Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. Edo and Tokyo’s Fuji

I returned to Japan in March of this year.
At Yokohama’s pier, I was welcomed by family and friends—meeting faces I had longed to see after so long—yet there remained one face I could not meet.
Some time later, my workplace stood behind Nihonbashi’s Mitsukoshi Department Store, facing the Bank of Japan—but from the room we occupied in that building, I could gaze up through pine greenery at the historic castle dating back to Ota Dokan’s time, and for the first time felt settled in this nation of pines that was Japan.
One day when someone at the neighboring desk called out—“You can see Fuji”—I looked through silver-edged clouds lit by the western sun and saw the mountain—until now obstructed by rains and dull flower-viewing haze—this face I had yearned to meet.
I leapt for joy—truly I had sought this long in vain.
I cast my gaze as if cornering prey—toward that last fragment still hiding in clouds.

There, what I recalled was the figure of Mount Hood as seen from Portland’s City Park in North America—a bridal-white kimono spilling its fragrance, its form draped long and low.
Above dozens of angular buildings and factory chimneys—like the spread wings of a white butterfly scattering snow powder—over distant forests thickly blackened by growth, over sedimentary hills undulating with soft green carpets, over Cascade plateaus clasping multiple thick collars of stone—there it towered majestically, trailing its long ceremonial hem.
And what I immediately associated was this: compared to how Portland citizens revere Mount Hood, or how the people of Tacoma and Shuttle worship Mount Rainier—which the Japanese call Tacoma Fuji—this Tokyo, when it was still called Edo, had revered Mount Fuji as "our own mountain."
At the very least, it had not been forgotten as it is now.
Even if Ota Dokan’s poem "I behold Fuji’s lofty peak at my eaves" has been quoted to exhaustion, were there ever picture books, brocade prints, or illustrated guides to famous sites from Edo that excluded Mount Fuji?

The room where I resided overlooked Ichiiwa Bridge below, but during the Edo period, when one stood upon that bridge and surveyed the view, one could take in at a single glance: Nihonbashi Bridge spanning twenty-eight ken from south to north with its giboshi-adorned railings; the gate controlling access from Honmaru’s main entrance to Honcho district, where Tokiwa Bridge stood with official notice boards at its eastern approach; Gofukubashi Bridge towering with its firewatch tower along the riverbank leading to daimyo estates; then past Kajibashi and Edobashi Bridges, all the way from Lord Hosokawa’s residence avenue to Dōzambashi Bridge crossing toward Tokiwa Bridge, and even further to Zenibukuro Bridge—earning this vantage point the name "Eight-View Bridge." There, as if harmonizing these meandering riverbank scenes, Mount Fuji rose in the far west like a dazzling white jade throne. This composition had been famously recorded in Hiroshige I’s *Ehon Edo Miyage* opening volume, celebrated as Edo’s quintessential landscape.

When I examined the Official Edo Block Map of Tenpō 7 that I had casually acquired at a night market two or three days prior, I saw that from Dōzambashi Bridge to Tatsunokuchi and Yayosu Riverbank, there were rows of daimyo residences, Lord Hayashi’s upper estate, and permanent fire brigade compounds.

By that time, Hiroshige’s breakthrough work *The Fifty-three Stations of the Tōkaidō* (Hoeido edition) had already been completed, and Katsushika Hokusai’s *Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji* was astonishing passersby at picture book shops—but when one considers that Hiroshige was born in the permanent fire brigade compound marked on that map and had received formative influences from both a renowned castle and sacred mountain under the shadow of Nishinomaru, his late-life compilation *Thirty-six Views of Fuji* could hardly be called coincidental.

Incidentally, let me mention Suruga-cho’s Echigoya (then Mitsui Gofukuten, now Mitsukoshi). The fact that Mount Fuji—its luminous form hovering high above the clouds—looked down upon ceaseless crowds passing beneath roof signs inscribed in bold brushstrokes with “Silks and Fabrics of All Kinds, Cash Prices Firm” spanning both sides of the main street, or through noren curtains dyed with the character “三” hanging in well curb enclosures, remains preserved in Utamaro’s *“Shop Opening in November”* and Hasegawa Settan’s *Edo Meisho Zue* Volume I, along with countless other brocade prints sharing this compositional scheme. Particularly regarding Hokusai’s three-volume *One Hundred Views of Mount Fuji* and forty-six-sheet *Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji*—how they wove together Edo, its citizens’ lives, and Mount Fuji; how they elevated Japan to global renown as the land of Fujiyama through these masterpieces of ukiyo-e—this need hardly be explained now.

Speaking of citizens' lives—given the transportation challenges of the time and the difficulty of ascending Mount Fuji—on the first day of the sixth lunar month, they would make continuous pilgrimages to mini-Fuji mounds modeled after the mountain's shape within the city and suburbs, and to small shrines where Fuji Gongen had been enshrined.
From Komagome's Fuji to Kanda Myojin Shrine, the precincts of Fukagawa Hachiman, Teppozu Inari, and Meguro's Gyōninzaka—these were the principal sites, but even they have now become mere fairy tales.

Department stores with windows as numerous as Go board squares, oppressively heavy roofs resembling overturned tanks, and American-style reinforced concrete high-rises stacked like rectangular boxes through a magician’s sleight of hand—they exerted vertical pressure over pedestrians’ heads, forming ethereal ‘roadblocks’ in the sky.
People’s eyes, like elevators chasing sharp angles to shoot up and down in one breath, found the sky—narrowed like a belt between buildings—peering upward from below into a sky abyss reminiscent of New York’s Wall Street where stockbrokers plied their trade.
The taller buildings grew, the more Mount Fuji became invisible; the more convenient transportation made Tokyo and Fuji feel closer in distance, the more Fuji was excised from citizens’ hearts, left exposed as a lonely spire severed from all connection.
No longer did we even hear from urban planners about schemes to heighten the capital’s civic beauty through strategic incorporation of Mount Fuji’s vistas.
Just as Geneva had its Mont-Blanc Street—so named for commanding views of the Alps’ highest peak—so too in today’s Tokyo did preserving place names like Komagome’s Fujimae-cho or Kōjimachi’s Fujimi-cho fail to resurrect Mount Fuji within citizens’ hearts.

Be that as it may, this mountain's strength still pressed upon my heart.
The beauty of this mountain mesmerized me in a trance.
The impressions carved from centuries past must have pressed their indelible brand upon the great collective that was the metropolis.
The grand beauty of Tokyo City was considered to lie in how Mount Fuji reigned in the western skies, just as Portland possessed Mount Hood and Seattle raised Mount Rainier aloft.
That for my first climb since returning home, despite any valleys I might have set aside, I came to feel compelled toward making a pilgrimage to Mount Fuji was due to the tradition of familiarity with "our mountain."

II. Foothills’ Waterwheels

Among my two ascents of Mount Fuji this year, the first began at the Omiya Route: we pressed straight to the summit without overnight stops before descending via Subashiri; the second saw me ride horseback up to Yoshida’s Fifth Station, lodge there overnight, then traverse the Pilgrimage Route north-to-south in reverse before descending to Gotemba.
During the Omiya Route ascent, I was accompanied by my friend, the painter Mr. Ibaragi Inokichi, and my eldest son Hayataro.
Mr. Ibaragi took out a writing brush from the yatate case tucked into his waistband along the way and set about sketching in ink in his sketchbook.
Hayataro had plans to climb the Southern Alps soon, so I brought him along for conditioning.
During the Yoshida Route ascent, I went alone.
The reason I crossed the great foothills leisurely on horseback was because the previous Omiya Route ascent had been on foot (though we borrowed a car up to Nagasaka), making this variation necessary to seek contrast.
While recalling ancient travelers who made horseback their home, I stretched out comfortably beneath a roof—not quite a room with fresh timberwork and tatami-lined paper screens—without sleeping on roots or stones; though feeling meals served on proper trays rather than chinquapin leaves clashed with mountain sensibilities, I indulged in this convenience nonetheless.

