculiar dancing. Yet conducting their shoot at midnight, they ignited magnesium flashes like sudden lightning—at which some women shrieked in alarm, while one man, eyes rolling white from the burst’s afterimage, stumbled about muttering incoherently in pitch darkness—a scene of pure farce.

(9) The Feeble Strongmen

At 6:00 AM the following day, they departed from Daigo Station.
They ascended eight ri of mountain paths intending to camp that night at Yamizo Mountain’s summit—3,333 shaku above sea level.
There they hired two porters and made them carry only the photography equipment, tent, and two days’ provisions—but the porters complained endlessly about the weight, faces contorted in displeasure.

“What nonsense—you call this heavy?” they barked, driving them onward, but their progress crawled slower than an ox’s plodding gait. Having no choice, the group shouldered portions of the luggage themselves, yet still the porters refused to quicken their pace. The younger porter stood out as an utterly feeble wretch, doing nothing but lazily grumble as he trudged along. They weren’t Strongmen—Weaklings made a far more fitting name.

“Best send these louts far ahead,” they decided, commanding the porters to march two or three ri ahead and wait. The group then photographed scenic wonders or sketched leisurely, assuming the ox-like Strongmen had surely traveled a good distance by now. But when they hurried half a ri forward, there sat the “Strongmen” with perfect composure at a teahouse, indulging in half-spoiled marble Ramune soda of all things.
It was infuriating beyond endurance.
Urging them onward from behind, after advancing about two ri, they found that the bridge upstream along Yamizo River had collapsed due to recent flooding.
With no bridge available, they splashed through the water to cross—though the depth didn’t even reach their waists, the current surged with such force that it could roll stones, threatening to sweep their feet out from under them if they misstepped.
“Heave-ho! Heave-ho! Heave-ho!” they chanted in strained voices like elderly men as they finally crossed the river, and when they came upon the impoverished village of Machizuke, the time was already nearing noon.

“Aah, I’m starving!”
Voices complaining “I’m starving!” arose incessantly.
We had entrusted the porters with carrying our midday provisions, but since there was no guarantee we wouldn’t lose our way in the mountains ahead, I resolved to conserve our food as much as possible. Just then, by the roadside we happened upon a house with a suspicious-looking lantern dangling beneath a sign reading “Traveler’s Inn”—I immediately rushed inside,

“Hey, feed us!” I barked, whereupon the crone—resembling Adachigahara’s demon hag—craned her wrinkled neck and...

“We ain’t got no rice.”
“Then cook some.”
“That’d take too long.”
“I’ll wait thirty minutes or an hour. Got any vegetables?”
“Nothin’ worth callin’ vegetables here. Want some canned stuff?”
“We’ve got our own cans. I don’t want that slop. Can’t you boil potatoes or daikon?”
“Ain’t got no potatoes or daikon neither.”

She was lying through her teeth. The field out back clearly grew both potatoes and daikon—whether she couldn’t be bothered to dig them up or wanted to foist pricey canned goods on us, such callousness made Misei livid,

“Stop it! Let’s not become burdens to this house.”

With that, the group hurriedly left the house—but the old woman remained completely unperturbed, not even glancing back as they departed. It appeared this was not an inn focused on providing meals.

After walking three or four chō, they came upon another filthy traveler’s inn; fortunately there, they managed to secure lunch with something like whole-boiled loach. In Tokyo, this would have been utterly inedible, but with their stomachs empty, they ate and ate. Tsugawa Goro of the Waters—eight bowls; Misei—seven bowls; the Bearded General and I—six bowls each; the others averaging five bowls apiece—in total some fifty bowls, until even the bottom of that massive rice tub clattered bare.

(10) Mountain Climbing Competition

From Machizuke Village, the mountain path gradually deepened. At first, quaint waterwheel huts dotted the landscape here and there, but as they ascended along the grass-thick banks of the Yamizo River—crossing log bridges suspended over rapids five or six times—the wilderness grew denser until all traces of human habitation vanished. By around 4:00 PM, they reached the base of Yamizo Mountain, Hitachi Province’s loftiest peak.
At the entrance stood an old, towering torii gate.
From here, the mountain path suddenly became steep.
The summit lay one and a half ri ahead; near the peak, there reportedly existed what climbers most dreaded—the Chest-Bursting Slope.

Our usual “Strongmen” showed no sign of arriving.
After waiting beneath the torii for about thirty minutes, Sugita-san, Isui-san, Kigawa-san, and their attendants finally arrived.
Upon inquiry, it turned out that at a certain slope, the Strongmen had become stuck and refused to budge an inch. Left with no choice, Isui-san summoned his Herculean strength and, with hearty “heave-ho” cries, pushed up the Strongmen’s backsides.
This was the exact opposite of how things should be.
The Strongmen bunch were utterly exasperated.

