Pathway to Japanese Literature

Summer Diary

Taisho Pond

Gathering snowmelt cradled in mountain valleys, the Azusa River flowed through Kamikochi's slender plain to Mt. Yake's base when lava streaming from a divine incense burner abruptly blocked its course.
The water that had crashed against the rocks soaked the bear bamboo thickets at Mt. Yake's base, submerged the white birch groves, and reached the foot of Mt. Kasumizawa on the opposite shore.
The mountain stream's water that had been rushing along until now reached this place and was instantly sucked into the brimful green-blue lake that lay as still as death.
Within it stood a withered white birch forest, its sharp shadows crisply reflected.
The shore at Mt. Yake’s base dropped steeply, with bear bamboo grass reaching deep into the water.
The bear bamboo grass along the pond’s edge stood taller than a person’s height.
When I pushed through, a loud rustling noise erupted, and the world seemed consumed by the sound of bear bamboo grass.
I reached the shore.
It was recklessly steep.
If one slipped and fell, they would have no choice but to plunge into this deep blue water with its unnerving clarity.
Finally descending to the water’s edge, I pushed through bear bamboo grass in a somewhat flat spot and sat down.
Where the light penetrated, the water changed from green to indigo blue the deeper it went.
And within it moved the spotted bodies of char—two or three of them.
Even the movement of their fins and the opening of their gills were visible.
When a small insect fell onto this water’s surface, one that had been staying quietly below suddenly turned upward and charged.
With a snap—a sound shattering the surrounding silence—the insect vanished beneath the water into the fish’s belly.
Across the expanse of still water rose Mt. Kasumizawa on the opposite shore, while to the left emerged the rocky summit of Mt. Hotaka from the clouds.
The Y-shaped snow gullies and interlocking snow masses above them faced the indigo-blue water with dreadful majesty.
Around white birch trees standing in the water fluttered five or six white butterflies tracing circles skimming its surface until one—perhaps exhausted—dropped abruptly onto the water.

It struck the water with its tired wings, gliding several inches before falling once more.
Flap-flap-flap—it thrashed in the water.
As if seeking rescue from a friend.
And when that small wave rustled the bear bamboo leaves on the shore, with a sharp snap, the white butterfly vanished into the indigo water.
Behind it, a small vortex formed—one, two, three inches—drifted leftward, then vanished with a soft hiss.
The shadows of Mt. Kasumizawa and the white birches merged together, trembling violently.
This must be what pity feels like.
The surroundings were utterly still.
The char fish that swallow butterflies continued moving through the water.
There was a demon in the water.
Taisho Pond was the Demon's Pond.

The Moon of Kamikochi

If the frog in the well could see this sky, I would always think whenever gazing at Kamikochi's night sky—would it marvel at such beauty?
Half the sky lay blocked beyond a broad riverbed by Mt. Roppyaku and Mt. Kasumizawa—the former rising like a folding screen from its base a mere six *chō* ahead—leaving only fragments visible.
At nightfall, these mountains became pools of ink, their summits crowned by rocks like two demonic teeth tracing faint white outlines against the void.
Beneath this vast darkness roared the Azusa River through its stony plain, its voice reverberating through blackened air.
Then one night, the moon emerged above those peaks—
small yet fiercely luminous.
White clouds surged like a demon's breath from shadows of pale fangs toward its glow, dissolving into phantom wisps upon contact with lunar radiance.
At moments, even the moon itself seemed adrift—
Under haze-shrouded darkness, the riverbed lay moonlit where rapids shattered silver light into shards that swirled downstream.
A milky mist clung to water's surface; perhaps stirred by its motion, a nearby willow swayed gently while drinking moonlight through trembling leaves.
Standing at river's edge, I watched fractured light not only dance upon waves but seep into liquid depths below—
Walking riverside paths beneath high-peaked moons while listening to currents' song—
Night dew had drenched every blade of grass until dampness hung thick enough to taste—
Silent steps along birch-lined trails birthed wordless longing within my chest—
Mt. Yake glowed faintly pale—
Mt. Hotaka stood nearly invisible—
Alone, I burned with regret—if only I stood upon Hotaka's heights now—

