Pathway to Japanese Literature

――"Let us meet but once a year," thus we vowed―
We have parted―and now indeed we meet―

October 28.

From Gotemba by carriage—the sole passenger being myself—it was bitterly cold.
Not only inside the carriage, but also the withering fields and woods nearby, and even the entire Fuji foothills area—where only the base remained exposed beneath cloud-shrouded peaks—all appeared gloomy, wild, and bitterly cold to behold.

When I alighted from the carriage at Subashiri's station, there happened to be a soba shop right there.
Seizing this fortunate opportunity, I stopped in, first ordered sake, and as I drank one flask then two, gradually my body grew warm.
As if blessed by fortune, sunlight began streaming through the nearby shoji screens.
Thinking "This is too much," I opened the third sake flask, put on the straw cape I'd asked the maid to buy for me, and stepped lightly out of the soba shop.

Upon leaving the post town, I immediately turned right, took a shortcut, and began ascending Kagosaka Pass.
The ascent proved steeper than anticipated.
The sake warmed my blood, my breath grew ragged, and I paused to rest in several spots.
And as usual—having been sleep-deprived from making preparations for my absence before the journey—I inevitably grew drowsy whenever I rested.
I tried to stay alert once or twice, but ultimately at some spot, having spread out pampas grass or something beneath me, I drowsily fell asleep.

“Excuse me, excuse me.”

When I was roused awake, a man with such an ominous countenance stood before me that I instinctively recoiled. More than half his face was seared with burns, one eye blinded and drawn taut.

"You'll catch a cold, sir."

The man offered a pained smile that acknowledged my shock, then began to speak.

Flustered, I rose while removing my hat and offered thanks.

"If you're ascending, let us go together."

And with that, the young man took the lead.

I spoke of having drunk too much and fallen into a deep sleep, while he spoke of how he had sustained these severe burns in the Tokyo earthquake disaster, and thus we reached the pass.

In Yoshida, I parted with him.
He had come from Tokyo regarding something to do with money—having visited relatives in Izu yesterday, planning to go from here to Ōtsuki today to ask his kin there for assistance—and launched into an unprompted explanation of such matters.
He seemed like such a decent fellow that I thought it might be pleasant to stay together in Yoshida tonight if he agreed.
But saying he needed to hurry ahead, he hastily boarded the train and departed.

He had been but a brief traveling companion, yet parting left me lonesome.
Moreover, dusk was already approaching, the wind picked up, and rain began to fall.
Though I seriously considered staying in Yoshida as things were, I ultimately decided to proceed as planned to Funatsu on Lake Kawaguchi’s shore. Holding the umbrella with both hands, I hunched forward and hurried along the dim field path while half-running.

At seven in the evening, I removed my straw sandals at Nakaya Hotel on the lakeshore.

October 29.

From the inn's second floor, the lake appeared veiled in a misty drizzle, but by the time I finished my belated breakfast, the weather had cleared. Together with my fellow lodger Mr. Gunna-ya—a man who traded in local Gunni-ori textiles, as the maid addressed him—we hastily arranged a boat to cross Lake Kawaguchi.

The Fuji that should have loomed directly above remained hidden. Only where the clouds hung thickest overhead did the autumn foliage along the lakeshore glow with particular beauty. The crimson leaves of persimmon trees in the shoreline villages stood out most vividly. These villages lining the lake apparently struggled year-round for drinking water despite their waterside location—this owing to the volcanic bedrock beneath them.

In the small village where we had crossed over, I parted with Mr. Gunna-ya, and feeling the pleasant weight of the rucksack on my shoulders and back, I set out in good spirits.
Immediately, I reached Sai Lake.
At the end of my walk along the edge of this small yet deeply pooled lake lay a tiny village called Neba.
As if holding a local festival, the village of about ten houses had banners erected, and the sound of drums reverberated.

Glancing around, I noticed a small, neat general store that seemed incongruous with the village.
I stopped by there, bought sake and canned goods, and while still gauging the wife’s expression, ventured to ask if she might possibly make some rice balls for me.
"It's nothing much, but unfortunately today we have red rice," she said.
"I insisted it was fine," I replied, wrapping the prepared items in a cloth bundle to carry them as I left that place.
This morning—what with the rain and boat arrangements—there had been no time at the inn to prepare these provisions; moreover, having resolved that if we hurried we could row to Lake Shōji by noon, I had set out.
However, as I observed the weather gradually improving, it seemed we could not rush through Aokigahara Jukai Forest in one go as planned; thus taking advantage of the store’s presence, I had prepared provisions.