From Yamizo Mountain’s entrance came the decision for a one-and-a-half-ri mountain climbing race.
The bungling Strongmen were beneath their notice.
Having instructed the porters to follow slowly from behind, they whipped their travel-weary legs into motion and charged forward with booming shouts.
Though initially less steep than the foothill villages had led them to dread, the path soon narrowed to a woodcutter’s trail flanked by weeds towering over a man’s height.
The crimson clay slope grew ditch-like—they slipped and fell countless times across five or six chō where progress demanded staggering spread-eagle through grasping vegetation.
Crags jutted from slopes strewn with shattered rocks that tore through straw sandals and battered soles mercilessly; then clouds swallowed the mountainside as rain sheeted down, transforming their climb into wading through torrents cascading like waterfalls over stony paths.

Herein lay the strangest thing: during last year’s mountain trip to Nikko, I had always been the bungling leader and nuisance of the group, yet today—by what twist of fate—I found myself bursting with vigor, alternating the lead with Mito’s Tsugawa Goro.
Ah, how grateful! This too was thanks to abdominal breathing and the fruits of practicing strengthening techniques! With courage a hundredfold greater than usual, I charged forward half-naked in the rain.
When we later inquired why the Bearded General—who always competed for the vanguard in such situations—had fallen behind, it turned out His Excellency had been so incensed by the porters’ dawdling that he spent considerable time roaring commands and driving them onward, unwittingly causing his own substantial delay.

As they climbed higher up the mountain path, the soaring peaks surrounding them seemed ready to answer if called; summits that had once appeared impossibly distant now aligned level with their eyes, and climbing further still, those very peaks soon came into view below.
The delight defied description, their walking journey's progress accelerating ever faster until they reached the entrance to the famed Chest-Bursting Slope.
The day already neared dusk, ravines and forests standing desolate beneath skies that truly bore the countenance of deep mountains.

Near the entrance to Chest-Bursting Slope, from a moss-blue cliff face gushed Kinseisui—a pure spring that cascaded downward into the valley like a waterfall.
This was the source of the Yamizo River—where waters from all directions converged into this slender stream before flowing torrentially through Hitachi Province’s mountains and fields.

(11) Boasting of Being First

I and Tsugawa Goro guzzled Kinseisui water like a hundred whales draining a great river, then climbed Chest-Bursting Slope with drum-taut bellies.
The path to the summit—a near-straight line carved through jagged rocks—had old cedars towering imposingly to the west that kept it dark even at noon. Indeed, the trail’s steepness became so severe that mere steps ahead threatened to pierce one’s chest against rocky outcrops—Chest-Bursting Slope lived up to its name.

However—being one not to be discouraged by such trifles—I found myself at the forefront swelling with pride; together with Tsugawa-san, we raised hearty “heave-ho” cries as we climbed.
The rain had finally cleared, but sweat streamed down like waterfalls; drenched further by droplets dripping from treetops, our hats and trousers became thoroughly soaked. Upon climbing six or seven chō more and looking upward—joy upon joy!—there appeared above us what seemed to be the roof of an ancient shrine.
Convinced this must surely be tomorrow’s summit—whether from being too overjoyed—I slipped from a rocky outcrop and struck my shin soundly.
Rubbing my sore shin while muttering “Ouch,” I finally reached that spot; without even ascending to the worship hall, I immediately scrambled up onto the hill behind it—here—at an elevation of 3,333 shaku (though only about a third of Mount Fuji’s height)—lay Yamizo Mountain’s summit: Hitachi Province’s foremost deep mountain where human footprints rarely tread.

At the summit stood a single stone marker indicating the border between Hitachi and Shimotsuke Provinces. I immediately leapt onto that stone marker and proclaimed, “Let those afar hear my voice and those nearby behold me! I—today’s mountain race champion—am none other than Adventurer Monk-ji Shunro!” Yet the sole witness to this grand declaration was Tsugawa Goro at my side. The surrounding mountains seemed to sneer, “What’s this? A mere human dares raise a mosquito-like voice?” In Misei’s cartoon, I’m depicted as breaking away from the pack to take first place, but in reality, Tsugawa-kun and I tied—and mind you, I was unencumbered while Tsugawa-kun had the handicap of heavy luggage. Regrettably, I must make an honest confession.

Before long, the Bearded General came clambering up, steam rising from his entire frame.
Next arrived Misei, Kigawa-san and the rest of our party—though predictably, there remained no trace of our so-called esteemed porters making their appearance.

Looking out across the expanse, Yamizo Mountain’s summit—reigning supreme over all others—pierced the cloud-wreathed heavens, while countless subordinate peaks arranged their crowns in perfect formation below.
Though regrettably denied a sweeping view of Nasuno’s vast plain through the dense mists, we beheld through swirling cloudbanks below us mountain crests thrusting upward like emerald islands from an oceanic expanse—a panorama of such magnificence it beggared description.
They say Taigaku’s mighty peaks ennoble the human spirit—and here before us lay living proof of that truth.

Izawa Isui seemed to have read some mountain chronicles and proudly launched into frequent lectures about Yamizo Mountain.