There was a reason for choosing the Omiya Route first.
The Omiya Route, among all Mount Fuji climbing paths, stands as the lowest precisely because it lies closest to the coast.
The Yoshida Route features a gentle ascent from Ōtsuki Station, with the golden torii standing at approximately 800 meters above sea level.
Gotemba Town is also situated at the edge of the plateau, reaching a height of 450 meters.
Suyama climbs further to 580 meters.
However, the Omiya Route—with a slope so gentle one might stroll up it from Shinagawa Bay to Tokyo’s Uemachi—stands at a mere 125 meters above sea level.
Examining a cross-sectional diagram of Mount Fuji reveals stark contrasts: the northern route drawn from Kusushi Shrine at the summit down to Yoshida forms the steepest and shortest line; the eastern route from Ginmeisui spring at the same summit—sliding past the precipice of Mune-tsuki Hatchō—traverses diagonally while descending toward Gotemba Town in a somewhat longer arc; and though the path from Okumiya at the summit to the 3,030-meter contour line maintains a considerable incline, from there to Omiya Town via the Omote-guchi route stretches a line cascading unimpeded through open sky. The leisurely grace of this descent, its grand scale, and its unhurried, carefree length—save for the sea's horizon—likely constitute the greatest visible line one might behold with naked eyes across our nation.
Thus, the stretch from Sengen Shrine’s vicinity near Suruga Bay’s warm currents—where evergreen broad-leaved trees like kashiwa oaks, sakaki, and yabunikkei cinnamon flourish in the mild climate—to the summit’s lichen-clad zone harboring frigid moss species such as Chizugoke and Hanagoke constitutes the most fascinating climbing route; to put it plainly, it is the thrill of journeying from Japan’s lowest starting point to its highest peak.

The train gazed up at the Hakone Volcanic Group as it followed the upper reaches of the Sakawa River, passing through Suruga Koyama with its accumulations of volcanic ash and gravel—and when it crossed beyond Gotemba, Mount Fuji lay engulfed in leaden, oppressive water vapor, leaving only an emptiness pregnant with presence in one corner of the sky.
Even nearby Atagoyama—from its northern peak Echizen-dake connecting to southern Ihai-dake through sawtooth-edged Nokogiridake and Kurodake—lay shrouded in forests spewing green flames across its slopes. These woods swayed like underwater algae, weaving indigo gradations into low-hanging clouds that alternately seemed to retreat and advance, their forms elusive and contours indistinct. Yet where Fuji’s splayed slopes crawled across the earth, where its lines intersected with Atagoyama’s foothills, and where Hakone’s outer volcanic rim—encasing dizzying internal fractures within bold figure-eight contours—confronted them directly: here lay three great lines of creation forming a grand symphony across expansive foothill valleys.
From terraced rice paddies spreading like tiered shelves toward those mountain bases came water parting green rice leaves as it cascaded field to field—undiminished by drought—resounding with plenitude that etched Fuji’s foothills’ aqueous youth upon the senses.
Mount Hood in North America—which I climbed—had great glaciers streaming from its summit yet left its plateau parched, citrus trees standing sparse among sand and boulders.
How then did summer Fuji—this rock mass baring earthenware-red scorched flanks—retain such lush vitality?
What struck me most was a waterwheel beneath a thatched roof where mortars worked those paddies.

In Volume IV of *Modern Painters*, where Mr. John Ruskin extolled mountain landscapes—while being the founder of Saint George’s Guild—he vehemently argued that all industries should derive their power from wind and water. Not only had he failed to foresee hydroelectric power, but he detested reliance on steam’s force. For him, landscapes held value not merely as visual pleasures but for their own sake. The water of the desert was both picturesque and a source of wealth. Beauty and utility ought to be harmonized. But what of the present? The Dutch lowland windmills that properly harnessed wind power were likely both beautiful and economical, yet even those landscapes immortalized in oil paintings and etchings by masters like Rembrandt had recently been supplanted by electric industries; I heard the windmills were gradually being dismantled, leaving Dutch scenery bereft of its quintessential symbol. Yet Mount Fuji’s foothill waterwheels—stripped bare and creaking—mingled with hydrangeas exuding dusk’s pale hues along the water’s edge, laboring diligently to channel water between fields, polish rice, saw lumber, and toil without respite. I knew not whether locals here spun thread on wheels or handwove cotton like Saint George’s Guild members, but considering both bathwater and utility water were drawn from streams welling beneath lava—sustained equally by snowmelt from Fuji’s peaks and rainfall—the foothills’ lushness seemed doubly significant. Moreover, this waterwheel scene differed utterly from Constable’s oil paintings; it was Kobayashi Kiyochika’s print—a novel adaptation from watercolor—depicting Ryuhosan’s waterwheel landscape with Fuji as its backdrop (1880 edition) that struck me through the heart.

In the train car, the party—facing tomorrow’s climb—exchanged concerns: “With these clouds, the mountain might be rainy tomorrow.” “Nonsense! The clouds are low. Once we break through them, up top it’ll be bone-dry clear weather!” they reassured each other.
The train arrived at Fuji Station as electric lights began to twinkle.
They were met by Mr. Oyama Tamezugu of the Asahi Shimbun local bureau and drove by automobile to Omiya.

III. Omiya and Yoshida

Even as we circled about a quarter of Mount Fuji from east to south, the lush foothills followed along.
The road to Omiya Town traced a village stream where pebbles might roll like marbles, cool winds blowing through our ears and eyes.
This water was the Mitarashigawa River.
We arrived at Ryokan Baigetsu.
At this inn combining lodging with fine dining, its three-story structure towered above forested springs, resting against Wakutama Pond—the source of the Mitarashigawa River—so from lower tatami rooms one could rinse their mouth and wash their hands with but a step.
From some house across the water drifted melodies and songs, making me feel as though reveling at a teahouse along the Uji River.
As foothill inns go, this likely occupied the most scenic spot after Seijin Hotel to the north.
The pond behind Sengen Grand Shrine pooled water gushing through lava masses from Kamidachi Mountain's base; water flowing pure beneath the shrine's sacred bridge pierced night's darkness with cold clarity—pebbles below seeming to grow scales and verge on becoming fish.
Children swam through goldfish algae and plum-petal algae swaying like women's hair.
Having entrusted tomorrow's climb preparations, I strolled narrow streets still draped in the inn's yukata.
A hundred-strong climbing party of female students reportedly lodged at town inns—some striding about in men's gaudy-patterned yukata thrown on haphazardly.
Inn entrances displayed bonfires beside sheaves of unpainted pilgrim staffs bound with rope and thrust toward thoroughfares.
Truly this felt like a town living through "the mountain."

But more than anything, what Omiya Town could not exist without was Sengen Shrine.
Along both sides of the unusually wide horseback archery ground—where yabusame rituals were said to have been held—stood rows of ancient cherry trees purported to be weeping shidarezakura varieties. As fireflies’ blue lights darted through the darkness like swift needles threading ink-black cloth, passing through the vermilion-lacquered tower gate revealed a five-ken square worship hall built in the mukai-irimoya style. Beyond this lay the main hall’s double-roofed structure—a definitive example of Sengen-zukuri architecture—its roof curving upward in flowing elegance to catch the night’s crystalline dew. The autumn chill sweeping from the great plains pierced to the bone, while the vermilion railings and crimson stairs remained invisible even to night-adjusted eyes under faint lantern light. Yet one could only rejoice that this architecture—inheriting an ancient shrine dating back over eleven hundred years—retained through its profound inner power the sanctity worthy of Fuji’s principal sanctuary where humanity might still kneel in reverence.
Standing in the timeworn shrine precincts, the pilgrim who had scaled the night mountain listened to the clapping of hands bowed in prayer before the altar and thought how fortunate it was that Japan’s mountains bore masterful architecture.
How much more magnificent then was the beauty of Omiya Sengen’s fountain—for even polished marble pavilions and towers would feel abruptly desolate if their gardens lacked such fountains.
The fountain-like beauty brought forth by Mount Fuji's white snow was not entirely absent around Mount Shasta, but could not match the inexhaustible abundance of Fuji's gushing waters.
Though the Sierra Nevada range generally surpassed Mount Fuji in height by two thousand shaku, and though the Cascade volcanoes glittered with icy blades of glacial veins, not a single small shrine stood there—no stone towers to be found.
In contrast, Japan's mountains—not only Mount Fuji, Hakusan, Tateyama, and the Sansenjō shrines, but even the ranges of Yarigatake and Jōnen-dake in the Northern Alps—could not heighten their beauty that harmonized human artistry with primal grandeur without incorporating into their foreground Matsumoto Castle with its stacked stone walls, raised watchtowers, and soaring layered keeps.
Descending the Kiso River, the presence of Inuyama Castle—likened to White Emperor City—rendered the name "Japan Rhine" (whether embraced or not) how aptly resonant.

