Pathway to Japanese Literature

Since parting ways in the previous installment, the cross-island traveling party continued their journey, scorched by the scorching sun and drenched by torrential rains. Crossing four mountain passes, they ventured into desolate deep mountains untouched by human footprints, scaled the rocky crags of a gorge, and finally emerged at the Japan Sea coast. For details, read the full account.

▲OVERTAKE THOSE RICKETY HORSE CARRIAGES!

At last, the traveling party had now become four members.
Ever since Mito, we had been eight in total—bounding over even Yamizo’s heavenly peaks with a lively *heave-ho*—but now that our numbers had suddenly dwindled, an inexplicable loneliness set in.
Moreover, with General Shunrō Bōken having returned to Tokyo due to circumstances, it felt as though we had lost a hundred thousand allies.

From Nishinasu stretched the renowned Mishima Road, which Mr. Mishima Michiyuki had opened during his tenure as Governor of Tochigi Prefecture by overcoming public opposition.
At the forefront stood General Yoshioka Kobyō, advancing with a tattered Western-style umbrella worth about three sen and five rin if sold to a junk dealer thrust before him.
Following behind came Kikawa-shi, yours truly, and Artist Misei—who as rearguard brandished his five-foot-six Nouveau-style umbrella—all wearing straw raincoats as we made our triumphant entry into Shiobara.

The sun blazed down mercilessly.
Sweat flowed like a waterfall, but such things meant nothing to them—they overtook five carriages that were rapidly leading the way.
When the distant shadow of a carriage came into view and they blew a triumphant fanfare on their trumpets, declaring "This march is for us!", they would dash forth with exhilarating speed and overtake it in an instant.
After traveling five ri (approximately twelve miles) across the Ōnasuno Plain, they arrived at Sekiya.

Taking a breather there, they advanced another half a ri before finally approaching Shiobara’s gorge. Crossing what they called Nyūshō Bridge, the mountain formations and streams grew increasingly extraordinary, though the paltry waterfalls lining both sides of the path had all their names completely forgotten. The valley was absurdly deep, and the plank path carved through the cliff walls indeed presented a grand, majestic sight—or so they thought. Passing Ōami, they soon arrived at Fukuwatari. The scenery around here could safely be called a magnificent view. Once they passed through here, Tengu Rock—its tip seemingly piercing the clouds—towered from the banks of the Soshu River.

As Shiobara was a place where the wealthy came to escape summer's heat in luxury, fashionable high-collar men and women paraded hand-in-hand through every street. It would have been acceptable if old folks, retirees, and invalids had come here for recuperation—but what truly grated was the abundance of young able-bodied layabouts loafing about holding women's hands while living off their fathers' purses without doing an honest day's work. Nothing proved more satisfying than watching those narrow eyes bulge in astonishment at our party's swaggering advance—dressed in grimy clothes as we barged down the main thoroughfare like conquering heroes.

They took lodgings at Furumachi's Aizuya Inn.
They promptly bathed, tipped back sake cups while listening to the mountain stream, and before bedding down, the four of them set out for the baths.
The General, being first to charge in, declared himself "an otter" and plunged backward into the bath. Headfirst, feetfirst—he dove splash after splash over a dozen times, nearly becoming a waterlogged corpse floating in the bathing area until the three of them hauled him up, narrowly averting disaster.
The General lay splayed like a starfish in the bathhouse—whereupon the three companions administered a gushing cold-water baptism over his head—prompting him to emit several WA-HA-HA! bellows loud enough to shake the building’s timbers.
The inn clerk came rushing over in surprise, darting his eyes around,

“What on earth was that noise?”

Exhilarating! Absolutely exhilarating!

▲Ah! A broken bridge! (Misei)

The next morning, we departed from the inn at seven o'clock after hiring porters.
Now we would finally cross the plateau; our vigor only grew stronger.
Traveling about one ri from Shiobara Furumachi through mountains remote from human habitation brought us to Shinyu.
We took a brief rest here.
The remote mountain village had simple, honest people, and Daikokuya Ryokan where we rested was a pleasant establishment.
From here on, we would pass through valleys where few had ever tread, detour around the mid-slopes of Maekuroyama and Shakagadake, and proceed through the dimly lit depths of a deep forest.
Fortunately, it was clear weather, so we managed well enough—had it been raining, it would have been utterly unbearable.
The bamboo grass stood deep enough to swallow a person whole; eerie bird calls echoed from the distant dark forest; the mountain stream's roar resounded monstrously through the trees.

After traveling several ri, as they pressed deep into mountainous valleys, the mountain stream’s current raged against the rocks, and they came upon a pool where torrents shot forth like arrows.

“Hey! The bridge has collapsed!”

Misei, who had been leading the way at the forefront, came to a halt and looked back at the party.
Indeed, the bridge had collapsed, its emerald torrent gnashing against the crags.
The traveling party looked at one another, dumbfounded.