“To begin with, this Yamizo Mountain stands at a mystifying elevation of 3,333 shaku [approx. 1,010 meters] above sea level. Within its slopes gush three pristine springs known as Kinseisui (Gold-Nature Water), Ryumosui (Dragon-Hair Water), and Hakumosui (White-Hair Water), alongside five waterfalls, eight hills, and eight valleys—each a marvel in its own right.”
“Particularly, the Sayahata trees that grow in these mountains are said to burn well even when submerged in water, allowing one to swing their bark as torches and walk about even in heavy rain.”
“At that Kinseisui spot we passed earlier, there’s an old legend about a giant snake as large as a four-to barrel that once lived there. It would come down to the foothill villages and often harm people and livestock until a hero named Sudō Gonsuke vanquished it.”
“In fact, they say there’s still a great many poisonous snakes in these mountains even now—be careful, be careful,” he said, pulling his neck in and stroking his waist area.

(12) Sweat-Stained Rice Balls

Though the story was interesting, as my mountain-climbing sweat cooled, I grew increasingly and unbearably cold.
This was only natural.
I stood drenched from hat to trousers, bare from the waist up, while icy winds freighted with summit mist howled against me—truly unbearable.
The shirts and jackets I'd stuffed into Gouriki's pack that morning had been perfect for the sweltering trail, but against this cold? Completely useless.
Shivering violently at the summit,

“Hey, Gouriki—!”
“Hey, Gouriki—!” I shouted, but only tree spirits answered; that horseshit porter must be dawdling god knows where.

Before long, even rain began to fall again. “This is unbearable—utterly unbearable!” With Sugita-san acting as the elder, he directed the younger members to gather deadwood and branches. They found a hollow-like spot beside the abandoned shrine and frantically tried to build a fire—but the wind blew, the rain fell, and with all their fuel soaked through, the flames simply wouldn’t catch.
Even if they glared and cursed this impertinent rain, it paid them no mind.

Just as the fire finally began to blaze vigorously, Porter "Gouriki-sensei" too had at last arrived, so they immediately set about changing into dry clothes.
At any rate, they were starving, so the group gathered around the bonfire and started on dinner—but lo and behold!
The rice balls for two days’ worth of meals—carried in a cloth bundle by the younger Gouriki—had been left uncovered even when it rained by this inherently lazy man, resulting in them crumbling into mush and becoming soggy from the downpour.

“How can anyone eat this?!” he fumed, but with no other food available, he reluctantly tried a bite—only to meet another shock!
They somehow smelled foul, their saltiness overwhelmingly intense.
There being no reason for rice balls to be this salty, upon thorough investigation—how vile!—it turned out Porter “Gouriki-sensei” had carried them over several ri while drenched in sweat, causing his flowing perspiration to soak entirely through the cloth wrapper into the rice balls. In short, they had become sweat-pickled.

This was unbearable!
I would gladly suck the sweat of heroes and great men, but licking that of such a weakling was out of the question.
Fearing this weakness might prove contagious, I spat it out immediately—yet some of our party, faces twisted in disgust, forced themselves to eat under desperate necessity.
Gouriki naturally remained unfazed—it was his own sweat after all.
The sight of him smugly stuffing his cheeks grated on my nerves!

Having lost our rice balls, we reluctantly opened a can of corned beef. Clutching at straws that at least the pickled plums from the rice might have escaped contamination, we munched salty cold meat and sucked on plums—what a wretched state!

(13) Elopement Graffiti

They must have finished this miserable dinner around nine o'clock in the evening.
The night was dark, with only the bonfire’s light scorching the sky.
The rain continued its dreary drizzle, and the wind blew through the weeds as if weeping; the loneliness of this mountain summit, far removed from human habitation, was truly unparalleled.

On the pillars and doors of the abandoned shrine—appearing as mementos from those who had once passed through here—were inscribed various writings of all kinds, among which was also written such a thing.

“October 20, Meiji 43 [1910]: Komatsu, a courtesan from Manseirou in Kurobane Town, fled with a man—presumably hiding deep in these mountains. A search party was dispatched…”

and even the names of those who had come searching were grandly inscribed.
What kind of woman would flee into such remote mountains? Perhaps she and her lover threw themselves into a ravine? Or maybe hanged herself in some nearby forest? The thought didn’t sit well with me.

Night sank deeper and deeper around us.
However, it was still too early to sleep.
With neither blankets nor futons to sleep in, the group huddled around the bonfire—some reciting poetry with forced enthusiasm, others belting out rowdy songs.
Those on the windward side endured only rain spatter, while their leeward counterparts choked on whirling smoke until their eyes burned crimson, sniffing their noses like raccoon dogs.

Amidst all this，the group’s throats grew unbearably dry.
And that was only natural.
Having sweated profusely during our intense mountain climb—on top of being unable to eat rice balls and wolfing down salty cold meat without restraint—it was utterly unbearable.

From all directions arose lamentations of “Our throats are parched—parched!”
Since eight people were groaning in unison，this was indeed the true “eight directions.”