The nostalgic longing for those masterful structures was renewed afresh when, during my second journey to Mount Fuji, I stopped at an inn in Yoshida.
When I arrived in Yoshida, it was past noon.
Having no particular inn in mind, I resolved to choose one without pushy touts after a rude lodging solicitor barged into the train car aggressively promoting his establishment. Selecting from flyers tossed through the window, I entered Fuyōkaku—an inn operated by someone surnamed Ōsotogawa—to eat lunch.
This inn incorporated a structure called Kenkyūkan purportedly dating back seven hundred thirty years. Its entrance lay scattered with mountaineering gear: thread-fastened sandals, sedge hats, and pilgrim staffs. Above these in a raised alcove stood armor alongside medieval weapons resembling theater props for staging the Soga brothers' revenge—tridents, sleeve-entangling polearms, rusted spears, and Tanegashima matchlocks. Ignoring these displays, I ascended to the second floor where I faced Fuji shrouded in clouds while gulping down two bowls of dry cold rice with flavorless sashimi. At my request, the manager guided me to the so-called Kenkyūkan below—ordinary guest rooms facing an inner garden where cupboards and ceiling panels used wood darkened by age into indeterminable antiquity. The rough adze marks—they claimed planes weren't used then—only hinted at older craftsmanship's unforced charm.
According to the flyer's explanation, their ancestor Ōsotogawa Minonokami had received a temporary hut used during Minamoto no Yoritomo's hunting expedition in Fuji's foothills in 1193, establishing it in old Yoshida Village before relocating it in 1572 and again in 1610. Though Yoshida suffered frequent fires, they said Kenkyūkan alone miraculously survived—its blackened planks remaining like skeletal frames of ancient beasts after flesh decayed. Unable to verify their Kenkyū-era authenticity, I noted a plaque from 1861 celebrating the building's origins.
Adjacent to this, atop a ladder-like staircase, stood a detached shrine housing items including Lord Kii's prayer plaque, framed Dada Kagura rituals from 1804-1818, and a 1833 votive plaque embedded with bluish coins from an Ōmiya merchant.
Following the veranda into another room revealed spears, naginata polearms, and matchlocks hung from pegs—sufficient to evoke the gesaku-inspired curiosity found in Santō Kyōden's illustrated chapbooks.

Returning to his room and writing a postcard to a friend, he saw the clouds shrouding Mount Fuji suddenly part as if drawing back a curtain. The silver-burnished perennial snow glinted in two or three streaks like the stripes of a great beast, while an intimidating purple hue—unseen on summer Fuji until now—seemed to flash like sudden lightning as it loomed menacingly before his eyes.

He wrote "There’s a hint of an evening shower" and set the postcard down, though he only truly came to realize this later.

Waiting for the porter he had arranged to arrive, he leaned against the railing and gazed at the garden. There was a small pond encircled by a pine tree with fine branches, plump azaleas trimmed to half their height, and plum trees, with water from a bamboo pipe rushing down into it.

He thought it resembled the garden scenery of the temple lodgings in Yoshino’s mountains where he had stayed that spring, but the vibrant moss and wistful mist filling every corner of the room there remained beyond compare.

IV. Fuji Sengen Shrine

Although the inn clerk had thoughtfully arranged for a horse handler to bring an exceptional steed—one only available from behind Sengen Shrine—all the way to our lodging, I ultimately had them return the horse to the shrine grounds, for I wished to ride only after completing my worship. Shouldering a light rucksack, I set out walking through the town.

Kamiyoshida—as befitted a trailhead developed by Myōtō Kaisan and Fujiwara Kakugyō (Tenbun 10–Shōhō 3 [1541–1646]), then revived by Jikigyō Miroku (Kanbun 11–Kyōhō 18 [1671–1733])—truly lived up to its legacy as a former oshi town. Names evoking this heritage leapt from large two-shaku nameplates inscribed in bold brushstrokes: Daibunji, Sengenbō, Ōshimen, Kogiku, Chūganmaru, Ganso Miroku Yadobō—each in turn catching the eye.

The lodges’ construction lacked uniformity—their gateways set slightly back from the thoroughfare were hung with sacred ropes or draped with curtains, featuring stepped entrance platforms leading to recessed entryways; here and there before their gates stood Thirty-Three Degree Summit Stones carved with old era names.

How I wished I could have offered the venerable Bashō a night’s lodging here.

Amidst townhouses selling souvenirs, inden lacquered goods, crystals, and herbal remedies, sturdy yet unadorned wooden carvings of Fuji pilgrims drew my attention. Approaching closer revealed a sign declaring "Original by Kosugi Misei - Farmer's Art." Around a house fronting a small stream, sunflowers blazed with yellow fire. Their fragrance carried an inexplicable foreboding of sunstroke's torment.

The town teemed endlessly with climbers descending and ascending. Though Alpine-style feathered hats and pickaxes were scarce, here flourished customs alien to the Japanese Alps or American peaks: ascetics clanging metal-ringed staffs; white-robed figures wearing vestments patched and emblazoned with vermilion seals proclaiming "Grand Pilgrimage Accomplished" and "Guided by Senior Master So-and-So"; goateed elders sporting ritual sashes over these robes, white arm-wrappings contrasting with lacquered bare feet.

No Ōmine conch horns sounded here, yet how perfectly this Fuji ascent wove itself into an emaki scroll—cooling bell-tones traversing autumn grasses from town to field to mountain, threading through larch skeletons, escorting white-robed pilgrims' sedge hats and staffs coming and going. As mountains of ascetic practice, Fuji and Kiso Ontake hold unique status among Japan's peaks.

Moreover among trailheads sharing names: Gotemba remains a station town, never a post town. Subashiri lies along Kamakura Road but feels monastic compared to Asama's Kutsukake or Oiwake post stations. Only Yoshida—anchored since Edo times near Gunnai's Kai Silk heartland amidst traveler bustle—blends mountain temple solitude with post town vitality.

The grass of the foothills spilled over beneath the eaves of houses, forming a desolate town outskirts where, in a small wooden hut with protruding plank eaves and heavy curtains fully draped around it, there stood a sign labeled "Fusō Headquarters."
It was the main hall of the Fuji Worship Sect that served as the fraternity for the Fusō-kō.
Though not part of their fraternity, I too—as one who reveres Mount Fuji—offered a silent bow and made my way to Sengen Main Shrine.

The moment I stepped into the precinct—partitioned from the disorderly townhouses—cedar rows of profound serenity resembling Yoshino Mountain's cryptomeria forests stood in solemn procession along a straight path to the grand torii, like great pillars upholding the divine radiance cast upon Fuji's goddess.
The stone lanterns in the front row did not appear particularly ancient, but their hexagonal capstones—resembling those of Gangō-ji Temple in Nara—curved outward like half-opened palms with fingers arching in shallow arcs.
The vermilion-lacquered grand torii crowned with a tile-roofed canopy bore the renowned plaque "Foremost Mountain in the Three Lands," known to be inscribed by Imperial Prince Ryōjo.
The torii was said to be rebuilt every sixty-one years, with a sign declaring this as its twenty-seventh iteration—details I found inconsequential.
In climbers' eyes, before the indestructible mountain's form stood only one eternal grand torii.
Beside the Kagura Hall rose a sacred Jindai cedar measuring six jō and four shaku in circumference and two jō and eight shaku around its base. Though not towering, each growth ring—steeped in the mountain’s historical secrets—lent hues and contours shaped by temporal dignity to the shrine’s hallowed air.