“Now, now—it can’t be helped. Whether our legs prevail or the water’s force triumphs—let’s have a contest of strength! Jump in! Jump in!”
Having steeled themselves for precisely this level of hardship, they linked hands and stomped across with determination, planting their feet firmly on the largest rocks they could find while urging each other “Hold fast! Hold fast!”—and thus managed to reach the far bank in mere moments.

The water reached their waists, and sitting on a rock in the riverbed, they first let out a relieved breath.

Then, from far downstream came a sound like a hundred thunders roaring through the earth.
What could that be? I immediately rushed over.
Following the river for about three hundred meters—I discovered a great waterfall!
A great waterfall!

“Hey everyone, come here! A great waterfall!”
“There’s a great waterfall!!”

The remaining three raced over as if flying through the air.
A water channel constricted by rocks fell from the hundred-foot cliff's towering heights with a fearsome roar.
The mist scattering against the rocks was like rain.
Timidly crawling onto the rock's summit on all fours, they found the waterfall basin dozens of fathoms below—its depths a profound ultramarine, white foam churning with such ferocity that they couldn't bear to gaze upon the dazzling spectacle for long.
After securing a thin rope around Kikawa-shi's waist, General Yoshioka planted his foot firmly on a rocky outcrop and embarked on a grand adventure, promptly capturing the plunging torrent's form.
When they asked the old guide, he replied: "This is Akagawa Great Waterfall.
"In these parts, people don't come even once a year, so the only ones who know about such a great waterfall are the honorable officials from the Forestry Bureau."

▲Eerie Laborers

Traveling through deep mountains where a dense, dark forest loomed and strange birds cried from the treetops for over two ri, they emerged for the first time onto a vast, open plateau.
From here, the plateau’s mountain towered into view to the left.
To the right, the old chestnut trees formed a forest continuing to Kuri-yama.
Before the Meiji Restoration, when the Lord of Aizu attended Edo Castle, he had traversed this mountain path spanning over four thousand shaku. By the roadside thicket stood an old stone monument, its surface—carved with “Right: Path to Shiobara’s Ara-yu; Left: Aizu Route”—legible through the moss covering it.
After walking a short distance, they came upon the remains of the ancient Kōgen Station.
Until over forty years ago, the plateau village had been located on this mountaintop, or so it was said.
At the abandoned station’s administrative ruins—where stone walls lay buried in grass and nearly crumbled stone Jizo statues stood faintly amidst pampas plumes—this remote mountaintop held a particularly profound charm.

The porters we'd hired from Shiobara moved with astonishing speed; though burdened with loads of some 18 to 22 kilograms, they pressed onward without a care.
Even we, who prided ourselves on our iron legs, were relentlessly dragged along and left utterly exhausted.
When we finally emerged into an open expanse where our view abruptly widened, layer upon layer of mountains undulated like ocean waves. Looking down, we saw the Kinu River’s pure stream glistening white, winding around the mountain’s base like a freshly tied loincloth.

On the plateau, we first dismissed the porters and entrusted our large luggage to a pack horse carriage, deciding to proceed.
We entered Issa Shop and chewed the prepared rice balls.
When we ordered cucumber salad, a suspicious-looking woman emerged and served a meager portion on a large plate—lo and behold, the price was forty sen.
Even in these mountains where you can’t even crack open a walnut, they treat people with such contempt.
For all its rural pretensions, you can't dismiss this place as backward when they carry on like this.

They set out dragging legs that had turned stiff as sticks.
Sweat poured relentlessly.
Clothes were drenched.
From here on, they would proceed along the plank path following Kinu River's mountain stream.

Since there was Kinu River Hydroelectric construction work in this area, they encountered demon-like laborers everywhere.
Five or ten laborers holding large pickaxes were resting on the main road.
Each fixed us with unsettling goggle-eyed stares as they watched our party pass by.
We had heard stories since this construction began—of a trussed-up Dozuemon coming downstream bloodied—so our unease was far from ordinary.
We who could take on a thousand each and remained spirited enough not to lose against five or six men in a brawl couldn't afford hollow courage—after all, those fellows had dynamite.
Being blown to bits would be pointless, and taking on mere laborers was nothing to boast about.
We passed through without incident.

However, they thought the Kinu River's mountain stream formed a gorge so grand, majestic, and richly varied that it could be proudly shown to the world.

They hired a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old laborer from Fujiwara to carry their luggage.
When they checked their watches, it was already past five o'clock.
If they didn't reach Nikko by day's end, their planned itinerary would collapse.
With repeated grunts of effort, they drove their legs forward at a punishing pace for two ri.
What they reached was a village called Ōhara.

▲Brute Strength: Rescuing the Horse

If they didn’t board the 8 o’clock train departing from Imaichi, they wouldn’t be able to reach Nikko that night.

In the first place, leaping from Shiobara to Nikko in one go was already beyond human endeavor.
I don’t mean to boast, but merely crossing the plateau would leave ordinary folk utterly spent.
Having crossed the seven-ri plateau pass, we now aimed to push ten ri further to Nikko—it was nothing short of a superhuman endeavor.
Call it reckless if you will.
We absolutely refused to alter plans made in the morning by evening; whatever it took, we would see it done by day’s end.
In that case, if we continued on foot as we had been doing tonight without walking straight through until morning, we would never reach Nikko.
Very well—under these circumstances, it was decided we would travel the four ri between Imaichi and Nikko by train.