It was immediately after that I entered Aokigahara Forest, the woodland known by such names as the Sea of Trees.
It was indeed a pleasing forest.
It lacked the dense growth seen in mountain forests of Jōshū and Shinshū, yet was bright and possessed a lonely beauty.
The trees had no large specimens, yet all seemed to be of considerable age.
This was thought to be because the ground here consisted entirely of volcanic rock with scant soil.
And yet, both the rocks and the tree trunks were all covered in vivid green moss.
Most were coniferous forests, but among them were mixed broadleaf trees, their leaves turned to various autumn hues.
Among them, the maple trees were the most beautiful.
There were various types of maple trees, and when it came to those with large leaves, some were so big that even my outstretched palm couldn’t match their size.
The smaller ones were dyed a deep color in their own way.
Amidst the many hemlock-like trees—their leaves and trunks appearing jet-black as they grew thickly—these autumn leaves stood out all the more vividly.

I left the path and entered the forest, choosing a spot unlikely to draw attention where I opened my cloth bundle. As the sky gradually brightened, the wind grew stronger. All around was the fierce sound of fallen leaves. The small leaves of either fir or hemlock were scattering down. Amidst the rain-like sound of falling leaves, the constant chirping of tits could be heard. They must have been a rather large flock, gradually crossing the forest together. Then, a jay alighted on the hemlock tree right before my nose and began to sing. There were two of them. They clamorously called out to each other in their signature sharp voices.

Having finished a long lunch, I set out walking along the forest path once more.
I encountered not a single soul.
Walking and resting by turns, when over an hour had passed, I emerged from the forest.
And there lay a quiet lake, more deeply pooled than any I had encountered thus far.
It was Lake Shōji.
Likely without any passengers, a motorboat ferry was waiting at the shore.
The lake was crossed at a pleasant speed and I arrived at Shōji Village at the mountain’s base.
I stayed at a place called Yamadaya.

October 30.

At the inn there was a dying patient, and I spent the night without getting a wink of sleep.
I left early in the morning.

After passing through the slope-lined post town, the path finally became a steep climb.
It was called Onna-zaka Pass.
The trench-like sunken trail lay piled with fallen leaves thoroughly sodden and dripping wet.

Having crossed over, I emerged into a valley streamside, walked briefly along its bank, forded the stream, and began ascending another slope.
It was called Sayūguchi Pass.
This slope had a wide path basking in southern sunlight but proved an interminable series of switchbacks.
Having wearily climbed to the pass and meaning to rest, I ascended to an elevated grassland on the path’s left side—then cried out in astonished delight.
When I suddenly turned and gazed upward from that spot at Mount Fuji—how near it loomed! How towering! And oh! What indescribable beauty!

The sky was a clear purple. To look up at the mountain range occupying the sky in all directions - towering majestically near the zenith - I had to tilt my entire body and head backward. In the center of today’s deeply colored sky, this mountain too naturally held a profound light. One half glowed with pure white snow, while the other shone with the somber blackish-purple of the mountainside. And upon its slopes, the snow fell trailing delicate tails like thousands of spool threads unraveled and hung down.

Descending the pass, when I attempted to cross the Fuefuki River with somewhat weary legs, I fortunately encountered a stagecoach and thus entered Kofu. From Kofu Station by train, I alighted at Kobuchizawa Station; just as I was about to exit the ticket gate, there stood Mr. Nakamura Shūka from Matsushiro in Shinshū, wearing an inn's nightclothes—a meeting that had indeed been prearranged.

“Well!”

“Well!”

I accompanied him and entered the inn called Ito-ya that he had secured.

There could be nothing more delicious than sake drunk when meeting a close friend after long separation, especially in such travel circumstances as these. Having savored it from within the bathtub, we faced each other and raised our cups. Even before drinking, our hearts were already intoxicated.

Just as cup after cup was beginning to pile up, unexpected guests arrived.
The two elementary school teachers staying at this inn had learned of our business through the guest register that had just been written and put away, and had come out to listen to our esteemed lecture.

We had finally managed to include these two in our drinking circle, but in the end, the gathering lost its warmth.
The teachers, perhaps sensing this too, withdrew after a short while.
However, even when it was just the two of us again, it took a little while to return to our initial mood.

“Do you know what they call saboshi?” asked Mr. Nakamura.

“Well... I believe I’ve heard of it before...”