Mt. Kasumizawa

The summit was narrow.
When I sat down under the triangulation marker, I heard mosquitoes buzzing among the dwarf pines around me.
Sunlight bathed both the dwarf pines and yellow flowers equally, making all vegetation seem to embrace the light with devotion.
Under a doubly beautiful sky, separated only by Kamikochi's valley and appearing near enough to touch, Mt. Hotaka's majestic form stood revealed—each rocky fold so distinct I could almost count them.
From the foothills upward stretched a valley where green grass sprouted beneath Y-shaped snow remnants; to the right rose Mae-Tane-dake's rocks, jagged and sharp all the way to their summit.
Directly ahead continued Mt. Oku-Hotaka with its black crags and gleaming snow.
This ridgeline jutted left like a raised standard, traversing multiple peaks before becoming a forested mountain that finally swelled into Mt. Yake's bulbous form at its extremity.
Beneath my left eye, Mt. Yake bulged upward as if plucked from Taisho Pond's distant indigo shore—its base to mid-slope glowing in exquisite bellflower hues.
From summit to midslope it resembled gray cream poured from above, blending bellflower and ash where they met.
From this natural censer of beauty rose white smoke praising deities—slender threads ascending into azure heights.
That summit lay far below us here.
From this vantage, it seemed a delicate mountain.
I shifted my gaze.
Looking right from Mae-Hotaka and Myojin revealed Chogatake and Jonen's peaks diverging from Hotaka's crags.
Through this gap Kamikochi's plateau emerged whitely.
The Azusa River poured into Taisho Pond through this space like tangled threads.
I turned my gaze behind again.
This forest-clad valley echoed distant stream sounds; descending its full length revealed vertical mountain folds blocking further view—beyond which lay what might be fields along the Shirahone-to-Islands route.
Far above these, immeasurably high, pale violet sawtooth peaks pierced through cloud layers.
Could these be Koma, Ontake, Yatsugatake?

The clouds swirled around their shoulders, refusing to move.
To the right nearby, the majestic ridge of Norikura loomed imposingly in khaki.
As usual, the buzzing of mosquitoes lent a peaceful air.
Yamazaki was taking his customary nap.
Bōjō was struggling valiantly to mar this beautiful scenery with his sketch.
Sonchi, Koike, and Itakura were devouring dessert in the meantime and trying to drink copious amounts of water.

On the Way to Mt. Kasumizawa

I sat down amidst dwarf pines on a slope so steep my hips threatened to slip away.
A straight valley continued all the way to Kamikochi plain where the Azusa River appeared thread-thin.
Immediately to my right loomed a granite massif pressing upward like a white folding screen that blocked half the sky.
Across the plain below stretched part of Hotaka-Yake ridge over which Mt.Kasaga rose breast-high.
Rock swallows skimmed past my scalp—one chasing another—their wings whistling sharply as they carved grand arcs through thin air.
The birds dwindled instantly until they dissolved into a swarm clustered like sesame seeds across granite mid-slopes.
Around a great white boulder’s chest-height plane came piercing staccato cries from darting flocks—echoes ricocheting off stone into pine-stillness.
Voice born from rock itself—swallows seeming mineral progeny—stone and bird fused in primordial intimacy.

The hut.

In front of the inn, the water flowing through the wide riverbed became an eighteen-meter-wide raging torrent a short distance downstream. With a thunderous roar, the water churned and leapt, surging forward with primal force as each wave vied to outrace the others. Every stone on the riverbed was sent bouncing downstream with relentless momentum. Standing at the water's edge, an icy chill hung in the air above the roaring torrent while a constant wind rustled through the riverside trees' leaves. Here spanned a log bridge that swayed gently with every cautious step across its length. Below, white foam and emerald waters clashed violently as they raced onward through the gorge.

From the bridge's midpoint, looking downstream revealed the treeless slopes of Mt. Yake quietly exhaling wisps of smoke into the sky. Crossing this precarious structure led to an emerald meadow where five or six white birches stood among larches, butterbur flowers dotting the grass like flecks of sunlight scattered from some dream realm. Muffled by the surrounding verdure, the river's roar abruptly softened here into a muted whisper.

This plain stretched eighteen meters before meeting another stream - crystalline waters flowing soundlessly until plunging into rapids just beyond sightline's reach. Between these two waterways lay our dwelling place: a ten-mat hut built from raw timber and planked boards upon a modest rise beside the smaller stream.

Five or six mushroom-studded logs crowned its roof like primitive rafters. At the entrance stood a hearth of stream-gathered stones flanked by a three-legged pot rack fashioned from white and red birch boughs nearby grew a towering larch whose upper branches scraped the heavens itself.