The sun already neared dusk.
Rain threatened to fall.
They absolutely had to reach Imaichi by eight o'clock.
With no alternative, they resolved to take a carriage and dash full speed to Imaichi.
Ōhara served as the hub of Kinu River Hydroelectric's construction.
Some three thousand laborers had flooded in for the project.
Unusually prosperous for a remote mountain area,
merchant stalls sprouted thickly while foot traffic bustled.
Yet I found it unbearable—this village once simple now corrupted by transient workers' easy money,
farmhouses turned half-taverns,
virtuous homes reeking of liquor through every door,
lewd voices spilling outdoors.
Money's tyranny—this tainted wealth seeping through rustic soil via laborers no better than beasts—truly beggared lament.
An idle concern perhaps:
when these folk return to their quiet hamlet five or ten years after construction ends,
their awakening pain—weakness etched deep in heart—would never fade while breath remained.
Pitiful souls.

They decided to take a carriage and dash through the two-ri distance.
Fortunately, the coachman was a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old lad.
The General promptly negotiated and decided to give a fifty-sen tip if they reached Imaichi by eight o’clock.
But the coachman, driven by both desire and companionship—knowing that if he returned, he could enjoy a leisurely night—whipped and whipped the horse’s hindquarters,

“Hyah! Hyah! Crack!”

For the first ri or so, the horse charged forward, carving through the wind, but as darkness gradually fell and it being a mountain path after all, the road turned out splendidly awful.
The road was strewn with large rocks.
No matter how he struck or whipped it, the horse refused to budge; but with fifty sen hanging in the balance, the young coachman dripped with sweat.
Straining himself with shouts of “Hyah! Heave! Ho!”, he drove on. At first, we endured riding along, but as the plodding pace grew intolerable, we leapt down in unison. The four of us pushed the carriage with cries of “Heave-ho! Heave-ho!”, paying no mind to its violent rocking in every direction as we strained to shove it forward.
It was unlikely there was anywhere else where travelers would push their own carriage.
The villagers stood under their eaves, coming out to see what was happening, only to gape in astonishment.
Thanks to this, they arrived in Imaichi by eight o’clock.
With his fifty-sen tip, the coachman was all smiles.
He profusely expressed his thanks.

We made it to the eight o’clock train, but upon boarding, our suits were caked in mud from days of forced marches.
On top of that, we were carrying a large straw mat, so the Nikko summer resort crowd was left wide-eyed.
This much was still acceptable, but when it came to the stench of sweat that filled the carriage without restraint, no small number of high-collar gentlemen bound for Nikko were left grimacing.

Upon arriving in Nikko, Artist Misei lodged for the night at his country home where his younger siblings had been eagerly awaiting him, while we three, clad in tattered Western suits with straw mats slung over us, made our way into the Koonishi Annex.
That we hadn’t been rejected by heaven was our greatest fortune.
Having emerged from the bath and faced the full-length mirror, we three looked at each other,

“We’ve gotten quite tanned.”

That night, General Yoshioka Kobyō drank two beers and promptly got drunk. Oblivious even to the arrival of the famous yokan he himself had ordered, he snored thunderously—gr-gr... mumble-mumble...
Kikawa-shi and I polished off a single plate between the two of us.
However, this matter must be kept strictly between us—not a word to the General.

▲Charge Through the Rain

The next morning, Artist Misei came braving the rain at nine o'clock.

“Well? Are you ready yet? Hurry up, hurry up!”

He stood in the rain, brimming with energy.
They immediately prepared their footing and dashed off.
They hired one guide.

Sajū-san—a robust old man, Nikko’s foremost guide. They loaded the party’s luggage onto pack ladders and set out in the rain.

When they reached Umagaeshi, the rain intensified further as the Nantai-oroshi wind raged about them—relax your footing for even a moment, and you’d be blown back five or six chō without fail. With every ounce of strength concentrated in their legs, they ascended along the Ōtani River’s bank. Looking at the riverbed, they saw muddy waters roaring against massive boulders as if surging toward heaven—no longer the legendary Hōdō Hannya Waterfall but mere filthy currents tumbling down a sheer cliff. They had lunch at the midway teahouse. When they set out again, fierce winds and torrential rain returned. Charging through the tempest and dashing up Fudō Slope was none other than the Bearded General—no sooner had he reached Chest-Thrust Eight-Chō’s summit than he began bellowing triumphantly once more in the pouring rain.

Charging through the torrential rain and climbing recklessly brought them to Chūzenji’s Hatchōdaira.
From there, they went to see Kegon Falls’ basin.
This path to Kegon Falls’ basin was a road that old man Gorōhei had spent thirteen years building entirely on his own.
Alas, this old man had fallen ill and died this April.