“In this region—practically the local specialty, you see—what other areas refer to as daruma.”

“Oh?”

“Shall we go see? There are rather beautiful ones there, you know.”

Thus, the two of them left the inn and went up to the second floor of a dubious restaurant.
And then they saw the saboshi.
But unfortunately, they could not behold the beautiful ones that Mr. Nakamura had vouched for.
For no particular reason, they just gulped down sake.

Entangled with each other, they returned to the inn—it must have already been around midnight.
I was roused from sound sleep.
The innkeeper’s son and the clerk stood there ceremoniously, each holding lanterns in their hands.
When I asked what was the matter, they said my companion had disappeared.
When I looked, the futon beside me where Mr. Nakamura had been was empty.
When I asked if he was in the bathroom, they said they had already searched thoroughly.
"Well then, it appears Mr. Nakamura couldn’t give up his earlier seat and has secretly gone out again."
I thought so, and laughing, I informed them of this.
But the clerks were insistent.
"After you all returned, we locked the storm shutters."
"If you see that the lock remains undisturbed, you must conclude that he is still inside this house……"

“Actually, we even checked inside the well just now…”

“If we still can’t figure this out, we would have to report it to the police box…”

Wanting to burst out laughing, I too ended up fully awake.

What on earth he was attempting, I couldn't begin to fathom. When I looked around, both the hand luggage and Western-style clothes remained as they were. At that moment, a woman’s shrill scream rang out from downstairs.

The two young men dashed off as if propelled into action.
I too now had to tighten my sash.
And then I hurried downstairs.

The inn’s mistress and four or five people stood rigidly lined up in the corridor there.
The stern faces of the elementary school teachers from earlier that evening also came into view.
Suppressing my own throbbing chest, I went there.
And then—what in the world was this? The place turned out to be a large lamp room.
Beneath an array of hanging lamps—what in the world was this now?—my close friend sat composedly.

“Well, this lamp room had been rattling since earlier, so when I came and opened the door now—this is what I found! Truly, I was so startled…”

The mistress was simply gasping for breath.
There still remained distance between anger and laughter.

As for me too, I couldn’t laugh right away.
First, I had to apologize to the people gathered there, and then gradually lead away this kerosene-smelling man.

October 31.

We departed early from the inn at Kobuchizawa.
The sky was heavily overcast.

When we left the inn behind and the road opened into a wide field, my laughter exploded.
From the pit of my stomach, from the very core, it welled up.

“Why did you get into that place?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you go in there and fall asleep?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did you close the door?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why were you sitting there?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did you feel when you were discovered?”

“I don’t know.”

As we walked one ri, then two ri, I kept pressing a hand to my stomach the entire time.
It was amusing both when standing before this tall friend—who acted as if nothing had happened, still seemingly cradling the lingering scent of kerosene somewhere on his body—and even afterward, it remained amusing.
But I couldn’t keep laughing forever.
Two consecutive nights of sleep deprivation had considerably dulled my legs.
Moreover, the sky grew increasingly ominous.
When we had walked about three ri, there appeared a small, timeworn post town called Nagasawa.
While having lunch there, I proposed staying at the budget inn said to be in this post town.
But this time, Mr. Nakamura’s vigor had remarkably improved.
He absolutely insisted on crossing the provincial border as planned and proceeding to the Itabashi Inn located within the Shinshū Nobeyama Plain.

The field we were now walking through was called Nenbagahara. It was a vast plain lying at the southern base of the Yatsugatake Mountains. Here and there were villages, cultivated lands, wild grasslands, and woods. It was a rough field where large and small stones lay scattered incessantly about. The heavy clouds obscured Mount Fuji from view, leaving no scenery visible at all.

Reluctantly following his insistence, I abandoned the longed-for inn at Nagasawa. Moreover, with prior arrangements further ahead, disrupting our plans would have been ill-advised. The road ahead gradually became an ascent. This path had once been—and likely still remained—the sole passage connecting North Shinshū and Kōshū. Somewhat wide yet left to crumble unchecked, it stood as a thoroughly ruined thoroughfare.

At last, the rain arrived.
A fine, cold drizzle.
Both remained silent, shouldering their Western umbrellas as they leaned forward and hurried.
Even this friend couldn’t possibly have been free from physical exhaustion.
He appeared to be forcing his unsteady footsteps forward.
We rested well.
At one spot, we took out the four-gō flask we had procured from Nagasawa, propped a Western umbrella by the roadside, and sat beneath its shade to sip together.