Apparently, there was a clear spring welling up from between rocks somewhere in a thicket a short way down from this mountain summit—since they had heard about it in the foothill village during the day—

"Hey, don't you know where that clear spring is?" I asked Gouriki, but...

“I ain’t got a clue,” he said with an air of feigned innocence.
Looking back later, it became clear that someone who had climbed this mountain several times couldn’t possibly be wholly ignorant—no doubt he’d feigned ignorance to avoid being sent out to fetch water in this rain. We too, desperate to stay huddled by the fire while enduring our thirst, had been complicit in this charade of playing the clueless simpleton.

The group split up and pushed through rain-soaked grass taller than their bodies, scouring every direction with hawk-like scrutiny—but no matter how they searched, they couldn’t find it.
Their throats grew increasingly parched.
One gentleman, perhaps thinking even this dreary drizzle might quench his thirst, stood gaping up at the sky with his mouth wide open—but the rain proved most uncooperative in falling directly into his mouth.
His foolish appearance was not a sight to behold.

(14) Midnight Water Brigade

If indeed there was no water near the summit, we would have to descend the perilous Kyōtsuki Hatchō slope to fetch water from Konseisui.
Oh, Konseisui!
Konseisui!
There, ice-cold water cascaded down like a waterfall.
Just thinking about that made our throats growl audibly.
However, fetching Konseisui water with our exhausted legs was no easy task.
This dark night!
Mune-tsuki Hatchō’s precipitous ruggedness.
On this oppressively humid midnight, when vipers lurked thickly along the path through the thickets—stepping on one would mean mortal peril—our unbearable thirst left no alternative. After council, those remaining would pitch tents and prepare bedding while awaiting the water brigade’s return. Misei, Sugitako, and the Bearded General readied themselves with almost self-sacrificial diligence. Finding only three canteens insufficient, they scavenged through the abandoned shrine until discovering long bamboo tubes resembling weathered flower vases. Hanging these makeshift containers, they illuminated Mune-tsuki Hatchō’s dark treacherous slope with flashlights and descended through the rain toward Konseisui.

We who remained behind illuminated our way with a torch fashioned from burning deadwood taken from the bonfire and pitched our tent on the grass beneath a large tree—but the torch extinguished in the rain, the iron nails disappeared into the grass, and our troubles multiplied without end. As for that lordly Porter "Gouriki-sensei," he neither volunteered to fetch water nor helped with the tent, instead stubbornly clinging to the bonfire and promptly beginning to doze off.

Thirty or forty minutes later, when we had finally pitched the tent, laid out the straw mats, and somewhat haphazardly started a fire, the water-fetching team returned, panting and utterly exhausted.

Cheers of “Banzai! Banzai!” arose from all directions as the entire group swarmed around the water-fetching team like ants drawn to sweetness, gulping noisily from the canteen mouths.
How good it tasted!
It was beyond comparison—neither nectar nor anything else could describe it.

Just then, Porter "Gouriki-sensei"—who had been napping until now—along with his companion shuffled over and attempted to grab the canteen from behind us by extending their monkey-like arms.

“Hey! You there! How dare you try to gulp down this water like fresh blood without lifting a finger!” he roared—but upon reflection, even they were human; their throats must be just as parched, and a twinge of pity stirred within him.

“Don’t all drink it,” they said as they handed over a long bamboo tube of water—but no sooner had Porter “Gouriki-sensei” pressed his mouth to it than he upended it and guzzled everything down with loud gulps.
Now, had they simply drunk it into their bellies, that would have been tolerable—but in their panic to gulp down even one extra mouthful, they ended up spilling most of the precious water the water-fetching team had sweat to fetch, guzzling it noisily only to let it overflow onto the ground.
They truly were an infuriating bunch.

(15) The Gigantic Tengu Mask

However, no amount of scolding could undo what was done, and with their thirst somewhat quenched,

“Well, we’ve got an early start tomorrow—let’s turn in,” they said, shuffling into the cramped tent, though water seeped damply through the thin straw mat beneath them.
The rain intensified further, its open entrance admitting gusts of wind that blew in fog alongside it, making proper rest impossible.
Soon enough, the bonfire caught on a corner of the tent, setting it ablaze like some spectral flame.

“Fire! Fire!” they cried out in panic, desperately trying to smother the flames.
Sparks scattered in every direction.

“This is utterly intolerable! It’s better to sleep inside the abandoned shrine after all.” They promptly folded the tent, and once again the group filed into the dilapidated structure—its eaves slanting, wall planks collapsed, floor rotted and caved in—proceeding down a bizarre corridor fit for specters to emerge until they reached the inner chamber. Testing the heavy door by shoving it with all their might, they found it unlocked; it creaked open, much to their relief. Shining a flashlight inside revealed the inner chamber’s floorboards buried under a mountain of dust, an antiquated giant drum lying to one side, and directly ahead, a terrifying crimson Tengu mask—about three shaku and four sun tall—glaring fiercely at them.
If someone were to come to such a place alone and see this terrifying mask, they might let out a shriek and flee, but being a large group, the travelers showed not the slightest alarm.