Braving the rain, the General and I mustered our courage and descended a treacherous stretch without cliffside paths from Gorōhei Tea House—a little over one chō—to set out exploring the waterfall basin.
The rain-soaked rock edges—careless footing here would send one plummeting, leaving no purchase for hands or feet.
Grasping tree roots and jagged rocks, planting our feet firmly, we finally descended amidst what seemed like a rain of spray, climbed atop a massive boulder, and when we gazed upon the peerless great waterfall—the majestic form of Kegon—we could not help but shout three cheers of triumph.

Scraping the skin off their feet, they crawled up to Gorōhei Tea House.

▲General Rescues Horse Yet Again

Finally, they emerged at the shores of Lake Chūzenji.
The lake surface lay dark and waveless; rain lashed its waters like arrows.
A boat carrying Westerners had snagged on the bridge; across the valley, rainclouds smothered the mountains' verdure; not one bird cut through the sky.
Merchants had shuttered their shops as wind and rain redoubled their fury; cold pierced our skin with eerie insistence.

The five followed the lakeshore and emerged at Shōbugahama.
There, ancient trees grew thick and deep in noon-dark gloom.
Within this stood the Forestry Bureau’s fish hatchery.
When we went to visit the white Western-style building to observe fish farming operations, here by chance was my old acquaintance Fukuda Jinjirō—a law student—who gave me various explanations about aquaculture, and Mr. Taniguchi Risaburō, the director of this facility, also came out to provide scholarly explanations in the rain.

When we left there and were catching our breath at Jigoku Chaya, an extraordinary scream rang out.
At this cry of “What’s happened?!”, all four leapt out at once.
Looking over, they saw a spirited horse that had fallen into the mountain stream and was now on the brink of being swept away.
How could anyone hesitate upon witnessing such a scene?
The General instantly plunged into the river fully clothed, seized its muzzle with certainty, summoned his titanic strength, and with a thunderous “Heave-ho!” hauled it up.
The dumbstruck horse handler watched on, nearly moved to tears,

“Thank you ever so much.
“Thanks to you...”

The handler bowed deeply in gratitude.
The noble steed snorted through its nostrils and let out a whinny that carried on the wind—Hiiin!

The General, like a drowned rat, clambered ashore and dried his tattered Western-style clothes at the teahouse.

When they saw Ryuzu Waterfall and entered Senjogahara’s entrance, the rain had finally cleared, and Kurokami Mountain loomed overhead so imposingly it made their foreheads throb.
The fierce wind blew as violently as ever.
With the rain having ceased, Artist Misei set up his tripod in Senjogahara’s heart and began sketching at leisure—only for a sudden gust of raging wind to blow in, sending his sketchboard flying and paints scattering everywhere. What a commotion!
All our carefully planned sketches of Senjogahara were ruined in an instant.

Surveying left and right while beholding this plateau's incomparably magnificent scenery, they reached Yumoto long after sunset had fallen.
Sajū-san—who'd gone ahead to secure lodging—was refused at Minami Hotel, turned away at Kamaya, and finally managed to secure the second floor of a queer establishment called Sanoya.
We latecomers were hauled about everywhere until shown to a grimy second floor—what a relief!
At Misei-kun's urging, we whiled away that gloomy second-floor night with ghost stories.

“He... is... actor...”

They departed at 7:00 AM on the 18th under clear skies.
Today was the day of the renowned Konsei Pass.
They climbed a nearly vertical precipice for one ri and eight chō; the dog brought by the woodcutter barked idiotically and proved impossible to manage.
At the General’s roar, the calf-sized fierce dog instantly cowered and fled into a thicket of bear bamboo.

The sixty-year-old Sajū-san possessed energy that put young men to shame.
When it came to nimble legs, there was no equal.
He kept climbing vigorously while shouldering the luggage.

When they reached the summit of the pass and looked back, the mountain path along the slope—resembling a standing folding screen—appeared red.
In the distance lay Lake Yuno and Senjogahara, beyond which Mount Nantai stood resolute, towering into the clouded heavens.
It was a magnificent vista.
The General felt the call of nature at the mountain summit, and while gazing at Mount Nantai through the thicket, he left a jet-black mass upon the border between Ueno and Shimotsuke provinces.

Descending deep into the mountains for over two ri, they emerged at the shore of a lake brimming with deep blue water.
There, they quenched their parched throats with clear water and proceeded through the dreadful mountains, where a narrow path through the deep forest seemed to have been trodden by someone.
The curious group went to investigate immediately and discovered, to their astonishment, an abandoned house in ruins with its pillars rotting from the rain.
When they dug under the roof with the end of a stick, what emerged from within was either human bones or animal bones—a clattering clump.
Even the tethered General cried out, “What in blazes?!”

Determined to see what else might emerge, they kept digging frantically with the stick's end, unearthing a single earthen pot fragment, three bowls, something resembling clothing, and a rusty hatchet. With shared bewilderment, they departed from there.
From here they would proceed to Marunuma, followed by Ōjirigama next.
By this lakeshore stood a single rough-built hut where a sturdy-looking fisherman and his wife lived.
There they were given tea and finished their lunch.
From there, it was said one had to traverse over two ri of mountains to reach an inhabited village.