Beneath this arboreal sentinel rested a table and chairs hewn from two-inch-thick planks upon the lush grass large windows fitted with horizontally placed shoji screens pierced both stream-facing and opposite walls of the hut Passing through its three-foot-wide entrance revealed through the right window a vista of river and boulder while the left framed white birches amid seas of green On the central shelf books stood pompously crammed together while canned goods paraded in valiant formation along its rightward counterpart.

On the floor were spread thin rush mats with blankets laid out, one hibachi placed alongside containers of soy sauce, sugar, rice, and a kettle. When I lay on the blanket, below the hut window ran a stream where water flowed quietly between large rocks braced on both sides. By the window stood three trees with white trunks, their branches spread over the river. On the far side of the river lay bear bamboo grass that gradually gave way to forest. White birch trees could be seen scattered here and there. This forest marked the base of Mt. Kasumizawa. Therefore, when lying down by the window, that white granite cliff appeared among the branches of the trees ahead. If one took a nap there, the sound of the mountain stream acted as a lullaby while a green spirit stroked one's eyelids. When looking out from the left window, a woodpecker came and occasionally pecked at the white birch trees. Mr. Shōkichi, the hunter, also came to this window and talked while smoking. Leaving the hut and descending slightly to the left at the kitchen where ice-like water constantly flowed, if one tossed in bowls or chopsticks, nature washed them clean. Behind the hut to the left stood a toilet with a roof made using a single standing tree. Holding butterbur leaves when entering there made Mt. Kasumizawa form the hut’s backdrop. With its majestic scenery, the location felt awkward at first. When entering there in the morning, pale dawn light struck the hut where on green grass the primitive cabin appeared orange-hued and utterly still. The shoji screens sealed the window like silence itself. It was around this time that Japanese robins began to sing.

Hut Life

The morning temperature was astonishingly low.
When I threw off the blanket and emerged from the mosquito net, I abruptly put on work clothes.
Tsatsu had been wearing four layers since bedtime.
After putting rice in the pot and rubbing my eyes, I went down to the stream where clouds still hung over Mt. Yake.
When I washed the rice, my hands instantly froze beyond endurance.
Eating bran rice was hardly appetizing, and everyone's faces looked dreadful.
The others tended the hearth with tears streaming from bleary eyes.
Smoke projected morning light onto the hut's roof.
The fellow who had been listening to crackling firewood eventually rose to clean.
When the rice boiled over and thin broth began bubbling, a sheet was spread on the table where everyone ate their meal bathed in morning light.
After finishing, they would linger talking while watching mountain clouds before tossing pots and bowls into the river to pursue individual tasks.
Some read books, others went sketching or fishing, while some gathered firewood.
When heading to Mt. Yake, Mt. Kasumizawa, Mt. Hotaka, Tashiro Tide, or Miyagawa Pond, they would make rice balls and rush out.
On ordinary days around ten o'clock, someone would go buy potatoes, tofu, or leeks from the inn.
Ishikawa was excessively fond of potatoes.
At home he apparently ate them all day long.
In return he handled all seasoning matters.
That made him our cook.
At noon meals became feasts where everyone devoured everything from scorched rice onward.
They usually decided to eat on shaded grass at midday.

After entering this hut, everyone became remarkably childlike.
And so the days flew by with alarming speed.
After dinner, they closed up the hut and all headed to the hot spring.
They crossed the log bridge singing songs, watching the sunset over Mt. Roppyaku while gazing up at clouds veiling Mt. Hotaka.
In lamplight blurred by steam, they healed their daily fatigue while observing the laborers' physiques.
On returning, their greatest pleasure came from stopping at the front desk to await laborers crossing the pass.
When even a single package arrived, they recrossed the log bridge in delight beneath stars glimmering through haze—white foam floated in darkness as a tremendous roar echoed below.

Winter Diary

Mountain Pass Station

Is it the slumber of heaven and earth? Itaya Pass lies buried in snow.

Amidst that silence, the skis ascend

Pure white peaks / Slumbering valleys

In the lulls of soundless falling snow

The gentle form of Hachimoriyama

If one peers into the valley friends point to—the mountain pass station.

It was buried in snow.

Through the driving snow, the skis flew.

Valley after valley, cedar pillars cloaked in snow.

Dark green hues—in their depths, even light turned dim.

Skis passed swiftly by, yet memories lingered.