I could not say which held greater architectural merit when comparing Yoshida-guchi Taisha with Omiya-guchi Sengen Main Shrine. Yet where Omiya-guchi functioned both as mountain sanctuary and town shrine—revealing its harmonious beauty through integration with communal life—Yoshida Sengen Shrine stood where foundation stones met the spreading foothills, slightly removed from human settlement. This positioning granted its composition greater grandeur: three ri of grassland separated it from Fuji, allowing spatial expansiveness that connected wildly to the mountain's form. The shrine buildings themselves embodied both an eternal image purified beneath celestial heights and the mountain's beauty manifesting a goddess' solemn visage. Though I could not judge the doctrinal structure—seen in techniques orienting the rear gate's pilgrimage path southward to express humanity's reverence—nor debate minor technicalities, facing these corridors where straight lines and curves alternately cascaded and undulated upward—their cinnabar and azure hues peeling yet still resplendent, still radiant—I repeated here too: "How fortunate that Japan's mountains bear masterful architecture."

By the way, what could be the reason that Mount Fuji’s deity is called Asama?
The Fuji Gongen was believed to be a dual manifestation of Asama Ōkami of Shinano Province—a single deity occupying two sacred seats—hence also called Asama Bosatsu or Fuji Asama Bosatsu. However, at the original Mount Asama, there stands only a single torii gate, for the sacred essence is held to reside within the mountain itself, thus no shrine has been established there.
In contrast to the splendid shrines found along Mount Fuji's various climbing routes, I think each has its rightful place.

V. The Traveler’s "Mountain"

The lone pine of Manbōga-hara stood where a piercing light shone from a wooden-shingled hut—the sort one might find in a reclaimed area near Nasu-no-hara, hidden in the predawn gloom.
The evening primrose flowers glowed white; we passed through the jay field unnoticed. The car disgorged Mr. Ibaragi—clutching a satchel containing his sketchbook—myself, my eldest son Hayataro, and a single porter onto the great plain, then whisked away Mr. Oyama (who had ridden along to see us off) along with the owner of Baigetsu, vanishing into shadow.
In the dawn sky, the foothills plain of Omiya Omote-guchi awoke as if peeling away thin paper.
A lesser cuckoo called incessantly.

At the boundary where Fuji’s spread-out skirts met the sloping plain, a single line of dim light—too faint to be called proper light—struck sideways.
Fuji, facing front, flattened into a tower shape that sat perfectly.
Only the summit of Kengamine stood out sharply, appearing as pointed as a spear.
Clouds drifted like wildfire smoke lingering across Fuji’s midsection while swirling into pale skies where the waning moon remained—the nightingale’s song mingled too.
Stepping onto black soil like that of Musashino beneath young hinoki plantations clustered tightly together, campanula blossoms bush clover giant butterbur and elm flowers bloomed at our feet.
From lapis lazuli-colored scabiosas and balloonflower buds swollen with Ōhara plain’s moisture autumn was beginning to emerge.
The silver grass and patrinia flowers indispensable to autumn fields stood slender and tearful as if born solely to be offerings for Obon spirits.

Looking up, I saw the morning glow setting the entire sky ablaze—not with sunset’s turbid vermilion but with a sacred, luminous fire. Mount Fuji’s ridged slopes stood balanced and solemn: their elevated folds caught the light intensely, rising like bas-relief carvings while shadows pooled in lower crevices. The whole possessed the austere elegance of unglazed pottery—this very quality made Fuji appear diminutive. Even when circling its base or viewing it from every angle, its symmetrical “eight-character” silhouette and conical form rendered the serried ridges and sharply carved ravines deceptively shallow to the eye. But this illusion stemmed from neglecting the vast foothills—Fuji’s true domain! Return what belongs to Fuji: descend to Tōkai’s shores and gaze upward anew. Then trace those foothills spanning dozens of ri as if following a circus horse galloping its circular path—there you would witness lines and planes rotating within this sculptural mass called Fuji, discovering transformations both wondrous and grand.

Or perhaps stepping back a geological step—if one imagines Mount Fuji, Ashitaka, and Hakone as volcanic islands floating in a sunken sea basin while spewing smoke during an era before the foothills had formed—this would resemble how today’s Oshima, Toshima, Miyakejima and other islands of the Izu archipelago lie scattered across the ocean like paving stones, constituting an even grander arrangement of mountains and seas.
That Mount Fuji’s ascent has become all the more enjoyable with foothills as they are now must lie in the carpet of verdigris grass and the abundant broad-leaved forests dispersing moisture.
It is said travelers take pleasure in climbing the Andes because their foothills exist in perpetual spring, but mountain paradises must lie predominantly within the Fuji Volcanic Zone where developed foothills are found.
Furthermore, when studying a mountain’s completely nude figure—its lines, light, shadows and rounded forms—there exists no mountain that reveals its secrets as generously as Mount Fuji.
Not to mention vertically and horizontally—Mount Fuji alone can likely be ascended even in spiral manner.
Ultimately Mount Fuji is not a mountain for explorers but one for all humanity—women, children or elders alike may climb it with ease.
It is especially a mountain for travelers.
I too praise Mount Fuji as one who travels.

Just as it was not Swiss farmers but travelers who perceptively praised the beauty of the Alps, so too was Mount Fuji thus celebrated.
Yamabe no Akahito—who sang “Since heaven and earth first parted, made sacred”—was a traveler.
The passionate poet Ariwara no Narihira too—attended by a sword-bearing page, grooms leading horses, and servants—twisted his sleeves upon horseback while composing “Unmindful of time, this mountain at Fuji’s base,” having glimpsed Fuji during his exile.
Should one see a monk in ink-dyed robes resting toward Mount Fuji—leaning on his staff with a woven hat in hand—one would know without asking this was Saigyō of Fujimi.
Where on Earth exists another mountain graced by poets of such stature as Fuji?
Though but an unnamed wanderer, I too—having grown from a child nurtured beneath Fuji’s shadow in Musashi and Sagami into a traveler repatriated after long years abroad—now stand at Fuji’s foot surrounded by dear friends, my child, and faithful guides, gazing as one might upon a departed mother’s visage with profound solemnity.

Mount Fuji assumed the posture of a great bird that had folded its wings in momentary rest upon Ōnohara Plain, poised to take flight freely at any moment.
The air flowed against one’s cheeks like glass, suffused with a pale blue light.
And the fields, mountains, and forests—all bathed in morning light. Ah, could there exist any developer more wondrous than light?
From illusion, it clearly transformed into a tangible reality—a world where objects could be grasped.

VI. Fuji’s Ancient Trails

When I last came here, the foothill paths—marked by horse-drawn cart tracks tangled with pine needle clusters, their earth alternately gouged deep and mounded high in thick and thin ridges—had possessed that distinctive foothills character of bewildering travelers. Now a single thoroughfare-like road had been decisively carved out leaving no room for disorientation.

From the rest teahouse between first station and one-and-a-half stations when we emerged，the sea of clouds lay below—first came Tennōga-take’s ridge，then Hayakawa Rensen’s line of peaks，and finally Akaishi Mountain Range’s great screen stood arrayed.
These mountains had stood there since before Mount Fuji’s eruption，watching as their youngest sibling grew astonishingly large to surpass them all.
They would likely continue watching thus.
We passed through Omiya Route’s most renowned forests within Mount Fuji—a summer-chilled belt of towering firs，hemlocks，oaks，maples，and beeches.
At Third Station’s Myōga Valley hut，the irrigation channel’s water felt cool；at three-and-a-half stations，vendors sold famous perennial snow.
That mountain dwellers peddled snow—while another hut offered citron and milk caramel—struck one as primitive yet quintessentially alpine commerce.
When we stepped beyond three-and-a-half stations，the forest dropped away beneath our feet as if ruler-sliced，revealing black sand slopes scorched diagonally ahead.
Japanese knotweed and lingonberry bushes still clutching last year’s fruit clung tenaciously to sand.
The clear sky—as if breathed upon—swiftly clouded over，mist descending like some tardy phantom finally arriving.
The boundary between wooded slopes and stone mountains became dawnlight’s frontline against dark fog.

When we reached the fourth station, the mountain huts were no longer wooden as before, having become fortress-like stone chambers built with stacked stones.
At an altitude of 2,450 meters and a temperature of 62 degrees, here, the guide explained, the old Omiya Route converged into one.