From behind us came a Westerner accompanied by a laborer, arriving from Yumoto.
The General abruptly began a suspicious conversation.
When someone pointed at Artist Misei—wholly absorbed in sketching—and asked "What is that?", the General leaned back and declared triumphantly:

“Hee... iz... actor!”

The Westerner, eyes widening, stared at Mr. Misei’s face.
The General carelessly conflated "artist" and "actor," and so the sunburned Artist Misei ended up becoming an actor.

After a brief post-meal rest, Mr. Misei paddled a skiff from the shore out to the lake’s center.
Kikawa-shi stripped completely naked and swam in the water for a minute or two, then immediately leapt out with an “Ah, cold!”

From there came two ri of descent along the mountain stream.
Crossing a rotten log bridge in the mountains, one of our party nearly tumbled headfirst into Awaya Valley’s depths.
We arrived at Higashi-Ogawa Village without difficulty.

Ordinary people supposedly make staying here their day’s journey, but even with our feet somewhat sore, our party’s vigor only grew stronger. After a brief rest, we launched into a ferocious forced march along the Katashina River’s banks from here to Oikake—over four ri away.
As dusk seeped into the chilly village that evening, we lodged at an inn called Yodo-ya while listening to the Katashina River’s murmuring currents.

Artist Misei was about to throw his life away.

On the 19th, intending to explore the nearby scenic spots in the morning, they went to Fukiware with a girl from the inn as their guide. Where the waters of Katashina narrowed to form a gorge, torrential rapids and emerald pools abounded, while the precipitous cliffs on both banks were nothing ordinary. The traveling party were all surprised by the unexpected scenery.

“Kurio Pass is quite a difficult spot, but I hear it can be crossed on horseback.”
“How about we cross this bumpy mountain pass on horseback?” proposed Artist Misei.
That was an awfully reckless plan.
To traverse on horseback a pass so daunting that even walking it sent chills down our spines might be slightly excessive—but we were not the sort to shrink from such things.
Adventure was something we had steeled ourselves for from the start.

“Very well.”
“That sounds amusing!” he decided instantly.
They hired four rough country horses and thus commenced their crossing of Kurio Pass on horseback.

General Yoshioka Kobyō was a master of horsemanship. Even a moderately rough horse would pose no problem for him at a mountain pass, but as for the remaining three—they were people who had never once truly been troubled by horseback riding since birth. Though they were a band of eccentrics, this venture carried more than a little peril. On flat ground, they were supremely confident; atop their horses, they leisurely surveyed the surrounding mountains, amused themselves with quiet humming, and plodded along at a leisurely pace.

At the foothill village, they watered the horses; now, it was finally time for Kurio Pass. The initial climb was sluggish, so they were all completely unfazed. They rode merrily along, thoroughly enjoying themselves on horseback as they viewed Mount Akagi and Mount Haruna to their left, commenting "That's Akagi's Jizō Peak" and "Oh look, that must be Ikaho's such-and-such mountain." But as the path grew increasingly rugged, with the horses stumbling and halting frequently, conversation became quite impossible. Before long, their bodies began swaying violently from side to side—rolling and jolting uncontrollably. One side of the narrow path was a terrifying valley. On horseback, they were all dripping with sweat.

Then came a heavy thud followed by a shout of “Yah!”
I, leading at the front, turned to look back and saw Artist Misei—who had been riding third—tumbling headfirst from his horse, now sprawled on all fours upon the ground.
A single misstep outward would have sent one plunging to the abyssal valley floor below.
By rights he should have been trudging death’s mountain trails beyond the pass by now, yet miraculously, without sustaining so much as a scratch, he’d preserved his precarious life.
Divine retribution struck swift upon his bravado of attempting a horseback pass crossing—that he hadn’t plummeted into the chasm was fortune’s greatest boon.
Our vigor redoubled twofold.

They crossed the pass and discarded the horses at a place called Takahara.
Upon entering the teahouse, they found freshly made manju.
With cries of “All right!” accompanying each bite, they stuffed their cheeks with dozens of manju—finally, their stomachs were settled.
But Master Mago remained unsettled.
He demanded exorbitant wages and stubbornly refused to budge.
There’s nothing more detestable than greedy country folk.

General Yoshioka Kobyō abruptly—

“Don’t mock me! Take the agreed wage and get lost!”

Showered with these words head-on, Master Mago returned home muttering under his breath.

From here to Numata was two ri.
Breaking through the flat road in one go, they arrived at Numata Town at 3:30 in the afternoon.
The inn here, Marusugi, was said to be a house where Artist Misei had once stayed.
They promptly decided to stay and began removing their travel gear.

▲General’s Unprecedented Grand Speech

From when they arrived at inn until sunset...
They learned that tonight...
They resolved... but also heard talk of another youth sumo tournament.
They wanted...
Thereupon... while we...