Phantom Forest

Behold now—beneath the skis lies the Mountain Pass Station.
A platform bearing a tall roof

A throng of snow-shoveling laborers.
The weary locomotive's panting.
Even that panting was absorbed by the snow.
In the stillness, snow fell incessantly.
Ah, the Siberian station I had seen in my dreams.
The stationmaster’s office—a blazing stove.
My frozen body and heart—now they did not thaw.
Matsukata called it a comfortable station.
Mr. Winkler said it was like Vienna's station.

Gathering around the stove—when they bit into bread,

The telegraph's sound—the sole visitation from the mundane world.

Again toward mountain after mountain—kicking through snow, the skis advanced.

Farewell, O valley! My beloved Mountain Pass Station!

Stem Bogen

The lead shadow—when seen being swallowed by the valley

The composed grip of the switching pole

Doppelstemmen body extension

Thrown upward—like a parachute opening

The body that seemed to fall—nimbly shifts.

The trace of a beautiful curve—his figure vanishes into the cliff.

Twenty seconds—thirty seconds

Behold below—that small shadow now revealed.

Ah, he descended splendidly—my heart leaps.

Now descend!

The joy of switching poles—the center of gravity shifts to the uphill foot.

A swallow-like spreading of the body

When we finished descending and looked up at the cliff, sunlight illuminated everything.

Traces of stem turns.

That elegant curve made my heart leap.

Straight descent.

When I aligned my feet and stretched my body, the skis flew.

Crossing over yonder mountain into a pure white world.

Were we ascending to heaven? Nothing obstructed our path ahead.

Wind muffled my ears—snow plumes rose from the skis.

Was someone following my tracks? When I turned back, shadows of swirling snow.

Ah, I was ascending to heaven.

Telemark.

Snow flew from the straight descent's retreating figures.

Just when you thought they knelt—amid abruptly rising snow plumes—

His profile showed through—the ski tips slicing snow.

Amid the fading snow plumes—his triumphant figure rose.

From the Station to the Hot Spring

The northern sky was strewn with stars.
On the snow, a creature scurried about.
They listened to the valley stream’s sound and gazed up at the stars.
A creature crawled on all fours.

Carrying skis—they ran across the snow.

A polar bear? A monster dwelling in the northern village?

After that—a donkey-like man dug through snow like a mole.

The inn clerk comes riding skis, holding a lantern.

Producing rice crackers—when he asked "How many shall I put in?"—

Remaining on all fours, they called out "Two! Two!"

When told "I'll put in two," their mouths would gape open.

As the inn’s light came into view, they asked how many chō remained from here.

After crawling about two ken, they again asked how many chō remained from here.

“Where’s the entrance?” they demanded. The clerk, startled, fled.

Other clerks arrived—First Clerk, Second Clerk.

They all lined up in parallel.

“If you tell us to leave our skis,” they protested, “the metal parts will rust!”

Shameless monsters—the donkeys following behind—guffawed loudly.

Eerie monsters—a night parade of demons crawling across the snow.

From Goshiki Onsen to Takayu

December 30th

While preparing to go to Mt. Takakura, Mr. Winkler suggested we head to Takayu instead.
If the weather stayed fair, we might even stay two nights and attempt Mt. Azuma—or so we were told. Bōjō, Matsukata, and I became unreasonably fired up.
Having packed our backpacks full of provisions, at half past ten, the five of us—Mr. Winkler leading, followed by Vunten, Taka-chan, Bōjō, Matsukata, and me—set out.
The weather was extremely good.
When we arrived at Sai-no-Kawara,the surrounding mountains came into clear view.
The radiantly beautiful morning peaks of every kind floated aloft in the Prussian blue sky.
The valleys slumbering under the soft rays of the winter sun revealed deep shadows on one side; the white-glowing surfaces and their shadows traced soft curves and masculine lines.
The Yonezawa Plain could be seen beyond those mountains.
At the tip of my ski pole, what appeared faintly black there was likely Yonezawa City.
Even our voices were swallowed by the snow, making even the act of laying ski tracks feel somehow inadequate.
Ah, everything dazzled as though newly awakened.
If black soil sprouting buds under the sun’s bounty represents the life of heaven and earth, then snowy peaks and valleys embody their sacred slumber.
When you wrote characters on snow that felt pure and soft with a staff,the snow crystals glittered like stars across the entire surface.
As we rounded the base of Takakura from Sai-no-Kawara,the east-facing snow began sticking to our skis, so we switched leaders every fifteen minutes as we advanced.
After rounding the base of Takakura and advancing while looking back at its three-tiered summit, we spotted the roof of a lumber mill in the valley.
A pure white rabbit, startled, ran away.
It was already a little past twelve.
Ahead,Takayu's Riverside of Souls came into view,but it still appeared to lie some considerable distance away.
Numerous deep ravines and valleys lay between here and there.
Those pressing onward stuffed two pieces of bread into their mouths while standing.