The evening dusk we had feared appeared at the edge of the fields.
The rain ceased, and a deep fog came to envelop the edges of the fields.
We alternated glances between map and watch as we hurried, but on the slippery clay slope after the rain, we couldn’t walk as we wished.
Before long, the thick fog that had begun moving from the edge of the fields finally enveloped us front and back.

We still had nearly two ri left to walk before reaching Itabashi Inn, and there would likely be no houses along the way until then—yet right before us as we hurried, we unexpectedly spotted a glimmer of light. Suspicious, we approached through the fog and found it was indeed a single house. On the old shoji screen faintly reddened by lamplight was written "Eatery." Without a moment's hesitation we pulled it open and went inside.

We had intended to go in for a drink to revive our spirits before setting out again, but as we gazed at the blazing hearth fire and stove fire, we found ourselves utterly devoid of any energy to walk. I earnestly requested permission to stay the night. The forty-year-old man who seemed to be the proprietor, simmering some broth at the hearth, granted our request without hesitation.

There was one other guest besides us.
It was a horse-drawn cart driver bound for Shinshū Uminokuchi.
With the proprietor joining us to make four, the sake we began drinking around the hearth fire once again escalated into quite an affair.

Whenever someone rose to relieve themselves and slid open the earthen-floored room's shoji, a writhing fog would come tearing through to assail our gathering.

November 1.

The morning after overindulging in sake, I always awoke early.
This morning was no exception.
As I drank water at my bedside while watching my friend's indistinct face lying unconscious, the crackling of burning firewood already sounded from the hearth in the adjacent room.
I promptly got up.

At the hearth where the lamp still burned, the proprietor sat alone blowing on the fire. On his lap was held a girl of about four or five. I had noticed since last night that the child's snot had spread from her nose over her eyes to her eyelids. This morning, having observed it again, I asked to confirm: “What did you say this child’s name was?”
“They call her Maria,” came the reply. “When she was born, some scholar of Jesus came around saying he’d build a Christian school nearby. He stayed here and gave her that name.”

“Thank you for your hospitality last night.”

Eventually, Maria’s father said with a grin,

“No, I’m the one who disturbed you.”

I scratched my head.

Then the cart driver too woke up and came over.

As we smoked two or three cigarettes, the earthen-floored room’s shoji began glowing faintly blue.
When I tried to go outside to wash my face and opened the shoji, I was surprised again.
Directly ahead, against the sky at the edge of a vast wild plain, Mount Fuji stood towering in brilliant white.
Yesterday I had looked up at it from its base; panicked, I tried to rouse Mr. Nakamura, but there was no response.

The meal was served, but my companion did not rise.
Reluctantly, we three began alone.
This morning we prepared a kotatsu and started drinking atop it.
The fog had cleared completely now, and through the open doorway morning sunlight streamed in, reaching even the kotatsu.

And before we knew it, both the wild plain stretching before us and the Kōshū lands beyond had transformed into a vast river of clouds.
Mount Fuji alone pierced through it, standing serenely clear.
Amid talk of how two or three days prior a deer had cried out in the plain beyond this one; how people often got snowed in under three or four feet of snow and spent five or even ten days without seeing another soul; how precisely because this spot marked the border between Kōshū and Shinshū they called this house "Border"—breakfast came to a quiet end.

The problem was the Lamp Room Ascetic.
They brought sugared water, brought plum tea, took along a cup of something cold to gulp down as a wake-up call; but whatever they brought, he mostly drank it all up, yet still the divine palanquin wouldn't rise.
“I don’t think he can walk at all—I’ll leave that luggage to you,” I said, leaving the cart driver at a loss.
From six to ten, we spent the time like that.
“We can’t go on like this forever. You go on ahead.”

Just as I was about to send the cart driver on his way, he came staggering over.
In the lamp room he had still been valiant in some manner, but this morning not a vestige of that remained.

We promptly set out under brilliantly clear skies; the crunch of frost pillars beneath our straw sandals sent waves of pure exhilaration coursing through our minds. Yesterday we had circled Yatsugatake's southern foothills; today we were crossing its northern skirts. The summit of this brilliantly clear mountain bore a faint dusting of snow.

“Are you alright? Should I fasten something around your waist?”

“I-I’m f-fine.”

There sat the Ascetic, enthroned upon the rice bales at the cart’s rear, nodding rhythmically with its sway.

What passed for wild plain was mostly larch forest. As far as eye could reach stretched these saplings tinged pale yellow—a sight both fearsome and fair. This golden host must have marched several ri across the land.