The rural theater was already packed to capacity, making it nearly impossible to enter.
However, they had come five or six blocks for this very purpose.
Not wanting to miss the show, the two pushed through the crowd, climbed up to the box seats, secured a corner, and watched the moving pictures.
During intervals between film reels, local dignitaries would stand to explain the Antarctic expedition and make speeches, but their academic approach proved too dense to stir the simple country women and children, rendering their efforts seemingly ineffective.

Thereupon，the Bearded General became instantly frenzied；he abruptly stood up in the second-floor box that served as the viewing seats，still clad in the inn’s yukata，clutched a sweat-and dust-stained white hat in his right hand，and with a thunderous voice that shook heaven and earth—

“Everyone! All of you gathered here!”

he proceeded to roar.
The ones startled were the spectators inside the venue.
Grandmothers, children, and women alike all fixed their astonished eyes upon the General’s face in unison.
The once-bustling venue suddenly fell as silent as still water.
The three hundred spectators were first and foremost stunned by the General’s thunderous bellow.

“Gentlemen! I am but a young man traveling through this region.
“Having unexpectedly encountered this moving picture show tonight, and being deeply moved by the fervor with which you, the devoted members of this troupe, have labored, I now proceed to share a few words of reflection here.”
“Gentlemen! If you possess the means to buy sweets and manju, I implore you to make an appropriate donation to this grand national endeavor—the Antarctic expedition.”
“Is it not truly unbearable to imagine the anguish of the expedition party, choking back tears as they wait in vain for glad tidings from their homeland in the southern seas off Sydney, blocked by ice?”

Taking this as his cue, he delivered a passionate fifteen-minute oration that left the entire audience so moved, not a single person could utter a word.
When the bellow ceased, applause erupted like sudden hail.
The General’s bearded face was stared at so intently by the audience that it might have bored holes through him.
They returned to the inn after achieving an unexpected triumph.

Mr. Misei, having returned from the sumo tournament, appeared deeply disappointed.

"If only Ōmura were here tonight... With me here, it's impossible to throw a youth sumo grand champion."

A note states: Ōmura refers to the Tengu Club's grand champion, Bachelor of Engineering Ōmura Ichizō (Yokota's note: Ichizō), while Misei-ko's ranking in the Tengu Club was sandanme.
His frustration was not unwarranted.

▲Savage Laborers

They departed early the next morning.
The journey to Shibukawa was uneventful.
The problem was that they all got a craving for manju and kept searching for a shop selling them, but unfortunately there wasn’t a single one to be found, leaving them utterly dejected.
From Shibukawa, they would follow the course of the Azuma River.
However, partway along, due to flooding, the coastal road had collapsed, forcing them to take a mountain path that added an extra eighteen chō to their journey.
The old road was currently under repair and had become impassable.
Detouring eighteen chō was troublesome.
Since this was no leisurely journey, they didn't want to waste even a single step.
When they asked the old man at the teahouse where they had rested, "Do you think we can get through the construction area?" the old man replied calmly, "No problem at all."
"As you can see, many people pass through there, so you should be able to go."
It was an extremely vague reply, but seeing that travelers were currently passing through, there could be no doubt they could get through.
In any case, they decided to go as far as they could go.

The Azuma River must have experienced a tremendous flood, for everywhere one looked were houses along the banks that had been knocked down, sections where the riverbank had collapsed leaving great fissures in the road, and areas transformed into sandy riverbeds.
The four of them picked their way through step by step.
When they reached the middle section where the destruction was most severe, a low rumble arose overhead, and a massive boulder crashed to the ground.
Before they could even gasp in shock, clattering debris mixed with rocks cascaded down in a landslide.

When they looked up—what in the world?! Five or six burly men blackened with grime stood midway up a forty- to fifty-jō-high cliff gripping pickaxes and guffawing with mouths agape. The moment they saw us halt, those laborers swung up their tools to rain down even fiercer torrents of earth and stones upon us. Even this band of stalwarts found themselves sorely pressed by this assault. They stamped their feet in outrage, but their adversaries remained entrenched fifteen meters above them amid sheer cliffs where no hand could reach them—not even our General could counterattack here. At this critical juncture they employed that ultimate stratagem from among the thirty-six—flight—breaking into a desperate sprint that narrowly saved them from being buried alive in Azuma River’s torrential bed. When finally clear of danger, all four exchanged glances at this shocking display of laborer ferocity.

They had lunch in Nakanojō Town.
While sitting at a roadside teahouse, they saw a countryman of about fifty engaged in a heated argument with a carriage driver on the street ahead.
A woman around thirty years old, likely part of the country folk, stood nearby holding a child.

The dispute appeared to concern whether they would be permitted to ride the carriage.
The old man pleaded earnestly, but the carriage driver remained obstinate in his refusal.
Upon inquiring into the matter, we learned that a company called Akabasha held tyrannical control over all Kusatsu-bound shared carriages.
Should anyone unwittingly board another privately-operated carriage, grave consequences would follow.
From Nakanojō onward, travelers were said to have no choice but to traverse mountain paths on foot.
Even when Akabasha carriages passed through completely empty, they would categorically refuse passengers from other services.
This country old man, ignorant of their policy, suffered under Akabasha's bullying - yet however remote these mountains might be, such appallingly inhospitable business practices demanded condemnation.
For all who journey through this land, we pray these Kusatsu-bound Akabasha carriages meet swift and total destruction.