I had previously stated that the Omiya Route's appeal lay in ascending from Japan's lowest point to its highest. Yet there was another reason. This route stood as Mount Fuji's most ancient trail among all climbing paths—not merely old but opened since time immemorial. But this was not the path we now took. The true ancient way ran from behind Omiya Sengen Shrine through Awakura and Murayama across vast foothills to Fudauchi and Amaterakyo, then passed near Hachimando through primeval forests worthy of deep mountains. Emerging from shrublands below the first station at two thousand meters up to the current fourth station, remnants still lingered in memory—the shaded canopy of firs and hemlocks, long strands of hanging usnea lichen, and lush Okubo ferns mingling with deep mosses.

Moreover, from the *Takatsukubashū* of the Ashikaga period to Sarugaku Kyōgen plays and Teitoku’s *Dokugin Hyakuin*, one could hear Fuji-bound pilgrims' murmurs as clearly as holding them in one’s palm—and all those worshippers had apparently taken this Murayama Route. The Imagawa family’s vermilion seal from Tenbun 24 [1545] explicitly referenced Murayama through prohibitions against fish trading in Murayama Murochu and restricting impure individuals’ access. What was called Fuji’s front entrance—the Omiya Route—had ultimately been the Murayama Route.

I had climbed this path seventeen or eighteen years prior. Even then it had declined into a subject fit for verses on desolate villages, though white-robed pilgrims still occasionally came and a few oshi houses remained. But upon returning now and inquiring—alas—in Murayama even those oshi houses stood abandoned, the ancient trail traveled only by woodcutters and charcoal makers, the road left to crumble beyond recognition. During my time there had been a so-called new path passing through Hotokezaka to Kakesu Batake, merging with the old trail at four and a half stations from Umagaeshi—but this too proved short-lived. Our current route was the newest iteration, incorporating what was once called the new path at the second station before converging with Murayama’s ancient trail at the fourth station. Even on a bare rocky mountain like Fuji—one without deep valleys—the roads’ transformations and vicissitudes raged this fiercely.

There were similar examples in the Alps.
Professor Louis Agassiz, founder of modern glaciology, had investigated historical records and discovered an account stating that during sixteenth-century religious wars, villagers from Valais in Switzerland—suffering persecution from other sects—crossed the Alps along Viesch Valley with their children to reach the distant Aletsch Glacier. Doubting such a route could still exist today, he surveyed the glacier and found beneath the great Aletsch ice sheet a well-preserved ancient road, as documented in Geological Sketches (Second Series, 1876).
Mount Fuji—devoid of glaciers—remained tepid even in destructive power; though snow avalanches might occasionally collapse forests and create clearings, even where one could discern avalanche traces pushing through between Maruyama's two forested peaks while ascending past Myōga-dake at the Third Station on this Omiya Route climb, such natural forces paled before humanity's drastic reshaping of mountain paths.
For an era might come when researchers of Fuji's climbing history would struggle to locate the Murayama Route—the most ancient trail used by ordinary pilgrims since the Manyō era—and thus I urged Omiya's people to nurture their thriving new routes while preserving ancient Murayama as historical site, natural monument, or pristine forest landscape.

To fail to preserve the first footprints our ancestors left upon this mystical mountain would consign even climbers enduring through eternity to eventual oblivion.
Would that not prove too cold and desolate?
Yet still I think: all things ancient and perishing hold beauty.

VII. Rhododendrons

Since when has it been customary to call Mount Fuji’s fifth station the “Boundary Between Heaven and Earth”?
At the fifth station, people’s spirits truly shifted; everyone tightened the cords of their straw sandals.
I stayed overnight at Yoshida Route’s fifth station, where voices and bell sounds persisted through the night.
When I rose and looked out, lanterns abruptly emerged from Sakashita before me while pilgrim’s staffs thrust forth smoothly.
Their ceaseless flow resembled lantern processions along dewy lanes during a neighborhood fire watch.
Most climbers would catch their breath here—drinking water, some even flopping down onto camp stools.
The fifth station served as the mountain’s pivotal hub.

To perform the Pilgrimage Route, I took along a single porter and made a detour toward Komitake Shrine.
“That’s not the right path!”
“Don’t go that way!”
I received within my heart the kindness of the person who had called out from afar.
Because the water vapor hung too densely, the sacred sunrise we had not awaited appeared in the eastern sky.
Yet it did not radiate sunbeams like those of the Rising Sun Flag; rather than a great fireball, it rose crimson like an entire volcano in full eruption.
The celestial clouds, tinged with fire, took on a luster like polished abalone shell.
It changed frantically, like a cat’s eye stone.
The vegetation of the Great Foothills crackled blue with flame.
The mountain lake, like a discarded mirror, reflected with such intensity that its surface hardened into a bricky gleam.
The ridges of the Doshi and Kanto Mountain Ranges rose prominently with sharply defined folds.
Unexpectedly, a bell rang from the larch forest; a rapid drumbeat, echoing like tree spirits, shook the morning air from mountain to valley.
When fragments of the priest’s norito prayers—“Hear us, we humbly pray”—reached us, we were already passing before a simple wooden-shingled tea house and approaching Komitake Shrine.
In the shrine’s garden lay scattered axes, sickles, and long swords—tools said to be playthings of the tengu.
The hut attendant pressed a “Great Wish Fulfillment” brand onto my staff, then affixed Komitake’s red seal to paper with a ceremonial cord.
This marks the proper sequence: from Yoshida Route’s fifth station, take the left path toward Mount Fuji, descend Hōei-zan’s crater wall to its base, enter Ōmiya’s forests, cross Ōsawa’s precipice, and reach Komitake—thereby achieving “Great Wish Fulfillment.” But due to circumstances, I circled rightward around the mountain.
Thus having barely taken a step forward, I had already received the ceremonial cord reward prematurely.
This reverse circling—called sakamawari—is shunned by pilgrims. The porter acting as guide confiscated both my rightward ceremonial cord and red seal, never returning them.

As for why I took the reverse path—though I had traversed the Pilgrimage Route before—it was because I wanted to see the rhododendrons in the forest stretching from Komitake through Oniwa to where it meets the Omiya Route. This was because I had heard there were thunderstorms every afternoon and wanted to observe them properly during a clear morning. Fortunately, my purpose of viewing the rhododendrons was fully achieved. At the same time, unfortunately, the anticipation of thunderstorms proved all too accurate.

Exiting the shrine and approaching the Pilgrimage Route that wraps around Mount Fuji's midsection like a belly band, we found larch trees abundant in this area—their trunks bleached bone-white, branches splayed downward toward the mountain's base by snowmelt streams and wind force, bending in inverted arcs. Scattered beneath these larches grew rhododendrons exuding the peculiar fragrance of deep-mountain blossoms. As the path deepened into the forest—one ri toward Oniwa, roughly two ri to Ōsawa—slender rhododendrons of towering height twinkled like stars amidst Kometsuga firs and white firs emerging between the larches.
Moreover, these were not the ordinary rhododendrons of flatlands with their horizontally twisted forms, but white-flowered rhododendrons.
It was not uncommon for their height to reach over one jou.
They have a thick, leathery, muted luster reminiscent of camellia leaves, clustering with elongated oval foliage rounded at the tips.
The underside appeared as if coated in white wax, possessing the softness of an infant’s cheek.
What is beautiful are their petals.
Though white enough to merit its name as a "white flower," a faint crimson haze reminiscent of char skin tinges the back of its corolla, while the five-lobed calyx encircling the pistil spreads open like a funnel bowl, cradling ten stamens.
Moreover, these flowers cluster at a single branch tip in bell-like profusion—dozens to around twenty blooms dancing like cresting waves and gushing fountains—their spectacle resembling a grand natural bouquet. Yet amidst this full flourishing, one might occasionally glimpse tightly closed buds facing northward.
The buds and the stems enveloping them form alternating layers of red and white in a checkerboard pattern, heaped up like ritual offering confections.
Those that bloomed beautifully as flowers had to first adorn themselves splendidly as buds.
In the grassy plains, I love the mountain lilies; among the shrubs of deep mountains, I love most the white-flowered rhododendrons.