When I gazed at the shining white mountains under the blue sky, my mind went blank.
Don't point out habits I don't even have.
There's usually just rotten brains in here.
I felt like entrusting everything to nature.
Nothing feels more humiliating than being a fool who distrusts people.
The skis hissed pleasantly across warm snow.
Water flowed crystal clear beneath the snow.
A charming little stream.
Beyond one valley lay ten houses in an unexpected place—each dwelling inhabited solely by snow.
We finally found an occupied house and asked directions.
This place was called Aokiyama, they said.
Crossing the deep ravine ahead to Takayu shouldn't be difficult, they told us.
It must be quite a ravine.
Approaching the ravine revealed thick Japanese blue beeches.
Through their trunks gleamed distant mountains—an alpine vista recalling the Japanese Alps.
Matsukata wriggled with newt-like delight.
The ravine proved truly deep.
Water sounded.
Holes pocked the ravine's snowscape, roaring with violent currents.
The snow seemed ready to collapse any moment.

Mr. Winkler considered it at length but finally descended.
"I want to swim," I said, whereupon Mr. Winkler pointed and replied, "This spot looks good."
Beneath snow riddled with holes, foamy water flowed darkly onward.
It seemed to have just awoken and now fled headlong toward warmer lands.
When I climbed the ravine and saw rhododendrons blooming there, I felt inexplicable joy.
Proof I'm a mountain madman.
Ravines kept appearing endlessly.
We climbed ever upward across their headwaters.
Occasionally a winter gust would rush through this silent snowy realm - shaking conifer branches with a whoosh - sending snowflakes fluttering against our cheeks.
Gazing up at wind-tossed boughs while listening intently, I heard Mr. Winkler murmur from just above us, still enraptured: "What splendid music."
No trace of artifice.
Just snow and forest whispers.
Through gaps in the trees behind Takakura emerged a Yari-ga-take-like peak.
While contemplating that mountain during leisurely turns down steep slopes - nothing compares.
Having crossed the ravine, we found conifers standing meditatively across gentle snowy inclines.
Descending that broad slope left us truly awestruck.
On the mountain's vast snowy plain stood scattered five-needle pines and firs like forgotten sentinels - beyond which mountains burned crimson at sunset's edge.
The snow mountains blazed.
No - they radiated.
And sky shifted gradually from red through orange until finally tinged with green.

Ah, I am truly alive at this very moment.
When sensations of beauty and cries of wonder became stifled, I even thought I might evaporate away.
When I breathed, that burning mountain and five-colored sky breathed too.
Transcending space, transcending time, transcending the narrow world of five senses—now I dissolved toward the universe's source.
My skis slowed of their own accord, and heedless of Mr. Vunten's shadow receding into the five-colored sky, I glided entranced across the snow plain.
I wanted to walk without end.
I wanted to say something.
"It's just like Switzerland!" I shouted—I who had never been there.
On the small hill to our right, a fir forest stood petrified before this beauty, appearing black.
From far behind came Matsukata and Bōjō's muttered words: "So wonderful... utterly overwhelming."
I had never imagined mountains could burn so crimson.
And what quiet immensity this held.
Our skis slid silently onward, and when we reached Sai-no-Kawara, the sun finally began setting.
From this peak numerous streams descended, and what appeared black to the right of the island-like mountain on the plain ahead must have been Fukushima.
Moreover, in the valley below, not a single house could be seen.

“This must be the area.
Let’s go,” said Mr. Winkler as his figure slid downward.
Soon they crossed a small stream.
It had just passed five o'clock, yet already grown quite dark.
The valley was finally enveloped in gloomy darkness.
A ravine appeared on the right.
The lights of Fukushima glowed distantly, clustered together.
A short distance away, much closer to the left, the lights of Niwasaka were visible.
However, the lights visible from the darkened mountains overlooking this gloomy valley felt less nostalgic than restless.
We must have taken the wrong valley.
“Where did Taka-chan go?” Mr. Winkler called out as he slid up behind us.
Mr. Vunten insisted he was more skilled.
Looking up, even the Sai-no-Kawara we had passed earlier now showed only faint outlines in the darkness.
Only occasionally did the sulfurous smell drift by.
“Taka-chan, since someone got angry, let’s head back,” Mr. Winkler said.
“Who?” Taka-chan asked in the darkness.
At the unexpected answer “Mr. Vunten,” Taka-chan began climbing upward, venting his complaints into the darkness.
Above the five people’s heads in the mountains, the stars began to shine wildly.
The cold had finally grown stronger, and the wind occasionally roared.
I took out the prepared fur gear from my backpack and put it on.