▲Outrage Upon Outrage

Hearing the thunderous roar of water beneath their feet, they crossed a precarious plank path midway up a cliff that seemed suspended among clouds. After some time traversing this path, they saw to their right a mountain composed entirely of rock.
This was Iwabitsuyama—site of Azuma Tarō Yukimori’s castle from the Shōhei era (1346-1370), where massive boulders lay piled, precipitous cliffs soared upward, and an ancient battlefield in its depths was said to still scatter bleached bones even today.
Passing a riverside hot spring and ascending the Azuma River’s gorge, there loomed ahead an indescribably terrifying mountain of monstrous form.
This was Maruyama in Azuma, where legend tells of Haneo Nagatonokami’s retainer Shinohara Genba—a man of formidable strength—building a fortress upon its summit.
Viewed from afar, the mountain’s shape resembled an upright cylinder: its face a sheer cliff thousands of jō high, its crown dense with luxuriant foliage.
A peak of eerie, monstrous aspect at first glance—a mountain where creatures from old folktales might dwell.

At Nagao-hara, they had dinner; now began a forced march through the dark night to Kusatsu. Then rain began to fall, and the road became a knee-deep quagmire—utterly impassable. They frequently lost their footing and nearly plummeted into the valley below. They advanced several ri through the dark rainfall, and just as they began to sense human habitation nearing, the hot spring’s scent—wafted by the wind through the blackness—struck their noses; all thought of their feet’s pain vanished as they bounded forward.

We arrived at Kusatsu at nine o'clock.
From Nagao-hara, we had called ahead to the Dai-Tōkan inn thinking even a late arrival would be manageable—but what did we find upon arriving?
The clerk bastard glared at our party，immediately changed his attitude，spouted the most insolent language，and tried to herd us into a grimy room in the annex—the kind of place where they cram syphilis patients．

At this，the General became indignant．“We don’t need to stay at this outrageously inhospitable inn！Let’s find another place，”he proposed，and we promptly agreed．
We headed to Bōunkan，located east of Dai-Tōkan．
However，the lanky，senile clerk here came out to the entrance，glared up and down at our party’s attire from head to toe，and only after a full ten minutes had passed did he finally open his mouth and say：

“We’re currently full, I’m terribly sorry.”

Their feet ached; the night grew late; their Western clothes were sopping wet, leaving them shivering uncontrollably—this was no ordinary hardship. They could not endure listening any longer to the clerk’s indecisive reply out in the entryway. The entire group’s temper erupted once more.

“Alright, alright—let’s not stay at this place,” they declared and set out, but being unfamiliar with the area, they had no idea where to find a decent inn. The General and I went to the police station, requested assistance from an officer, and finally managed to secure lodging at an inn called Ichi.

Indeed, had they not asked even the police for help, perhaps no inn would have taken us in. After days of marching under the scorching sun, their faces had turned the color of red bronze, with only their eyes still gleaming. Moreover, their Western clothes had become soggy and matted with sweat and dust, now reeking foully. On top of that, with straw mats fastened to their backs and cypress hats upon their heads, being told “How pitiable” was only natural.

Yet for an inn to judge guests at a glance based on their clothing and luggage and refuse them lodging—this was utterly outrageous. Such establishments showing such inhospitality to ordinary travelers deserved to perish without delay.

In contrast to the inhospitality of Bōunkan and Dai-Tōkan, Ichi Inn treated us with utmost kindness.
With the fire already banked for the night and no meals possible, we tore open canned provisions to soothe our bellies and slept in a huff until around eight the next morning.

▲The Peril of Shibu Pass

In the morning, they viewed the town of Kusatsu.
An utterly ordinary place.
Merely that the hot spring gushing from within the highland was said to possess miraculous efficacy.
As scenery, it was nil.
A place for syphilis patients to recuperate—hardly the kind of sophisticated spot one would travel all the way from Tokyo to visit for sightseeing or summer retreat.

They departed at ten.
They hired a single horse to carry their luggage, and the four of them, now unburdened, dashed ahead with iron-legged strides.
From midway onward, Artist Misei and the Bearded General showed their determination to detour toward Shirakane Crater.
Far to the right along their path appeared what resembled a hung loincloth—a single white band visible through the distance being Tsunefu Waterfall.
This entire area was denuded mountains, with scorched stone ridges exposed as remnants of Shirakane's ancient eruption and bleached trunks of dead trees standing upright.
In this area, toxic water abounds.
There was a teahouse at a place called Yoshigadaira.
Though called a teahouse, it was a ramshackle hut without even walls.
When they decided to take a break there and stepped under the eaves—what should appear but a white-haired crone with a fearsome visage emerged shuffling forth, dragging her filthy grime-caked kimono, and poured tea into a soiled bowl.
It was utterly undrinkable.
They immediately threw down payment for the tea, shouldered their lunch boxes, fled, and finally heaved a sigh of relief.