Particularly abundant at Japan's renowned volcanoes—though certainly not scarce elsewhere—white-flowered rhododendrons thrived in nearby Amagi-san and Yatsugatake, while their proliferation around Hakusan in Kaga had earned them the name Hakusan Rhododendron. The late Mr. Shirokuma—renowned as an alpine plant collector—once related to me how densely these wild rhododendrons had flourished around Lake Yuno in Nikko, lamenting that now they lay nearly eradicated, mere remnants devoid of their former splendor. Yet my spirits lifted at seeing pristine white rhododendrons flourishing from Komitake across Ōsawa to the forests near Omiya Route.
The Ansei 6 edition of Tamaransai Sadahide’s three-panel nishiki-e print "Mount Fuji Ascent" noted "Komitake, flower fields, abundant rhododendrons," indicating they had been plentiful since ancient times.
The very existence of a place named Flower Field on Mount Fuji remains itself a rarity.

The path of black volcanic sand, buried with last year's fallen leaves, yielded softly underfoot, while Mount Fuji—appearing and disappearing through the somber tall tree forest—glowed crimson like fired clay. Shakka's Split Stone and Shirayama Peak's precipitous crags—Fuji's second-highest point that by perspective looms taller than Ken-ga-mine—rose before us. In their hollows lay residual snow that rendered Fuji's eternal snows classical, thickly smeared and gleaming like Chamonix's timeless glaciers.
This too appeared as snow from ages past, for Sadahide’s nishiki-e print notes "Ushigakubo: snow throughout the four seasons," though nowadays people seem not to speak of this perennial snow.
Were Mount Fuji crowned with glaciers radiating like those of North America’s Mount Rainier, today’s white rhododendron groves would lie swept away beyond recognition. Thus I find contentment in our present perennial snows and take joy in possessing both flowers and frost.

Moreover, I rejoiced that this ascent spanned from July into August.
In October, the fields lacked this verdure; in May, the mountains lacked these flowers.
Now there were verdant grasses and flowers, fully demonstrating the beauty of the mountain and its foothills.
When I stood in silence, a Japanese bush warbler sang, a lesser cuckoo called, a jay cried out, and all the awoken birds raised their voices in unison.
The chirping of insects intermingled among them.

Here at the 'Realm Between Heaven and Earth'—the fifth and sixth stations' contour lines demarcated by forests—as I wandered the Pilgrimage Route that sliced through the mountain's midsection, ascending to heaven and descending to earth with each turn of the path, birds, insects, and rhododendrons made this interval their eternal paradise.

Here in the rhododendrons melted two creatures—one being myself, the other a horsefly engrossed in the flowers, its shaggy yellow-haired rear upturned as it sucked out nectar.
I still had enough composure to notice the horsefly, but the insect itself paid no heed to humans, utterly absorbed in the nectar's sweetness.
But finally, it was not just the horsefly—the rhododendrons' sweet-sour fragrance enveloped me, enveloped the horsefly, drifted through the forest as if seeping into the very marrow of the trees, until even I seemed to become one of the horsefly's kin.

Regarding these rhododendrons, Dr. Takeda Hisayoshi employed the name Shiroshakunage (Rhododendron metternichii var. hondoense). According to his research, Shiroshakunage ranges from the high mountains of central Honshu to Hokkaido; examination of numerous specimens reveals both completely hairless leaf undersides and others densely covered in pale brown microhairs. The hairless variety exhibits flower colors from white to pale yellow, nearly devoid of rosy tints, while the hairy type bears such coloration. Recent botanical practice designates the hairless form as Utsukushishakunage (R. metternichii var. yakushimanum), maintaining Shiroshakunage for the hairy variety as a single taxon—though when generalizing, Hakusanshakunage (R. metternichii var. pentamerum) proves the appropriate collective term (per commentary in *Alpine Plant Photographic Compendium*).

VIII. Chamber

The distinctive feature of walking the Pilgrimage Route lay in simultaneously gazing up at the summit and looking down upon the foothills; it resided in how these views transformed moment by moment like a spinning top, alternating before one's eyes.
Even its summit bore scars—traces of avalanches and rockfalls cutting into the mountain's skin like unglazed ceramic, as if coated with glossy lacquer.
Between Komitake and Ōsawa, the Komitake Flow, Great Flow, and Shirakusa Flow had pushed outward, carving out portions of the great forest. They opened sunlit windows through these gaps that revealed the mountain's foothills, exposing the slopes of its base.
There unfolded before our eyes Kenmaruo—astonishingly vast as it spread its latest lava flow to press against Shimoyoshida Town—and Aokigahara Maruo fanning out like an opening folding fan from Aokigahara's sea of trees to Shōjin Village.
Particularly transcending the Maruo lava flows across Aokigahara—said by ancestral lore to derive from a corruption of "korobi"—it arrayed numerous flank volcanoes and fumaroles in procession.
With Ōmuro-yama—visible to all—taking the lead followed by Nagao-yama, Katafuta-yama, Tenjin-yama, Yumiya-zuka, and Usu-yama, they had built volcanic outposts around Mount Fuji as their main keep, arrayed from front approach to rear gates.
Save for those protruding points alone, all else lay submerged in the fresh green of grated wasabi across the sea of trees and the gentle slopes of the Great Foothills.

The clusters of rhododendrons came to a temporary end, and my steps were transferred to Oniwa.
Where flowers bloom on lofty peaks, the name 'Flower Field' commonly applies, but 'Oniwa' remains an unfamiliar designation.
A small hut was recently built there, and imperfectly preserved volcanic bombs lay scattered here and there in the garden.
The native plants of Mount Fuji went without saying, but alpine specimens transplanted from Mount Kinpu and others were being experimentally cultivated throughout the area.
From here, one could descend via the Shōjin Entrance’s new climbing trail to the third station, passing through places like Middle Garden and Inner Garden along the way, it was said.

At my feet lay Lake Motosu—said to be the deepest of the Fuji Five Lakes—surrounded by hills, while far above, the Tenson Mountain Range and the great screen of the Southern Alps stood blocking the horizon. Above the Tenson Mountain Range, clouds resembling a lake’s waters descended clinging to the mountain’s runoff channels. From the direction of the Kofu Basin to the lower reaches of the Fuji River, where both ends hung down to form an oppressive mass, it unmistakably heralded the approaching thunderstorm. If the mountain were a plaster doll, then the clouds would be its garments—yet I had never imagined they could cling so perfectly to the model’s joints, flexing and bending in such exact correspondence. As the clouds stretched out, the blurred green of the foothills became waves of bluegrass swaying underwater. The sea of trees and the grassland alone were demarcated with striking clarity: the trees clustered to radiate indigo, the grasses massed to stagnate in blue, while a single wisp of charcoal smoke from the arboreal expanse hazed faintly in midair.

Upon reentering the forest, the path was no longer as even as before, its tree roots and rocky corners preserving vestiges of the old trail while overhead hung the ancient Pilgrimage Route like a severed kite string—a sight that drew pointing gestures.
Rhododendrons remained abundant, but next in prevalence were highland brambles—their tall stems bearing large crimson flowers that cast a somber impression like dying charcoal fires.
Wheel lilies, morning star lilies, white-flowered snake strawberries, cowberries, bunchberries, and columbines huddled in shadowy gloom beneath white firs, Japanese hemlocks, and larches.
The larches here stood tall and stately—unlike those at Komitake that wrestled with wind and snow in twisted forms—stretching slenderly upward in natural nobility that struck me with their dignity.
The path gradually descended until I arrived at Ōsawa's small hut at an altitude thought to be near the third station.
In former times there were no huts along the Pilgrimage Route; pilgrims struggling through Ōsawa's challenging section had apparently established a relief hut there long ago—now destroyed—leaving only this crude but serviceable lodge resembling ordinary travelers' quarters.
Yet fundamentally catering to devout pilgrims since its inception, even women mountaineers popularized recently rarely appeared here; encircled by forests, cliffs and ravines severing it from all sides, one could savor solitude befitting a mountain chamber to their heart's content.
The proprietor brought out a guestbook urging me to write something—I inscribed three or four lines.
I do not consider myself too old to climb yet—with many mountains still awaiting ascent—I suppose I shall likely never return here in my lifetime.
Though one cannot attain through study that ultimate artistic spirit where every discarded verse becomes a death poem like Master Bashō's—I left my mark up to this pilgrimage's final footsteps.