“Ah-hah! So this is where Tengu-sama resides enshrined! We must offer proper greetings,” declared the Bearded General, who then ceremoniously removed his hat, bowed three times with utmost deference, and began reciting an absurd incantation with mock solemnity.
The words of his supplication ran thus:

“Hear me, Tengu-sama! This general is Yoshioka Nobuyoshi—a member of the Tokyo Tengu Club.”
“Though This general dare not claim to be Your Excellency’s subordinate, neither can I say our connection is entirely without significance.”
“We shall lodge here tonight.”
“If wild beasts or venomous snakes should come, deign to glare them to death with those eyes of yours.”
“If it is a wild beast, This general shall gratefully accept its pelt.”
“Conclude!”

From the Suruto side came Tsugawa Goro of Mito—who went by the haiku pen name Gocha—affecting masterful airs,

“Ah! O Tengu! Grant us shelter for this single night!”

As he forced out this clumsy pun,

“Amen,” someone interjected.

“You there! Speak like that and you’ll incur Tengu-sama’s wrath!” Misei glared.
Perhaps because Mr. Misei’s countenance resembled a rakan’s—or so we thought—that “Amen” seemed particularly ill-received.

(16) The Night in the Oratory

Having completed their formal greetings to Tengu-sama, the group borrowed a corner of the inner chamber. Most lay down using their knapsacks or new straw sandals as pillows, still sopping wet, but sleep proved utterly elusive.
Beneath them lay hard floorboards without even a single blanket, so their hips and shoulders began to ache.
The midnight cold set them trembling uncontrollably.
To make matters worse, mysterious insects came squirming out, and when a four-inch-long centipede crawled onto someone’s face, pandemonium ensued.
Here came a buzzing, there came a buzzing; then a rumbling like distant thunder—the mountains reverberated as a considerable earthquake struck.

“It’s Tengu-sama’s divine wrath!” cried the group, their eyes growing round. An earthquake at this cloud-piercing mountain summit—though not particularly violent—left us with an uneasy sensation. Yet encountering such a tremor while camping at these heights would surely become a story worth recounting someday, whether it proved a once-in-a-lifetime event or not.

With cold and swarming insects pressing in, sleep eluded me despite my daytime fatigue—I could only wait impatiently for dawn. At some point I must have dozed off for an hour or so. Startled awake by a dream of some demon kicking my hipbone, I opened my eyes to find that crimson-hued Tengu mask glaring before me. The guttering candlelight cast its dim glow over the features.

Checking my watch revealed three o’clock—still hours until daybreak. “Who could keep lying here?” I suddenly thought, springing up to pummel the giant drum beside me—THUD-THUD! BANG-BANG! THUD-THUD! BANG-BANG!—my frenzied pounding proving none had been sleeping soundly, for all began stirring and lifting their heads.

“What time is it? What’s the time?”

“It’s still three o’clock, but let us commence our departure.”

“Fine, fine,” they said as they all rose. Having slept in the clothes they wore, there was no need for dressing—and no water to wash their faces.
The rice balls had gone to waste again, leaving them without breakfast arrangements, but since today’s journey spanned over twenty-eight kilometers—impossible to endure on empty stomachs—they stubbornly filled themselves with salty corned beef once more despite last night’s parched throats, sucking on rock sugar as they completed departure preparations. But here arose a new predicament: Porter “Gouriki-sensei” declared they absolutely refused to accompany them today—

“We’ve never had such a grueling job in our lives!”
“Not only’s your gear heavy as sin—you’re charging ahead like madmen without lettin’ us catch our breath proper!”
“If we keep followin’ you lot all the way, mightn’t have our lives taken.”
“We’re goin’ back from here right now!”

they were throwing a tantrum.

“If you keep saying that, we’re in trouble.”
“If you abandon us in these deep mountains, we won’t even know the way down to the foothills.”
“Today I’ll make the luggage considerably lighter for you.”
“I’ll let you rest properly too—please come with us,” I pleaded,

“No no! We beg to be excused right here!” they kept whining endlessly, so I flew into a rage,

“Do as you please.”
“Once you’re down the mountain, there will be something waiting for sure.”
“If you just follow along downhill, you’ll inevitably reach some village.”
“You lot of weaklings are nothing but deadweight.”
He drove them away with “Go home, go home!” then shouldered the heavy loads like packhorses along with the others, gave three cheers of “Banzai!” for Yamizo Mountain, and departed the abandoned shrine.

(17) Entanglements in the Mountains

It was now a little past four in the morning. The eastern sky seemed to be faintly brightening at last, but a thick fog rose to envelop all directions, obscuring every trace of the mountains.
If the thick fog were to clear and one could see the sun rising in the eastern sky, how spectacular that view would be—but with no such hope today, the party descended the mountain through the dense mist, searching for their path.