At last my mind turned to verse-making.

Through daylong wandering field to field,
Winter-withered woods lay revealed;

The larches stood gaunt and spindly; the white birches, withered by winter, were purely white.

Having walked over two ri, we came to the edge of this wild plain and arrived at a place called Market.
Here too stood a lone teahouse.
Hearing there was a beautiful girl, we decided to stop for lunch.

Descending a steep slope like a sheer drop from there brought us to Uminokuchi Village; the road improved, and Mr. Nakamura was walking again.
Adjusting our pace somewhat, we arrived at Matsubara Lake surprisingly quickly and settled into the Hino-ya Inn on the lakeshore.
No one else had arrived yet.

Before long from Fuse Village came both Mr. Shigeta Yukika and Mr. Ogihara Taro; from Honmoku Village came Mr. Ōsawa Shigeki; and from distant Matsumoto City came Mr. Takahashi Kihito.
With everyone assembled like this, my spirits swelled.
Yesterday and the day before had been utterly daunting.

Come evening, a savage kogarashi wind began raging.
We had settled into the second floor of the inn's newly built annex, yet time and again felt that floor tremble.

We closed the storm shutters early in the evening, talked of poetry, shared news of friends, discussed matters of life, and when our conversation ended, we laid our pillows side by side and slept.

Friends who came from afar, emerging from distant reaches,
Met here smiling wordlessly—

"That we were safe,"
"That I too knew no hardship"—
Voicing this joy at our meeting

We drinkers’ lives—
Ephemeral as dew and frost—
Cannot meet without...

The inn’s second floor by the lake—
Cold as the frigid waters below—

The cold wind leaking through gaps chilled the air, and the scent of sake quivered through the room.

November 2.

The cold wind raged through the night.
Each time I awoke and looked beside me, everyone lay deep in sleep. I occupied the end bed by the window, five sleeping forms stretched in a row beyond.
The wind had blown ceaselessly until morning.
Listening intently—for it seemed more than mere leaves battering the storm shutters—I confirmed at last the patter of fine rain.

We passed the morning knees-to-chest, clinging to the kotatsu's warmth.
Past noon, though the rain ceased, the wind redoubled its fury.
The four poets ventured out mushroom gathering, while I walked lakeside with Mr. Takahashi bound for Matsumoto.
A savage wind; a whirl of savage leaves.
My friend's retreating figure vanished instantly into a maelstrom of fallen leaves.

The mushroom harvest seemed poor, but from somewhere they managed to find green-headed ducks.
They had also brought mountain yams.
With cries of "Huzzah! Huzzah!", they closed the shutters early again tonight and formed a circle.
As night approached, another shower came; the wind grew increasingly fierce.
But indoors, fires blazed fiercely in both the charcoal braziers and heating stoves.

What impulse of mood it was—I myself didn’t know, nor could anyone else tell—but from some trivial cause, we all burst into laughter at once.
One laughed, another chimed in, and soon all the rest had joined together in uproarious mirth.
This was no brief spell of laughter—we must have kept it up for over an hour, the mirth ebbing and flowing all the while.
Our laughter grew so uproarious that a maid came to investigate only to collapse in mirth herself, and even the innkeeper’s wife who arrived to scold us ended up sprawled in the corridor rolling with laughter—such was the state of affairs.
Perhaps some laugh-inducing mushrooms had gotten mixed in among those we ate.

November 3.

The cold wind remained as fierce as ever.
From the inn’s second floor, fallen leaves blown upward from the lakeshore forest formed a violent vortex that instantly engulfed this small lake, throwing the water’s surface into chaos.
Amidst this, even jays would occasionally come blown in among them.
And whenever the wind ceased momentarily, the lake’s surface would be littered with fresh yellow fallen leaves.
Fallen leaves were mostly oak.

Today, with the intention of composing poems, they all adopted serious expressions.

After the cold wind had passed, the birds dancing across the lake were jays—ah, pitiful.

The sharp-voiced jays dance sluggishly, blown by the wind.

The deep purple of the jay’s underwing feathers, blown by the wind—ah, pitiful.

How far it has risen—this vortex of fallen leaves whirling upward through the cold wind.

A word spoken by someone instantly becomes the seed of laughter germinating in tonight’s circle.

When one alone happens to prick up ears at the cold wind's howl—this strange night.

"Laughing until my belly button hurts," says one; "Mine hurts too," I say through tears.