Not limited to this location, the mountain huts of Mount Fuji—viewed through the lens of cultural history—possess scarcely any comparable examples among those found in Western countries.
To put it succinctly, it is the profound depth of human warmth that had seeped in over long ages.
At each hut, complying with requests, they would brand pilgrim staffs with seals—beneath Fuji's ideogram they inscribed station numbers and peak names; flanking Fuji's form with cloud motifs while boldly writing "Sacred Sunrise," annotating below with "3,200-some meters above sea level"; or gathering swirling clouds beneath Fuji to crown with verses about perennial snow—all rendered in popular designs.
For food and drink, modern aromatic beverages such as coffee, citron, and black tea were provided alongside medieval rustic sweets like Abe River mochi, strength mochi, kudzu starch gruel, and wheat flour.
What particularly caught my eye were the nameplates left by climbers and pilgrims on the hut's plank walls, attic spaces, and pillars—though these might prove troublesome for hutkeepers—bearing names through woodblock or lithographic printing akin to traditional votive slips, their dimensions not strictly adhering to multi-sheet formats regulated since Tengu Kohei's time in late Edo period yet displaying considered artistry that imparted artistic sensibility to mountaineering surpassing pencil graffiti or printed business cards in American huts.
Then there were votive towels hung at purification fonts of Edo-period shrines and temples, seen ubiquitously in rest teahouses and mountain huts.
Most bore pilgrimage group names dyed in indigo, yellow, white, black, and persimmon hues fluttering beneath hut eaves like autumn woods' chaotic leaf-scatter—speckling Fuji's grand slope beneath racing clouds as with sand grains—appearing to this newly returned expatriate as manifesting Tokaido Fifty-three Stations' bustle while preserving Edo-era deity-revering customs in this remote corner as Japan's distinctive ukiyo-e scenery.
Amidst these, when I discovered the commemorative towel for my late friend Sogabe Ikko's memorial climb at Komitake's hut, my eyes grew moist.
As a Fuji mountaineer and great collector of Fuji-related works, you were without doubt preeminent.
During my American residence, a great earthquake had struck our homeland.
At that time you rushed back into burning halls to rescue your collection and became one who never returned.
Your portrait and deeds were conveyed through sympathetic prose in Mr. Star's Fujiyama—known in Japan under your American friend Dr. Ofuda's name—yet had friends held memorial climbs here, it would have made fitting tribute.
I too wrote of your connection with Dr. Star and Fuji in San Francisco's Nichibei as modest offering, but learning this through Fuji's commemorative towel felt like encountering you anew in these mountains.

Due to the ominous clouds, I left Ōsawa's small hut with some apprehension; immediately before my eyes lay Ōsawa's perilous terrain.

Chambers and small huts ought to be distinguished, but here I have used the terms interchangeably (the author).

IX. The Beauty of Disorder

Following contour lines between fifth and sixth stations along the Pilgrimage Route near Ōsawa, the path suddenly curved into a steep descent. Ōsawa proved too shallow to qualify as a valley yet stretched vast and deep as a ravine. From Ken-ga-mine on the western wall of the summit crater, fallen rocks lay scattered across cliffs violently split open—sheared straight through for three ri. Though bluish-gray lava veins showed in vertical cliff faces, surface boulders obscured understanding of the bedrock below.

Under a leaden sky where no leaf stirred, I crossed uneventfully to the opposite bank. Standing atop the cliff and looking back, I saw white-robed pilgrims arrive and kneel at Ōsawa's edge while their leader prayed—a scene straight from Hokusai's Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji that would have widened Lafcadio Hearn's eyes in wonder. As I watched, a single stone clattered down like a bean drum strike, sending up sand plumes that rained six meters downslope.

"Now comes sasu—the ascent," declared our porter. True to his word, we began climbing steeply upward.

Crossing Kai's provincial border into Suruga territory, we found rhododendrons peering through branches above. Locals call this perilously beautiful forest path "Heaven's Floating Bridge," but what struck me most was the towering trees' eerie gloom—more reminiscent of Kiso's deep woods than Fuji's familiar scorched-sand slopes shaped like inverted earthenware pots.

At forest's edge we met another white-robed group who passed with sidelong glances that pitied our reverse pilgrimage route. The sky's abrupt clouding seemed to portend divine displeasure.

We crossed Sakuragawa and Onigagawa.
Mount Fuji now cast off its forests and gravel, laying bare the smooth bedrock of molten lava.
With a dusky black fog, both the path ahead and beneath one's feet were indistinguishable.
I think that water vapor driven by the west wind coils around the mountain's torso in multiple layers and condenses.
What flashed through my mind next was an electrical discharge.
No sooner did it flash right before my eyes than it roared.
At my feet, termite-sized grains were thrown from the sky, scattering in disarray as they rolled.
Upon closer inspection, it was hail.

The southern wind twisted the profile of my tilted sedge hat. In haste, I spread the straw raincoat over my shoulders, but drenched through as I was, the purple pencil tucked in my pocket had bled down to beneath my jacket's breast. From the lava bedrock, countless cascades - splayed like white threads - poured down, rendering everything indistinguishable: where the path lay, where straw sandals had been tossed, where mountain alders stood. Though my feet were caught countless times, sending me stumbling forward with hands braced against rocks, the temperature never fell enough to freeze them. Clutching the pilgrim's staff and raincoat fiercely, I reached Omiya Route's fifth station in disarray, spending considerable time drying my soaked jacket by the bonfire.

The distance from here to Hōei-zan's crater was likely about three chō. I stood on the horseback ridge path between the first and second craters and gazed upward into the cleared post-rain sky.
The crater walls formed a steep angle of over forty degrees—even more precipitous than Mune-tsuki Hatchō—with a depth to the crater floor measuring approximately one thousand shaku in diameter, surpassing even that of the summit’s inner great crater.
Where layers of bluish-gray dense lava alternated with gravel, crisscrossed by gushing rock veins, there was said to be a tale that these formations—much like how white-robed pilgrims had prayed at Ōsawa—were worshipped as embodiments of the Twelve Yakushi.
In any case, the place where smoldering red lava, debris from bleached rock veins, and black granular gravel lay piled in disorder seemed less like mountainous terrain nearing nine thousand shaku in elevation and more akin to a seaside strewn with heaps of oyster or clam shells.

When I made the pilgrimage circuit, I descended from here through Gotemba's third station hut, but on that earlier occasion when I brought Mr. Ibaragi and my eldest son along the Omiya Route, we climbed from this fifth station chamber at Omiya through the sixth and seventh stations.
And when I came to the seventh station and five shaku hut and saw "3,200 meters above sea level" noted on the wooden stake, I felt as though my stature had suddenly increased.
Because here, we had already surpassed the summits of all Japan’s lofty mountains.
Whether it be Shirane, Kitadake, or Ainodake of the Southern Alps, or Yarigatake and Hotakadake of the Northern Alps, none reach a height of 3,200 meters.
At the seventh station and five shaku, we floated in skies higher than the Japanese Alps' highest peak.

“It’s so high, Mount Fuji!” someone exclaimed．“And huge,” another added．

Slightly below the eighth station stood a torii gate, and from the eighth station onward, management was said to shift to the Inner Sanctuary of Sengen Shrine．From the summit down to the seventh station，the heavy snow streaming like silver somewhat resembled Yari-ga-take’s snowfields，though by mid-August most would melt away，leaving only residual snow above the ninth station and clinging to the inner crater that appeared to remain as perennial snow．

When seen up close，I was struck by the beauty of Mount Fuji’s perennial snow．The Lion Rock at the ninth-and-a-half station had once borne a form with both jaws thrust outward，but it was said that due to the earthquake disaster，its lower jaw had been torn off and fallen away．

Leaving the ninth-and-a-half station behind，we traversed a monolithic lava formation approximately three chō in length—a precipice known as Mune-tsuki Hatchō．While such steep ascents existed at every climbing route，I believed the Omiya Route’s incline to be the most severe．Within large fissures of scorched rock lay exposed lustrous bluish-gray lava．Clinging perilously close to Tawara-iwa’s cracked lava masses along Mishima-dake’s ridge—wearing crampons that had crossed glaciers on Mount Baker and Mount Hood—we felt their spikes bite into lava crevices，reaching the summit without slipping．

At the summit stood rooms resembling traveler lodges，a product exhibition hall akin to a promotional workshop，a post office，and at the center—the Inner Sanctuary divided into three structures：main hall，offertory hall，and worship hall—with shrine offices and pilgrims’ lodging attached．As stated in the guidebook—“four walls and a roof constructed entirely of stone”—it formed a mountain town centered around the Inner Sanctuary．