I covered my face as well. When I removed my gloves, the intense cold became apparent. Chewing on bread in the darkness, I thought I could walk all night if needed. As we turned back and took what looked like a path to the left, Mr. Winkler shouted, “Taka-chan! There’s a waterfall here!” It was indeed a waterfall, but not the landmark we sought. We had to descend again.

“Let’s Telemark all night,” Mr. Winkler said while retreating. “Our splendid bodies won’t break down from something like this.” The surroundings were dark yet faintly visible from snow-glow. The ravine appeared shadowed.

Sliding toward a “Yahoo!” shout in the darkness, what first seemed a small speck rapidly grew larger as it approached with stem turns. Sometimes we caught up to Mr. Vunten; sometimes we collided with trees. We passed all small trees beneath our skis. Recklessly continuing downward, we crossed the right ravine and spotted a light in the valley below.

“The hot springs!” Taka-chan cried jubilantly. Yet the right ravine proved utterly impassable. Listening to the water’s sound irritated me. A ravine closed in from the left too. Our path forward had become trapped between two ravines.

I thought going down would be futile. Fine then—we might as well spend the night here; after all, the stars were shining—I completely calmed down.

The lights vanished from view once more.

We finally descended into the valley.
When we came to a narrow valley flanked by two streams, Taka-chan found snowshoe tracks.
The lantern light pressed onward through the valley, laboring against the snow.
The round glow illuminated rocks beneath the snow and water flowing ceaselessly through the night.
There were places where we crossed over snow accumulated on stream rocks using long skis.
When Taka-chan missed his footing with one leg, I involuntarily let out a small “Ah!” into the darkness.
While removing his skis, Bōjō said, “We can’t go any further this way.”
“That’s not the case,” said Mr. Winkler as he crossed over—and no sooner had he done so than skis went tumbling head over heels in the dark.
Fortunately, Mr. Winkler landed on a large rock.
The lantern was passed from hand to hand.
When we illuminated Bōjō’s wristwatch, it showed seven-thirty.
We had been skiing for an hour since turning back earlier.
Somehow we managed to cross the ravine on our right from up ahead.
Ah—this snowy journey under starry night.
What a serene dreamscape.
Treetops floated on snowbanks while stars glimmered between them.
The cold seemed intense yet our prepared bodies glowed with comfortably circulating blood.
“Ah... How I wish we could spend the night here.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing all along.”
Such conversation passed between us amid puffs of white breath.

When we climbed up the valley, Tamago-yu's light appeared across the gorge before our eyes. Our destination lay higher still. “We’re here,” Taka-chan announced, his face ringed by lamplight. Snow began fluttering down. When we hurried onto the path, the welcoming lights of a hot spring inn came into view. At Adachiya’s hearthside, removing snow-crusted boots and facing the blazing fire filled us with inexpressible delight. Those earlier snowshoe tracks, it turned out, had been made by this inn’s keeper that morning. Sulfur stung our nostrils. From backpacks we pulled hand towels rolled like balls and entered the bath. In the high-ceilinged bathing hall, a dim light glowed.

31st

The weather was fierce today.
If we intended to climb Mount Azuma, we had to go all the way to Nuruyu.

In any case, since they had time until noon, they devoured Taka-chan’s rice cakes without restraint.
Mr. Winkler and Mr. Vunten went to check the weather.
As it didn’t seem reliable, they decided to turn back.
They bid farewell to the quiet hot spring inn in the valley and glided down the path along the ravine using their two ski poles.
The snow had turned ice-like, making it akin to skating.
The strain on their legs from stem turns proved tremendous.
After twenty minutes, bare earth emerged.
When they arrived at Niwasaka Station after traveling two ri, yesterday’s mountains appeared majestic beneath the snow-laden sky.
Looking out from the station window, they felt happy thinking—“Ah, so we really did come down from there.”
They ate rice cakes and waited for the train.
After being jostled on the train for an hour, they alighted at Itaya Station where heavy snow was falling.
They returned to the hot spring after sunset.

(March, Taisho 8)