Yamizo Mountain, which had demanded such lengthy time and copious sweat during their ascent, now passed by with startling swiftness during their descent.
However, the downhill path was by no means easy.
The dense fog steadily thinned as they descended the mountain, allowing the green peaks to become visible in all directions, but the path frequently became buried in overgrowth and vanished.
There were also sections where crumbling cliffs made progress difficult.
On red clay paths, a moment’s inattention would have their feet swept out from under them, sending them sliding down once or twice, while on rocky trails, some stumbled hard enough to tear fingernails from their fingers.
To make matters worse, horseflies swarmed in droves, stinging their hands and necks until they were utterly overwhelmed.

After descending about one ri from the summit, a swift current indeed rushed like an arrow.
By the swift current’s bank stood a solitary waterwheel house.
The group—planning to stay tonight in Kurobane Town on Nasunogahara Plain while detouring to the famed Ungan-ji Temple en route—made their way to this riverside structure.

“How many ri to Ungan-ji Temple from here?” they asked.

“About two ri,” came the reply.
“Splendid! Two ri we’ll leap in one bound!” they declared. After securing detailed directions, they traced the torrent—sometimes wading through shallows, sometimes clambering over rocks—until finding what passed for a road. Their spirits soared tenfold when the Bearded General led them in booming military songs as they descended another ri and a half... until a woodcutter-like figure emerged ahead.

“Is this the path to Ungan-ji Temple?” they asked.

“Don’t be absurd! This road leads to Tanakura. To reach Ungan-ji Temple, you’ll have to go all the way back and turn right onto a narrow path,” came the thorough directions—leaving us both grateful and disheartened.

The group proceeded another one and a half *ri* as instructed, whereupon a hooded horse handler came clomping along leading his horse—so they reckoned Ungan-ji Temple must now be close at hand,

“How many *ri* to the temple?” he asked casually.

“Hmm, let’s see… maybe two and a half *ri*?” he tossed over his shoulder as he passed by.

“How strange! How is it that the more we walk, the farther the road stretches?”
It wasn’t a Zen koan, yet the mysteries only multiplied.
From the waterwheel house where we had first been told Ungan-ji Temple lay two ri away, we had not merely walked two ri but pointlessly trudged four or five—only to learn another two and a half ri still remained ahead, leaving us utterly disheartened.
Though we knew of Kongming’s earth-shrinking sorcery, we wondered if some monk here practiced earth-stretching magic instead—dragging our suddenly leaden legs, we lumbered another half-ri until spotting an old man with a chonmage topknot and simian face standing by a roadside farmhouse. Unwilling to learn our lesson,

When he asked, “How many *ri* to Ungan-ji Temple?”

“Two and a half ri,” came the same reply as before. At this rate, I couldn’t tell whether we were walking or standing frozen in place.

“No use walking any further.”
“Still two and a half ri? That’s pure nonsense!”
“Folk who say it’s near are sweethearts—those claiming it’s far deserve scorn.”
“And that old coot’s face alone makes my teeth itch!” he declared, unwittingly earning the chonmage-topped elder’s lasting spite.
This laid bare the travelers’ raw frustration—legs leaden as millstones.

(18) The Shochu Treat

The group, driven half-recklessly yet plodding along at an ox’s pace, had advanced over another ri when they came upon the impoverished Nanpo Village. By the roadside stood an open house where four or five old men of the village, wearing nothing but loincloths, were gathered and busily drinking Shirohaku or some other liquor.
Here too, when they once again asked how many ri it was to Ungan-ji Temple,

“Hmm, let’s see… should be close to one ri,” came the reply.

“Splendid!
“Splendid!
These old men are saints!” The entire group breathed a collective sigh of relief.
As noon approached, their stomachs growled unbearably from insufficient breakfast. Though this wasn’t a teahouse, they settled down with apologies and inquired if there was anything to eat. They were told there was nothing but shochu and pickles.

“Shochu will do just fine,” they said, and were served five or six measures of shochu along with pickled cucumbers. Cutting open the one remaining can of beef, the heavy drinkers gulped down the shochu while the non-drinkers, having no alternative, devoured the beef and chomped on the cucumbers.
After requesting five or six helpings of pickles, they had already devoured every last one in the household, so this time they sprinkled salt on raw cucumbers and bit into them whole.
The men who had downed shochu on empty stomachs began to stagger.
I must confess I was thoroughly done in.

After all, shouldering heavy luggage through winding mountain paths while being scorched by the blazing sun—compounded by last night’s lack of sleep—left the group’s legs leaden and their spirits visibly flagging. Thinking “This won’t do—the only remedy is counteraction!” even as I myself was thoroughly worn out,

“From here to Ungan-ji Temple is approximately one ri—let us hold a cross-country race!” I declared boldly, for no one wished to be seen as utterly spent,

“Agreed, agreed!” they all chimed in, slapping their exhausted, hairy shins.

“You gentlemen are doing a one-ri race?” the old men exclaimed, their eyes widening.

Thereupon entrusting their heavy luggage to the old farmers to be loaded onto packhorses and sent via shortcut to Kurobane Town, and having heard that the △△-ya inn was the finest in Kurobane Town, they secured arrangements there. Now then—though some were half-naked while others wore only shirts, and though inwardly they thought themselves in a sorry state—they neatly lined up in a row and, at the count of “One, two, three!”, kicked up clouds of dust as they sprinted off in unison.