It is said that the two who had split off earlier to go to Shirakane later unknowingly rushed into this teahouse on their return journey, and that even the Yūkei pair, startled into defeat by the eerie old woman of the lonely hut, fled headlong without a backward glance.
At a spot near the summit of the pass, a single rabbit darted out from the shade of roadside trees.
No sooner had Kikawa-shi and I adjusted our walking sticks than we gave chase.
Tripping over rocks, getting tangled in vines, scrambling through the mountains—until our bodies turned to cotton and we collapsed.
The rabbit finally vanished without a trace.

Meanwhile, the party that had detoured to Shirakane Crater traversed terrain littered with tumbled stones and finally reached the summit's volcanic rim, it was said. Peering into a hellish lava pit belching billowing white smoke, Artist Misei and General Yoshioka shouted triumphantly and leapt up—only to be instantly enveloped by dense fog surging from the mountainside. Nearly losing their footing and getting swept into the smoky abyss, the two men desperately clung to a boulder like lions biting stone, barely managing to avoid plunging to their deaths.

At a spot considerably descended from Shibu Pass, a great waterfall called Kanman Falls plunged from the precipice above.
To the right, across the plain, lay Biwa Marsh.
From this area westward, the layered peaks of the Japanese Alps—standing bathed in the sunset's lingering glow amidst clouds and mist—offered a truly majestic and grand spectacle.
They descended to Shibu Onsen through the thick fog.
They arrived at Kanaguya, which they had notified in advance via telegram from Kusatsu Ichi Inn, and were just beginning to feel relieved when the clerk came shuffling out and said:

“I’m terribly sorry, but we currently have no vacancies at all. However, since you were kind enough to send a telegram in advance, we’ve secured lodging for you at a place called Yukatanaka about ten chō ahead.”

The clerk’s brazenly nonchalant face grated on our nerves beyond endurance.
This was no joke.
From here on out, every single chō would feel like a ri.

The inn's inhospitality was appalling.
They walked ten chō* and stayed at Yukatanaka Misakiya.
It was a pleasant inn.
They bathed in the hot spring to wash off sweat, helped themselves to more carp soup, and devoured eight bowls of rice.
They slept unaware of anything until the next morning.
The next day, they crossed the boat bridge over the Chikuma River, detoured around the foothills of Mount Myōkō and Mount Kurohime, and arrived at Takada in Echigo Province.
After resting briefly there and exploring the nearby attractions, they gazed up at the distant ruins of Kasugayama Castle to their left, reflecting on the grand ambitions of Uesugi Kenshin, that peerless hero of his age. As twilight fell with the setting sun illuminating the raging waves of the northern sea, they entered Naoetsu Town accompanied by the fearsome roar of the tides.
They decided to stay temporarily at an inn called Ika Inn in front of the station and, above all else, first set out toward the coast to wash these iron legs that had conquered two hundred ri of mountains and rivers in the raging waves of the Japan Sea.
They all brimmed with valor; parting ways with this unparalleledly exhilarating journey today seemed to linger as a profound regret, yet there also swelled within them the triumphant sense of having completed this odyssey.

*chō: Traditional Japanese distance unit (~1.09 km)

When they finally emerged at the Japan Sea, a boundless black expanse stretched endlessly to meet the heavens. Far to their left lay what must have been some desolate frontier—through the haze beyond crashing waves could be seen jagged cliffs rising sheer from the ocean. To the right were Yoneyama and Yahiko-yama, their summits veiled in clouds and their foothills stretching into the sea. Delightful! Delightful! Could there ever again be such a magnificent vista? Climbing mountains and crossing passes, they had spent over ten days here. For us who had broken through scorching suns, fierce winds, and torrential rains, the sight of dark waves shattering white against the shore in the boundless ocean’s twilight stirred an indescribable exhilaration, and we could not help leaping up unbidden.

The General promptly hid in the grassy shade by the shore to relieve himself.
This too must serve as some fine memento.
The four of them grasped hands, leapt up, and shouted "Banzai!" three times.
Ah, thus our exhilarating journey came to an end.

When we gazed out across the sea in an instant, the sun had already set; the raging waves churned up sand while far offshore flickered two or three fishing lights. Having completed this journey, we faced the boundless great ocean. Boundless joy overflowed in our chests, a pleasure beyond compare.

The next day, they boarded a train, gazed at Mount Asama's volcanic smoke, passed through the picturesque land of Shinano, and arrived at Ueno by eleven o'clock at night.
The four were sunburned like Indians.
Their eyes darting about, they looked at each other,

“That was delightful.”

A journey exceeding ten days—and one that selected only those perilous places many find daunting—had travel anecdotes piled up like mountains.
Were I to relate each of these tales in detail, I would find even this entire magazine insufficient to the task.
These I shall publish in due course when occasion permits, but for now I lay down my pen here.

(Isui)

[Published in *Adventure World*, October 1911 issue]