At the comical sight of noses flattening and swelling through laughter and tears, they all laughed and cried.

November 4.

Today was the day I was to bid everyone farewell and walk alone into the upper reaches of the Chikuma River, but it was decided I would visit Mr. Shigeta’s residence in Fuse Village—he who kept insisting "my young grass bride is dear"—to meet this young grass bride of his.

With cries of "Ah, tororojiru!" and "Carp stew!", they fussed over and encouraged my young grass bride to prepare this feast, until every last one of us grew sated beyond measure; lacking last night's vigor, we all meekly went to sleep.

November 5.

The entire group went out to Iwamurada, where it was decided we would part ways.
However, Mr. Ōsawa rode in the same car with me as far as Nakagomi Station, which was his wife's hometown.
By then, dusk was approaching.

The loneliness following four or five days of boisterous activity seeped into every limb. I managed to persuade Mr. Ōsawa—who had been about to disembark at Nakagomi Station—to accompany me all the way to the train’s final stop at Umabayashi Station.

The inn we stayed at was, whether by fortune or misfortune, also operating as a restaurant.
They brought out all the resident entertainers, and together we repeatedly sang Ina-bushi songs.

How joyful to meet, how bitter to part—if only we could meet without parting!

November 6.

“It just wouldn’t do to leave Teacher alone like this—it’s too worrisome. I’ll accompany you for another day,” said Mr. Ōsawa, moved by compassion.
And together we put on our straw sandals and walked along the Chikuma River until reaching Shikanoyu Hot Spring.

There, just as we had them prepare miso-grilled carp and were starting to drink, a joint delegation of judges, police, and forestry officials came barging in.
And so we two were driven out from the ordinary room and forced into a strange room above the kitchen.
From below, thick cooking smoke assailed us.

"I can't stand this—it's a complete smoke-out!"

Saying this, we pushed aside the trays and put on straw sandals again.

In the cold evening dusk, we hurried about one ri upstream and arrived at a place called Yuzawa Hot Springs.

November 7.

In the morning, as I soaked in tepid bathwater, there came the roaring sound of a bitter wind. Blown against the glass door and slipping through its crack, fallen leaves came flying even into the bathtub. Then at last, rain began to fall.

All day long, we two remained burrowed into the kotatsu without moving.

November 8.

The heart that both invited and was invited finally led the two of us to the lone house in Ichiba field where Mr. Nakamura and I had lunch the other day.
There, as we were about to finally bid farewell—stepping our straw sandals into the large hearth cut into the earthen floor and take up our cups—we suddenly noticed a splendid pheasant hung upon the wall there.
When we asked if they could prepare this for us, they agreed.
There, the daughter renowned for her beauty these past few days came out and said that in that case, please come up to the second floor.
The two exchanged wry smiles and removed their straw sandals.

Before we knew it, night had fallen.
The daughter who had shyly shown her face earlier did not come; instead, the old man who seemed to be her father brought a sake flask.
And he went on alone about Hokkaido's prison cells being such-and-such, pistols and daggers being like this and that, then went back downstairs.
Perhaps he had meant to splendidly intimidate us—we who had idled away half the day and ended up staying over—with all that talk.

The second floor was a hollow, empty room that could hold about sixteen tatami mats.
Every year, a horse market is held on this plain, so this solitary house seems to exist for that purpose.

November 9.

At early dawn, we parted ways with hands clasped.
He descended the slope toward the village; I turned into the wilderness toward the mountains. After so long being alone once more, beneath my straw sandals, frost pillars two or three inches high crumbled away with a crunch.

Clear skies had returned after what felt like ages—though in mere four or five days, the Yatsugatake Mountains had already become thoroughly cloaked in snow. From the plains below, several other peaks still stood white and towering against the distant sky.

The winter-withered plain of Nobeyamagahara that I trod through felt inexplicably familiar to me this day.

When I set out to cross the winter-scorched wilderness and snow shows on mountains' farthest edge,

In the great sky's depths, upon soaring peaks' heights—snow has fallen.

On high mountains white snow lies fallen; winter's ancient form I shall behold from this day forth.

As I journey through silvergrass fields withered by frost—to every horizon's edge stretch pure white wilderness margins.

Crisply crunching—my trampling fractures ice across the withered field's path.

The field path lies frozen hard to tread; frost coating roadside grasses do I walk upon.

Upon standing withered silvergrass in the field forms frost so coarse it rivals ice.

Frost on pathside pampas grass—brushed by my passing sleeve—has sounded its crystalline note.