(19) One-Ri Race

At the front was none other than Izawa Isui—priding himself on brute strength—streaking ahead like the deity Idaten, while far behind, the Bearded General and Misei-kun, the Arhat General, vied for position. But after seven or eight *chō*, Izawa had already sagged into a feeble trot, allowing Tsugawa Goro of Mito High School—still four or five *chō* back—to summon tremendous vigor and surge far into the lead. Close behind came the Bearded General and Arhat General, clutching their bearded faces as they scampered off—a spectacle so deranged it defied reason—while farmers in the fields straightened their backs and stared wide-eyed, utterly baffled.

When I looked at myself—what in blazes was this! Whatever had become of yesterday’s mountain-climbing vigor? The shochu rose to my head, my stomach churned violently, and after running barely twelve or thirteen chō, I could endure no longer—plunging headfirst into a tobacco field to vomit. I had vomited up all the shochu and cucumbers, but strangely enough, the beef I’d eaten at the same time refused to come out—my stomach must have been quite accommodating after all.

Just then, hearing footsteps approaching from behind—*Buddha preserve me!* Fearing I’d been discovered, I hurriedly popped my head out of the tobacco field—only to find, mercifully, no trace of my vomit. Instead, there stood a sixtyish woman with a face like a pickled plum, her eyes wide as she gazed at the group still sprinting off in the distance,

“What’s happened here?” she asked with an utterly astonished face.

I acted clueless and said, “We’re chasing a thief!” The old woman nodded as if to say *I see* without uttering a word.

“That bearded fellow in the black Western suit—he’s the thief, ain’t he? You folks detectives?” With the Bearded General—who from here appeared to be fleeing ahead of everyone—mistaken for a criminal, we found ourselves cast as investigators.

“That’s right! That’s right!” I declared, having purged the shochu from my system and now feeling splendidly revived. Scampering off once more, I finally reached Ungan-ji Temple’s gate—only to discover the vanguard members stripped completely naked, splashing about in the mountain stream before the entrance.
Their vigor defied belief!

First place went to Tsugawa Goro of the Water Brigade with a one-ri time of 15 minutes and 12 seconds, second to the Bearded General, third to the Arhat General, and fourth to Kigawa-san—who despite looking utterly incapable of running had somehow swum his way to the finish—while I brought up the rear. Yesterday’s first-place finish canceled out completely. What a shame, what a shame!

Ungan-ji Temple was an ancient foundation spanning over five hundred years, its grounds containing the burial mound of Prince Bukkoku Kokushi, son of Emperor Gosaga. The mountain stream flowing before the temple gate—its waters clear as crystal—wound through strange crags and bizarre rocks, its course said to extend some three and a half ri from here to pass through Kurobane Town’s outskirts. With my legs unbearably heavy, I devised a plan:

“How about this—we buy eight large tubs, ride in them while nonchalantly watching the scenery on all sides, and let the current float us downstream? We’d naturally reach Kurobane Town!” With this idea, they wandered about searching for tubs—new or old didn’t matter—that could hold one person each. But in such an impoverished village, there was no possibility of finding eight large tubs, and so their splendid scheme came to a pitiful end.

However, after departing Ungan-ji Temple, whenever we looked down from the cliffs along the stream during our journey, this waterway revealed waterfalls here, foaming rapids there, and terrifying swirling depths besides—had anyone been curious enough to ride a tub downstream, two or three might well have ended up as drowned corpses.
It was fortunate there were no tubs.

(20) The Outrageous Inn

The stretch from Ungan-ji Temple to Kurobane Town baked under a blazing sun, its heat rivaling the scorching hells of Buddhist lore.
Half-naked as I was, I must confess I had turned crimson as a boiled octopus.
Exhausted beyond measure, the group would collapse at any roadside teahouse they found—gulping ice water, gnawing muskmelons, stuffing themselves with manju.
Hygiene and loofahs were nowhere to be found, but such reckless valor made even disease think twice—not one weakling among them suffered stomach troubles along the way. Plodding toward Kurobane Town at an ox’s pace, step by leaden step, they had nearly come within half a ri of their destination when yet another teahouse appeared—this one lined with candy sticks.
The group paused once more,

“Where’s a good inn in Kurobane?” they tentatively asked the four or five old men playing shogi.

“Hmm, let’s see… the newly opened Hanatsuki should be good.”
“That place is sturdy.”
“And where might you gentlemen be staying?” they inquired.

“We heard △△-ya was good, so we’d sent our luggage ahead,” they replied.

“Heh heh, that place’s good too.”
“They’ve even got two women like Umegatani there—” they chuckled slyly.
The situation grew increasingly dubious.
Upon pressing them further, they discovered △△-ya was a dubious establishment sharing walls with a brothel—their luggage had been delivered straight into that den of vice.

“Good grief!”