It was truly Japan’s highest town．A settlement found neither at Mont Blanc in the Alps nor Mount Whitney in the Sierra Nevada．We received kind hospitality from Mr．Fuji Takeo，Chief Priest of Sengen Shrine，and accepted picture postcards and guidebooks．From the summit post office，I made a telephone call to Mr．Oyama of Ōmiya Town—a connection between Japan’s highest and lowest towns．Meanwhile，Mr．Ibaragi had gone to sketch Konoshiro Pond．I should note that our Ōmiya Route guide，Fukazawa Yosaku，proved a kind man．

If one were to make a cross-section of Mount Fuji from the fourth station upward，it would reveal what might be called a stone mountain as opposed to a wooded one—though sparse，hair-like grasses such as stone nailwort and alpine knotweed existed here，they failed to register in the eye，leaving merely an upward gaze of rock accumulation．
While there were places where interbedded layers of lava and gravel or gushing rock veins lay exposed，demonstrating orderly stratified beauty，much of it appeared to have scattered gravel and ash beyond human intervention，reaching utter chaos．
These stones—massive rough-hewn rocks，untrimmed cut stones with sharp edges，cinder-like gravel—when taken individually could not compare even to a single tile from Xianyang Palace．Yet when fused holistically to build Mount Fuji’s creative synthesis，grasses，trees，people，and mountain huts alike assimilated and merged into this formation．
And so，the radial side volcanoes that appeared to mar the mountain’s completeness，the concentric pilgrimage route，and the radiating valleys—much like how Mount Rainier and Mount Hood discharge glaciers from their summits or flanks to become both the mountains’ skin and integral parts—instead contributed to an effect of creative synthesis．
Viewed closely，Mount Fuji is a beauty of disorder；viewed from afar，a beauty of creative synthesis．
This is my way of viewing Mount Fuji．

10. Yatsugatake Highlands

After descending Mount Fuji, we headed to Yatsugatake.

While night had not yet fully lifted, we disembarked from the train in Kofu.
Wakao Kinzo, president of the Kai Mountaineering Association, awaited us; he first accompanied us by automobile to his residence in Tokiwa-cho where we loaded provisions before being joined by Mr. Osawa Terusada and Mr. Koseishi Masahisa—principal of Tōmi Elementary School—whereupon we drove toward the Yatsugatake highlands.
Before I had crossed to America, there had been occasions when the Yamanashi Mountaineering Association was established in Kofu and I was called upon to lecture, but ill-timed efforts proved ephemeral; after reorganizing into the Kai Mountaineering Association with Mr. Wakao at its helm alongside Mr. Hiraga Fumio—author of *The Southern Japan Alps and Mountain Travels of Kai*—and members of Hakuho-kai devoted to Shirakane and Komagatake, Kofu's entire educated class became remarkably dedicated to promoting the Southern Alps' peaks, Shosenkyo Gorge, Yatsugatake Highlands, and Fuji Five Lakes.
Though long renowned for Kai silk, grapes, and crystal, what must exalt Kai is its very natural essence.
Just as Switzerland combines industry with scenic beauty that draws global travelers, so too does Kai's nature possess this dual charm.
Now marks Kai's cultural springtide—when nature begins illuminating human endeavors; its artistic renaissance will likely rise upon that monumental natural foundation.
Since returning home from abroad, I have visited Kofu twice; in these people's ardent local pride I always sense rejuvenating vigor.

On this day, due to the rain that had continued since the previous night, the Yatsugatake Mountains were shrouded completely in clouds, existing right before us yet remaining unseen.
We took a brief rest at the residence of Mr. Mizushiro Yoshishige, a member of the landed gentry in Anto Tamamura Village.
Mr. Yoshishige, who had a cultivated taste for literary and calligraphic arts, cherished hanging scrolls by Sugawara Hakuryūsanjin and inscribed works such as those featuring paintings by the Qing-dynasty artist Xia Jinru with calligraphy by Count Itagaki Taisuke, graciously allowing us to view his collection.

From there, Mr. Mizushiro Shōji, who was well-versed in guiding the area, joined the group, and they began walking along the muddy path.
Crossing the bridge over the Kawamata River, they looked down at the Daimon River’s gorge stream while stopping at Kōbō Water to scoop up and drink from its sweet spring.
From there, they entered the mountain path and found themselves in a larch forest.
Standing in the rain falling like threads, captivated by the beautiful groves of fir and larch trees—from this area onward, a foothills-style plateau unfolded where bellflowers bloomed, bush clovers bloomed, patrinias stood spindly and damp with dew, and daylilies cast a lantern-like brightness.
Small winged insects flew; beetles walked.
The purpose of this journey was to investigate—alongside Yatsugatake itself—the great communities of rhododendron-family azaleas in the eastern foothills' "Mishimori," particularly those varieties like Enkianthus perulatus, rock azaleas, mountain azaleas, and Japanese azaleas that flowed like brocade between elevations of 1,200 to 1,300 meters up to approximately 1,700 meters; yet with rain pouring relentlessly, having only glimpsed Iimori-yama's dim silhouette and finding Yatsugatake inaccessible, they resolved to await Mishimori's coming autumn foliage season instead. They emerged onto the Saku Highway, traversed the renowned Nenbagahara plateau near Sankenya, then retraced their path back to Mr. Mizushiro's residence in Anto Tamamura Village where they took their midday meal.

My interest in Yatsugatake lay not merely in its status as a prominent peak of the Fuji Volcanic Belt and sister mountain to Mount Fuji, but fundamentally in its collapsed volcanic form—where the crater walls of its outer rim had eroded away, creating isolated peaks such as its highest point Mount Aka, along with Mount Iō, Mount Gongen, Mount Gibōshu, and Mount Nishi, each fulfilling the numerical implication of "eight peaks" in its name. Yet this Yatsugatake differed profoundly from Fuji's eight-petaled lotus-like shallow incisions, being instead a mountain profoundly severed at its core.
However, what held greater interest was that if one were to restore Yatsugatake's eroded summits to their original form and reconstruct them, it would likely become a mountain far taller than Mount Fuji.
Just as it was said that Mazama Mountain—which contained America's Crater Lake National Park—though its summit had now collapsed, would reach a height of 14,000 to 15,000 shaku if restored to its original form; and as Mount Rainier, called Tacoma Fuji, was claimed to attain over 16,000 shaku from its current 14,000 shaku should its truncated cone be returned to its primordial state—so too did Yatsugatake's eroded contours retain this semblance of lost grandeur.
The profound satisfaction of imaginatively creating—through piecing together eroded contours and reconstructing—a volcano in Japan that surpassed Mount Fuji in height could first be attained while standing amidst the Yatsugatake Highlands.
Unfortunately, due to that day's rain, all of this profound satisfaction was lost.
But I rejoiced in having seen how the vegetation had been washed clean—how Japan’s greatest foothills, encircled by Mount Fuji and the massive fault of the Kamanashi River, by the Southern Alps and the towering screen of the Kanto Mountains, brimmed with a force that seemed to lift the very heavens themselves, shining with a pristine freshness overflowing with youthful vigor.

On our way back, as the rain had let up somewhat, we cut through Nirasaki Town by automobile, followed the eastern bank of the Kamanashi River, and viewed the exposed Shichiri-iwa rock formation from the beautiful red pine forest on the opposite shore.
It was a magnificent accumulation of tuff and conglomerate rock formed by Yatsugatake's mudflows.
It astonished us how this had come rushing forth all at once from near Hōrai at the border of Kai and Shinano.

On the return journey, we heard from Mr. Wakao and Mr. Koseishi about accompanying the late Mr. Ōmachi Keigetsu on his Southern Alps mountaineering expedition.
Mr. Keigetsu's dignified presence rose vividly before us.
That we can never read Mr. Keigetsu's concise prose again—since he passed without writing a single Southern Alps travelogue—brings desolation not only to Kai's loss but to mountain literature itself.
When we returned to Kofu, with Omiya-Yoshida as our starting point and Mount Fuji marked as the "ascent" on our journey-themed sugoroku board, the dice naturally settled.