Grasses withered, trees stripped of lingering leaves—how lonesome to cross this winter-blasted plain.

The mountains of Yatsugatake—eight sharp peaks split asunder, standing stark and exposed—the Yatsugatake range.

The mountains of Yatsugatake at withered field's edge—yesterday I saw them, today too gaze all day as I journey onward.

Under winter skies clarified through, split eightfold with peaks arrayed low—the mountains of Yatsugatake.

Behold—the Chikuma River flowing far below makes not a sound.

As I enter and journey along the Chikuma River—gazing up at headwater peaks—how measureless they loom!

The upper Chikuma valley I had envisioned proved less than remarkable, yet framing it midst surrounding winter peaks made for vistas unexpectedly grand.

Ōfukayama Village Vicinity: Miscellaneous Verses.

Though I journey on, still not nearing—this gorge's autumn hues have passed their prime.

In this valley’s gorge where peaks on all sides appear broadly, they have taken on winter’s desolation.

Upon the rocky summit hangs winter's stark form—how familiar it felt.

Stepping in muddy straw sandals, heating sake there—how nostalgic this country's hearth.

As the bonfire smoldered drowsily, the mud on my cold straw sandals dried away.

The smoke from the tavern's bonfire drifted out; beneath the eaves, winter mountains stood clear.

At a certain izakaya, I encountered an old man returning to Azusayama Village, and together we entered this valley-edge settlement of Azusayama Village.
And tomorrow, having requested this old man's guidance, it was decided we would cross Jūmonji Pass.

At this inn, it was arranged that we would meet those officials again.
Unable to endure their brazen behavior—they even intruded into the kotatsu where people were eating and sprawled their legs—though the meal had just been served, I left that inn.
Thinking I might ask to stay at the house of the old man I'd just met, I went to visit his home.
The old man was still working in the twilight-dimmed garden.
It was visibly dilapidated; I couldn't bring myself to request lodging.
Perplexed, I asked if there were other inns; he said there was a timber-rate one.
When I replied "Splendid—where?" he guided me there.
Though called a timber-rate inn, it had an antiquated yet stately structure; I was led to the rearmost of three connected rooms.

It was a sooty, spacious room.
First came the preparation of the kotatsu, then the lighting of the lamp, followed by the arrival of the meal tray and sake flask.
Yet inexplicably, coldness crept up my spine and refused to depart.
From the kitchen hearth two rooms away came sounds suggesting dinner preparations were beginning in earnest—the family had gathered in boisterous assembly.
At last I carried my meal tray to join them at the hearthside brightened by crackling flames.

What I'd noticed upon first arrival was confirmed: here they stabled horses not in ordinary barns but within an indoor earthen-floored space.
Having seen similar arrangements in Tsugaru—likely necessitated by this village's comparable harsh winters—I found unexpected pleasure in my evening meal while gazing at two horses standing side-by-side, their gentle eyes turned toward me.
The house's construction quality, this dual-horse stable area—it all suggested an old-established household known for practical ingenuity within the village; even its children carried themselves with unvulgar refinement.

November 10.

The sky was full of stars.
I washed my face with water so cold it felt sharp, stoked a roaring fire in the hearth, and sipped substitute tea—sake—when soon miso soup was ready and rice served.
I was surprised by the miso soup.
The mistress had initially been stirring what appeared to be chopped daikon leaves in the horse’s fodder bucket, but soon plunged those hands into the large pot hanging over the hearth—water that had finally grown lukewarm—and washed them with vigorous splashing.
Into that pot she immediately put miso, added daikon, and thus the miso soup was completed.

The horses were still asleep.
The sight of their large bodies curled slightly as they slept was truly charming.
Their coats had a fine sheen too.
"With this, even eating from the same pot as you all wouldn't be too unsanitary after all," I addressed them inwardly while savoring the miso soup.

Due to the cold, these villagers who built stables before hearths to share meals with their horses—

Snugly curled horses sleep;
before the hearth where sake for morning departure is hurriedly heated

For the first time I saw horses sleeping coiled round;
how dear sleeping horses are!

How beautiful the large beasts lie stretched out—more so than how people sleep.

Then the old guide arrived with a lantern lit.
Rejoicing together in the fine weather, we departed the inn.