The first to erupt was the Bearded General,

“This won’t do!
“This won’t do!
“How could we stay at a den of vice?! Let’s go to the reputable Hanatsuki!”

“What about the luggage?”

“Who gives a damn about the luggage? We’ll march right past △△-ya like it’s not even there and send someone later to fetch our things from the inn. If they drag their feet, we’ll have those porters haul it over!”

“Right, right!” With that, the group reached a unanimous decision.
Before long, upon entering Kurobane Town, there indeed stood an inn—a flophouse that had grown some whiskers—back-to-back with the brothel quarter, its eaves marked with △△-ya.

“This must be it,” muttered the group, maintaining composed expressions as they breezed past while stealing sidelong glances inside—only to find their luggage piled high at the entrance: tents, photographic equipment, satchels, and all.
Though not exactly confronting a treasure hoard, they couldn’t very well retrieve their own belongings now. Feigning ignorance, they briskly walked past for a block or two—when suddenly someone began shouting “Hey! Hey!” from behind.
They looked back to find a hulking woman resembling a sumo wrestler—her face plastered white like some three-parts-human monster—chasing after them while frantically waving.

"They're coming!" someone cried, and the whole group scattered in panic.
How fast they were!
All traces of their earlier leaden-legged fatigue vanished as they sprinted like demons for five or six blocks before stopping, panting heavily. When they turned to look back—oh calamity!—there stood Sugita-ko from their party, seized by that hulking woman and deep in negotiations.
Some argued they must dispatch a rescue team, but with everyone dismissing such concerns—"Nah, that teacher won't become a captive"—the entire group promptly crossed the bridge over the Naka River and arrived at the scenic riverside Hanatsuki Inn to wait. Before long, Mr. Sugita appeared beaming with pride, their luggage fully loaded onto a handcart.
When we inquired, it turned out that Mr. Sugita—given his role as the elder statesman—had resorted to a rather unorthodox application of the Thirty-Six Stratagems' esoteric techniques. He alone had stayed behind and, through some manner of deception, managed to retrieve every last piece of our luggage.
A feat far greater indeed than Momotaro returning from Onigashima.

At Kurobane’s inn came their first beer in ages.
Into their shrunken bellies went eel rice!
How delicious it was!
One might have thought hands would spring from throats to drag in the broiled eel.

The next day, we crossed the boundless Nasuno Plain and arrived at Nishi-Nasuno Station.

There, I parted ways with the Honshu Crossing team alongside the three warriors from Mito and embarked on the return journey to the capital.
The Honshu Crossing team—Misei-kun, the Bearded General, Isui-san, and Kigawa-san—would now conduct their rapid mountain travel all the way to the Japan Sea coast.

At Koyama Station, having parted ways with the three warriors from Mito, I was now utterly alone. The abrupt loneliness sharpened my awareness of the fatigue accumulated over days. As I gazed through the train window at the near and distant landscapes bathed in vividly shining sunlight, there sat facing me a high-cheekboned *Haikara Gentleman*—who, without a word, stretched out his simian arm and closed the sunshade on the window through which I was looking outside.
What an insolent fellow! Who does he think he is, closing another’s window shade without permission? I promptly threw it open without ceremony, only for him to reach out again moments later and stubbornly pull it shut.

“What are you doing?” I barked angrily.

“The sunlight is bothersome,” he said, dabbing the tip of his nose with a handkerchief.

“Don’t talk nonsense—Lord Sun is splendid!” I declared brusquely, throwing the sunshade open again and bracing my elbow against the window to prevent further closure. Even the vaunted *Haikara Gentleman* could only falter at this, grumbling as he retreated to a sunless corner.
This fellow appeared a fool intent on weakening his own body.
If one finds sunlight so terrifying, one might as well be reborn as a mole in their next life.
Just as an eggplant withers in the shade, those who shun open air and sunlight grow feeble in both body and spirit.
The same holds true aboard Tokyo’s trams.
Grown men and students who ought to be robust—should sunlight stream through a window—fling it shut like victims of venomous insects, smug in their petty triumph.
Though trivial, it pained me to count these weaklings among a people priding themselves on valor.
They are neither invalids nor women fretting over complexions—what makes sunlight so fearsome?
Modern so-called *Haikara* types mistake weakness, apathy, and frivolity for civilization’s essence.
Such creatures will become maggots sowing national ruin.
The sun is a blessing!
Men whose lifeblood is vigor must charge sunward with vitality enough to drink its radiance into their bones—anything less will not suffice.

At 3:30 PM, I arrived at Ueno.

This journey was truly enjoyable, yet when I reflect, it proved an unending series of irritations from start to finish.

Postscript.
My current journey has now concluded, but the Honshu Crossing team continues their rapid travel with undiminished vigor.
The Bearded General’s and Isui’s spirited writings, along with Misei’s cartoons and Kigawa’s photographs, will undoubtedly enliven this magazine’s next issue with thrilling flair.

[Published in *Adventure World*, September 1911 (Meiji 44) issue]