Jūmonji Pass was a mountain straddling Shinshū and Bushū provinces; they said the journey from here across to the upper reaches of the Musashi Arakawa River spanned seven ri uphill and down.
Along that stretch, there were said to be no villages to begin with—not even a single dwelling.
For a while, we walked along the stream.
By this point, even the Chikuma River had become a small stream flowing through.
Before long, leaving the streamside behind, the path grew somewhat steeper as we entered a coniferous forest where visibility was lost in all directions—front, back, left, and right.
The trees were mostly fir.
"Today we'll be spending the whole day walking through this kind of forest," said the old guide.

This vast forest spanning three provinces was government-owned land, where clandestine logging operations had been carried out. Among these, a somewhat systematic illegal logging incident spanning seven years had finally been uncovered this time. Given that the jurisdictional divisions involved were extensive, officials from Nagano Prefecture, Gunto Prefecture, and Tokyo Metropolis had reportedly come on official business for this purpose. I gave a wry smile. It was because of those officials that I had been expelled from inns twice.

It was indeed a deep forest.
And it was also an unbending forest.
To the untrained eye, there were only one or two types of trees endlessly pressing onward without limit.
Strangely, no birds sang either.
Once or twice I heard what might have been a Japanese robin, but the season was wrong.
The crisp crunch of fine fallen leaves beneath my feet was not unpleasant.
This continued for five or six ri.

When we finally reached the summit, the path emerged onto a mountain ridge.
We walked almost entirely along this ridgeline.
This afforded sweeping vistas.
The views improved markedly after crossing the pass into Bushū territory.
The Arakawa River should have flowed along the distant foothills to our right, while the Nakatsugawa River - eventually joining the Arakawa - should have run through the valley floor to our left.
Or rather, they should have been there.
But the mountains' steep slopes and complex ridge formations made seeing either river impossible.

As sunset approached, the view of these mountains gradually came alive.
Along both sides of the ridge, amidst innumerable sheer mountain folds, ravines, and valleys, a hazy mist began to rise.
This mist, welling up from nowhere, mysteriously enlivened both the surrounding mountains and the ancient forests shrouding them.

Also, the setting sun enlivened the distant views.
It made the snow piled from peak to peak on distant mountains glisten.
It also faintly brought forth into the sky what appeared to be smoke from Mount Asama.
To Kōshū, Chichibu, Jōshū, and Shinshū territories as a matter of course—and further still to what appeared to be the distant Echigo border—it cast a cold, faint light across peak after peak, bestowing an ineffable solemnity.

“Look yonder—there’s a wee bit o' blue showin’ through,”

The old guide nodded and told the legend of that place.
Precisely because of these deep valleys, people initially remained hidden from the world.
Yet occasionally from the valley's depths would flow fragments of bowls and broken arrows.
Suspecting Toyotomi loyalists might be hiding there—this being the early Edo period—the local magistrate dispatched troops.
There they bound scores of villagers with unnamed vines to unnamed trees.
Through gradual investigation, they learned these were descendants of Kamakura-era fugitives, and cut them free.
From then on, the villagers bore such hatred for those vines and trees that they vowed to purge all roots from the valley.
Now not a single such tree or vine remains there, so the story goes.

As night fell, we finally descended through twilight's deepening chill to the foothill village called Tochimoto at the pass's base. This place was said to be the farthest hamlet in Chichibu Valley. There, I requested lodging from an old family known as the Chichibu Yonhyaku Kamado no Kusawake—reputed pioneers of four hundred hearths—and they allowed me to stay for the night.

Directly beneath Tochimoto flowed the upper reaches of the Arakawa River. It flowed beneath a cliff sheared off at nearly a right angle. The opposite bank too had become a mountain of identical sheer cliffs. On the mountain fields across the bank, daikon radishes were being cultivated. It was said to take half a day for Tochimoto's villagers to descend the cliff, cross the stream, and climb up the opposite precipice to reach those daikon fields. The return trip also took half a day. Therefore, the people here built huts in their fields, stayed overnight, and finally managed to complete a full day's work before returning home—or so it was said. Tochimoto was a village where even its several dozen houses themselves seemed to cling midway up a cliff.

November 11.

The old guide would be returning to Azusayama Village by once more crossing the pass through the seven-ri forest. I climbed Mount Mitsumine alone. Then I descended from there and, eager to see where the Nakatsugawa River—which I had missed seeing from the ridge yesterday—joined the Arakawa River, traveled up along the valley for about two ri until reaching a place called Ochiai Village, where I stayed.

The next day, I went to Tokyo, stayed one night while being laughed at by many friends for my rucksack and straw sitting mat, and on what must have been the seventeenth day, returned home to Numazu.